A glorious New-year’s day, such as we have not had since 1831, with the single exception of 1834. It was cold, clear, and frosty, calm and sunny, and in every respect delightful. I could not however go out of doors. Aunt Bell’s doves made her a very unusual New-year’s present, an egg hatched to day, the young one strong and healthy.

My Uncle made some observations in the evening with reference to the first day of the year, which struck me very much, especially when he remarked on the improbability of the same party meeting again on another New year’s day.

I think that these have been the first Christmas day and New-year’s day on which Papa and all of us have not been happily together.

Papa, to our great grief, leaves us to morrow. We had fully expected him to stay a fortnight, which he after all does not give us. He is however obliged to go, for he is engaged to dine on Thursday evening at Hampstead, about three miles from London, with Mr. Mallet, of the Audit Board, whose son is to be Papa’s Pupil.

I was very busy all day in preparing letters for Papa to take to Woodbury, and my cousins did the same.

This was the sad day of papa’s departure. I finished my letters, and, with the others, they made altogether a packet of ten different epistles, viz. two for mamma, from Aunt Bell and me; five for Arabella, from me, Richard, Julia, Anna and Phoebe; one for Louisa, from Anna; two for Mackworth, from Anna and William. Many of us sent locks of our hair too. It seems very funny for Arabella to have two correspondents whom see has never seen. I envy Arabella the pleasure she will have in reading so many letters. I sent her a little sketch of the view from the windows of the dining-room; and I wrote a little note to Mrs. Keal, who is now in London. Papa took also Julia’s sketch of me, and another which she has taken of him; this last is a most excellent one, the best I have seen of Julia’s likenesses, it is not merely extremely like, but it is a very pleasing likeness, without being at all flattering; and tis very nicely executed. I like it exceedingly, and I am very sorry not to have it myself, but Papa wishes to take it to Mamma, and promises to send it back by the first opportunity for Julia to make a copy of it.

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At four o’clock Papa went away by the Subscription Coach. It was a good a time of day for departure as any, for we had him comfortably at breakfast and dinner, and he was not hurried or pressed for time. Poor Richard has just been seized with a little feverish attack and cough, which keeps him in bed, and he could not spend with Papa the last two days he was with us.

I shall now, in all probability, see neither of my dear parents for at least five months. O what a dreary interval! I shall not even have Richard for a very long time, though I do not exactly know when he goes.

I certainly shall not go to Marychurch this winter. If my Uncle and Aunt Paul had not left Torquay, I should probably have spent a few weeks with them.

Maria has sent to me for the prescription of my drops, which I took two months ago by Dr. Clark’s advice, supposing (which is a mistake) that they did me good, and concluding that they must therefore do her good, which is very absurd. So I have written her a letter containing a long argument on the subject, and a pretty severe lecture, for Julia to take. What she will say to it, I do not know. She, like all her sisters, can no more reason than she can fly over the moon, and this I have told her.

Julia and I are great friends. We spent a part of this morning in reading and discussing together some chapters of the Bible, comparing our opinions, and elucidating mistakes.

†At dinner, I forget how, arose and argument amongst us concerning the opinions of the Israelites before the captivity on the subject of the immorality of the soul. My own idea is, that they were as a body quite ignorant of it, and that it was only occasionally and indistinctly revealed to some of the most favoured prophets and holy men. I had my Aunt and all my cousins against me; we conversed and disputed a long time without convincing each other, and finally I proposed that we should lay the subject aside for the present, and that each of us should employ herself, for months, if necessary, in collecting from every part of the Bible every word, passage, fact or allusion which can bear on the argument and strengthen her view of the question. The proposal was much approved of, and all readily accepted it. I think it will be a very useful occupation.

I did not mention on the right day, that Papa, when he went away, left with me some books, which he and I had chosen together, to be given, in his name, to my cousins. They are, for Julia, Southey’s life of Nelson; for Anna, Outlines of History, and Christian Retirement; for Phoebe, Bertha’s Visit to her Uncle, and Keeble’s Christian year. They were all exceedingly delighted, especially Phoebe, who loves Papa (her dear Uncle Tom) more than almost any body in the world. They value the books no less as presents from him than for their own sakes.

Julia left us this morning, conveyed away, as Phoebe was in October, by Mackworth Praed, who called for her at half-past nine in the morning. I was sorry to part with her, but there are many reasons which make it advisable. We are a good many in the house, and some are ill. Aunt Bell is quite worn out, and confined to her bed with a violent cold, so is Richard, so is one of the servants, and Anna and phoebe are neither of them well.

I almost doubt how far I should like to pursue my acquaintance with Julia. I am beginning to see some points in her character which I do not quite like. As far as regards her conduct to myself, she is everything that is pleasant and amiable, she makes me quite a friend, and shows me all possible affection. She is moreover anxious to improve herself, and wishes to keep up with me a correspondence on intellectual subjects. And the unbounded reverence with which her sisters look up to her, though their opinion of her abilities is vastly exaggerated, proves that there is some good about her. But I cannot like everything about her, I cannot help seeing that she is not sufficiently genuine and natural. Her sisters have no suspicion of this, and of course I never speak of it to them. But I do to Aunt Bell, who has an even worse opinion of her than I have.

I sent two of my little works to Spreat’s to be bound in canvass; namely, one volume of Devereux, which is all I have written, and my History of Rome, which is nearly finished. I have directed a number of blank pages to be added at the end. This history of Rome is abridged from Ferguson, from the History in the Library of Useful Knowledge, from that in Dr. Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopaedia, and from Gibbon. The latter part is little but a chronological table of the Emperors and the principal events of their reigns.

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All the morning Anna, Phoebe, and I, spent together in the breakfast room, quite by ourselves, except that Grandmamma was with us. Aunt Bell and Richard were each confined to their rooms. We conversed on many subjects and were sometimes grave, sometimes merry. For a long time too, I read to them from Keeble’s Christian Year, and Cowper’s Expostulation. Of Keeble’s, I read the hymns for Morning, Evening, and Advent Sunday, and the Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity, which are my chief favourites, especially the last, which I think exceedingly beautiful; the last two stanzas are exquisite and the last line is the best of all. There are some very fine stanzas in “Advent Sunday”.

The more I read “Expostulation”, the more I admire it. It is difficult to say which is the best part; the sketch of England’s history takes my fancy very much. The opening lines are beautiful and elegant.

At dinner at one o’clock our party was woefully diminished. On Monday we were ten in number, yesterday we were eight, to day only three, namely Grandmamma, Phoebe, and myself, for in addition to the other invalids, Anna has a bad cold and headache, and could not dine with us. The contrast was quite melancholy. Phoebe suddenly remarked, how improbable it was that she and I would be together this day five years. How many things, totally unlooked for and unthought of now, may happen in the interval! How changed we shall all be by that time, if indeed we all live to see it! We began to reckon over the ages of each of us in five years’ time; Julia will be twenty-seven years old, Maria twenty-five, Anna nearly twenty-three, I twenty-two, Phoebe twenty, Richard a few months younger, William twenty-one, Arabella nineteen, Louisa eighteen, Mackworth seventeen, Paulina eleven. I cannot imagine such a change in us all. Perhaps we ourselves, myself, my parents and brothers and sisters, I mean, may be then established in Australia or at the Cape of Good Hope, for the rest of our lives. Perhaps some of my cousins may then be married. Perhaps one or more of us may be no more. I wonder whether our faces and countenances will be much altered. Somehow I do not fancy that Anna’s will; Phoebe’s, I think, may, as she is scarcely grown up. There is a considerable resemblance between her and Julia, more so than between any other members of the family. All the younger ones of both families of course will be altered. Five years! How long it seems in anticipation, and how short it will be in the retrospect! [73] Let me see,—I will look back five years in my own life. It has with me made the difference between the ages of twelve and seventeen, and I think it has effected great changes in me in many respects. My home is changed, my friends are some of them changed, I have formed many new acquaintances, and my old friendships, though not broken off, or cooled, or loosened, yet cease, from unfavorable circumstances, to be continued face to face. I have become acquainted with new parts of England, too; I have seen towns I never saw before, Ely, London (which I had as good as not seen), Rochester, St. Albans, Duristable, Luton, Ampthill, Hasting, St. Leonard’s, Winchelsea, Battle, Tunbridge and Tunbridge Wells, and now at last Exeter. I have begun learning Latin, Italian, Euclid, Algebra, and a little of logic; I have much improved in my other studies, and I have become devoted to natural history. I have ceased to be a child, but I have not made the progress in intellectual powers and in the acquaintance of knowledge which might have been expected from that length of time. This is partly owing to my frequent attacks of illness, but partly, alas, to my neglect and waste of time I had at my disposal. O how unpardonable, in any circumstances, is the waste of time! If a person is blessed with constant good health, it has been given him to be turned to the best account; if he is subject to illness, it behoves him to make the most of his intervals of strength and capability.

†To continue the retrospect; it was of twelve years of age that I parted with Eliz, till now my dearest friend. I did not look for another, but now I have one, whom I love more than I could ever have supposed possible. At twelve, I was in some respects much happier than I am now, and in others, less. My views and ideas were then far more bounded, I had not then, as I have now, many wishes which cannot be fulfilled; I had not many subjects of regret which now harass me, or at least I did not feel them. I was not of an age to understand with such pain the unhappiness of Papa’s situation as a tutor, or to look forward with such ever-increasing anxiety to the future on his account. My amusements and occupations were different, they were those of a child, but they differed, not so much in kind as in degree. Thus I wrote and composed as I do now, in prose and poetry, and I kept a journal, but all was of course of a much more childish character. My reading was of much the same kind as of present, but my understand- [74] †ing was not equal of course to all the books which it can take in now. I do not remember whether I then looked forward at all to my present age, but I think I did not wish to be other than I was, nor do I now as far as age is concerned, but O, how different I could wish to be in many, many respects! But I will think of this no more at present. To become different is partly within my power, partly not.

We are still a very sick house, Anna is better today, but Phoebe is now becoming ill. Of all the family, Phoebe was the only one able to go to church, and she only once. The invalids at present are Aunt Bell, Anna, Phoebe, Richard, and two of the servants; my Uncle to is very unwell, and so is Grandmamma. I keep my health best, I suppose because I take most care.

Anna received a letter from her father, the purport of which was that he thought she and Phoebe have made quite a long enough visit here, and must return tomorrow with him, as he will then be in Exeter. The letter put me into great perturbation, and so it did Anna likewise. The idea of parting with my cousins is quite sad, I cannot endure the thought. It is however quite impossible for them to go home directly, on account of their health, and Anna wrote an answer to that effect. I likewise scribbled a short note to Aunt Dennis, to beg and implore her to allow them still to stay here. I could hardly write it on account of the trembling of hand from the fright Mr. Dennis’s letter gave me. Anna fully expects permission to stay a little longer, but she has great fears that she will be sent for in a short time home. I suspect that Queen Julia (as we nickname her) and Maria have some hand in it. I should like to know what underhand work has been going on.

As for Phoebe, she was ill in her bed all day, and Annie has not mentioned the letter to her yet. I know it will grieve her very much. I think it is a very cruel mandate, and it is absurd to give such short notice.

We were talking yesterday about Moore’s Irish Melodies, the tunes of which are some of them very beautiful, with words that are foolish or worse. The same is the case with ten thousand other songs. “The Legacy” is a very favourite air of Anna’s, but she cannot bear the words, and consequently never sings it. I proposed to write some new words to suit the air, which I might sing instead. I did so this morning. Anna read the little poem, expressed herself pleased with it, and [75] showed it to my Uncle, who hummed it over, and said he liked it very much, except that one or two lines were rather awkward, from the necessity in singing it of laying the stress on some insignificant words. He recommended me next to write some new lines for “Fly not yet”, and Anna too gave me some more.

†I read to Anna some of Scott’s lesser poems, which are great favourites of mine, namely, “The Grey brother”, “the Wild Huntsman”, “The Fire-King”, “Helvellyn”, and a part of Glenfinlas.” Helvellyn I think a most beautiful little poem, far superior to that of Wordsworth on the same subject. The third stanza is peculiarly sweet. # The Grey Brother is a singular ballad, it is but a fragment, and the conclusion exceedingly disappoints one, especially as there is something very fearful and mysterious in the last stanza. Glenfinlas I hardly understand throughout, but I think it is one of the finest little poems that has ever been composed. It was Mr. Howard who first pointed it out to me, and recommended me to read it, and the same to of Helvellyn, and many other poems which I am very fond of.

At last, after being kept indoors a fortnight, I have got out again. It was a beautiful clear cold morning, I walked to Exeter with Richard, and went to Spreat’s the bookseller, to inquire after my two books which is sent to be bound; but they were not done. I bought a little edition of Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner and other of his little poems, and I ordered Pollok’s Course of Time and Manufactures in Glass and Porcelain in Dr. Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopaedia.

