To wonder sadly, did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon my life, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay. Conceive a dell, deep-hollowed in forest secresy; it lies in dimness and mist: its turf is dank, its herbage pale and humid. A storm or an axe¹ makes a wide gap amongst the oak-trees; the breeze sweeps in; the sun looks down; the sad, cold dell becomes a deep cup of lustre²; high summer pours her blue glory and her golden light out of that beauteous sky, which till now the starved hollow never saw.

A new creed³ became mine — a belief in happiness.

It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessed⁴ in that case, box, drawer up-stairs, casketed with that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed with the same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort it seemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind letters enough — pleasing letters, because composed by one well pleased; in the two last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender, “by feeling touched, but not subdued⁵.” Time, dear reader, mellowed⁶ them to a beverage⁷ of this mild quality; but when I first tasted their elixir⁸, fresh from the fount so honoured, it seemed juice of a divine vintage: a draught⁹ which Hebe might fill, and the very gods approve.

Does the reader, remembering what was said some pages back, care to ask how I answered these letters: whether under the dry, stinting¹⁰ check of Reason, or according to the full, liberal impulse of Feeling?

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