itself, but finds
inevitable ready made disappointment in the mere realities of life.... I
make no excuse for talking "nursery" to you, my dear Lady Dacre. These
are my dearest occupations; indeed, I might say, my only ones.

Have you looked into Marryatt's books on this country? They are full of
funny stories, some of them true stories enough, and some, little
imitation Yankee stories of the captain's own.

Do explain to me what Sydney Smith means by disclaiming Peter Plymley's
letters as he does? Surely he _did_ write them.

This very youthful nation of the United States is "carrying on," to use
their own favorite phrase, in a most unprecedented manner. Their
mercantile and financial experiments have been the dearest of their kind
certainly; and the confusion, embarrassment, and difficulty, in
consequence of these experiments, are universal. Money is scarce, credit
is scarcer, but, nevertheless, they will not lay the lesson to heart.
The natural resources of the country are so prodigious, its wealth so
enormous, so inexhaustible, that it will be presently up and on its feet
again running faster than ever to the next stumbling-post. _Moral_
bankruptcy is what they have to fear, much more than failure of material
riches. It is a strange country, and a strange people; and though I have
dear and good friends among them, I still feel a stranger here, and fear
I shall continue to do so until I die, which God grant I may do at home!
_i.e._, in England.

Give my kindest remembrance to Lord Dacre. We hope to be in England in
September, and I shall come and see you as soon as ever I can.

Believe me ever, my dear Lady Dacre,
Yours affectionately,
F. A. B.

BUTLER PLACE, March 1st, 1840.

Thank you, my dearest Harriet, for your extract from my sister's letter
to you.... The strongest of us are insufficient to ourselves in this
life, and if we will not stretch out our hands for help to our fellows,
who, for the most part, are indeed broken reeds and quite as often
pierce as support us, we needs must at last stretch them out to God; and
doubtless these occasions, bitter as they may seem, should be accounted
blest, which make the poor proud human soul discover its own weakness
and God's all-sufficiency....

My winter--or rather, what remains of it--is like to pass in
un