ught of using it; at length she overcame
herself, and wrote the following letter:

"You wish that I should write to you. I write for that reason; but
what--what shall I say to you? My thanks for your letter, my paternal
friend, the teacher of my youth; thanks that you wish to strengthen and
elevate my soul. But I am old, bowed down, wearied, embittered--there
dwells no strength, no living word more in my breast. My friend, it is
too late--too late!

"You would raise my glance to heaven; but what is the glory of the sun
to the eye that--sees no longer? What is the power of music to the deaf
ear? What is all that is beautiful, all that is good in the world, to
the heart that is dead, that is turned to stone in a long, severe
captivity? Oh, my friend, I am unworthy of your consolation, of your
refreshing words. My soul raises itself against them, and throws them
from herself as 'words, words, words,' which have sounded beautifully
and grandly for thousands of years, whilst thousands of souls are
inconsolably speechless.

"Hope? I have hoped so long. I have already said to myself so long, 'a
better day comes! The path of duty conducts to the home of peace and
light, be the way ever so full of thorns. Go only steadfastly forward,
weary pilgrim, go, go, and thou wilt come to the holy land!' And I have
gone--I have gone on through the long, weary day, for above thirty
years; but the way stretches itself out farther and farther--my hopes
have withered, have died away, the one after the other;--I see now no
goal, none, but the grave! Love, love! Ah, if you knew what an
inexpressibly bitter feeling this word awakens in me! Have I not loved,
loved intensely? And what fruit has my love borne? It has broken my
heart, and has brought unhappiness to those whom I loved. It is in vain
that you would combat a belief which has taken deep root in me. I
believe that there are human beings who are born and pre-ordained to
misfortune, and who communicate misfortune to all who approach them, and
_I believe that I belong to these_. Let me, therefore, fly from my kind,
fly from every feeling which binds me to them. Why should I occasion
more mischief than I have already done?

"Why do you desire me to write? I wish not to pour my bitterness into
the heart of another; I wish to grieve no one, and--what have I now
done?

"There is a silent combat which goes through the world, which is fought
out in the reserved human heart, and at times--fea