tion? where the wonted relation of domestic anecdotes, identifying our feelings in mutual sympathy? How my heart yearns after home!
I am here an isolated man! without parent, brother, sister, or friends, except those of yesterday—and in them I am most fortunate: how my heart pants at times for some old friend or companion, and some dear familiar face! how devotedly could I attach myself to such an one! But you in the midst of society, cannot understand this feeling of nostalgia, and may smile at it. I used to smile too, most incredulously, when I read of such a thing of the poor Swiss, for instance, dying from a fatal longing after his beloved mountain home,
"Et moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos."
Who has not known and tasted the bitterness of this sensation, the throbbing, the aching, the hopeless despondency of the heart? May you never experience this feeling! for it is one which requires the indifference of a Stoic, or the patient resignation of a Christian, to endure without repining. I endeavour to obtain the latter quality, but fall lamentably short of it, and therefore apply myself to laborious occupation, as a diversion of the thoughts from painful contemplation. Did I hear
