I Should Infinitely Prefer A Book.

I . . . Am Always Half Afraid Of Finding A Clever Novel Too Clever--& Of Finding My Own Story & My Own People All Forestalled.

Her Pleasure In The Walk Must Arise From The Exercise And The Day, From The View Of The Last Smiles Of The Year Upon The Tawny Leaves And Withered Hedges, And From Repeating To Herself Some Few Of The Thousand Poetical Descriptions Extant Of Autumn-that Season Of Peculiar And Inexhaustible Influence On The Mind Of Taste And Tenderness-that Season Which Has Drawn From Every Poet Worthy Of Being Read Some Attempt At Description, Or Some Lines Of Feeling.

I Am Sorry To Tell You That I Am Getting Very Extravagant And Spending All My Money: And What Is Worse For You, I Have Been Spending Yours Too.

You Have Qualities Which I Had Not Before Supposed To Exist In Such A Degree In Any Human Creature. You Have Some Touches Of The Angel In You.

We Certainly Do Not Forget You As Soon As You Forget Us. It Is, Perhaps, Our Fate Rather Than Our Merit. We Cannot Help Ourselves. We Live At Home, Quiet, Confined, And Our Feelings Prey Upon Us. You Are Forced On Exertion. You Have Always A Profession, Pursuits, Business Of Some Sort Or Other, To Take You Back Into The World Immediately, And Continual Occupation And Change Soon Weaken Impressions.