Letters of Lydia Maria Child, with a biographical introduction by John G. Whittier and an appendix by Wendell Phillips.

76 LETTERS.
take them out, as a child does its playthings, and sit
down in the sunshine with them, dreaming how life
would seem in such places, and how poets and artists
came to imagine such images. This process sometimes gives rise to thoughts which float through the
universe, though they began in a simple craving to
look at something beautiful. A photograph of Rapllael's Sibyls, given to me by Mrs. S., remarkably has
this effect upon me. I don't know what it is that
draws me so toward those ancient Grecians! I suppose this same attraction toward Grecian forms of
art is what made me in love with Mendelssohn's
music; because I felt (without understanding) its
harmonious proportions, its Doric simplicity, its finished beauty. I recognize the superior originality
and power of Beethoven; but he does not minister to
my soul as he does to yours. He overpowers me,fills me with awe. His music makes me feel as if I
were among huge black mountains, looking at a narrow strip of brilliant stars, seen through narrow
clefts in the frowning rocks, in the far-off heaven. I
love best to hear the "' Pastoral Symphony," which is
the least Beethovenish of all. The fact is, my nature
has less affinity for grandeur and sublimity, than it
has for grace and beauty. I never looked twice at
engravings from Michael Angelo; while I dream
away hours and hours over copies from Raphael.
TO MISS LUCY OSGOOD.
WAYLAND, May 11, 1856.
Since you will think of me as an "author," I am
glad that you think of me as " an alive author; " for
so long as I write at all, I desire to be very much
alive.