’Of all the books, and men, and women, that have touched me these weeks past, what has most entered my soul is the music I have heard,—­the masterly expression from that violin; the triumph of the orchestra, after the exploits on the piano; Braham, in his best efforts, when he kept true to the dignity of art; the Messiah, which has been given on two successive Sundays, and the last time in a way that deeply expressed its divine life; but above all, Beethoven’s seventh symphony.  What majesty! what depth! what tearful sweetness! what victory!  This was truly a fire upon an altar.  There are a succession of soaring passages, near the end of the third movement, which touch me most deeply.  Though soaring, they hold on with a stress which almost breaks the chains of matter to the hearer.  O, how refreshing, after polemics and philosophy, to soar thus on strong wings!  Yes, Father, I will wander in dark ways with the crowd, since thou seest best for me to be tied down.  But only in thy free ether do I know myself.  When I read Beethoven’s life, I said, “I will never repine.”  When I heard this symphony, I said, “I will triumph.”

* * * * *

’To-day I have finished the life of Raphael, by Quatremere de Quincy, which has so long engaged me.  It scarce goes deeper than a catalogue raisonnee, but is very complete in its way.  I could make all that splendid era alive to me, and inhale the full flower of the Sanzio.  Easily one soars to worship these angels of Genius.  To venerate the Saints you must well nigh be one.

’I went out upon the lonely rock which commands so delicious a panoramic view.  A very mild breeze had sprung up after the extreme heat.  A sunset of the melting kind was succeeded by a perfectly clear moon-rise.  Here I sat, and thought of Raphael.  I was drawn high up in the heaven of beauty, and the mists were dried from the white plumes of contemplation.’#/

’Only by emotion do we know thee, Nature.  To lean upon thy heart, and feel its pulses vibrate to our own;—­that is knowledge, for that is love, the love of infinite beauty, of infinite love.  Thought will never make us be born again.

    ’My fault is that I think I feel too much.  O that my friends
    would teach me that “simple art of not too much!” How can I
    expect them to bear the ceaseless eloquence of my nature?’

* * * * *

’Often it has seemed that I have come near enough to the limits to see what they are.  But suddenly arises afar the Fata Morgana, and tells of new Sicilies, of their flowery valleys and fields of golden grain.  Then, as I would draw near, my little bark is shattered on the rock, and I am left on the cold wave.  Yet with my island in sight I do not sink.’

* * * * *