†I read to Anna the Ancient mariner, which is a prime favourite of mine.††It is a most extraordinary poem, unlike any other that ever was written, singular in conception, and exquisite in execution. † About two years and a half ago, I saw it reviewed and highly extolled in a number of Blackwood’s Magazine; the extracts given made me long to see the poem. In the year 1835 I fell in with it at Arthur Malkin’s, and read it with extreme delight; it quite surpassed my expectations. I have not seen it since, and it was a great gratification to me to read it again. I hardly know which part I like best. †The latter part of verse IV. in part VI.

“The air is cut away before

And closes from behind.”

†struck me as such a singular idea, that I actually started to read it.

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At tea, our party consisted only of five, Grandmamma, Anna, Phoebe, Richard, and myself, for my Uncle being ill, neither he nor William came. Phoebe too was very ill, and went to bed directly after tea, so that we were only four for the rest of the evening. We were however a merry little party, we read aloud by turns the curious tale of “Sophia de Lissau,” which Miss Agnes Molesworth has just lent us. As a fiction, it is certainly interesting, but I cannot realize its authenticity, to which it lays claim. It professes to be written by Emma de Lissau, whose vanity must have been enormous, to have spoken of her personal attractions, her intellect, and disposition, in the way she does; neither could she possibly have been aware of Sophia’s first impressions on seeing her, or of the expression of her own countenance. It is impossible too that she could have dived, as she pretends to have done, into the secret thoughts and designs of her own parents, nor could she ever have known their private conversations. The book does not bear on its face the marks of truth and genuineness, which spoils the interest of it. There is too much romance, and the characters are too highly wrought, and their persons too exquisitely lovely, to be natural or credible. I cannot believe that the letter of Anna de Lissau was ever really written. It has to me the air of fabrication, composed for the benefit of the reader,-the Christian reader, I mean. A Jewess would never have explained so minutely to her daughter customs and ceremonies with which she must have been already so perfectly acquainted. Solomon de Lissau seems to me too perfect a character. We have not yet read further than the fifth chapter.

No letter from Woodbury, and I begin to feel uncomfortable. I heard on Friday from Papa in London; he had received a letter from Mamma, who was snowed up at Casterton, and only hoped to be able to return at the end of that week. I have written twice since Papa’s departure. I sent a letter this morning also to Mrs. W. Rooper. By the way, I quite forgot to say that on Tuesday evening Anna received a note from Mr. Dennis, containing a reprieve and the idea of their going home, to my great joy, seems now dropped.

I wrote new words for two more songs, “Fly not yet,” and “Beneath the Cypress’ gloomy shade,” with which Anna is quite satisfied.

In the evening we continued reading “Sophia de Lissau,” and take a good deal of interest in it though it is certainly highly improbable. Anna de Lissau’s insanity is well conceived and touchingly described.

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and seems to me to be getting rater worse. Her lips are red and parched, her head very uncomfortable, her nights restless, and her days wretched. Anna is a most kind and attentive nurse; I am afraid she will be injured by her assiduity, for she gets but little sleep at night, on account of poor phoebe’s restlessness.

Aunt Bell is getting much better, and was downstairs for a part of this day.

I took a walk with Annie on the Heavitree road, it was another most lovely day. We had a very interesting conversation.

My two little works, which I sent to Spreat’s yesterday week to be bound, came home this evening. They are very neatly and prettily bound in green flowered canvass, exactly the same as that in which our Family Gibbon is bound. They make two very nice looking little volumes. “Devereux” has 152 pages, and the Roman History 154, but the latter is not quite completed, about 18 pages being at present left blank, to be filled up at leisure.

It is a dismally lonely evening; it is a little after nine o’clock, and none are sitting in the drawing-room but Grandmamma, Richard, and myself; all the rest of our melancholy party being long gone to bed. All is still and quiet, and the aspect of the room is very dreary. Ah! there is the clock of St. Sidwell’s striking nine. How faint and yet solemn it sounds! And now I hear disnant steps without the house. As to myself, I feel dispirited and not happy, I am too dissatisfied with myself, sorry for poor Phoebe, vexed about Julia’s letter, and dull without my dear Anna, whom I have hardly seen since dinner. She too is low and out of heart, and this has helped to render me so, by sympathising with her.

I must not forget to mention the sunset; after the sun had disappeared, the western and southern sky glowed long with a most beautiful fiery crimson light, which stretched along the horizon behind the blue hills, whose undulating upper line was most clearly and sharply traced upon the radiant heaven. Above, the skies melted from pale lemon-green into a pure unruffled blue, free from the smallest cloud or stain. It was quite a splendid sight. I called in Anna to see it, “Yes,” said she, “it is a beautiful sky, ’but I cannot enjoy it at all.” “Why!” asked Richard. “Because I am so vexed about poor Phoe.” and, very melancholy, she left the room.

I fear poor Annie too is going to be ill, she went to church this morning, and the rest of the day she had one of her bad headaches, which became worse and worse, so that she went to bed a six o’clock.

Annie told me she should like to set me a task, viz. to compose a poem on some verse of Scripture which she should give me. She mentioned four; “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy,” Psalm CXXI 5. “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; for thou Lord only makest me dwell in safety,” Ps. IV.8. “Every one that doeth evil hateth the light, neither cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved,” John III. 20. “Jesus wept,” John IX. 35. Of these she gave me my choice, but particularly wished me to write on the last. I think I shall try them all.

I began this evening learning by heart my favourite chapter, Isaiah XIV, the most sublime in that sublimest of books. If I had begun it earlier in the day, I should have learnt it entirely, but I did not take it up till nearly nine o’clock, so I finished no more than 17 verses.

Only four at tea; Grandmamma, Aunt Bell, Richard, and myself. How dull and dismal! Who is to be ill next?

†We hear that this kind of attack, which they call an influenza, is extremely prevalent and fatal. The newspapers say that in London 600 policemen and 130 banking clerks are all ill at once. This indeed may not be true, being a newspaper story; indeed I feel inclined to strike off a cypher from each number. It is †however very fatal in Exeter; †Mr. Tripp preached on the subject to day, from the text Ps. III. 1, and said he never knew death so busy as at present. There were nine burials in his parish last week. Mr. Trevillian, an old gentlemen whose pew my cousins share in church, told them that he has now eight ill in his own house. The complaint seems to be spreading like the cholera five years ago. It is quite awful and melancholy.

Another effort has been made to obtain from Teignmouth permission for my two cousins to take Morison’s pills. Aunt Bell has written herself on the subject to Aunt Dennis, and has requested her to leave the two girls (as I’m sure they ought to be) at liberty to act in this manner as they think proper, showing that it is not a thing in which Mr. Dennis ought to interfere. I hope this letter will have some effect. Poor Phoebe is in a decided fever, and suffers intensely from raging thirst, for which I can well pity her. Still her fever is not so bad as I have had myself, but it is quite new to her, and seems very terrible and intolerable.

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To day came form Spreat’s the two books I ordered on Wednesday, Pollok’s Course of Time and the Manufactures in Porcelain and Glass. The Course of Time I knew before, having the greater part in a copy Mrs. Keal lent me about two years ago. I read a good deal of it this evening, with a great deal of pleasure, especially two of my favourite passages, the sketches of Cowper and Byron, in Books III and II: That of Byron is really magnificent. There are certainly some noble passages in this poem, my opinion of the whole I cannot give till I have quite finished it. It vexes me very much that the general idea of this poem is very similar to that of my “Wanderer’s Dream,” which I had formed long before I had read this. The circumstance quite puts me out of heart about my own poem.

In the evening we finished “Sophia de Lissau”. On the whole, I have a very mean opinion of it. If it had been authentic (which I am sure it is not), I should have called it an interesting and pathetic narrative; but as a novel (in which light it ought to be considered), it is far too bare, unvaried, brief, and naked of incident, in short, as a novel, it has no merit at all. It is highly improbable, nay, in many particulars, impossible; it is little but a tissue of horrors from end to end, horrors too little wrought up to be interesting, and unrelieved except by one or two cases of incredible goodness. There is not one natural character throughout, and I think that Emma de Lissau (if she wrote it) has shown most gratuitous treachery in displaying to the world all the crimes of her unhappy family. I do not like the mixture of love and sentimentality with religion. I feel convinced the book was written neither by a Jew nor by one who was personally conversant with Jewish manners. The author had collected from other persons scraps of information on this subject, and then fabricated this story as a clumsy vehicle for conveying them to the public. I think that the early conversion and steadfast faith of Emma, and the obstinate rejection of Christianity by such a character as Sophia, are equally improbable. By the way there is one little incident which most eminently carries falsehood on the face of it, viz. Anna de Lissau leaving the door of her hated and suspected daughter Emma unlocked, so that she and any one else could come in and out as they like.

Phoebe still very ill; thirsty, feverish, and weak; Anna pretty well again; Aunt Bell better. [82] Mr. Dornford, who called, confirmed the newspaper reports about the prevalence of the influenza in London. At length, to my great satisfaction, Phoebe has made up her mind to take Morison’s pills, as her mother, whose letter came to day, evidently is not herself averse to it. But she is not going to say anything about it at present. I think she does very right.

Aunt Bell took a drive in a fly this afternoon and kindly took me with her. We went through Forestreet, where I have only been once before, and out of Exeter to Alphington, which was quite new to me. It was a dull, dismal, foggy day, and winter is a bad time to see scenery in, yet I could easily perceive that the country would be pretty in summer, though nothing remarkable. The dark red soil, and the shaggy ivied banks, gave it a Devonshire aspect-In returning through Exeter, we stopped at Fitze’s, and got from her library a book to read in the evening. We had no much time to choose, and fixed at hazard on “Travels through Russia, Siberia, Poland, Austria, Saxony, Prussia, Hanover, &c., &c. undertaken during the years 1822, 1823, 1824, while suffering from total blindness, by James Holman, R.N.” in two octavo volumes. It looked very entertaining. We began it this evening, finished four chapters, and like it very much.

Soon after I came indoors, Phoebe, who was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, called me to her, and gave me a beautiful little edition of the Remains of Kirke White, elegantly bound in morocco. I value the book much, both for its own sake, and as a present from dear Phoebe. I began reading it forthwith. I read “Clifton grove,” “Gondoline,” and several little poems. I also peeped into his letters, which I like very much. “Clifton grove” is an elegant poem, with many pretty parts, but nothing very remarkable or exalted: its chief merits are the display of natural feeling, and the truth of the descriptions. “Gondoline” is horrible and disgusting, it shocks without interesting, it is rude without simplicity, and it is peculiar with little poetic originality.-Kirke White was certainly a youth of wonderful and precocious talent, and of an ardent and interesting character.

I took a pencil sketch of Richard’s profile, including nearly his whole figure. It is said to be very like, the principal defect being in the mouth, which does not do justice to the original. I have resolved to draw some illustrations to the first volume of “Devereux” on the blank pages, and I have begun a frontispiece to illustrate Page 9.

Anna in a letter yesterday urged my Aunt Dennis to come up to Exeter and see Phoebe, who is longing [83] for her. Well, this afternoon, to my surprise certainly, she arrived, and will stay here a few days. She is a very nice amiable person, all kindness and gentleness, and I like her very much. She was much amused in the evening by looking over my caricatures. As to poor Phoebe, she is sadly puzzled how to treat her. Anna and Phoebe are strongly in favour of going on with Morison, and scout the idea of a medicine man; but unfortunately Mr. Dennis is a great enemy to them, and has sent positive orders to call in Mr. De La Garde, a general practitioner of Exeter. Besides Aunt Dennis herself feels very uncomfortable for Phoebe, and has a sort of hankering after a medical man,

about each nicety.

Annie and I read from La Bruyere together, which is an advantage and pleasure to us both. I am very fond of La Bruyere, his remarks are exceedingly acute, and show a great knowledge of human nature.

Well, Mr. Delagarde is sent for, has come, changed the plan the had been pursued with Phoebe, and put her into a proper train for having a twenty-one or forty-two day fever. All are much grieved at it, for myself, I cannot express the pain in gives me, for I know full well what a fever is; Aunt Dennis is grieved too, but she cannot help it, she is obliged to comply with Mr. Dennis’ orders. She hopes however, although I believe she is afraid that her hopes will be in vain, to be able to get rid of Mr. De La Garde soon. She has written to Teignmouth on the subject, and stated her firm conviction that Mr. De La Garde is pursuing a pernicious plan.

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Aunt Bell went in a fly to see my poor Uncle, who is very ill indeed. Grandmamma, Anna, and I, went with her, and while she stopped at my Uncle’s house, (No. 7 Hampton Buildings), as he did not wish more than one to come to him, we drove on to Pennsylvania, a row of houses on a lofty hill a little way from Exeter, where I have never been before. The view from Pennsylvania, for the sake of which we went there, is magnificent. Unfortunately it was a dull, foggy day, and all the charms of summer were wanting, still I was highly gratified with it; I saw the sea and could distinguish the mouth of the Ex, and the Bay of Exmouth. There are many fine views of Exeter on the road up to Pennsylvania; and there is a noble one from the Black Boy Road, by which we went from Baring Crescent to Hampton Buildings, which much delighted me.

