letter to a friend,--and forthwith troops of gentle
thoughts invest themselves, on every hand, with chosen words. See, in
any house where virtue and self-respect abide, the palpitation which
the approach of a stranger causes. A commended stranger is expected and
announced, and an uneasiness betwixt pleasure and pain invades all the
hearts of a household. His arrival almost brings fear to the good hearts
that would welcome him. The house is dusted, all things fly into their
places, the old coat is exchanged for the new, and they must get up a
dinner if they can. Of a commended stranger, only the good report is
told by others, only the good and new is heard by us. He stands to us
for humanity. He is what we wish. Having imagined and invested him, we
ask how we should stand related in conversation and action with such a
man, and are uneasy with fear. The same idea exalts conversation with
him. We talk better than we are wont. We have the nimblest fancy, a
richer memory, and our dumb devil has taken leave for the time. For
long hours we can continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich
communications, drawn from the oldest, secretest experience, so that
they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance, shall feel a
lively surprise at our unusual powers. But as soon as the stranger
begins to intrude his partialities, his definitions, his defects, into
the conversation, it is all over. He has heard the first, the last
and best he will ever hear from us. He is no stranger now. Vulgarity,
ignorance, misapprehension are old acquaintances. Now, when he comes, he
may get the order, the dress and the dinner,--but the throbbing of the
heart and the communications of the soul, no more.

What is so pleasant as these jets of affection which make a young world
for me again? What so delicious as a just and firm encounter of two,
in a thought, in a feeling? How beautiful, on their approach to this
beating heart, the steps and forms of the gifted and the true! The
moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed; there is
no winter and no night; all tragedies, all ennuis vanish,--all duties
even; nothing fills the proceeding eternity but the forms all radiant of
beloved persons. Let the soul be assured that somewhere in the universe
it should rejoin its friend, and it would be content and cheerful alone
for a thousand years.

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old
and the new. Shall I not ca