We have this moment your letter; I am angry with you for blaspheming the sweet season of nineteen: “O lovely source Of generous foibles, youth! when opening minds Are honest as the light, lucid as air, As fostering breezes kind, as linnets gay, Tender as buds, and lavish as the spring.” You will find out I am in a course of Shenstone, which I prescribe to all minds tinctured with the uncomfortable selfishness of the present age. The only way to be good, is to retain the generous mistakes, if they are such, of nineteen through life.