†Anna staid home during the morning, and we had a long serious conversation together. The principal topics were, the Atonement, the Sabbath, Justification, the happiness of heaven, and some questions connected with it, the durability of the punishments of Hell, the insignificance of time compared with eternity, Repentance, and the example of good men. On which subjects we had much interesting talk. We had some similar conversation in the evening.

Julia and I, on the morning of her departure, began an argument about balls, I of course condemning, she defending them. We had not time to come to any conclusion then, but we agreed that I should at leisure write her a letter on the subject, we she should answer, if she could. I began the letter on Saturday, to day I finished it. It is a long letter in all conscience, occupying two sheets entirely, and one side of half a sheet more, of [85] †which nine pages, seven and a half are entirely on the subject of balls. Anna read it, and highly approved of it; she thinks it may do a great deal of good, and she longs to see Julia’s reply.

Anna not only reads La Bruyere with me, but continues Malkin’s Greece to me, though Phoebe being ill cannot join as before. But I do not think it all fair to keep Annie back on account of Phoebe, especially as Annie is a very diligent, painstaking, persevering girl, and Phoebe just the reverse. Besides it is very well to raise Annie a little in her own estimation, and let her see herself advanced beyond one of her sisters. She has been too much depressed and kept down, though I am convinced she has as good abilities as any of the family except Maria.

†The prevalence of the influenza, as it is called, being in reality the same low fever to which we at Woodbury are so subject, is really awful. There is scarce a family, whom we know either personally or by name, which has escaped, and in most of them the greater part of the individuals in each family are ill. It is raging too amongst the poor, Aunt Bell sadly wants an assistance to her servants, and cannot get one, all are ill. We hear of it from every quarter, the word influenza is in everybody’s mouth, the streets are quite thin, nobody is in spirits excepts Mrs. Halse, the person who sells Morison’s pills; she says their spread is quite wonderful, and that she hears that in bath they are almost universal. So much the better, ’tis very good news. I do not understand why the complaint is called influenza, the name was coined about six years ago, but the complaint itself I suppose is as old as any other, ’tis the common fourteen or twenty-one day fever, more or less violent. Aunt Bell and the servant Ann’s were very violent indeed, Richard’s was short, and would have been violent if he had not been well-dosed; my Uncle’s is severe,-Phoebe’s has been so absurdly managed that I don’t know what to say about her; she is not half so much reduced in strength and flesh as I should have expected, and she looks very well.

I took a good deal of exercise to day. In the morning I walked with Anna around the ring for above half an hour, conversing very happily. Then †after dinner we walked to Exeter, to pay visits and do shopping, and we were out for about an hour and three quarters. We first called at the Misses Lee, No. 4 Upper Summerland; they were ill with the influenza. Then at Miss Baring’s, No. 7, she was at home but saw nobody, having lost her brother. Then at Miss Swete’s, No. 5 Lower Summerland, she was quite well, but out. Then on Mrs. Sawer, [86] †at 6, Lower Summerland; she was at home, but ill of the influenza. Thus, to our great joy, we escaped all four visits, and went straight on to call on Miss Wyatt in Lower Southernhay. Here we were admitted, but found Dr. Miller attending on her sister-in-law Mrs. Wyatt, who is ill of the influenza. Then we went to the lodgings of Mr. Harrington, to enquire for his sisters, and found them too ill. After this we went to the Globe hotel and six different shops. It was a delightful day, and I enjoyed the walk exceedingly.

On setting out from baring Crescent, I met and stopped the postman, who gave me a letter from Papa, for which I have been long looking anxiously. It contains bad news; all at Woodbury are ill of the influenza, Mamma very severely, but is decidedly better. Poor Papa seems as ill as any, though he does not lay up. Arabella writes too, and tells me that our cousin Miss Hanny Hussey, with whom Mamma and I staid at Tunbridge last September is dead; she died suddenly, of mere debility, at the age of forty-nine. I should have supposed her to be much older. She was in a very precarious state of health when we saw her last year.

Again I was able to take a good deal of exercise. In the morning I took a walk with Anna, we called on the Miss Molesworths, and borrowed “Emma de Lissau.” Here we found the influenza making its appearance, and we heard that one medical man alone had visited eighty patients on Saturday; that every individual of Lady Robert’s family, next door to us, is ill, and that there are five hundred ill at Torquay.-On leaving this house we took a walk on the Black Boy Road, where I again admired the noble view, but as usual it was obscured by a haze. From one part of this road we could see the Beacon-hill and sea at Exmouth.

Mr. Dornford came to the house at dinner-time, after dinner he accompanied Anna and me in another walk. Richard went with us, we went to Colleton Crescent, and sent him to enquire after Mr. Foley, who we have heard is ill. He lives at 10 Friar’s Walk, a neat row of houses at the back of Colleton Crescent. Richard saw him, he too is ill of the influenza, but better. The view from Colleton Crescent I have seen once before, it is beautiful; and this afternoon there was quite a blaze of golden light over the long range of hills. From this place we went through North Street all along [87] the great Iron Bridge, which was built about a year ago to diminish the excessive steepness of the hill. The bridge is on a level with the tops of the houses, and runs close to those of one side of the street, so that on the other side there is a street running parallel to it at great distance beneath it. The view from the Bridge over this part of Exeter is curious and picturesque. Here we saw many ruins of chimnies, and unsalted roofs, the effects of November’s awful storm. The streets hereabouts are particularly ancient, narrow, steep, and crooked; there are many highly old houses, with pointed gables, projecting windows, overhanging stories, dripstones, and richly carved mouldings and ornaments of oak painted white. All these old houses seem tumbling down. I wish I had an opportunity of sketching them.

On coming back, Anna and Richard walked on together, and I was left behind with Mr. Dornford. We had a long conversation on various subjects, the principal ones which I remember are, old houses and old furniture, foreign Streets, Quakers, Wesleyan Methodists, Devonshire scenery, fine scenery in general, Kentish scenery, chalk countries. Of these last Mr. Dornford said that the herbage in them is peculiarly fine and beautiful, which is the reason that the south-down mutton is so good. He says that in chalky countries the rain, let it be ever so heavy, is so quickly absorbed on the hills, that it is all dry in an hour after, but that at last, after a long continuance of rainy weather, the hills becoming surcharged with moisture, will hold nor more, and then break out in a flood, and lays the country under water.

I sent Arabella a long letter, written entirely to her; it is a long sheet, quite full, and with the ends crossed; I think it will please her very much, especially as it is directed to herself.

As usual, I took a long walk with Anna, we went shopping about the town, and went into six shops. Two were Hannaford’s and Spreat’s, we lingered a long time looking at the books; several of these tempted me very much, but I have not made up my mind about them. Here I saw for the first time (though it has been long published) my Uncle Paul’s Tour to Moscow, a thin little volume. He told Mamma at Casterton that he was going to publish a second edition much enlarged, so we shall get no copies of the first.

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In the evening we began “Emma de Lissau.” It seems to be a much more interesting narrative than “Sophia de Lissau,” but has the same objections with respect to its want of authenticity. If I could thoroughly feel it to be true, I should think it a very affecting story.

Anna is now able to sing again, as it no longer disturbes Phoebe; she sung “The Legacy,” “Fly not yet,” and “Friend of my Soul,” all of them with my new words, which she says suit the tunes perfectly. In consequence of the change in words, we now call “The Legacy,” “The Polar Sun,” and “Friend of my Soul,” “The Castilian Fount.” “Fly not yet,” retains its old name. She also sung Mrs. Heman’s exquisite little poem “The Better Land,” set to music very beautifully by her sister. It is a great favourite both with Anna and me.

I got hold of “Dunallan,” a tale of Grace Kennedy’s, and so got so interested in it that I could scarcely stop or look off for a moment till I sat down to tea; then I took it up again, and read it for another hour; then I laid it aside, having got through one volume and a great part of the second. It is now late in the evening, and I feel too melancholy and dispirited to write or think anything more about it, for we have had another sad day of it; Anna again seems likely to be ill, she has not been visible since dinner, and is laid up with a desperate headache. I am anxiously hoping to hear to-morrow that she is better. As to my poor Uncle, to whom my Aunt goes now every day, it would be an interminable and most painful task to write the history of his illness; his extreme despondency, his extraordinary changeableness and inconsistency, are most distressing to us all. He has all along believed himself past recovery, every day he expects to die, and will not be persuaded that there is nothing alarming in his case, he infinitely increases his suffering by his gratuitous despair: he presently gave up Morison’s pills, thinking he could no longer take them, yet all at Exeter, nay, all England, holds not a more strenuous advocate of them;-then he called in Mr. Harris the apothecary,-then dismissed him and sent for Mr. Tothill the Hygeist!-Mr. Tothill was taken ill with the influenza, and consequently could not attend him more than a day or two; my Uncle would do nothing for some days; to day my Aunt staid with him for several hours, and it finally ended by her going and fetching Dr. Miller, one of the first physicians in Exeter, and an old [89] friend of our family.# So actually, here is an M.D. attending on my Uncle, one of the most sworn foes of medical men! I do not think he will get much good from Dr. Miller. Meantime Mr. De La Garde calls every day to see Phoebe. Aunt Dennis wishes to get rid of him, but does not know how; he sticks to the house like a leach. I trust Anna will not get into his hands.

Really the progress of the influenza is quite awful. Dr. Miller says he never recollects so universal a complaint; it is infinitely more prevalent than the cholera was, though not nearly so fatal. It spreads daily more and more. Whole families are ill, servants and all, and it is impossible for any one to get assistants any where, for all are ill. It is surprising too how suddenly people are seized; perfectly well one day, very ill the next. Mr. † Dornford dined on Wednesday at Dr. Macgowan’s, where there was to be a large party, but almost every one sent excuses on account of being taken with the influenza, and Dr. Macgowan himself was obliged to rise from the table in the middle of dinner, and go to bed. It is said the 60,000 are ill at Berlin. It is not infectious, but an epidemic.

I finished Dunallan; it is a very interesting tale, and calculated only to promote good principles and good morality. It must indeed be classed among those books to which I have in general a great aversion, religious novels, books which I dislike on the face of them. But Dunallan is the best of the few that I have seen. Till the conclusion, it is a melancholy and touching story, though without any high-flown sentiment or wrought-up incident. Yet I do not think it probable, especially all those parts which relate to St. Clair. That he could possibly succeed in stopping all Catherine’s letters at the post-office is inconceivable, and his whole conduct with respect to Dunallan is almost beyond the range of credibility. I think the various characters are too abundantly endued with beauty, birth, talents, and vast fortunes. I cannot think it possible for such a hardened character as St. Clair to retain so exquisite an enjoyment of the beauties of nature, for there is no feeling sooner injured by blunted moral feelings. Lady Fitzhenry is a character I can by no means conceive; I wonder if she had any really existing prototype. Could the unhappy Duchess of Devonshire have suggested the idea? Dunallan himself is perhaps the most interesting character of all, except indeed Catherine. -The religion of the tale seems to me unexceptionable, and very well brought before the reader. I like particularly the objections adduced against fashionable dissipation, and the observations on the two Edinburgh preachers.

The last Sunday evening on which our whole party were assembled together in health and happiness was on New-years day, when Papa was with us. There were then as many as thirteen at prayers in the evening; Grandmamma, my Uncle, Aunt Bell, Papa, Julia, Anna, myself, William, Phoebe, Richard (such is the order of ages), and three servants. This evening, only four were in the drawing-room all the evening; Grandmamma, Anna, myself, and Richard; Aunt Dennis was sometimes in the room, sometimes out; Phoebe was in the room for a short time; Aunt Bell did not return from my Uncle’s till long after tea. When shall we all meet again in health?

I began to learn Isaiah XL. but as there was incessant talking round me I laid it down when I had learnt eleven verses.

†The influenza continues. The congregation at church was very thin, the churchyard was full of new made graves. Mr. Tripp read the prayer to be used in time of any common plague or sickness. †Last Sunday three churches in Exeter were shut up on account of the illness of the clergymen. When Aunt Dennis came here, Jan. 19, the influenza had not reached Teignmouth; in a letter received from Julia of Jan. 27, it had spread all over the town, all the servants in their house were ill, and Julia and Maria had to light the fires and bring up the breakfast. †Mr. Delagarde said yesterday that there are 15000 ill in Exeter, that is, half its population, but that he thought the worst was now over.

I finished writing a letter of two sheets to Maria, giving her a list of such of the Society Maps as I thought would be most useful to her; and also mentioning about twenty different books of different kinds which I think she would like to read. I wrote the letter in very large hand, that she might easily read it herself.

Besides this letter, I have two in hand, one to Papa, the other to Eliz, which last is a letter of three months standing.

A good deal of pain, unnecessary pain, I think, was given to me. The evening was drawing on, a bright yellow light shone over the Cathedral among the Western clouds; the drawing room was occupied by Aunt Dennis, who was sitting by the fires, Phoebe lying on the sofa, and myself. I had just finished folding up my letter to Maria, and stood close to the table, when my Aunt Dennis addressed me, and

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Dr. Miller says it is calculated that seven persons in ten are ill of the influenza in Exeter. Aunt Bell called at different houses in Paris Street for things she wanted, on returning to night from my Uncle’s, and found that there were three lying dead of it in that street only. My Uncle gets better.

