III

NEW YORK, _Saturday eve'g, November 11, 1843._

Your letter has just reached me, my dear friend, loaded with much that was
not in it, and which needed only a person or a letter from a region so
delightful to bear it to me. Already my life at the Farm is removed and
transfigured. It stands for so much in my experience, and is so fairly
rounded, that I know the experience could never return, tho' the residence
might be renewed. When we mend the broken chain, we see ever after the
point of union.

To-night the wind sighs thro' the chimney, complaining and wailing and
melting away in a depth of sadness, as if it would pacify its own sorrow,
and found newer grief in that need. The clouds break and roll away in the
sky, and the wan moon sails up as if to a weary duty. Yet so calm it is,
so pure, that it chides weariness and preaches a deep, still hope. In the
city I seem not to breathe quite freely yet, but daily I gain ground and
air. It is so different, even more than I tho't; so new, tho' I had seen
it for years; so full, tho' I walk miles without speaking or seeing a face
seen before. I must constantly say to myself, "Be quiet, be quiet. This
huge enigma will gradually explain itself, and out of these conventions
and courtesies you shall see the same tender Nature looking that so
enchanted your country life."

Here is Burrill, and we are of more worth to each other than ever before.
Sometimes I fear to think how much. He was as glad to see me as the old
Christians a prophet, for I know him best of all.