LETTER VIII.

MISS DOUGLAS TO MISS SANDFORD.

My dearest Julia, _Glenalta_.

Unfortunately for me, I promised to write again without entering into any covenant with you; and were I prevented from performing my vow for half a year to come, I suppose that you would be a little female Shylock and insist upon your bond, before you put pen to paper. I do not know whether I shall do more wisely in refraining from all apology for my silence, or in attempting to account for it. If you have been able to settle into a regular track of daily employment since your return to Checkley, you will be able to comprehend how the day should often find us defaulters at its close, in at least half the amount of what we had to do at its commencement; but if the _whirl_ of travelling be still in operation, you may wonder how people, who are stationary, should not have too much time, rather than too little, on hand. I will therefore keep on the safe side, and make no excuse, lest it should not be considered a valid one, till I know how far you can understand our habits of life; but as I am very certain of your heart, I will proceed to tell you, as I promised in my last letter, of the surprise which Frederick and I have prepared lately for our dearest mother.

On Wednesday next Arthur is to take a long ride with Mr. George Bentley, and Frederick, and I mean to take advantage of our cousin's absence to introduce mamma to the _retreat_, for so we have named the spot which is consecrated by our rural labours to this idol of our daily worship. Surely such worship cannot be idolatry, for through the finest mortal, as the most beautiful natural, object, we may pay homage to the God that created it. But _do_ we really offer this tribute, or does not too much love--does not too large a share of adoration rest in the channel without reaching the source, like the worship of our poor Roman Catholic, which is certainly given to the pictures and images, that adorn their altars rather than to the Divinity which they represent? This is a question which my conscience so often asks itself, that I believe the true answer would come against me; and yet with the half convicted sense of being a sinner, the sin of loving my mother beyond due bounds, borrows so much of her character from its object, that it _appears_ like virtue, and so deludes.

Fred. and I talked the matter over yesterday evening, as we stole away to our hallowed bower.

When you were at Glenalta, I never told you of the discovery which my brother and I had made, because to have mentioned, without shewing you, a gem so worthy of your admiration, as I shall presently describe, would hardly have been kind. Your curiosity and feeling would have been awakened, and I should have feared to gratify them lest we might have disturbed the solitary genius of the place, who was at that time, a daily visitant at its rustic shrine. When first we came here, as I told you in my last letter, Nanny and Mr. Oliphant were alternately our walking companions. Mamma was weak both in body and spirits; and though she made exertion to be gay when we were with her, it is only long since that period that I have been fully sensible how much we owed her for efforts that were beyond her strength. As the mind requires to unbend after intense meditation, so her spirit asked repose after over excitement, and she used to glide along the shrubbery, meet her donkey at its wicket gate, and, following the winding pathway of our glen, ascend, as we imagined the mountain that lies beyond St. Colman's rock, to breathe the "unchartered air of heaven," in full security of not being interrupted; but, as she never went accompanied by any one, we still only conjectured whither she directed her daily ride: and her sorrow was too sensitive, even to our young eyes, to permit of our asking many questions. We had been at Glenalta for three years, before Frederick and I, who were then allowed to visit our poor people at a distance, and explore our glens alone, found ourselves one day about three miles from home, and along the course of the same rivulet which sports so gracefully near our moss-house, at the most enchanting spot that I ever beheld. It is a tiny dell, shut out, or rather shut in, from all the world besides. A Liliputian lawn of the softest green, and not more than a few yards in circumference, serves as a pedestal to one single tree, the only one of its kind in the whole scene. This tree is a beach of surpassing beauty, which casts its delicate branches in a sweeping curve round the little area which it occupies, forming an umbrella of shade, except in one part, where a natural opening invites underneath its lovely archway.

