he Almighty, whose servant I am."
"How is that, sir?" said C----. "It is stated, Mr. C----, in that
paragraph," says the minister, "that when Mr. H---- failed in business
as a bookseller, he was persuaded by _me_ to try the pulpit; which is
false, incorrect, unchristian, in a manner blasphemous, and in all
respects contemptible. Let us pray." With which, my dear Felton, and in
the same breath, I give you my word, he knelt down, as we all did, and
began a very miserable jumble of an extemporary prayer. I was really
penetrated with sorrow for the family, but when C---- (upon his knees,
and sobbing for the loss of an old friend) whispered me, "that if that
wasn't a clergyman, and it wasn't a funeral, he'd have punched his
head," I felt as if nothing but convulsions could possibly relieve
me. . . .

Faithfully always, my dear Felton.

[Sidenote: Mrs. Hogarth.]

DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, _8th May, 1843._

MY DEAR MRS. HOGARTH,

I was dressing to go to church yesterday morning--thinking, very sadly,
of that time six years--when your kind note and its accompanying packet
were brought to me. The best portrait that was ever painted would be of
little value to you and me, in comparison with that unfading picture we
have within us; and of the worst (which ----'s really is) I can only
say, that it has no interest in my eyes, beyond being something which
she sat near in its progress, full of life and beauty. In that light, I
set some store by the copy you have sent me; and as a mark of your
affection, I need not say I value it very much. As any record of that
dear face, it is utterly worthless.

I trace in many respects a strong resemblance between her mental
features and Georgina's--so strange a one, at times, that when she and
Kate and I are sitting together, I seem to think that what has happened
is a melancholy dream from which I am just awakening. The perfect like
of what she was, will never be again, but so much of her spirit shines
out in this sister, that the old time comes back again at some seasons,
and I can hardly separate it from the present.

After she died, I dreamed of her every night for many months--I think
for the better part of a year--sometimes as a spirit, sometimes as a
living creature, never with any of the bitterness of my real sorrow, but
always with a kind of quiet happiness, which became so pleasant to me
that I never lay down at ni