SAY, how many copies have you of those foaming sheets you sent me from M—— for a letter? And to how many other addresses have they been sent? I am curious to know. They were never evoked by me—of that I am sure. Nor do I attribute their existence to the overwhelming influence of any other special feminine divinity; rather to one of those supreme intervals—his satanic majesty’s own—when

You were alone; you were “in a state of mind;” you

You summoned up “spirits of that vasty deep, red, white and blue;” the flimsy creatures, what were they but shades of all your divinities, the slim maidens of your boyhood, the stately goddesses of your cavalier period, “the pretty widows” of your “old bachelor” era? And so with the prodding of that flock of shadows and the impulse of your besetting iniquity you wrote that sample letter—good for one, good for all? I can see the whole performance. Thankee, sir; I am not to be mistaken for one of that throng. There is nothing gregarious about me. Just leave me out when you give your “free lunch” feasts of sauce and sugar-plums! You—

But I enjoyed the composition “all the same.” What a pity you have never taken to novel writing. This letter—I can’t call it mine, you see, because it belongs to all of them—ah! this letter “shows your hand.” Believe me, you’ve missed your field in literature. Are you too old to begin over? I ask this because I am beginning to have misgivings in the face of my old sturdy belief that one never outgrew the ability to do if only the will were not wanting. I—I—how shall I admit it? I find there are things I can’t do. Of course it is because one grows old, even with the best intentions not to. No, I never want to; and here I am minus the roses of other days and plus wrinkles and gray hairs beyond all calculation, and seriously contemplating a mouthful of false teeth. Sigh for me! Was ever anything so lamentable? I am so glad you told me about your evening with my dear friends, the F——s. How plain you made me see the familiar room. It was good of you all to remember me so. They are of earth’s choicest—so high-souled, so loyal, so good. I have yet to see the man who does not do homage to Mrs. F——, and the Doctor is one I delight to love and honor. I hope you met my other friend, Mr. W——, of whom I dreamed last night. I was talking to you, and used this expression: “All the wrong he has ever done in his life—all and the only—is to have always done the right.” When I awoke I remembered it. How long I have known him—nearly from the beginning—away back yonder when I was a wee thing in pinafores. He said so pleasantly of that long acquaintance: “The first time I saw her she was so high” (meaning the midget I was) “and swinging in an apple tree; and she swung into my heart, and has been swinging there ever since.” Are not those the kind of words “for remembrance?” How good he has been to me. Some day I’ll make your heart throb, as these human hearts of ours are quick to do, hearing of the great and noble of earth, telling of all he has been to me and done for me in this life of mine, that has been more sorrow and heartache, you know, than comes to many. If you could know him as I do—I think, no—I know you would appreciate my affection and reverence. His life has been a constant growth, grace overcoming nature, the lower giving way to the higher, conquest upon conquest, till I almost tremble at that nearness to perfection which means fitness for that better Elsewhere, the ultimatum of all our hopes and dreams. Here are words of a man about him: “Isn’t his the tenderest, the lovingest, the gentlest, the purest, the whitest and best soul God ever gave to man?” Did ever you know any man speak so of another? Think what mine will be when I give them leave. Do you observe that I speak to you with perfect freedom, having no fear to express my enthusiasm? It is because I know you will not transmute the pure gold of such a friendship into any drosser metal. Ah! I shall indeed be disappointed if you do not meet him. You should call on his wife. You would find her very companionable. You remember her that rainy noon call, I am sure.

Dear old M——! It is looking its best for you, is it? Its best cannot be easily surpassed. Those beautiful hills that I seem to have climbed and scrambled over almost as soon as I learned to walk! How it thrilled me to read your words about them! Ah! you cannot know how they look to my eyes, that always see them in a twofold light—that of my vanished past as well as the present! My husband and I were always sweethearts. I do not clearly remember anything farther back than my love for him. He used to bring me the wild flowers that grew all over them; and we have climbed them together many a time and gazed at their beauty together, and planned the future that lay ahead of us in that wonderful sheen and glow that is visible only to such untried and happy beings. Dear hills! beautiful hills! sacred hills! Yes, I know them in their length and breadth, from their high crests almost to their foundation stones. Did you know I was a grangeress before we met? Well, I had that kind of possession of them also. From the top of mine, I could stand by a tall, bare trunk—torso, may I say?—of a monarch in its time, and look westward over the range, including Water-works Hill, to Mr. W——’s. I and my dog did it often; sometimes in the dewy mornings; sometimes the sunny noons; sometimes in the long, tranquil slants of the setting sun. Oh! I know those hills, every foot of them, at all hours of the day, in every light, under every shadow, from their oaks and beeches down to their bramble thickets; every wild flower, every noxious weed, petrifactions, pebbles! What have they that is not a part of my very being? Do you wonder I love them?

