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Updated: May 28, 2025
I was glad to get back to the beautiful little city again, to receive the ever-warm greetings of our friends. The busy fingers fly; the eyes may see Only the glancing needle that they hold; But all my life is blossoming inwardly, And every breath is like a litany; While through each labour, like a thread of gold, Is woven the sweet consciousness of thee.
Your pictures shall be sent as soon as any of us go to London, but I think that will not be till the Parliament meets. Can we easily leave the remains of such a year as this? It is still all gold. I have not dined or gone to bed by a fire till the day before yesterday. Instead of the glorious and ever-memorable year 1759, as the newspapers call it, I call it this ever-warm and victorious year.
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