’I sigh for an intellectual guide.  Nothing but the sense of what God has done for me, in bringing me nearer to himself, saves me from despair.  With what envy I looked at Flaxman’s picture of Hesiod sitting at the feet of the Muse!  How blest would it be to be thus instructed in one’s vocation!  Anything would I do and suffer, to be sure that, when leaving earth, I should not be haunted with recollections of “aims unreached, occasions lost.”  I have hoped some friend would do,—­what none has ever yet done,—­comprehend me wholly, mentally, and morally, and enable me better to comprehend myself.  I have had some hope that Miss Martineau might be this friend, but cannot yet tell.  She has what I want,—­vigorous reasoning powers, invention, clear views of her objects,—­and she has been trained to the best means of execution.  Add to this, that there are no strong intellectual sympathies between us, such as would blind her to my defects.’

* * * * *

’A delightful letter from Miss Martineau.  I mused long upon the noble courage with which she stepped forward into life, and the accurate judgment with which she has become acquainted with its practical details, without letting her fine imagination become tamed.  I shall be cheered and sustained, amidst all fretting and uncongenial circumstances, by remembrance of her earnest love of truth and ardent faith.’

ILLNESS

’A terrible feeling in my head, but kept about my usual avocations.  Read Ugo Foscolo’s Sepolcri, and Pindemonti’s answer, but could not relish either, so distressing was the weight on the top of the brain; sewed awhile, and then went out to get warm, but could not, though I walked to the very end of Hazel-grove, and the sun was hot upon me.  Sat down, and, though seemingly able to think with only the lower part of my head, meditated literary plans, with full hope that, if I could command leisure, I might do something good.  It seemed as if I should never reach home, as I was obliged to sit down incessantly.

’For nine long days and nights, without intermission, all was agony,—­fever and dreadful pain in my head.  Mother tended me like an angel all that time, scarcely ever leaving me, night or day.  My father, too, habitually so sparing in tokens of affection, was led by his anxiety to express what he felt towards me in stronger terms than he had ever used in the whole course of my life.  He thought I might not recover, and one morning, coming into my room, after a few moments’ conversation, he said:  “My dear, I have been thinking of you in the night, and I cannot remember that you have any faults.  You have defects, of course, as all mortals have, but I do not know that you have a single fault.”  These words,—­so strange from him, who had scarce ever in my presence praised me, and who, as I knew, abstained from praise as hurtful