The stream, which near Glenalta is comparatively tame, though sweetly fanciful, assumes a bolder aspect at the retreat, and dashes over fragments of broken rock, which are richly clothed with fern and ivy, and start from masses of holly, and other brushwood, that grow luxuriantly down at each side, to the verge of our mountain brook, which makes a circuit round the beech, so as to render the _velvet cushion_ on which it stands almost a little island. As the bleak heath-covered hill rises in every direction, you could fancy yourself to have reached a fertile oasis in the midst of a desert. Nothing of animated life appeared in view except two young goats that had ventured down the precipice, and the silence was only broken by the rush of waters. Frederick and I stood quite transfixed; but when our first exclamations of wonder and delight had subsided, we determined on exploring farther, and passing round the tree we scrambled to the other side, and found a rude seat of stone, over which a tuft of alders and mountain-ash had formed a roof impenetrable to the sun. A variety of the beautiful orchis, cowslip, and primrose tribes intermixed with wild violets of the most brillant purple, enameled the ground, and the softest moss lined every part of this sylvan niche with refreshing verdure. We sat down in a perfect ecstacy, then pulled bundles of flowers, drank at the stream, and were indulging in all the luxury of our good fortune, when something white struck my eye, clung into the root of an old hazle which stood a little below us. I pointed it out to Frederick, who immediately jumped down the rock, and found a bit of paper rolled round a pencil. It was torn, and had been injured by wet, having evidently lain for a long time in its concealment. The holly which grows so abundantly all over the rocks, had furnished its evergreen protection so as to save the paper from melting away, and the weight of the pencil, round which it was tightly wrapped, had contributed with the tangled roots, to prevent its being carried away by the wind. We eagerly unfolded our mysterious prize, and with some difficulty decyphered, at last completely, and in mamma's hand-writing, the following lines:

Inscribed upon thy polished rind, That name was once engraved, Which, traced upon my heart I find, The wreck that grief has saved.

Nor ruthless time, nor cankering care, Hath swept that sacred line; The perfect record lingers there, Carved on the faithful shrine.

Yes, and within thy beechen breast, Sweet sympathy conceals The characters that once confessed, Thy bark no more reveals.

Thy glossy fane now furrowed o'er, Protects from wandering gaze That name adored, which never more Thy jealous love betrays.

Thy roughened form,--my time-worn cheek, Alike refuse to tell The signs that idlers vainly seek Within this leafy dell.

But when the axe hath laid thee low, And bowed thy graceful head; And _me_, life's latest mortal foe, Shall number with the dead;

Then in our bosoms' inmost seat, The self same image found, Reveals to view its deep retreat, Fast in the heart-strings bound.

We gazed on each other, and the truth flashed upon our hearts in the same instant. Frederick and I, by a movement imparted from within, darted towards the tree together, and on examination found a part of the once varnished surface, raised into irregular carbuncles, where the bark had closed with time over some letters no longer legible. With much pains, we satisfied ourselves that the initials H. A. C. D. had been interwoven, and cut in the bark from the external face of which, these letters had been carried inward by the process of annual growth. It immediately occurred to us, that our beloved parents had made this a favourite haunt in happier days; and that the undying memory of some faithful mourner had sought again these now almost obliterated characters. Such mourner could have been no other than the dear surviving guardian of our youth; and our tears flowed without restraint, as we read again and again, the stanzas of which we had become accidentally possessed. The first movement of our minds was, as you may suppose, to restore them directly to their author; and it was not without considerable reasoning between ourselves, that either could convince the other of its being better to suppress the verses, and say nothing of the _retreat_. From mamma's never having communicated any hint relative to this little hermit-cell, it was obvious that she did not wish us to discover its situation; then, the pencilled lines had been lost for some time. She had made no inquiry about them; her memory was able in all probability, to supply them again; and in giving up what manifestly appeared to be mamma's own composition, such explanation might have ensued as would have opened all her wounds afresh, and destroyed ever afterwards the pleasure which she appeared to feel in visiting the sequestered spot which we had discovered. Upon mature deliberation then we agreed to hush up our little adventure, and keep the tender effusion that we had found, till some natural opportunity might occur of giving it back again to its owner.

Time has rolled on, and the gradual influence of its healing power is happily illustrated in the improved condition of our precious _charge_, (for I consider her as a blessing conferred upon her children, henceforward placed peculiarly in their care); and a moment having arrived in which Frederick agreed with me that we might venture to commence our little scheme, we set to work in the beginning of November, just at the time when the change of weather, and the death of faithful Dapple, that sole companion of our _pilgrim's progress_, conspired to prevent the discovery of our plan. Poor Tom Collins and his son, who live not far from the scene of our operations, were necessarily let into the secret, for they were manual contributors to the execution of our project; and had this _not_ been the case, I should have still rewarded the former by a confidence, the _distinguishing_ nature of which he knows how to appreciate, in return for a trait of feeling so unlike one's abstract notion of a _peasant_, and so delicate, that I must tell the anecdote of him, before I proceed with our works at the retreat. One day preparatory to our design, Frederick and I watched an opportunity when mamma was obliged to drive on business to a little town in our neighbourhood, and paid a visit to our favourite spot. We were sitting talking over past, present, and future, when a slight rustling amongst the leaves, announced the approach of some one; and presently poor Tom Collins, on tip-toe, and his finger, in sign of caution, placed upon his lip, stood before us. "Och, then," said he, "its I that am after running to stop your honours from coming down at all, at all, into my misthess's nook. I does be keeping the childer always from this place till the sun does be setting, and then I knows there 'ont be any danger in life of seeing her honour, for becaase she only comes of a morning."

