Thinking Of Death Makes Us
Tenderly Cling To Our Affections; With More Than Usual Tenderness I
Therefore Assure You That I Am Yours, Wishing That The Temporary
Death Of Absence May Not Endure Longer Than Is Absolutely Necessary.
LETTER VIII.
Tonsberg was formerly the residence of one of the little sovereigns
of Norway; and on an adjacent mountain the vestiges of a fort
remain, which was battered down by the Swedes, the entrance of the
bay lying close to it.
Here I have frequently strayed, sovereign of the waste; I seldom met
any human creature; and sometimes, reclining on the mossy down,
under the shelter of a rock, the prattling of the sea amongst the
pebbles has lulled me to sleep - no fear of any rude satyr's
approaching to interrupt my repose. Balmy were the slumbers, and
soft the gales, that refreshed me, when I awoke to follow, with an
eye vaguely curious, the white sails, as they turned the cliffs, or
seemed to take shelter under the pines which covered the little
islands that so gracefully rose to render the terrific ocean
beautiful. The fishermen were calmly casting their nets, whilst the
sea-gulls hovered over the unruffled deep. Everything seemed to
harmonise into tranquillity; even the mournful call of the bittern
was in cadence with the tinkling bells on the necks of the cows,
that, pacing slowly one after the other, along an inviting path in
the vale below, were repairing to the cottages to be milked. With
what ineffable pleasure have I not gazed - and gazed again, losing my
breath through my eyes - my very soul diffused itself in the scene;
and, seeming to become all senses, glided in the scarcely-agitated
waves, melted in the freshening breeze, or, taking its flight with
fairy wing, to the misty mountain which bounded the prospect, fancy
tripped over new lawns, more beautiful even than the lovely slopes
on the winding shore before me. I pause, again breathless, to
trace, with renewed delight, sentiments which entranced me, when,
turning my humid eyes from the expanse below to the vault above, my
sight pierced the fleecy clouds that softened the azure brightness;
and imperceptibly recalling the reveries of childhood, I bowed
before the awful throne of my Creator, whilst I rested on its
footstool.
You have sometimes wondered, my dear friend, at the extreme
affection of my nature. But such is the temperature of my soul. It
is not the vivacity of youth, the heyday of existence. For years
have I endeavoured to calm an impetuous tide, labouring to make my
feelings take an orderly course. It was striving against the
stream. I must love and admire with warmth, or I sink into sadness.
Tokens of love which I have received have wrapped me in Elysium,
purifying the heart they enchanted. My bosom still glows. Do not
saucily ask, repeating Sterne's question, "Maria, is it still so
warm?" Sufficiently, O my God! Has it been chilled by sorrow and
unkindness; still nature will prevail; and if I blush at
recollecting past enjoyment, it is the rosy hue of pleasure
heightened by modesty, for the blush of modesty and shame are as
distinct as the emotions by which they are produced.
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