shall have my full consent, for I am sure of all the essentials that give security for substantial peace. The graces which he wants may be dispensed with. The virtues which he possesses are indispensible; but I shall avoid giving direction to the inclination of my girl, towards any particular objects, not because I do not think that many a parent might choose more wisely than young people do for themselves; but there is something perhaps inseparable from the human heart, which renders us more willing to excuse our own blunders, than those of even the people whom we love best. "Youth is easily deceived;" "love is blind," &c. Many of these flattering aphorisms occur to extenuate our own errors, while the question of "how did your experience fail, how did you commit a mistake? arises in the heart, though it may not be expressed by the lips, of every young romancer, who, finding life a chequered scene in which the tessalæ of black and white, hold perpetual contrast, attributes to the influence of a friend's advice, the failure of those generally disappointed hopes that paint the marriage state in colours

bright and fleeting as the imagination which supplies them.

This moment comes a letter from the India House, to say that my poor brother, General Douglas, has had so serious an attack of illness, that his voyage to England is hastened, and we are informed, that his arrival may be looked for immediately. How this event may operate at Glenalta, I cannot tell; but though "the noiseless tenour of my way" should be disturbed, I shall rejoice if it be permitted me to afford comfort and assistance to the invalid. Adieu, my Elizabeth.

Your faithful

CAROLINE DOUGLAS.

LETTER XXII.

ARTHUR HOWARD TO CHARLES FALKLAND.

My dear Charles,

THIS letter, if not melancholy in its commencement, will surely be tinged with a very gloomy colouring ere its close, for the day of departure is at hand, and to quit Glenalta is no easy matter, I assure you. Poor Russell and Annesley left us the day before yesterday. I told you that I expected to be informed of Charlotte's reply to certain questions which I felt confident would be put; but I miscalculated: however, silence tells some tales, it is said, as well as language, and so in this case I found it. It was plain to my eyes, and others too amongst our party, that Russell chose his opportunity while we were loitering about the Glen, to make his proposals, which

were evidently met in a feeling not sympathetic: an increased activity of countenance told me this. It would be injustice to call it anger, but there was an expression of eye, and a bright spot on each cheek-bone, that seemed to indicate a very honest surprise, mingled with what the peasants here comically call the "least taste in life," of indignation. If I am right, this is all in the strict keeping with Russell's character. You and I long ago decreed that he would never die of love, notwithstanding all his enthusiasm about soft music. No; Russell loves his own emotions better than the object who excites them; and though I just feel sufficient esprit de corps not in general to like an individual of the other sex better for having made one of our own look foolish, yet I am sincerely glad that Charlotte has not accepted our friend; first, because she would not be happy if she married him, and secondly, because I do think that just such a hitch will do him good. He is a fine honest-hearted fellow, and has a great deal of taste; but he surely knows it rather too well, or at least he shews

that he does so, too much. Perhaps, more truth-telling than his neighbours, he only expresses what others have art enough to conceal. You will say that I am catching infection, and growing acrid in the society of old Bentley it may be so; but I tell you all my remarks.

Frederick and I got up to see the travellers off at cock-crow on the morning of their departure, and they left a blank which was felt by us all. What a sweet contrast was presented in this family with what I have so often witnessed on similar occasions, when a gay party had reached its finale, and was crumbling away by twos and threes! I remember at Featherston, when the last shooting-match broke up in Autumn, Lady Frances and Giorgina Lightfoot, who had been just saying "adio" in the most melting accents to a brace of departing guests (by the bye, the very Russell of whom we were speaking was one of them) called to Gifford and me in the moment after the post-boy cracked his whip and the horses had turned from the hall door, to accompany them