"And Tom," answered I, "why are you so uneasy from the fear of seeing mamma?"

"Och, then, miss, my heart, I'll tell ye, and I never tould it afore, nor wouldn't now, only becaase I never seed any one of quality like, here, only her honour's self; and now if I don't tell, why may be she'd be fretted to think that you and Masther Fred. would find her out in her nook; and I knows very well, that she wouldn't like it, for when it plased God to take my poor boy Darby away from me, I'd covet to be all day moping if I could, down in that very bottom. Why, then, sure enough, it was there I was one Midsummer day, lying down flat on the ground beyont the big holly stump, and thinking heavy enough of Darby, becaase of all days in the year, 'twas his own birth day, when I heard a whispering like, under the baach-tree, so I gets up fair and softly, without making as much stir as a baatle among the laaves; why then _mavourneen_, what would I see but my misthess on her two knees, upon the could ground, looking up and praying like. Well, there I stood, and I seed her crying like droppings from the ivy beyant; and I heerd the words axing the Lord to make yees good childer, and mark yees to Glory. And then she'd ax Him to make her a good mother, and to keep and to help her all the days of her life; and sure, be the same token, God listened to her prayer, for she's the best of ladies. After that she'd get up, and talk to the tree all as one as if it was a Christian, about my maasther, for I heerd her say, _Hinnery_, and so I knew well enough who she'd be spaiking of, being that I'd be often that way talking myself to the air, as I may say, about Darby. Well, my heart grew so big, that I thought it would fairly jump out o'me; so with that, I slinged away; and seeing poor Dapple another day fastened behind the rock above, I says to myself, to be sure says I, she's moping there like myself, and so I never would come again till night fall; but when I have time, I does be above, not far off, only she can't see me, be raison I'd like, if any thing would be for going down the clift, to stop 'em till she'd be clear and clane out o' the place for the day. So that's all about it; and she don't be coming so often now, tho' in the main-time 'tis constant at her prayers or writing on a bit of a paper, or reading out of a little book that she does be, whenever she'll come to the lag below."

The eloquence of Demosthenes could not have worked upon our hearts like this simple story. I seized instinctively upon the rough hand of honest Tom, and Frederick did so likewise. We were too full to utter a word, but we each of us resolved that this trait should have its recording angel, and that, however tears might bedew the remembrance of it, they should never blot out the registry. Of this we _said_ nothing, for it would have been a species of sacrilege to sully the purity of such genuine feeling, by making it an apparent cause of any temporal benefit. Oh what a withering breath is praise, and how sickly do the motives of action become, when flattery, that _simoon_ of the heart, has passed over them! We now communicated our embryo purpose to Tom, and told him that we intended proceeding to work on the following day, as it was not likely, that during the winter season, my mother would visit her seat again. Pride and joy took possession of his countenance, as we developed our plan; and had we presented him with a purse of gold, I do not think that the expression of his face could have indicated such happiness as the feeling of being thus distinguished by our confidence, inspired.

