“From woman’s eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world.” This, my dearest Emily, is the last letter which you will receive from Frederick in London; and though time speeds on rapid wing in this focus of attraction, I reckon the days with impatience till the heath-clad tops of our dear mountains break upon my view. To travel, and see new men and manners, would be too delightful, if mother and sisters were with me, but, unfashionable as the confession may be, I own to the _weakness_ of loving mine enough to make me wish to be always near them. In a few days we are to set…
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