on the union, think they have done
it all, as subaltern ministers regard the transactions of their
masters nothing until they have been permitted to sign their names at
the bottom. I fear no misunderstanding with you; and my gratitude
alone can equal the perfect security with which you inspire me." "I
must show myself to you absolutely as I am." "I know of no pleasure
more alluring than a sweet and confidential converse which begins
with an interchange of ideas, and ends with one of sentiments. This I
have found in our intercourse." "It seems to me that your good angel
is very busy about you, and is covering your thorns with some few
flowers. How I should like to be charged with the visible execution
of this charming mission!" "When near you, I breathe the atmosphere
of calmness and depth, which agrees with me: although I have not the
rages of King Saul, there is in the sound of your voice something, I
know not what, that reminds me of the effect of the harp of David."
"Never was there a goodness more compassionate and penetrating than
yours. Yours are the words that seek pain at the bottom of the soul
in order to soothe it. How well you possess that divine dexterity
which applies balm to wounds almost without touching them!" "My
friend, I have met nothing sweeter, more consoling to love, than you.
The admirable simplicity of your character, its steadiness, its
frankness, have a charm which more than attracts: it fixes." "We must
carry, untouched, to the gates of eternity the deposit each has
confided to the other."

The above extracts give some idea of the warmth and preciousness of
the surpassing friendship, but no idea of the high and varied range
of intellectual and religious interests that entered into it. "I
always," Madame Swetchine writes, "have your little ring on my
finger. This symbol, fragile as all symbols, will outlive me; but I
grieve not for that, since I am sure that the sentiment which makes
me prize it so highly will survive it in turn." Dora Greenwell says,
"The letters of Madame Swetchine are full of an intimate sweetness
that has something in it, piercing even to pain, like the scent of
the sweet-brier." We are reminded of this when she writes, "If life
were perfectly beautiful, yet death would be perfectly desirable."
Also again, when she writes to her Roxandra, "What is the pen, sad
signal of our long separation, after the pleasure of flinging myself
on your neck, and pouring my soul into yours