I must now describe what we have done: Mr. Oliphant has been let into our councils, and his excellent taste has assisted us not a little; but dear Phil., Charlotte, Fanny, and Arthur are as ignorant as mamma, of our necromancy. A beautiful rustic temple has taken place of the stone seat. It is lined with reeds, interleaved in a sort of basket-matting, which fits close to the inside; and the front is supported by pillars of twisted elm, which are surmounted by capitals of remarkably fine cones from the stone-pine. These supporters are covered with clematis, honeysuckle, and roses. A circular seat, equal in softness to any Ottoman divan, is raised to a convenient height, and covered with the same reed-matting which I have mentioned. The paving is of snow-white pebbles, which Collins' little girls have collected for me on the strand, and the whole Glen has been decorated by every thing either fragrant or beautiful, which was not out of character with its wildness. I have trained a number of Alpine plants over the rocks, and taught the lovely water-lily to unfold its flowers upon a tiny basin, which Frederick has scooped out, lower down the stream. We have secured this bower from trespassers, and made a serpentine path through the tangled brush-wood, to permit the dear sovereign of these sylvan dominions to descend the hill without fatigue, and admit of her being brought by Dapple the _second_, up to the door of her rural palace. When this was completed, we set to work at Tom Collins' abode, which is now raised and enlarged into a thoroughly comfortable habitation. A nice cabbage-garden is inclosed at the back, and the front is thickly planted with a double hedge of quicks and privet, separating a little space from the moor, which is filled with sweet, but common flowers. The family have been set to spin, and are already clothed in their own manufacture. Frederick has given poor Tom a cow, to which I have added half a dozen sheep; and such a scene of contentment above, and of beauty below, it would be difficult to equal: at least so _we_ think; and when we contemplate the entire as a creation of our own, Frederick and I certainly do confess to some degree of self-complacency. But as far as I have hitherto narrated, only relates to the _body_ of our exertions. I must now describe the _soul_ of them. In the back part of our rustic temple, is a door so completely concealed by the matting of reeds, as not to be discernible to ordinary observers. This door, upon being opened, discovers a little cell of just sufficient size to admit of one person's sitting in it without inconvenience. Its furniture consists of a small pedestal of delicate workmanship in white marble, upon which Frederick has placed the exquisite urn that you may remember, of alabaster, found at Pompeïa. It belonged to my father, and has been kept in a closet, hidden from every eye since the time of his death. Upon the front of the pedestal which supports it, we have had engraved the following lines:--

Bless'd refuge of a sad and broken heart, Soft soothing solitude, thy balm impart; Come with thy gentle train, thy peaceful rest, Thy tender stillness to this grief-worn breast. With thee, how sweet to climb the craggy way, And o'er these rocky cliffs in silence stray, In Nature's temple to expand the soul, While tears distil refreshing as they roll, What fond deceit the present to beguile, And bid the shades of past delight to smile. Call back the dreams of youth, and hope, and love, And 'mid the dear aërial phantoms rove. But hush! too sharp that pang, my heart gives o'er, Invoke the memory of thy bliss no more! Raise up to heaven thy soul, quit earth, and fly, Go seek thy refuge in yon azure sky; Ask mercy's aid to shed celestial light Upon the dismal gloom of sorrow's night, And God's own spirits of the mountain air, Shall waft on high the deep unuttered prayer, While filial love shall consecrate the scene, That gave a mother's tears for hope serene.

Immediately behind the urn, which with its pedestal is let into a niche, is a pretty little arched window of stained glass; and at the opposite extremity of our Anchorite's cell stands a slab of Kerry marble, which rests upon a simple cabinet of the beautiful black oak of the bog which our island furnishes from its _ebony_ stores. When opened, a flat box of polished beech-wood presents itself, and this serves as a solid portfolio, preserving from damp an exquisite drawing in pencil, by Frederick, of the large tree to which you have been already introduced. Underneath the tree, mamma's lines which we found, are neatly transcribed; and the old pencil, with its original paper wrapped round it, as when first discovered in its hiding place, and a pocket Bible, in the first page of which, after the name of Caroline Douglas, are written these words; "The prayer of the righteous availeth much," complete the furniture of this rustic sanctuary.

When Frederick and I went this morning at early dawn, to see that all was finished according to our design, we found Tom Collins already there, leaning against one of the pillars, in an attitude of contemplation. He started from his reverie as we approached, and twirling his old hat in his hands, resting first upon one foot, then upon the other, he said, after the usual salutation, "Miss, dear, I was thinking that you would'nt refuse me, if you plase, just to let me be standing overright there beyant the big baach, when my mistress will be coming--I'll engage I'll not let her see a bit o'me, any more than if I was a sperret, nor I'ont brathe a word good, or bad, only to set my two looking eyes upon her, when she'll see the place you done for her." Could such a request fail of being granted?

This romantic mountaineer is full of the finest sensibilities, and not perverted, as so much of acute feeling often is, to the purposes of discontent and ingratitude. Tom is a good husband, a good son, and a good father. Yet he knows not a letter in the alphabet.

