quiet, thoughtful demeanour, with great refinement of expression. Little Jenny, the only daughter, is a sweet little girl; and then comes “the baby,” a yellow-haired little lad, with his father's brow and clear blue eyes: a delicate, but delightful child.
With Marcus I talk about what is going on both now and for hereafter in the country, whether afar off or near; with Rebecca about the history of the inward life; and thus learn much which both affects and interests me. Yes, my sister, there is here much more poetry, much more of the romance of life, than we have imagined. Life here is new youth. The climate, also, is youthful, but not always most agreeably so: it is very fickle. The first days I spent here at Brooklyn were so bitterly cold that I was frozen both body and mind. Now, and for the last three days, it has been so warm, that I have lain at night with my window open, have seen the stars shining through the Venetian shutters, and been saluted in the crimson dawn by the mildest zephyrs, and that air, and that odour, which has in it something magical.
November 7th.—I have not been able to write for several days. I am sorry for it, my sweet child, but I cannot help it. I will some time, by word of mouth, fill up the gaps which remain in my letters. Many things which are flattering, and many things which are difficult, occur to me every day, which are not worth putting down on paper. My life is a daily warfare against kindness and politeness, and curiosity, during which I often am weary and worn out; often, also, I feel the wafting influence of an extraordinary youthfulness and enjoyment gush through my soul. I felt this one day during a conversation with the noble, enthusiastic W. H. Channing,—a character as ardent as it is pure, with a beaming eye, and a countenance as pure and regular as I could imagine that of a seraph to be. His figure, which is noble and elegant, is well suited for that of a public speaker. He is rather a
