a rocky, thorny, storm-swept, immeasurable world, and that she, a
woman, stands holding out towards it her imploring arms, and asking
only for some littlest part in its infinite destinies.


After the last talk with Georgiana I felt renewed desire to see those
Audubon drawings. So yesterday morning I sent over to her some
things written by a Northern man, whom I call the young Audubon
of the Maine woods. His name is Henry D. Thoreau, and it is, I
believe, known only to me down here. Everything that I can find of
his is as pure and cold and lonely as a wild cedar of the mountain
rocks, standing far above its smokeless valley and hushed white
river. She returned them to-day with word that she would thank me
in person, and to-night I went over in a state of rather senseless
eagerness.

Her mother and sister had gone out, and she sat on the dark porch
alone. The things of Thoreau's have interested her, and she asked
me to tell her all I knew of him, which was little enough. Then
of her own accord she began to speak of her father and Audubon--of
the one with the worship of love, of the other with the worship
of greatness. I felt as though I were in a moonlit cathedral; for
her voice, the whole revelation of her nature, made the spot so
impressive and so sacred. She scarcely addressed _me_; she was
communing with them. Nothing that her father told her regarding
Audubon appears to have been forgotten; and, brought nearer than
ever before to that lofty, tireless spirit in its wanderings through
the Kentucky forests, I almost forgot her to whom I was listening.
But in the midst of it she stopped, and it was again kitten and yarn.
I left quite as abruptly. Upon my soul, I believe that Georgiana