"What shameful ignorance," I hear you exclaim! Ignorance of letters it surely is, but not shameful. You, in England, can be sure of giving your poor a religious education. We cannot! but some of our peasants _act_ the Bible, which their priests will not allow them to read; and what benefit would these derive from the pennyworth of sedition or impurity which they might be permitted to purchase, and instructed to peruse? With what fresh delight have I sometimes returned to this dear desert, after having visited some of the districts _said_ to be civilized when compared with our neighbourhood!--Oh it is a great mistake to imagine that _reading_ is a cure for every evil, unless the Bible be allowed to offer its blessed promises, and hold forth its bright meed of reward for patience in adversity, and resignation under privations, which all other learning is calculated to reveal in the strongest light, without affording any means to remedy. The will of God has made inequality the very essence of every social scheme. No spread of knowledge can improve the lot of him who must till the ground in the sweat of his brow, if that knowledge be not of a nature to make him _better_, and therefore happier; and I never pass by our smith's forge, which is the parish coffee-house, without hearing expressions, and seeing looks that mark a murmuring spirit.

The other day I asked an aged peasant, who lives on the lands of Lisfarne, about fairies; "Did you ever see the _Luracawn_," said I, "of which people say, that it is a sort of fairy that lives always by the sea-side, and carries a purse such as we often find on the strand with strings to it?"

"No, miss, I never did _myself_; but in ould times they used to be seen plenty enough."

"Then," answered I, "perhaps the truth may be, that the people now are grown too wise to believe the stories which were swallowed in old times."

The old man replied, "Miss, there's a great dael o' larning that is'nt knowledge, and there's more of it than is good, I can assure you. The people now gets hould o'books, and cares very little about their parents, who were better folk than many o'_them_ that are going now a' days."

"Then you don't approve of learning Andrew."--"Why, miss, you might as well say I don't approve o'my fellow craitures. There's two kinds o'one as of the other.--Good men and good books, bad men and bad books. I likes the two first, and I don't like the two last, and when people gets hould o'larning, the're vastly fonder o'the bad than the good."

Really these people astonish me by the clearness of their views and the acuteness of their observations. But before I close this long letter, I must say a word of Arthur Howard, who is a great favourite already at Glenalta. Had he been born under a happier star than that which presided at his birth, he would be a charming young man, and great improvements may yet be effected, for he is young and full of generous feeling as of quick tact. The contrarieties which nature and art sometimes display in their contest for pre-eminence in his actions, would divert us excessively, if there were not so much to love and regard in the compound, that vexation must ever be a predominating sentiment when he obeys an unworthy impulse. Selfishness is, I believe, the leading vice of fashionable people; and it must be very difficult to throw off the habits in which education has taught us that comfort (that _aldermanic_ little word, as many use it) consists.

The first thought in what is called the world, appears to be, "is such or such a thing for _my_ pleasure, _my_ interest, _my_ convenience;" and the _last_ is, "whether the matter in question be useful, or agreeable to other people?" I am now speaking of the school, not the scholar, for though Arthur has necessarily adopted _some_ of the folly in the midst of which he has lived, moved, and had his being, it is astonishing how little the natural tendencies of his heart are obscured. He came here, as I told you, with very strong prejudices, but I perceive with delight that they are fading away; and, I believe, that he thinks less hardly than he did when he first came amongst us, of female improvement. How could he bask in the sunshine of mamma's sweet smile, and enjoy the constant variety of her unrivalled powers in conversation, without feeling how compatible are the charms of high cultivation with all that is excellent in private life--all that is fascinating in female softness?

As I listened eagerly to a dialogue the other day, in which she was engaged, shedding light and animation upon every subject which came before her, I could not help thinking, that were amusement the only object and end of existence, cultivation of mind would appear, in my opinion, to be an indispensable requisite in the art of attaining it. The gay world, I suppose has its charms, and may attract for a season. Change of place, and change of faces, may please perhaps for a time, but this cannot last for ever, and when the period arrives in which people _must_ rely upon the resources of _home_, what an immeasurable distance must there be between the full mind and the empty one! The very playfulness of a superior person is so exhilarating that I never grow weary of it; but of all the tiresome companionships on earth, it is that of animal spirits in perennial flow, that bear no treasure on the tide. How well Pope has expressed what I mean! "For lively Dulness ever loves a joke."

I must reserve space for a concluding word after our visit at the Retreat. Till then adieu.

Well, dear Julia, I feel the repose of my own room most welcome after the excitement of this day. The sun shone in full splendor on our project. Last night Frederick and I spoke to mamma of some trifling alterations that we had been making for the comfort of Tom Collins and his family, whose little dwelling had suffered much from the winter storms.

