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LETTERS. 197
this time; not by the lilies of the valley, which he was
allowed to smell,—oh, no! they also were to him fallen
angels, having now lost their original beauty; no, but he
was delighted, he was enchanted at having got completely
drenched in a heavy shower of rain, —a pleasure which
certainly not many envied him. Otherwise, he was agree-
able, kind, and interesting, as he can be when he likes.
That the Emperor Nicholas came down in the midst of
us like a bomb-shell, you know already long since, and you
have probably also heard some of the thousands of anec-
dotes which group themselves round this “lion,” which all
have heard, and yet every body tells every body else. The
general opinion of him can be best expressed in your
brother’s words: “ He is really a man with a thoroughly
imperial exterior.” In him one saw the personified ruling
majesty. But it was more the majesty of Power than the
majesty of Mercy. But even the former has its beauty.
How rich is creation! Of all its forms, of all its revealed
thoughts, there is not one which does not possess its own
peculiar beauty. Creation is a diamond, all the facets of
which can be turned towards the light, reflecting its pure
and glittering rays. Every age, every stage of develop-
ment, every nation, every condition of mankind, every in-
dividual man carries within him this celestial ray, although
it is not always placed so as to be visible. Affliction —
cannot even that call forth a peculiar beauty; beauty, be-
side which all the splendor of happiness, of .health, and of
the world becomes pale? ‘The purest, the brightest ray of
heavenly light which I have seen, shone out of an expiring
eye; on a face wasted by bitter sufferings, and already
darkening under death’s lengthening shadows, have I seen
celestial bliss reflected. Like a solitary, steadily burning
light, this vision will follow me through life down to my
grave, and throw its light upon it.
But I have wandered far away from Nicholas. No mat-
ter! Agatha does not much like that we speak of him;
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