had snow storms, and at
this moment the snow-plough is working to form a road for the
church-going people. The grave-like stillness of night and winter spread
itself with tempest speed over meadow and valley, and only a few cows
wander now like spectres over the snow-covered fields, to pluck their
scanty fare from the twigs which are not yet snowed up."

That little winter-piece pleased me, but at the expression, "the
grave-like stillness of night and winter," you bowed your loving dear
face, with closed eyes, to my breast. Oh, my Alette! thus shall you do
in future, when dread of darkness and cold seize upon you; and upon my
breast, listening to the beating of my heart and to my love, shall you
forget the dark pictures which stand without before your home. Close
your eyes; slumber beloved, whilst I watch over you, and then you will,
with brightening eyes and blooming cheeks, look upon the night and
winter, and feel that its power is not great. Oh, truly can love, this
Geiser of the soul, smelt ice and snow, wherever they may be on earth;
truly, wherever its warm springs swell forth, a southern clime can
bloom; yes, even at the North Pole itself.

Whilst I write this, I hear music, which makes upon me a cheerful and a
melancholy impression at the same time. They are eight Russians, who
sing one of their national songs, whilst in the quiet evening they sail
down the Tromsoe-sound. They sing a quartet, and with the most complete
purity and melody. They sing in a minor key, but yet not mournfully.
They row in the deep shadow of the shore, and at every stroke of the
oars the water shines around the boat, and drops, as of fire, fall from
the oars. The phenomenon is not uncommon on the Atlantic; and know you
not, my Alette, what it is which shines and burns so in the sea? It is
love! At certain moments, the consciousness of the sea-insects rises to
a high pitch of vividness, and millions of existences invisible to the
naked human eye, then celebrate the bliss of their being. In such
moments the sea kindles; then every little worm, inspired by love,
lights up its tiny lamp. Yet only for a moment burns its flame, then all
the quicker to be extinguished. But it dies without pain--dies joyfully.
Rich nature! Good Creator!

My heart also burns. I look upon the illuminated element, which may be
said to be full of enjoyment; I listen to the melody of the singers,
full of joy and pain, and--I stretch forth my arms to you, Alette, m