“England, with all thy sullen skies, I love thee still, my country!” Dear, dear England, dearest Edwinstowe! What is objected to it? The cold? Why the cold produces that very thing which gives to England the greatest superiority over other countries—a fireside!
Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Upsends a steaming column, etc., etc.
Wretched people under a burning sun, what do you know of this? or of
The important budget ushered in,
With such heart-shaking musick, etc. etc.
I often think of my dearest father sitting in his little summer-house by the river, and wish myself beside him.
We have no sight of futurity—Russia, Naples; beat the French; a wound, a medal, and arm in a sling.
My health is uniform, and so are my spirits; only sometimes I sigh for England, for Edwinstowe, and for you. God bless you, my dearest mother.—With great love, your most affectionate and dutiful son,