The mail
is come in, but no parcel; yet this is Tuesday. Farewell, then, till
to-morrow; for a niche and a nook I must leave for criticisms. By the
way, I hope you do not send your own only copy of "Joan of Arc;" I will
in that case return it immediately.
Your parcel _is_ come; you have been _lavish_ of your presents.
Wordsworth's poem I have hurried through, not without delight. Poor
Lovell! my heart almost accuses me for the light manner I lately spoke
of him, not dreaming of his death. My heart bleeds for your accumulated
troubles; God send you through 'em with patience. I conjure you dream
not that I will ever think of being repaid; the very word is galling to
the ears. I have read all your "Religious Musings" with uninterrupted
feelings of profound admiration. You may safely rest your fame on it.
The best remaining things are what I have before read, and they lose
nothing by my recollection of your manner of reciting 'em, for I too
bear in mind "the voice, the look," of absent friends, and can
occasionally mimic their manner for the amusement of those who have seen
'em. Your impassioned manner of recitation I can recall at any time to
mine own heart and to the ears of the bystanders. I rather wish you had
left the monody on Chatterton concluding, as, it did, abruptly. It had
more of unity. The conclusion of your "Religious Musicgs," I fear, will
entitle you to the reproof of your beloved woman, who wisely will not
suffer your fancy to run riot, but bids you walk humbly with your God.
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