…the　pleasure　arising　from　perfect　congeniality　of　tastes；　sentiments；　and　principles。

I　liked　to　read　what　they　liked　to　read：　what　they　enjoyed；　delighted　me；　what　they　approved；　I　reverenced。　They　loved　their　sequestered　home。　I；　too；　in　the　grey；　small；　antique　structure；　with　its　low　roof；　its　latticed　casements；　its　mouldering　walls；　its　avenue　of　aged　firs—all　grown　aslant　under　the　stress　of　mountain　winds；　its　garden；　dark　with　yew　and　holly—and　where　no　flowers　but　of　the　hardiest　species　would　bloom—found　a　charm　both　potent　and　permanent。　They　clung　to　the　purple　moors　behind　and　around　their　dwelling—to　the　hollow　vale　into　which　the　pebbly　bridle…path　leading　from　their　gate　descended；　and　which　wound　between　fern…　banks　first；　and　then　amongst　a　few　of　the　wildest　little　pasture…　fields　that　ever　bordered　a　wilderness　of　heath；　or　gave　sustenance　to　a　flock　of　grey　moorland　sheep；　with　their　little　mossy…faced　lambs：…　they　clung　to　this　scene；　I　say；　with　a　perfect　enthusiasm　of　attachment。　I　could　prehend　the　feeling；　and　share　both　its　strength　and　truth。　I　saw　the　fascination　of　the　locality。　I　felt　the　consecration　of　its　loneliness：　my　eye　feasted　on　the　outline　of　swell　and　sweep—on　the　wild　colouring　municated　to　ridge　and　dell　by　moss；　by　heath…bell；　by　flower…sprinkled　turf；　by　brilliant　bracken；　and　mellow　granite　crag。　These　details　were　just　to　me　what　they　were　to　them—so　many　pure　and　sweet　sources　of　pleasure。　The　strong　blast　and　the　soft　breeze；　the　rough　and　the　halcyon　day；　the　hours　of　sunrise　and　sunset；　the　moonlight　and　the　clouded　night；　developed　for　me；　in　these　regions；　the　same　attraction　as　for　them—wound　round　my　faculties　the　same　spell　that　entranced　theirs。

Indoors　we　agreed　equally　well。　They　were　both　more