I wish some one had had a long enough memory to show you where I was born, not because of that unimportant event, but because you can see even now what an exquisite spot it must have been. It is “the point” where Limestone Creek runs into the Ohio. I am always thankful I was born on the banks of a river and in the shadow of the “everlasting hills.” We were playfellows, as it were. The shells I have scraped together; the sand hills I have heaped up; the stolen wades in the edge of the water; the skiff rows; the fishing with pin-hooks and worm-bait! Ah! my beautiful river; that you want to spoil to me by crossing against my wish! Is it you who are so “cruel?” If you are still in M——, ask Dr. F—— to show you “the little house where I was born.” It was my grandfather’s, and my father’s is near by. Make some excuse, you two, to get a walk all about them, just to see the views. You will thank me for it, I know.

Why did you not tell me who that “exuberant set” was? Give me the names. There is no curiosity about me, you see. As for that counterpart, I don’t like to feel there is another so like me. I cannot imagine who she could have been. Next time don’t let her escape you. Clutch her with, if need be, that fierce brigand salutation adapted “Your name or your life.” There has been an annoying individual of that kind here. She even had the exasperating presumption to have not only my initials, but my name. Think of another “Mrs. Laura Collins” roving around Europe, and getting your letters and opening them. Do you think it was any satisfaction to read her indorsement, “opened but not read by Mrs. Laura Collins.” The only thing that reconciled me was that she was “Mrs. G. L. C.,” instead of “L. G. C.” I am glad she has flown “to other parts,” and hope we shall not clash again. But wasn’t it aggravating? I did not have any mail for two weeks on account of her getting and keeping it. That “Bayerische Vereinsbank,” and I let her have “a piece of our mind,” I can tell you, about it. Don’t be vicious about my “Bavarian officer.” That special one I have not seen again, though I “own up” to an eager scanning of every one I meet. To be sure, I have not the least idea I should know him, but I can’t keep from looking for him. It was such a peculiar experience, that rencontre. Think of having to lift your eyes to look at one exactly as if in answer to a call, in spite of yourself, and being overcome in the same instant by an utter helplessness to look away, while you became conscious that each was “slowing up in passing,” for you know not what might happen next. It was terrifying too, because I am sure he felt as I did, that nothing ought to happen, except that each should keep straight on. We did somehow manage to. But you see I can’t keep from telling you everything—after a few rods—I could not help it—I looked after him! not, however, without some feminine craftiness. I made believe I was attracted by a pretty shop window. Oh—h—h—h!

He, too, standing transfixed in the street, was looking back. Then was a shock! Then how each hurried away! I plunged into the shop, and quite bewildered the clerk with various wants. I simply did not know what I was asking for. And he! Ah! what has become of him? Alas! I know I shall never see him again! And also, I know equally well—and this is the saddest of it—I should not know him if I did! Could any one be more harmless?

My charming Munich is showing its kinship to the Alps. The snow is falling fine, thick and fast. I am not quite delighted, because I do not like the “beautiful snow.” I meant to have had one whole year of summer time, getting to Italy before cold weather. But Miss B——’s sickness changed my arrangements. The party I joined were to winter here for study. Now it will be January or February before we see that “sunny clime.” Still, I am told by those who have been there that February, March and April are the months for it. I want to see it only under the most favorable circumstances, so am content to wait. To-night we are to attend a concert of the choicest music, given by some of Germany’s finest musicians. We have had two seasons of opera already. I don’t know how many more we are to have. Booth is to be here by and by, and we mean to give him a welcome indeed! As for chronicling all I am doing, I can’t think of wearying you to that extent. But be sure I have no idle days. They are all as full as they can hold. They will do to talk about in that wonderful “by and by” we have laid out in the future. I am sure there are some points in your letter I have not taken up; but I dare not take them up now, lest such length of letter frighten you into breaking off the correspondence. So much valuable time as the reading exacts—how can you spare it? Besides, those points will keep!

I shall expect a full and true and most minute report of your entire visit. Don’t keep an item back. It will be ever so mean if you did not write that “next Sunday.” Won’t you be glad you did, if you did, when you read this? But indeed and indeed, I am very grateful for your letters, and am your friend to my finger tips.

L. G. C.

Munich, November 18, 1882.