"Yes, my loves," said she, "I am rejoiced that your activity has anticipated me. Since the death of my poor Dapple, I have not gone so far as Tom's house, and have been _intending_ a visit to the mountain, till you have made me ashamed by this lesson on procrastination. The truth is, that my present _steed_ is so unlike his predecessor in gait and humour, that he and I are not such friends as to make me quite at home in his company; and I hate to have Paddy running after me. My morning rambles were always solitary, and I should not be at ease now in going alone, till I am more accustomed to my _new Neddy_, or his temper becomes more amiable; but all this is no excuse for not having employed other eyes to see that the Collins' were not unroofed. I wonder why Tom did not come."

"We happened to see him," said Frederick, "which probably prevented his applying to you, as Emily and I did the needful; but if to-morrow should be a fine day, suppose that I drive you and Em. in the pony car, before breakfast, and we will shew you how we have patched up these poor people for the present."

Mamma consented, and this morning early we sat out; but my tears suffocate me at the bare remembrance of my mother's emotion. She was amazed and delighted with our improvements. The garden, the hedge, the clean house, and clean people, all appeared the effect of enchantment. Tom, his wife, and children, grinned with broad uncontrolled rapture, and overwhelmed the little party with blessings. When we had praised, and been praised (_such_ praise warms the heart without enervating its powers), Frederick took mamma's arm, and said, "You must come, dearest mother, to look at a dell which Emily and I discovered some time ago, the sweetest spot that you ever beheld." A faint blush overspread her cheek, and I perceived a thrill run through her frame. She hesitated, then hinted that the banks were steep, and that we should be late for breakfast; but _we_ coaxed, and she evidently not desiring to say how well she was acquainted with the scene which she was about to visit, suffered herself to be led forward, I walking behind with a palpitating heart, down the narrow descent, and poor Tom following at a discreet distance. As we proceeded, I observed mamma gaze to the right and the left with amazement; but when our rustic temple burst upon her eye, the expression of her countenance became painfully inquisitive. The mysterious door was opened, Frederick pushed her gently in, closed the wicker-work, and waited with me in the outer inclosure. We heard her sob aloud, and in a few moments she was in our arms.

Here I pause. The sweetness of the feeling reciprocally called forth, would baffle my little powers of language to describe. Is it not Cora, in the play of Pizarro, who talks of three bright moments in her life? No moment in any one's life ever surpassed this expansion of hearts linked by a tie so pure end so affectionate as binds our's to each other. We sat till breakfast was forgotten. We looked, and looked again, and when the first swell of painful pleasure had given way to more tranquil sensations, _we_ architects became garrulous, and in the vanity of success, hurrying our beloved mother from flower to flower, shrub to shrub, rock to rivulet, that we might not lose one _atom_, or one _item_ of applause; and at length so completely communicated the contagion of _gladness_ to her who had inspired the emotion in ourselves, that she entered zealously into the idea of surprising the rest of our party, adding, "I will first come here alone with our dear friend of Lisfarne, after which we will revisit this beloved retreat in a body, and enjoy in common the pleasures which you have created." We were now turning our steps towards Glenalta, when the sight of poor Tom wiping his eyes in the sleeve of his coat, as he leaned against the beech-tree, arrested mamma's attention. She went up, shook him warmly by the hand, and without a word uttered on either side, we separated.

I am promised a conveyance of this _pamphlet_ rather than letter by that excellent creature George Bentley, and I am particularly pleased with the power of sending you so voluminous a packet by private hand at present, because I may not be able to write for some time again. We are all going to Killarney. Arthur is an enthusiast about our Glen scenery, and I enjoy exceedingly the delight of shewing him that gem of purest water. Some anxiety, however, is always wisely mingled in our cup, which mamma's promise to accompany us, would have rendered too intoxicating, and this anxiety is relating to dearest Fred. whose College examinations must precede our excursion. He and Mr. Oliphant leave us on Thursday next, and will only be absent during five or six days. I cannot sleep from feverish solicitude, though I believe that my Fred. is very well prepared; but we have so managed this charming trip to Killarney, that it will either crown our victory, should such happiness be in store, or divert our melancholy, should the dear fellow be doomed to suffer a disappointment. Phil. and Mr. Bentley are to be of our party. Do you know that Arthur is quite a surprising botanist already; and as I am his _Linnæa_, I am as proud as a peacock of my pupil. He can now walk without _leading strings_, and is grown so expert that our rambles are become trials of rival skill. Well, I must bid my dear friends adieu. With many loves from Charlotte and Fanny to Bertha and Agnes; and _all_ our loves to your _dearly_ loved aunt, believe me, Julia's most affectionate,

EMILY DOUGLAS.