little baby" by your family fireside, than listen to you when you were
repeating one of Bowles's sweetest sonnets in your sweet manner, while
we two were indulging sympathy, a solitary luxury, by the fireside at
the "Salutation." Yet have I no higher ideas of heaven. Your company was
one "cordial in this melancholy vale,"--the remembrance of it is a
blessing partly, and partly a curse. When I can abstract myself from
things present, I can enjoy it with a freshness of relish; but it more
constantly operates to an unfavorable comparison with the uninteresting
converse I always and _only_ can partake in. Not a soul loves Bowles
here; scarce one has heard of Burns; few but laugh at me for reading my
Testament,--they talk a language I understand not; I conceal sentiments
that would be a puzzle to them. I can only converse with you by letter,
and with the dead in their books. My sister, indeed, is all I can wish
in a companion; but our spirits are alike poorly, our reading and
knowledge from the selfsame sources, our communication with the scenes
of the world alike narrow. Never having kept separate company, or any
"company _together_;" never having read separate books, and few books
_together_,--what knowledge have we to convey to each other? In our
little range of duties and connections, how few sentiments can take
place without friends, with few books, with a taste for religion rather
than a strong religious habit! We need some support, some
leading-strings to cheer and direct us. You talk very wisely; and be not
sparing of _your advice_. Continue to remember us, and to show us you do
remember us; we will take as lively an interest in what concerns you and
yours. All I can add to your happiness will be sympathy. You can add to
mine _more_; you can teach me wisdom. I am indeed an unreasonable
correspondent: but I was unwilling to let my last night's letter go off
without this qualifier: you will perceive by this my mind is easier, and
you will rejoice. I do not expect or wish you to write till you are
moved; and of course shall not, till you announce to me that event,