I was disappointed about a letter today from Woodbury, but I received one from Mrs. William Rooper. She writes from Brighton, where she has

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A damp foggy day, with occasional gleams of sunshine, a most unwholesome kind of weather. These fogs are very constant; the physicians say that if they continue they will kill half the population. Aunt Bell had a letter from Miss Edmonds at Totness, who says the influenza is quite universal thereabouts; she believes not a family in Torquay has escaped, servants are ill every where, and no assistants can be had. At Paignton church (a very large one) on Sunday week, [93] Miss Edmonds says that the congregation consisted of fourteen persons in the aisle, a few persons in the gallery, and six school-children.

Poor Annie is again laid up with a shocking headache, I hope it will prove nothing worse. Phoebe is better, she went out yesterday; Aunt Dennis now thinks of going home.

A parcel came from Teignmouth, with letters, none for me, but Julia promises to write to me as soon as she has time.

Aunt Bell received a letter from Lady Young, (Susan Praed that was) who still talks of the Influenza, Sir George has had it, and so have his two sisters in Liverpool.

†I amused myself with sketching on paper a scene which I recollect in a dream some months ago. It was a very beautiful and poetic scene. I remember it quite distinctly; I thought I had entered a long series of chambers hollowed out of the bosom of a massy rock; I passed from cave to cave, till I came to one which was handsomely furnished, in a dim twilight; at one end were two great Gothic windows cut in the rocky wall, without any glass or casement, but quite open, and reaching down to the floor; I stood at the window, and found that I was looking out into the open air; before me spread the vast ocean, which came close up to my feet; there was not a wave or a ripple, the whole sea was perfectly calm, of a deep dazzling blue; above were the heavens of the same pure blue tint without a cloud; the moon shone brightly, and steeped the whole scene in her silver light; around one side of the sea stretched a long line of dark and lofty cliffs, continuing those out of which the cavern was hewn. This cavern communicated by a Gothic arch with another, which also had windows looking out upon the sea. The whole sea had the brilliancy and splendour of fairyland.

I often have dreams of beautiful scenery, which I wish I could describe. On one occasion I dreamed

[94] on which suddenly starts up before me, lasts a minute, and then, while I am gazing at it, as suddenly vanishes. These visions are of different kinds, sometimes a single figure, sometimes a scene in nature; they always seem at a considerable distance from me. One of them I sketched this evening. I saw it some time ago. It was a wood, enclosed by a paling, in front were two turfy roads crossing each other, with scattered trees; along one road, close to the paling, walked a female figure; I could not see her face, but her dress and figure resembled those of Mrs. Keal. Over the whole scene glowed a beautiful summer sunlight, which imparted to it a brilliancy excelling that of nature.

Annie and I have adopted this plan ion reading La Bruyere. We read about eight pages altogether, each reads aloud two pages at a time, while the other listens without looking over; when the lesson is ended, we look it over, and select some paragraph which particularly strikes us; this passage we in the course of a day translate into English each separately on paper, and then compare our translations and correct them by each other. Next day we each translate it back again into French, and compare our translations, and correct them by the original. I find this a very useful practice.

All day I was hoping for a letter from Woodbury; about four o’clock, to my great delight, it came. It was a long sheet of paper quite occupied by a letter to me from Arabella, except that Mackie wrote on the ends to Anna. All are going on much better, except papa, who was taken very unwell on Tuesday morning. Mamma has been extremely ill, but is fast recovering. No medical man, I am happy to say, has been called in; the only remedies used have been Morison’s pills. The major part of the letter is on literary subjects, which are the principal topics of Arabella’s and my correspondences.

My Aunt Dennis went home to Teignmouth, and before she went made one more allusion to the painful subject I mentioned on Monday and Tuesday. Just after breakfast, as I was sitting on a footstool by the fire, she talked to me very kindly “Whenever, my dear Emily, you come to Teignmouth, remember we shall always be very glad to see you

[95] [96] [97] lief of a future state among the Jews, which I mentioned Jan. 4. This I have begun for about a week, and I have now come as far as Ezekiel. I find a vast deal to confirm me in my own opinion on the matter. I also began to write a life of Daniel, according to the plan mentioned by Abbott in the Young Christian, which I have often adopted before. Anna has newly taken up the practice, and she too has begun Daniel. Phoebe is writing one of St. Peter.

I learnt the remaining twenty verses of Isaiah XL. It is a most beautiful chapter. I should like to know all Isaiah by heart; it is difficult to select chapters, where almost all are so grand or exquisitely beautiful. I think however all yield in sublimity to chap. XIV. which I have already learnt.

I am afraid my Uncle is really very ill, tho’ it is scarcely possible to know exactly what his state is. He continues to believe himself dying, and vastly exaggerates all his symptoms. But Dr. Miller, who still attends him, is certainly alarmed about him, and is not easy at his not seeming to get better.

Aunt Bell had a letter from her cousin Charlotte Shore, Lord Teignmouth’s sister, who says that though the influenza seems less severe in London than in other places, there were a thousand funerals there on one Sunday. There are constantly funerals in Exeter, and new-made graves are always to be seen in St. Sidwell’s church-yard.

I took the opportunity of my cousins’ sending a letter to Teignmouth, to write a few lines to Aunt Dennis, assuring her that I was not in the least angry at what she said to me on Friday morning, and begging her pardon if I had appeared out of humour.

I walked with my cousins to Exeter, we were out shopping for an hour and a half. We went to Hannaford’s; they left me here a few minutes while they went to another shop. There is no treat so great to me as to be in a bookseller’s shop; I often stay in one for a long time looking over the books. Hannaford showed me some new works which he thought would interest me. One was by a sister of Sir Joshua Reynolds; it is entitled “Devonshire Dialogue,” and looks very amusing. Another, in the “Theological Library,” called, “Biography of the Early Church,” by Evans. Another, by an author whose name I forget, on the Prophecies. I asked Hannaford about “Mammon,” a work which is making a great noise in the world; he said that [98] thirteen thousand copies of it have been sold; the author, if I understand him rightly, is Harris.-He then showed me a folio of tinted engravings by Harding, of foreign and British scenes; some were from Hastings. Their merit did not strike me as remarkable.

†High-street greatly rises in my estimation. I saw it to day to particular advantage, as it was fine, dry weather, and there was no market to cause a crowd. I now think it a decidedly striking street. It has none of the advantages of regular architectural beauty, it is crooked, and has not the least pretension to uniformity of building, but it is very long and sufficiently broad; the houses are mostly old and pretty lofty, it is full of gay and animated shops, and altogether has an extremely picturesque appearance. I particularly like the old houses, with their gable ends, projecting windows, and rich carved-oaken mouldings. The old red-brick school, with its handsome perpendicular windows, and one or two little churches, improve the appearance of the street, but the Guildhall, by projecting so much, spoils it; and the Fire-office, with its Corinthian pillars, is incongruous.

Aunt Bell had a letter from mamma, who gives a sad account of papa and Louisa, and she does not seem to be managing them properly, for she gives them such tiny doses that she can do scarcely any good. So Aunt Bell and I immediately wrote a letter to put her in a proper way of administering Morison. Mamma also seems to have taken fright about Richard and me, and wishes us to keep entirely to the house for the present, but I am sure this will do no good, and I have written to tell her so. Going out always does me good, and must.

I am, and have been for some time, exceedingly troubled and puzzled to decide about the character of my cousin Julia. I hear such different accounts of her, I really don’t know how to make up my mind. I wish exceedingly to love her and esteem her, and if I were to listen only to what her mother and her sisters say of her, I am sure I should do so. But Aunt Bell dislikes her, (a circumstance which occasions great unhappiness to Julia’s family), and tells me much that tends to prepossess me against her, most particularly that she is not an open, natural, genuine character, that she is artificial in consequence of her extreme desire to be liked, and other similar peculiars. And I am sorry to say that Papa (perhaps from having heard it) thinks the same. Now, whether it is that I don’t know [99] enough of her, or whatever is the cause, I am sure nothing of this would ever have occurred to me, if I had not been told it, and even now, I have not myself seen anything to make me think so, so that I scarcely know how to believe it, and I’m sure I don’t wish to believe it. And it seems to me, at the age of twenty-two, having lived with her parents and sisters all her life, her character, if not a natural one, must have disclosed itself to them, they ought to know her best, and I cannot imagine a deception so long and admirably sustained, ’tis so to speak, inconceivable. If this part of her character were entirely cleared up, I should at once love Julia extremely. Her excellent qualities as a daughter and sister I cannot doubt, it is impossible she should be so enthusiastically loved and praised by those who must know whether she is amiable, if it was not so. She has a most kind and feeling heart, she has not an atom of selfishness, nor the slightest tinge of rancour or resentment in her temper. All this is much in her favour,-O! I do most earnestly wish to love my cousin Julia! To me she is most affectionate, I cannot bear the thought of not returning her fondness. With respect to her intellectual qualities, she has not superior abilities, and has received a most superficial education; consequently her mind is far too frivolous and dissipated, but she is now setting to work to improve it.

As to Julia’s person, she is short, has a beautiful bust, and would have a very nice figure, if she was not too fat. She has a pallid complexion, pretty hair of a dark colour, and hazel eyes of a soft expression, her other features are not very good. She has a very pleasing manner and is much liked by all who know her; at Hamslade and Milverton she is a very great favourite.

Anna, whom I have before described, is incomparably the beauty of the family, and decidedly the most lovely and interesting; indeed I do not know a sweeter and more attractive girl, or more completely unconscious of her pleasing appearance.

Phoebe very much resembles Julia, but she has a curious light kind of hair, lighter almost than mine, though her complexion, eyes, and eyebrows, are dark. She has an unhealthy pallor of complexion.

Maria and Paulina, the plainest of the family, are very like each other. Anna is unlike all the rest; she is like the Shore family, they like the Dennis’s. The outline of her face is singularly like Aunt Bell’s, but she is dark, Aunt Bell light.

Ever since Phoebe’s illness I confess my feelings towards her have been much changed; she has not shown herself in the course of it as amiable as I thought her, but has displayed an impatience, fretfulness, and especially, self-indulgence and want of consideration for others, which have greatly pained, and I must say, disgusted me. And though she is very unhappy at feeling that she is looked on in this light by all in the house, yet she seemed to think herself unfairly treated, and has not shown any sorrow for her conduct; she has certainly alienated from her Aunt Bell, Richard, and me. What has particularly vexed me, is the quantity of unnecessary trouble she has given to poor Annie; and at the same when Annie remonstrated with her for her unreasonable conduct in many particulars, and wished her not to do many things which she knew would do her harm, Phoebe was actually displeased with her kind, good, affectionate sister, and thought her unfeeling. Nor does she seem to feel any particular gratitude to Annie, or to try to repay her attendance by doing any kind of office for her when she is laid up with her many bad headaches.-Lastly, Phoebe, owing to the improper treatment of her illness, now looks exceedingly ill, and is evidently in danger of a relapse, yet she cannot be persuaded to do what is of the utmost consequence, to attend carefully to her diet. She will have her own way.

I know there are many excuses for my poor cousin; she has always been an indulged and petted child, chiefly on account of her health, and she has never been at any time accustomed to control her tempers and exercise self-restraint, but she is, with all allowances, much to blame.

Yesterday I thought I would mention to her some of the circumstances in which I thought she had acted wrong, so I told her laughingly that I had two or three lectures to give her, physical and moral. I then began to talk about her ill looks and the necessity of guarding against a relapse by taking plenty of medicine. This lecture she received very well, and desired to hear the others, but positively refused to hear them except in Annie’s presence. Now this displeased me, for I did not wish again to vex poor Annie, with whom I had often talked on the subject; so I remonstrated in rather sharp language, and refus- [101] ed to comply. This hurt Phoebe, and I found afterwards from Annie that she thought me unkind. In the evening, as we were all three sitting together, she again urged me to begin. I did so, and told her plainly all I thought about her present inattention to diet, and specified all the instances in which I thought she did wrong. But Phoebe, instead of humbly and simply acknowledging herself wrong, defended herself at every step, and that too in the most unreasonable, silly, childish way. This highly displeased me, I broke short off, refused to say any more either on that subject or any other, and hinted plainly that Phoebe was too unreasonable to talk to. I suppose I must have looked extremely angry, for my blood was boiling with indignation, and Phoebe and Anna were excessively vexed. Phoebe urged me to tell her at least the subject of my other intended lecture. I positively refused, saying that I was certain it would not be an atom of use, and I wished never to give her a word of advice again. Anna kept begging me to comply, but I still refused, and left the room. All the rest of the evening we were all three vexed. I had a private talk at night with Anna, who still wished me to give Phoebe a lecture, as it would set her mind at rest. I showed Anna the difficulty I was in. I had made the experiment of talking to Phoe, and had only gained by it the reputation of being unkind, which was not fair, since it was by my Aunt Dennis’ own desire that I had mentioned her diet to her.-I found however that Phoebe was unaware that she had been inpatient and ill-tempered during her illness, and was very sorry for it, which I was glad to hear.

