I have been conversing with one of my companions respecting the laws
and regulations of Norway. He is a man within great portion of
common sense and heart--yes, a warm heart. This is not the first
time I have remarked heart without sentiment; they are distinct.
The former depends on the rectitude of the feelings, on truth of
sympathy; these characters have more tenderness than passion; the
latter has a higher source--call it imagination, genius, or what you
will, it is something very different. I have been laughing with
these simple worthy folk--to give you one of my half-score Danish
words--and letting as much of my heart flow out in sympathy as they
can take. Adieu! I must trip up the rocks. The rain is ever. Let
me catch pleasure on the wing--I may be melancholy to-morrow. Now
all my nerves keep time with the melody of nature. Ah! let me be
happy whilst I can. The tear starts as I think of it. I must flee
from thought, and find refuge from sorrow in a strong imagination--
the only solace for a feeling heart. Phantoms of bliss! ideal forms
of excellence! again enclose me in your magic circle, and wipe clear
from my remembrance the disappointments that reader the sympathy
painful, which experience rather increases than damps, by giving the
indulgence of feeling the sanction of reason.

Once more farewell!



LETTER XI.