rely for the absolute worth of each to the
other, but on account of a mutual fitness of character. They
are not merely one another's priests or gods, but ministering
angels, exercising in their part the same function as the
Great Soul does in the whole,--of seeing the perfect through
the imperfect, nay, creating it there. Why am I to love my
friend the less for any obstruction in his life? Is not that
the very time for me to love most tenderly, when I must see
his life in despite of seeming? When he shows it to me I can
only admire; I do not give myself, I am taken captive.

'But how shall I express my meaning? Perhaps I can do so from
the tales of chivalry, where I find what corresponds far more
thoroughly with my nature, than in these stoical statements.
The friend of Amadis expects to hear prodigies of valor of
the absent Preux, but if he be mutilated in one of his first
battles, shall he be mistrusted by the brother of his soul,
more than if he had been tested in a hundred? If Britomart
finds Artegall bound in the enchanter's spell, can she
doubt therefore him whom she has seen in the magic glass? A
Britomart does battle in his cause, and frees him from the
evil power, while a dame of less nobleness might sit and watch
the enchanted sleep, weeping night and day, or spur on her
white palfrey to find some one more helpful than herself.
These friends in chivalry are always faithful through the dark
hours to the bright. The Douglas motto, "tender and true,"
seems to me most worthy of the strongest breast. To borrow
again from Spencer, I am entirely satisfied with the fate of
the three brothers. I could not die while there was yet life
in my brother's breast. I would return from the shades and
nerve him with twofold life for the fight. I could do it, for
our hearts beat with one blood. Do you not see the truth and
happiness of this waiting tenderness? The verse--

"Have I a lover
Who is noble and free,
I would he were nobler
Than to love me,"--

does not come home to my heart, though _this_ does:--

"I could not love thee, sweet, so much,
Loved I not honor more."

* * * '_October 10th, 1840._--I felt singular pleasure in
seeing you quote Hood's lines on "Melancholy." I thought
nobody knew and loved his serious poems except myself, an