So ended the affair yesterday. To day, after another long talk with Anna on the subject of Phoebe’s illness, I resolved to speak to Phoebe. So in the evening I had a full hour’s conversation on the subject with her. I explained all the points in which she had acted wrong (except in what related to her certainly selfish conduct to her mother and sister); I particularly enlarged on the fact of not having in the least degree made her illness an occasion for self-denial and mental discipline, as she ought to have done, and as is always done in our family. In some things she acknowledged that she had done wrong, but in others she thought herself very unfairly used, and obstinately persisted in defending herself in matters where she was clearly wrong, showing altogether a want of humility and candour, and an unreasonableness, that hurt me [102] very much. She saw, and was much grieved to see, that I did not love her as I used to do, I could not deny it, but I told her repeatedly that a humble acknowledgement from her that she had wrong, and was very sorry for it, and would endeavour to correct her faults,-was all that was necessary to make me love her again as much as ever. At last she grew exceedingly unhappy, wept bitterly, and bemoaned with the sincerest grief her many faults, telling me that she knew and felt much more than I did how great they were, and acknowledging, what I told her, that she was not humble enough. Her penitence completely touched me, and quite restored her to my good graces. I now began to comfort her and speak kindly to the poor girl, upon which told me that she did not deserve to be loved by me, and that I thought much too well of her. However I was well satisfied to see her at last in this humbled frame of mind, and I now began to fear that I had spoken too harshly too her, and had not been kind. But she told me I had done just what I ought, and that she felt it quite kind of me. So we parted at peace with each other, and met again at tea much more happy.

My object now was to restore Phoebe to Aunt Bell’s favour. I frequently and strongly urged Phoebe to confess her faults frankly to my Aunt, and assured that this would do away with all unkind feelings towards her. I also informed my Aunt of Phoebe’s penitence, and that I really thought she need no longer be treated coldly. To my surprise and vexation, my Aunt seemed to doubt the sincerity of Phoebe’s repentance, and still felt unable to overcome the impression her conduct had given her. However she promised to do her best to be kind to her.

Well, when I was going to bed, Aunt Bell went into the Green Room (Anna and Phoebe’s bedroom), to wish them good night. She staid there some little time, so when she came up into my room, I said, “Well, did you have a confab, Aunt?” “Yes,” said my Aunt, “it was said, but it seemed to me very studied.” This damped me; my Aunt proceeded to inform me that Phoebe told her she was very sorry &c. and that she had answered, “Well Phoebe, so am I, for I thought you a little foolish self-willed thing, and that you acted like a silly spoiled child.” Also, my Aunt seemed doubtful how far she could overcome her dislike of Phoe’s conduct. I pleaded very hard for her, and positively declared my conviction of her sincerity. We then talked about other matters, but as my Aunt left the room, I once more said, “Aunt, I am sure Phoe is sincere, and quite sorry.” She stopped. “Well.-I’ll try to think it.” “I am quite sure of it,” repeated I. “You are a good friend, however,” says my Aunt, and exit.

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A note from my Aunt Dennis to Anna or Phoebe, I forget which, contained a message for me, which quite set me at rest about the matter of last week. Julia also sent me a message. She had wished me to write a sermon, on some text we should jointly fix on. So in my letter of Jan. 23, I sent her six texts to choose from. They are,

“My yoke is easy, and my burden light.” Matt. XI. 30.

“Straight is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” Matt. VII. 14.

“Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Matt. VI. 2.

“If thy hand offend thee, cut it off, it is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having two hands to go into Hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched.” Mark IX. 43.

Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of Man cometh.” Matt. XXV. 13.

“Unto every one that hath, shall be given, and he shall have abundance, but from him that hath not, shall be taken away even that which she hath.” Matt. XXV. 29.

Of these, Julia prefers the last. I should not have chosen it myself, but, as she likes it, it shall be my text.

I received a letter from Mamma, which much distressed me. Poor Papa has been in a rather alarming state from the influenza, with burning fever, raging thirst, and even delirium. After trying senna without its being of any service (I wish she had given very large doses of Morison) Mamma has, in a fright, to my great grief, called in Mr. Keal, who must do harm. Mamma had not however then received mine and Aunt Bell’s letter, which I hope will induce her to alter her plan. Lest it should fail however, I began this evening another letter to Mamma, urging her most vehemently to begin a proper course of Morison with dear Papa; which letter I hope will have effect.

In the evening we finished Emma de Lissau. I hardly know what to say about it; the expression of my opinion is much clogged by my doubt whether it is a fictitious or authentic narrative. [104] Most of what I have said concerning “Sophia de Lissau” applies to “Emma de Lissau,” but the latter has by far the most merit, and is much more interesting. Indeed I think, if one considers it all true, it is extremely interesting. But there are many improbabilities and contradictions, and a great deal to disgust one. Of course it is written by Emma herself, who has shown considerable vanity, and a memory ludicrously retentive of all the dresses she wore as a child. The account of her conversion is next to incredible. The ideas of her own mind at so early an age on the subject of the Jewish religion are miraculously precocious; it is impossible that Eleazar could have possessed a Testament, still less have left it in Emma’s way; it is impossible that by way of curing her Nazarene principles they should have sent her to a Nazarene school, and the conduct of Mrs. Russel in converting her was duplicity and treachery itself. How could Emma bear to expose the horrible barbarity of her mother, and the abominable wickedness of her brother Leopold, especially as he had once been so affectionate to her?-Solomon de Lissau, if a sincere Jew, acted most sinfully in so quietly allowing Emma to believe in Christ, and even helping her forward with it by giving her Christian books, without ever being troubled at the certain loss of her soul according to his notions. Nor does he take the pains to investigate Christianity, nor does Emma attempt to convert him.-Hannah is one of the most probable characters in the book; Catharine is disgusting. Emma should not have parted with the keepsake of Madame Dupont. The hymns at the end of the book are of very secondary merit.

There is one part which I am sure is genuine, namely, the episode in the shape of a letter form Mrs. M’Laurin. It is so clumsily written, so trivial and childish in many parts, and so full of the authoress’s conceit and vanity at being acquainted with so many persons of rank (all of whose names she drags into her letter by hook or by crook), that I cannot believe it fabricated. Besides, there is really nothing improbable in the incidents and narrative. I believe it was only introduced to spin out the book.

Among the names of subscribers are some which I know, particularly that of Miss Pym.

When I do not go out, I generally walk a little up and down a room without a fire, with sometimes one of my cousins. Many interesting conversations have I had on these occasions with Anna. To day we all three walked for about an hour up and down the drawing-room before dinner, and talked upon many very interesting topics, which I can do no more than name. We began with fine country and beautiful scenery, my cousins describing many lovely spots in Devonshire which I have not seen. After this we somehow got into a conversation about the cathedral service, about pomp and ceremony in religion, and thence to Roman Catholics, and the difficulties in converting them. Before this, we also talked politics, about the demoralized state of the English peasantry, about the new poor-laws, about the Vaudois, the Swiss peasantry, the spread of infidelity in France, the minute division of property in that country and America, and its evil consequences. The latter part of our conversation was chiefly on the authenticity of the current translation of Scripture. I had pointed out to them the other day one or two trifling errors in the translation of the New Testament, and to day in the course of our conversation about Roman Catholics, a-propos to their being forbidden to read the Bible, †I informed my cousins that the imperative mood in John V. 39, “Search the Scriptures,” ought to be translated as indicative. I found that poor Anna, on discovering from me these little errors, was much annoyed by an uneasy doubt in her own mind that other parts of the translation might also be incorrect, so that her dependence upon it was uncomfortably shaken. However, I succeeded pretty well in restoring her confidence in it, bringing forward many arguments, of which I think one of my own struck her the most, namely, that though not impossible (because man cannot decide on what God would or ought to do), yet it is almost inconceivable, that God would have suffered so vast a proportion of Christians to learn their faith for so many centuries only from a translation of his Word so incorrect, as to affect the means of their salvation.

There are reasons which make it peculiarly important and necessary that my cousins more than all others, should have a thorough confidence in the commonly received translation of the Scriptures, therefore I was peculiarly anxious a-

Phoebe’s sixteenth birthday. It is curious that among the three families of cousins who are grandchildren of Grandmamma Shore, all the five now in Exeter are within three years of the same age, namely, Anna, seventeen; myself (Emily) seventeen; William, sixteen; Phoebe, sixteen; Richard, fifteen. The total number of cousins is eleven, amongst which there are but three boys. I think they make a collection of in general very pretty names; Julia, Maria, Anna, Emily, William, Phoebe, Richard, Arabella, Louisa, Mackworth, Paulina; their ages are from twenty-two to six.

I finished the “Life of Daniel” which I was writing last Sunday. When Anna has done hers, we will compare them. To my great satisfaction I yesterday completed my examination of the Old Testament on the subject of the Belief of a future State among the Israelites previous to the Captivity, and now I have begun to arrange my rough notes into a regular essay on the subject. When this is done, I shall begin the sermon.

I find that Aunt Bell has the same views about the belief of the Israelites in an atonement which my cousins exhibited last Sunday. I argued the matter with her this evening, but without coming to any conclusion, and I finally resolved to make it, at my leisure, the subject of another Scripture examination.

Miss Elizabeth Tripp called, and told us that her brother had had as many as sixty funerals since the beginning of the year. She herself has only just recovered from the influenza.

Phoebe seems now to be quite well; as to Ann the servant she still keeps her bed and is exceedingly weak and reduced, but is going on well.

†A letter came from Woodbury; two pages were from Mamma to Richard, one and part of an end from Mamma to Aunt Bell; the two ends from Arabella to Anna. Mamma gives a much better account of dear Papa, but she longs most earnestly to get rid of Mr. Keal, and is thoroughly unhappy because she does not know what to do about it. I do hope she will dismiss him without ceremony

†A splendid day, such as I have not seen for many months. I took a long walk with my cousins on the Heavitree road, and a more enchanting walk I have not taken, I think, since last summer. It was quite dry underfoot (no small comfort here), above, the sky was beautifully blue, variegated with a few fleecy clouds, the sun shone brilliantly, the air was clear, calm, and warm like summer, and all nature seemed waking up from her wintry sleep. It was perfectly enchanting to me to hear the birds singing joyously all around; the sweet, plaintive, interrupted notes of the robin; the clear musical song of the hedge-sparrow; the shrill and lovely carol of the wren; from afar the deep mellow voice of the blackbird; occasionally out of the little garden the loud and cheerful song of the blithe chaffinch; with these were mixed the bell-like tinkle of the blue-tit, and the harsh cry of the ox-eye, and the noisy chirp of the house-sparrow. O how I did long to be at Woodbury! I am sighing, I am pining for the country; I miss, sadly miss, the deep retirement all around my distant home, my lonely walks in the meadows, copses, and orchards, the woods echoing with the songs of a hundred merry birds;-far from the din of towns and cities, and out of the hateful sight of crowded streets, and carts and coaches, and ugly houses, red, white, and all manner of hideous colours. How I do detest towns, and love the peace and solitude of the country! How can any one prefer the smoky atmosphere of crowded cities to the unsullied, brilliant sunlight that illuminates the fresh verdure of quiet woods and open meadows! O that I were once again at Woodbury!

I strongly perceive the difference in climate between Devonshire and Bedfordshire. I am told the present spring is an ordinary spring here; to me it is singularly warm, something quite new to me. I could hardly bear the fire this afternoon. The winter too has been very mild to me.

We hear that of all those who have had the influenza, not one of those who have taken Morison’s pills has died: also, that a person was blind, deaf, and dumb, in consequence of the typhus fever, was perfectly cured by means of this wonderful medicine. Every thing I hear of it conforms me in my opinion of its supreme excellence.

I began to read “Gil Blas Corrigé,” which is in five duodecimo volumes. Having as yet not advanced beyond the ninth page, I am not qualified to form any opinion of it, except that I like the easy style, and that it promises to be very entertaining, as I have always heard it is.

Whenever I cannot get out, I always walk for half-an-hour or an hour about one of the rooms or the passage, with Anna and Phoebe. A very pleasant practice it is, we either talk on very interesting subjects, or joke and laugh heartily. Anna, after a walk about the passage today, sat down to the piano-forte, of which she is passionately fond, and indeed she ahs a splendid ear. As she was playing, she said to me, “Do you know, Emmy, the pleasurable sensations I had at the last concert I was at, have not left me yet. I cannot tell you how I enjoy concerts: sometimes I feel hardly on earth. I long so to go to another concert.”

There is scarcely anything I wish for so much as a good ear and voice; at present I have extremely little of either, and both are entirely uncultivated, as I have never learned to play. This was my own choice; we had no piano-forte till I was a much as fourteen years old, and then I thought it was too late to learn well, till I spent more time than I should think right on a mere amusement; besides, I can never lack amusement or occupation of any kind. But now, I almost regret my choice; for, though I have little ear, I am extremely fond of music, and I every day long to be able to play as my cousins do, and especially to sing a little. It must be, indeed I see it is, a source of exquisite pleasure to those who can do so.

A splendid day, more like summer than spring, finer even than Tuesday. I noticed the eastern sky at about a quarter past six in the morning; it was then tinted with a delicate pure light of pale lemon green, something like that which is seen in the west after the sunset of a glorious summer’s day. As the morning opened, the sun shone brilliantly, and the weather was so lovely that we all four, Anna, Phoebe, Richard, and myself, agreed that we would not delay our walk, so we all [109] sallied forth at a quarter past ten. To my great delight, we walked in a direction quite new to me; we passed along the Lower Heavitree Road, and then turned down into some lovely lanes where we were quite out of sight and sound of Exeter, and far from the din or noise of any town or village. O what exquisite pleasure did I enjoy from this walk! the first really country walk I have taken for almost five months. It seemed quite a new existence to me, I have no words to describe my feelings. The perfect calmness and clearness of the air, the brilliancy of the sun, the bright blue of the heavens, the beauty of the scenery, the deep stillness of the lanes, broken only by the occasional song of the bird, all joined to throw me into a state of mind I cannot possibly describe or ever forget. The lanes were enclosed by high banks, crowned with lofty trees, and wreathed and embroidered with festoons of ivy-leaves sparkling with dew, and tufts of all the young plants of spring, arums, ground-ivy, ranunculus, chervil, and many others, all of the fresh green of the early year. Beneath the banks ran tiny rivulets, trickling and glittering along; beyond, were undulating fields, and further still, blue hills tufted with woods. And then the singing of the birds! O how enchanting it was to me! †Just as we came to a spot where four winding lanes met, the well known note of the sky-lark broke on my ear. I stood still, and listened, and drank in the sounds in an ecstacy of delight. I had not heard the song since July, 1836, and then very little, at Hastings; it now seemed to me more deliciously sweet than ever. I seemed to be in Paradise. I believe nobody can understand the effect which the songs of birds has on me, it is like that which very fine music has on very good musicians.

Well, to my great disappointment, at this spot, Anna and Phoebe found they could go no further, and turning back, left Richard and me to continue our walk. We struck into a lane on the left (the one immediately before us leads to Topsham), this took us through a village into a sweet lane, long, narrow, and winding lane, which brought us to Heavitree, [110] and so home. In this lane the birds were singing sweetly,-blackbird , thrush, robin, hedge-sparrow, chaffinch, wren, all warbling by turns or in concert, robin answering robin, hedge-sparrow answering hedge-sparrow. I noticed several variations in the song of the hedge-sparrow and chaffinch here from the songs of those at Woodbury; the chaffinch has a greater variety of notes here.-In the long lane, I spied with delight, growing on a hedge-bank by a little rivulet several blossoms of the ivy-leaved ranunculus, the first spring-flower. Richard gathered me some of them, and I brought them home.

On our return, I was pretty well fatigued. But after dinner I set out again with my cousins. The weather became still more exquisite, and we took a delightful walk over Mount Radford. We then returned, because Phoe could not go further, and I remained out some time longer, walking by myself round the ring. The weather continued as fine as before, and I staid out so long to enjoy it that I tired myself again. It is the first walk I remember having taken by myself since I have been at Exeter. I never find solitary walks tedious, however, having always plenty to think about, and very often I amuse myself by repeating poetry. This however I did not do to day, I was engaged on one subject of thought pretty nearly all the time.

I finished reading to my cousins Rokeby, which I began yesterday: they never heard it before, and I read it principally for Anna’s benefit, to amuse her while lying down on the sofa. I was delighted to see that she really enjoyed it thoroughly, was deeply interested in the story, and fully entered into the beauty of the poetry. She expressed the most rapturous admiration of it, preferred it to all Scott’s other poems, and thought it quite splendid. Indeed I think so too. I never admired Rokeby so much before, and I do think it almost beyond the possibility of being excelled. Its greatest excellence is the exquisite skill and spirit with which the characters are drawn, the mixture of poetic truth and natural feeling displayed in them is inimitable. There is also in very many parts the most beautiful pathos, especially in Mortham and Edmund, and the death of Wilfrid, which is most touching.

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My reading as much as I have done of this poem shows how much stronger my lungs must be. Phoebe read the first Canto, and one or two little bits in the second, and Aunt Bell the last two or three stanzas of the third, so much for yesterday’s reading; this evening I read before tea the whole of Canto IV. except one little bit which Phoebe took, and immediately after tea I read all of the two last Cantos, except a small part of the sixth. I was fatigued, but had scarcely the shade of a pain in my chest. But I certainly find that I can never read long without my voice failing me. This evening, after I had read only a small portion, I had, all the time I went on reading, the utmost difficulty in dragging a sound out of my throat, every word was uttered with effort, so as to put me quite out of breath, I felt as if all voice had quite left me. This is a feeling I never knew before this illness, and it is not at all surprising that I should suffer from it now.

A packet of letters from Woodbury, containing very favourable reports of Papa, but unfortunately it crossed my last letter. Arabella wrote to Phoebe, Louisa to me and Anna, Mackworth to me. Mamma’s letter is addressed to both Richard and me.

I continue my Essay on the Future State; I have advanced as far as the Book of Job. As to Anna, she has got up to Ruth, without finding one argument on her side of the question. I wonder what Julia has found. Phoebe has none either, as yet.

This is dear little Louisa’s birthday, she is now thirteen years old. I can hardly fancy her that age, it is exactly the age I was when we came to Woodbury. I sent her a letter this morning, it was written on a sheet which had an engraving of Exeter Cathedral at the top, as a little birthday present for Louisa. I wish I could have sent the letter so as to reach her on her birthday, but the arrangement of the posts rendered it impossible.

Walking by myself in the ring this morning, I was surprised to hear the song of the skylark from behind the houses of the Crescent. The ring is always full of hedge-sparrows.

†I cannot repress my extreme longing to be at Woodbury, not merely because I wish to see again Papa, Mamma, Arabella, Louisa, and Mackworth, but also because I am sighing for the country. When I remember the delights of my country-walks, the exquisite pleasure I enjoyed in watching the progress of nature in the opening year, and especially in listening to the merry and melodious songs of a thousand little birds, I cannot help bitterly regretting the necessity which binds me to the neighbourhood of a populous and noisy city for probably three quarters of a year. I hope however that I am not repining and discontented; I know and feel how much, how very much I have, to call forth my gratitude to him who has restored me so mercifully to health, when I scarcely dared to hope for recovery. It is more than I expected to be able to enjoy the walks I do, and I am sure I do not complain if they are not so pleasant as if have often taken at this time of year.

At about seven o’clock in the evening the moon presented a beautiful spectacle. She was not very far above the horizon, and was peeping like a golden ball out of a dense black cloud, whose upper edges she tinged with a lovely silver light. The black cloud rolled slowly over her, and concealed her from view, but she still shed a kind of stormy light over her dark pall. When I looked again two hours after, the scene was quite changed; not a cloud or a speck appeared on the sky, but the whole heaven was of a pure pale blue, whose hue was almost extinguished by the dazzling light of the full moon glowing in the midst. It was a most glorious sight.

†It is about half-past ten o’clock in the morning, and while I am writing, the view from these windows is singularly beautiful. The range of hills is of an indistinct blue colour, very dark in the south, and dim and pale in the west and north. The city of Exeter beneath appears with extraordinary clearness; the noble cathedral stands out in fine relief, its form is perfectly distinct, every line is traced with exquisite delicacy and sharpness; over the whole scene is cast a brilliant sunlight, which illuminates every building; under its influence St. Sidwell’s Spire shines as white as snow.-Behold! While I have been writing, the whole scene has clouded over, the rain is falling, the wind howling, and the beautiful landscape is mournfully obscured.

Evening.-Alas! how different are my feelings from what they were yesterday at this time,-even from what they were this morning and this after- [113]

[114] [115] do not know, probably not till May. Aunt Bell and I consider it a most tyrannical mandate of Mr. Dennis; it is like his whole conduct on every occasion, which is that of a harsh capricious despot. It is most unkind too to summon them home in this sudden way with such short notice; it is almost incredible to those who do not know Mr. Dennis. He rules with a rod of iron over his whole family, his will is supreme in every thing; they are not to have their own way in the most private matters; What absurd and tyrannical conduct! The idea of a father’s interfering [...] I say nothing about the other great faults of his character, his deceit, art, immense ambition, immense vanity, and other ungentlemanliness of feeling and manners; nor about his extraordinary and horrible religious opinions, from which, I rejoice to say, providentially (through the instrumentality chiefly of Uncle William and Aunt Bell) his daughters have escaped; to dilate on these things would be much too long and too painful a task. Deeply do I pity my poor cousins for having such a father, and deeply do I regret every part of their time which is unnecessarily spent in his society. But it cannot be helped.

It is besides, very unfeeling and inconsiderate towards Aunt Bell, to whom Annie is a great comfort now, when she is so much occupied with my Uncle, and obliged to be so much away from Grandmamma. This Aunt Bell says she will strongly represent to Anna, who will repeat it at Teignmouth, and Aunt Bell says she has little doubt that Anna will be quickly sent back again. I hope it may be so. As to Phoebe, though I love her, I do not feel for her a thousandth part of the affection I do for my dear, dear Annie. She is my friend, almost my only friend out of my own family, and certainly the dearest. Besides my immediate relations, the persons whom I love best, and who are most in my thoughts are Anna and Eliz.

A parcel came from Teignmouth, containing, amongst others, a long and very affectionate letter from Julia, to whom I write constantly, tho’ she has not often time to write to me. She is studying botany; I had sent her a few days ago Rennie’s Alphabet of Botany, with which she is much pleased. She discusses this and some other subjects in this letter, but says she must leave my essay on dissipation till another time. She sends me a lock of her hair, and she expresses great regret at the summons for her sisters, which she says she knows must make me very unhappy. She gives an animated description of Tuesday Feb. 17, which was a glorious day both at Exeter and Teignmouth. Altogether, Julia’s letter gave me a great deal of pleasure. I immediately began an answer to it, for my cousins to take. I am happy to say that their places are secured for Monday and not Friday or Saturday.

Whenever Annie goes to the piano-forte, I sit down by her on a footstool with my work in my hand, to listen. I love to hear her sing. Of the songs she sings I have some peculiar favourites, which, together with some other very pretty ones, she sung over to me this evening again. My greatest favourite is one called “They bid me forget thee”; the tune is most plaintive and beautiful, the words also I like extremely; they are as follows:

“They bid me forget thee; they tell me that now

The grave-damp is staining that beautiful brow,

They say that the sound of thy gay laugh is o’er;

Alas! shall I hear its sweet music no more?

I cannot forget thee, thy smile haunts me yet,

And thy deep earnest eyes, bright as when we first met

Thy gay laugh returns in the silence of sleep,

And I start from my slumbers to listen and weep

“The stream of the desart in darkness flows on,

When the hand that has sealed its pure waters is gone

And the eye of the stranger in vain seeks to know

Where the Arab’s bright fountain is sparkling below;

So this fond heart has closed o’er the source of its tears

And the love it has lived on, yet hidden for years:

Thou art gone! and another’s rude hand shall in vain

Seek to wake the choked fountain to sunlight again.

I cannot express how I love this song. Another of my favourites is “What hidst thou” and, more than almost any, “Isle of Beauty.”

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I will write out by heart the second one I named by Mrs. Hemans.

“What hidst thou in they treasure caves and cells,

Thou ever sounding and mysterious main?

Pale glistering pearls and rainbow-coloured shells,

Bright things which gleam unrecked-of and in vain!

Keep still thy treasures, melancholy sea,

We ask not, ask not, ask not such of thee!

Yet more, the billows and the depth have more,

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast,

They hear not now the booming waters roar,

The raging battle-thunders will not break their rest.

Keep thy red gold and gems, thy stormy grave,

Give back, give back, give back the true and brave,

Give back the lost and lovely, those for whom

The place was kept at board and hearth so long,

The prayer went up in midnight’s breathless gloom,

And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!

Keep still thy buried isles and towers o’erthrown,

But all, but all, but all is not thine own,

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,

Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood’s noble head,

O’er youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown,

Yet must thou hear a voice, Restore the dead!”

†The weather not allowing us to go out, we three girls took a walk up and down the passage. We had a most interesting conversation: I first began by arranging with dear Anna a regular correspondence during her absence, which will be a great pleasure to us; we shall write very frequently to each other, and very long letters. And I gave Anna very minute instructions about the plan she ought to pursue in her various studies, which she fully intends to follow, but she deeply regrets not being able to continue them here with me. After this, we talked about my long absence from home, especially my being likely to be away during a whole half-year, which has not happened to me before. This led to talking about the pupils, about the discomfort they give us, about the change for the worst that has of late years taken place in the tone of feeling amongst us, and about the

I walked with my cousins to Exeter. We went into Pilbrow’s music-shop, in High Street, at the corner of Castle Street, for the sake of my hearing a most splendid piano-forte, which Anna has tried when she has come here to buy music, and is perfectly enchanted with. We went in, Anna bought a tune, and requested to buy the piano again, which Mr. Pilbrow has given her leave to do whenever she likes. We accordingly went up into a very large room, containing a great number of pianos, harps, and other musical instruments. Anna’s favourite is a small upright one; she sat down to it immediately, and played for about five-and-twenty minutes. It is a magnificent instrument certainly, and the tones are quite exquisite, and did justice to Anna’s voice, which is not the case at Baring Crescent, where the piano-forte is a most execrable old rattle. The contrast was enchanting. Amongst other things, Anna sung “The Better Land,” “She never told her love,” “Ye Mariners of Spain,” and my favourite “They bid me forget thee;” and she played some beautiful Italian airs.

We could have staid here for hours, but had business to do in the town, which having performed we returned half an hour before dinner.

After dinner we walked to Exeter again, went to some shops, paid a visit, and returned by Southernhay and the Lower Heavitree Road. It was the last walk I shall take with my cousins perhaps for many months, a reflection which made me very sad. It was fortunately a lovely day, quite clear and sunny, and pleasantly cool; in the morning there was a sharp wind, but it went off in the afternoon. The sunset was beautiful, the western horizon glowed with an exquisite crimson light, which made the light blue hills and lofty cathedral towers stand out most nobly and distinctly.

The nearer the period arrives for my cousins’ departure, the more melancholy I become. Often do the tears spring to my eyes, and a heavy weight presses on my heart

The influenza was a good deal talked of at breakfast. It is now fast ceasing, but it is generally feared that it will be followed by the cholera, as was the case in 1832. A tract has just been published called “The Voice of God in the late Hurricane and present Influenza,” which Tract mentions the probability of such and event.-To day at church my cousins say it was quite melancholy to see the numbers of persons in mourning; and a gentleman just come from London told a lady whom they met that the mourning there is so general as to seem like a court-mourning.-However, at St. Sidwell’s, the thanksgiving for the cessation of the influenza was read.

†How thankful I ought to be for having entirely escaped this awful epidemic! I dare say, (as Aunt Bell too says), that Dr. James Clark fully supposes me to be now dead and buried. He had directed me to write to him from Exeter if I became worse or wanted any instructions from him; five months have now passed, during which he has heard nothing of me; when I left him he considered me to have tubercles in my lungs, and he no doubt thinks that this influenza has finally carried me off. What would he say if he were to see me now, so much fatter, stronger, and less susceptible of cold? I un-

And now, alas! I have parted with my beloved cousins. They left us this morning at a quarter to nine. With what a heavy heart and tearful eyes did I watch them as they drove thro’ the Crescent! Still Aunt Bell says she feels pretty sure that Anna will be quickly sent back. If I could quite feel this, I should not so bitterly regret her departure.

Yet after all, I came to Exeter not for enjoyment, but for health. I may say, for my very life. I have had a great deal more both of health and enjoyment than I ever dared to hope or had any right to look for; I ought therefore to feel gratitude for the past rather than discontent for the present. I have been happier than I deserved to be, and I will try to make the best of my present grief.

I am now removed from almost all the persons that I love, except Aunt Bell and Richard. But for Aunt Bell I feel a very different sort of affection from that with which I regard a companion or one nearer my own age, and Richard is not a sister, nor can he quite supply the place of one. What a wide interval separates me from most of my dearest friends! Papa, Mamma, my sisters and youngest brother, are two hundred and twenty-five miles off, at Woodbury. Eliz and Benjamin are at Calcutta, and I have not seen them for nearly five years. Louisa Hall is at Jersey.

We differ in tastes, pursuits, and principles.

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My cousins being gone, I passed a very gloomy day. I do not know when I have felt so thoroughly stupefied, spiritless, and melancholy. My brain seemed quite deadened, my head ached. I felt fatigued and wearied from head to foot. One or two particular subjects of thought (of which Anna of course was one) occupied my tired mind almost entirely, my ideas brooded over them in a fixed and stupid manner, and scarcely any thing could call them off. I seemed to be in a kind of dull and dreary dream; I suppose I missed the excitement, at least the enjoyment, of my cousins’ society. All the afternoon I was left alone with Grandmamma, for, as usual, Aunt Bell was at Hampton Buildings with my Uncle, and Richard walking with William. At last, feeling utterly exhausted in mind and body, and feeling incapable, from the pain in my shoulder, of sitting up, I was obliged to lie down on the sofa, from which I always refrain as much as possible.

In the evening my Aunt brought home from Curson’s library Cooper’s novel of “The Bravo,” which she proposes to read in the evenings now that we are such a small dull party. We began it, and finished about three chapters. I can form no opinion of it yet.

I began this morning a letter to dear Anna, but O, what a difference between writing and talking to her! I miss her sweet countenance, her animated eyes, her kind voice; I miss the lessons we used to do together; I miss our pleasant walks and happy conversations. When shall I enjoy all these, again?

Mr Edward Foley dined with us again, and told me that as he was going on Thursday morning to Tetworth, he would take any letters or anything else from us to Woodbury. This proposal was extremely convenient, though we had sent a letter on Monday (yesterday). I also thought it would be a convenient opportunity for my [...] two sisters, so I despatch-

With great surprise and pleasure I received a note from Annie, sent by a private hand to Exeter. It was written on Monday evening and Tuesday morning, and was very affectionate. She describes their evening party, and the beautiful view she had of the sea and sky in the morning before sunrise. Her style is much improved, and she writes now in very good language. She had not received my letter.

I was busy writing all day for Woodbury, and by five o’clock had finished three long letters, to Papa, Mamma, and Mackworth. I also finished and put into the same packet a letter of three sheets to Eliz, which I have had in hand five months. Richard wrote two letters, to Arabella and Louisa. In the packet I also put up two little books as presents, and I then sent it by Richard to Mr. Foley, as no letters had come from Teignmouth, and I could wait no longer. But not an hour after came a parcel containing a most sweet letter to me from Annie, and three letters for Arabella and Louisa from Annie, Phoebe, and I think, Julia. I sent these forthwith to Mr. Foley, with an apologising note, luckily having an opportunity of doing so.

Annie’s letter quite delighted me. When it came I was lying on the sofa almost worn out with fatigue, flushed and spiritless, but the arrival of the parcel infused new life into me, and set me up for the remainder of the evening. Phoebe added a postscript to it, as Julia did to that which came this morning. Annie says she is remarkably well and strong, which I rejoice to hear; and that she is going to recommence her journal, which she has long discontinued, owing to the pain in her shoulder, which her long course of medicine here has quite removed.

†At last, a letter from Woodbury; good accounts of dear Papa,

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Mamma says,

“I hear from the Renouards that there was not a house in Jersey free from influenza. I have to tell you of a birth in this neighbourhood, a third Miss Foley, who was born yesterday week, and she with her Mamma are going on well. Also, a death has happened at Mr. Rooper’s, Jessy Rooper, the remaining twin, has died of influenza......Charles Astell has just got a commission in the fifth regiment; he will go to Ireland in about six weeks to join it.”

Louisa writes too at considerable length, and adds some more news of the neighbourhood, and about Eliz, who, she says,

“has got a little boy, whose first act was to suck his thumb, and who is very cross.”

I shall not make any more extracts from her letter, which is very entertaining, because I feel as usual a pain near the back of my left shoulder with sitting up long, and I must put down my pen.

On reconsidering it, I am much shocked (though it had not stuck me before), by a passage in Mrs. William Rooper’s letter to me on Jan. 31, where she represents herself as recovering from the influenza to plunge immediately into the depths of dissipation. How sinful is this conduct, yet how sadly common! So awfully prevalent and fatal a disorder ought to be considered, as it is, a warning from Providence, and should turn our thoughts to him from whom it is sent: How madly heedless is it then to pass from the sick-bed to the ball-room, when hundreds of our fellow-creatures are perishing from the very illness from which God’s mercy alone has raised us up! Even if dissipation were innocent in itself, which it manifestly is not, how incongruous and ill-times is it at present! There is something quite revolting to me in the idea; and I shall certainly, when I next write to Mrs. William Rooper, send her my views on the subject.

The sunset was rather singular, and I admired it much. The western heavens were quite covered with a thick mantle of dark blue-grey clouds, in this mantle, a little above the hills, were rents or openings of a rose-colour or pale crimson, which looked very beautiful; it seemed as if they admitted a view of some glowing sky beyond. While looking at the scene, I thought, “Perhaps Annie and Phoe are also admiring it at Teignmouth.”

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†From whatever cause, a great change has of late taken place in my tastes, in one particular respect, viz. that I no longer feel the interest I once did in works of fiction. Of these I have read, or heard read, but a very few; and they used at one time to work up my feelings to a state of the highest excitement, to occupy my thoughts whenever I was not actually engaged in them, and call forth my most breathless attention when I listened to them. I looked forward to the evening, when they were read, as the most delightful part of the day, and my brain was quite filled with pictures of the scenes therein represented. Now, all this is changed. For instance, we are now reading the Bravo. I hear it with a calmness and indifference which I can scarcely realize to myself, the narrative makes no impression on my fancy, I am not haunted by it either sleeping or waking. I never feel the slightest impatience to begin it, or reluctance to put it down. The same was the case when we were reading “The Waterwitch,” and, to a certain degree, even “Ivanhoe,” which quite amazes me. Perhaps, if I had read them all to myself, they would have interested me more. I am reading to myself however, “Gil Blas,” which interests me just as little, entertaining as it is. I was indeed considerably interested in “Ormond,” “Harrington,” and “Dunallan.” But in general, novels no longer seize on my mind. It can hardly be the my imagination is decaying, for my love and enjoyment of poetry is as vivid as ever, indeed more so. Thus, I listened with greater pleasure to “Ion” than to “Ivanhoe.” But “Ivanhoe” lost much of its beauty by being badly read.-I do think, however, that this change in my taste is no bad thing, it gives me a greater enjoyment of soberer and more useful reading.

#

I am afraid that I caught cold the last time I was out, Wednesday, since which day I have had a good deal (comparatively) of rheumatism and pain in my chest. These March days are very delusive. They look fine, but, though there is little wind, the air is very raw and biting-cold. I shall go out no more in this kind of weather, for it can do me no good.

I forgot to mention yesterday that I began to read Bigland’s “History of Europe from 1783 to 1810,” an old book in two octavo vols [125] In point of style it is as dry as dust, and I should imagine that there is no merit at all in the political opinions expressed; but it will be useful in giving me an idea of the historical events of that period, which was my only subject in reading it. I have finished three chapters. I never heard of the book, but I picked it out yesterday from a number of books without labels, in the dining-room.

I forgot also to mention of Thursday that I read through, while lying on the sofa in the evening, one of Grace Kennedy’s works, “Profession not Principle.” I like it extremely. Arthur Howard is a very interesting and natural character; and so too in some points, is Charles Howard, though somewhat different from Papa’s pupil of the same name. One sees plainly that it is intended that he shall turn out a Christian character. I am particularly pleased by the short pithy answers of Travers to Arthur’s objections, especially about the origin of evil. I object to nothing except the novellish hue given to the otherwise excellent little work by the marriage proposed at the end of it between Basil Travers and Emma Howard.-The description of the person of Travers puts me in mind of Mr. Peter Payne.

†Another beautiful sunset; the sun was a glorious orb of fire setting in a mantle of blue cloud. It was most beautiful to see him gradually lessening as he sunk behind the hills, his last lingering spark seemed to rest upon their summit like a crest of flame.

I finished the work which has occupied me so long, “Remarks on the Belief of a Future State among the Israelites previous to the Babylonish Captivity.” I have quite proved to my own satisfaction that they did not believe in it. My Essay occupies thirty-two large-printed pages. It is divided into portions, according to the number of Books of the Old Testament when I have drawn arguments; and each portion is divided into sections. There are in all 105 sections.

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I am reading a little work of Abbott’s, which I bought the other day at Spreat’s. “The Way to do Good,” is the last of the series consisting of the “Young Christian,” “Corner Stone,” and this one. It is not equal to the two former, but I like it very much. I have finished three chapters. Abbott is one of my favourite authors, he is thoroughly Christian, and possesses wonderful discrimination, acuteness, and knowledge of human nature; his style too is most attractive, and his illustrations excellent. He must be a man of very uncommon talents; he evidently also has the highest perception of all that is beautiful in nature, whether in the animate or inanimate creation. He has a poetic and glowing imagination, which shines out in all he writes.

I finished my letter to Anna, which I have had in hand ever since Tuesday. It consists of two crowded sheets quite full. I also wrote a letter to Phoebe, and Richard wrote one to Anna. I sent them to Teignmouth in a parcel with some other things which Anna and her sisters wanted me to send. I hope to hear from them tomorrow. What a pleasure it is to correspond with those we love!

The books I regularly read to myself are, Dodridge’s Rise and Progress, Abbott’s Way to Do Good, Bigland’s History of Europe, and Gil Blas Corrigé. Gil Blas is a most amusing book. I particularly like the simplicity and humour with which he narrates his adventures and feats of roguery.

†We hear that the country about Exeter is infested just now to a remarkable degree by desperate ruffians, who, armed with bludgeons, haunt the lanes, and attack the passengers. Many robberies have been committed, and persons knocked down. The jails are filled with villains, and there have been discovered on the Black Boy road two caves where the thieves deposit their plunder.

After having remained in the house ever since Wednesday, I ventured out, and took a walk in the lanes with Dickon. It was a lovely day, sunny, perfectly clear, dry under foot, and hardly a breath of air stirring. I enjoyed my walk extremely, but was longing all the time for dear Annie. We went into the Barrack lane, the same into which we walked on Feb. 17. A minute before we turned into it, †I observed to Dickon, “Now if I were in the country to day, I should hear the golden-crested wren and chiff- [127] †chaff.” We then entered the lane, and forthwith the song of the golden wren fell on my ear. I was quite delighted, and presently spied out the little songster, and two others, flitting merrily about some trees close to a white gate at the entrance of the lane. I stood and listened to the joyous song of this beautiful little bird; how sweet and yet how minute are its notes! It has begun unusually early. I perceive that it sings in a different tone from the golden wren at Woodbury, and the notes themselves are slightly altered; the difference between the Exeter and Woodbury chaffinches also vary; some hurry through their song in a slovenly way, leave out one or two notes, and run those at the end too much into each other. To day for the first time I heard the coal-tit; several were singing principally that variation of their song which sounds like “chee-ki chee-ki” slowly repeated. The blackbird, hedge-sparrow, wren and robin, were also singing.

I found on the hedge-bank a primrose nearly open; Richard says he has seen quantities long ago. There ought to be plenty of violets now.

On coming to the spot where four lanes meet, we struck into the one on the right, which brought us to a fork, of which the right-hand road goes to Mount Radford, I believe, and the left, which we followed, leads into the Topsham road. This left-hand lane is a most lovely one, steep, with high woody banks, and beautiful peeps beyond; it quite charmed me. All was quiet, I heard no sound but the bubbling of a little hidden rivulet. We went a little way up the Topsham road, and looked at the views of the distant hills, which glowed in the clear sunlight. We then returned, and came back to Baring Crescent by Mount Radford. I was tired with my walk, But I think I was the better for it. I did not go out again.

I wrote a letter to Mrs. C. Renouard, which Aunt Bell will send to be franked by Lady Mayo. It is a long time since I have either written to or heard from her. Mamma casually mentioned hearing from her in the letter I received on Thursday, March 2.

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In the evening, while Richard was reading “the Bravo” aloud, I took up pencil and paper, which I have long disused, and sketched a head to represent that of the Bravo, according to the idea I had formed of him. I imagine him to have beautiful but not quite perfect features, of Grecian character; a high white forehead, black hair slightly curling, eye-brows beautifully formed, piercing jet-black eyes, a nose not absolutely regular, and a noble mouth; the chin perhaps rather approaching the nut-cracker sort. The expression of his face I conceive to be deeply melancholy. My sketch has not exactly come up to these notions. I shall try some of the other characters in the novel bye-and-bye.

I took another walk with Richard; we went to the Castle, and mounted the rampart, for the sake of the noble view, which I have once before seen. It was a beautiful day like yesterday, and warmer, but not perhaps quite so clear, so that the view was not everywhere perfectly distinct. I saw the wide mouth of the Ex, looking like a lake, and I could distinguish boats upon it; I saw also Exmouth Church, and Powderham Castle on a hill to the right.-From the rampart we descended into Northernhay, and thence went to see the new Fish-market, a very fine building. Thence we went into High Street, then by Broad Street into the Cathedral Yard, for the sake of looking at the prints in Gendall’s. From thence we went by Palace Street into South Street, and returned home by Magdalen Street and the Lower Heavitree Road. I enjoyed my walk, but was much tired by it. I was longing as usual to have Anna with me, and Phoebe too.

I am extremely entertained with Gil Blas. I have now come up to page 166 of vol. I, which is a little more than half the second book. His doctor’s life is admirable, and I am very much diverted at the sarcasms on medical men. It must be said that Gil Blas is a most unprincipled rogue, and he is at the same time an unaccountable dupe. I cannot imagine a youth of eighteen being taken in so easily as he was by the broker from which he bought clothes at Pont de Mula. It is very strange that Dona Mencia should have made such a confident, at first sight, of a raw, clumsy boy, who belonged to a gang of robbers, as to tell him her history, which, by the way, he afterwards blabs of to all his acquaintance.

I finished the second Book of Gil Blas. It becomes more and more amusing; the humour is excellent. But every individual and every incident in it is of a low character; there is nothing grand or elevated, there is not a single fine sentiment or instance of good feeling, and consequently there is nothing that interests one. Dona Mencia is the only one that does not despise or dislike, and she is nothing particular. Gil Blas is a most pitiful wretch, he has every mean and low quality, without one that can command a particle of respect or admiration. Fabricius has some good nature about him, and the actor Zapata is frank and good-humoured, but these are the only good qualities I have discovered in the novel.

A long letter from Woodbury, directed to Dickon. It is partly from Mamma and Arabella to him, partly from Mamma to Aunt Bell and to me. The accounts are very satisfactory, Papa is so far recovered as to be able to ride to Potton on Tuesday, though he is still unable to join them at meals. All others are well. Mamma’s letter to me is long and interesting, and very kind, as all her letters are.-She says,

“About ten days ago, that is, on Saturday week, we saw at ten o’clock the remains of an Aurora Borealis: the sky had the appearance of reflecting some distant fire; this appearance was in the form of a pink or salmon-coloured cloud in the east, and also in the west; but I find from the paper that the appearance was very different in the earlier part of the evening.”

Mr. and Mrs. Keal, it seems, leave Potton for good next week, and go to settle in London, which I had before heard that they were going to do. Mr. Foley has made, it seems, a very favourable report of my health to Mamma.

I cannot think why I don’t hear from Teignmouth. I am quite disappointed; I have been expecting to hear every day for almost a week. I have not heard since Wednesday week, and then they promised to write again very soon. I am longing most exceedingly to hear. Every day, at noon I hope for a parcel by the carrier with letters; in the afternoon I hope for a letter by the post; in the evening I hope for a parcel by the coach; and each time I am everyday disappointed. I cannot make it out; all sorts of strange ideas have come into my head to account for it. Though after all, it is in reality quite unreasonable of me to expect to hear so soon.

The day was beautiful. I took two nice walks with Dickon. First, before dinner, we went into High Street, where I did a little shopping at Spreat’s and Broad’s, and Dickon at George’s. We then went into the Cathedral Yard by Catharine Street, to look at the prints in Gendall’s, and came home by Southernhay and Magdalen Street. After dinner we went again to High Street to do some errands, and returned by South Street and Magdalen Street.

Before our second walk, as I was sitting in the drawing-room, thinking as usual about my cousins and wishing to hear from them, I heard the front door-bell ring. “O,” thought I, “I hope it’s the post! I hope it is!” I listened anxiously, I heard the servant go to the door, open it, close it, and approach the drawing-room. She opened the door, and entered with a large brown paper parcel. “Is it from Teignmouth?” I cried half-breathless. “Yes miss,” said she giving it to me. O how delighted I was! I tore it open with extreme eagerness,—letter after letter dropped out, one to Aunt Bell, one to Richard, and three to me. I was quite beside myself with joy, and sat down to read them. I began with dear Anna’s, which quite enchanted me; then Phoebe’s, which is full of fun; Julia’s I kept to the last, being the longest, and of quite a different nature from the others; it is of four sheets, and is a reply to the letter in dissipation which I sent her in January.

This letter of Julia’s did not please me. She allows that dissipation is “decidedly sinful,” but maintains that occasional going to balls is not only innocent but advantageous, and that each individual ball has no harm in it at all. She endeavours to prove all this by answering and refuting (that is, attempting to answer and refute) each † #of my arguments against them. But alack, poor girl! she, as I knew before indeed, is utterly incapable of arguing or reasoning. I never saw such a specimen of pudding-headedness. She takes for granted the point in debate, she starts away from the point, she says a vast deal that is quite irrelevant to the subject, she constantly overlooks some little fact or circumstance which entirely alters the matter, and she talks a great deal of nonsense. There is a little casuistry, and a little that is plausible at first sight, but there is nothing that will bear close examination or general application. In short, there is no depth in what she says. Besides, her judgement (though she denies it), is evidently warped by prepossession, she treats the subject unfairly, looks at it through a distorted medium, and deceives herself.

I drew out to day a sketch of the sermon Julia wishes me to write on Matt. XXV. 29; the sketch is merely a rude outline of the different heads. I shall proceed to fill it up as soon as I have time.

I carefully looked over the various hymns I know by heart in my “pious Minstrel.” From these I made a selection of 83, which I arranged in divisions of two, or, when very short, three hymns, of which I wrote the commencing lines on a piece of paper; and I purpose every night, after I am in bed, repeating one of these divisions of hymns, in order, as well as a Psalm, going regularly through all the Psalms I know by heart. I accordingly repeated this night, Psalm I, and two hymns beginning

“Dear is the hallowed morn to me,”

and

“Child of man, whose seed below.”

I know by heart altogether 114 hymns in the “Pious Minstrel.”

Aunt Bell read to me the following lines, written by her father on a sick-bed.

“Happy the man, who feels the rod

Of mercy from the hand of God,

Who bows submissive to its power,

And meekly waits affliction’s hour;

Sure that his gracious Father’s aim

Is not to ruin, but reclaim;

Secure that he who gives the blow

Can bid our sorrows cease to flow,

And if Repentance touch the heart,

Can heal the wound and ease the smart.

Happy the man, who, taught by chastening pain,

Returns to duty, nor offends again.”

Well, to our utter and extreme astonishment, came a letter to Aunt Bell from my Aunt Dennis, to the following purport (part of which was hinted at in her letter of Saturday) that she has at last decided to take Maria to London, to consult Dr. Holland about her, as her health gets worse and worse; that Julia is to go with her; that Mr. Dennis, who is at Bath, approves of the plan; and consequently, that she would be much obliged to Aunt Bell to take charge, during her absence, of Anna, Phoebe, and Paulina! How extraordinary! First, Phoebe is ill in this house, and is left here when it would have been convenient to Aunt Bell that she should be taken home; then, both Anna and Phoebe are suddenly recalled just when they were a great comfort to us; then, three girls at once are sent back to us, not for Aunt Bell’s convenience, but for theirs! Anna we should always be happy to have here; the two others, Paulina at least, will be just now a great inconvenience. All this does not at all seem to strike Aunt Dennis, and Aunt Bell is much hurt at it. However, she immediately wrote to say that she would take the three girls in; and all the others for one night. When we are to expect them we don’t at all know; we only know that my Aunt Dennis is going directly to London.

Apart from all these circumstances, it will be an extreme happiness to me to see dearest Annie again, and I shall like also to see Phoebe again. The whole affair excited me exceedingly, kept me awake at night, and caused me to wake the next morning with a palpitation of the heart.

I have been working exceedingly hard to answer Julia’s letter on Balls, and to my great satisfaction finished it this morning. I actually filled four long foolscap sheets cram-full, except part of the last sheet. I wonder what she will say to it. I hope she will be able to read it before she goes to London.

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O how happy I shall be to see dear Annie again! What an unlooked for pleasure it will be! The greatest treat I have now that she is absent is our correspondence. I love also to re-peruse her affectionate letters to me. This evening, as I was lying down at about half-past four o’clock, I resolved to enjoy myself; so I took out of my desk four letters, and read them regularly through. One, I need not mention, I read that first; and then a note I received when at Hastings from Anna. It was the last time I heard from her before we met again at Exeter; in it she says,

“However you and I both agreed not to despair of seeing one another again, and I trust we shall some future day.”

When we made this agreement, which was when we parted at Woodbury in 1835; and when Anna penned the above sentence, we had not the smallest prospect of meeting again; and the idea of seeing her in Devonshire, and so soon after, would have seemed quite visionary. And now we have been once more parted; but I hope we are also going soon to meet again.

The third letter I read was Annie’s last, which I received on Saturday, and which I peruse with inexpressible pleasure.

Fourthly, I have read Phoebe’s letter, also with great pleasure. I have read it also many times before.

I then went and sat by the fire for some time, reading “Adelaide Murray.” When I had closed the book, I leant back in my chair, and caught a view of the glorious setting sun. The orb of gold was descending through a bright purple cloud which crossed his glowing disk. I watched him till the last spark of flame had vanished beneath the summits of the light blue hills. And then how beautiful did the western heavens become! Just above the hills extended a long line of crimson light; above that a long narrow purple cloud; above that the sky glowed with a brilliant copper light, which gradually melted into a pure spotless blue. By degrees, as evening drew on, these hues brightened and brightened, till a fiery crimson glow lighted up the west, interrupted only by that long purple cloud, which continually lessened, as if melting into the burning furnace of the sky. O it was beautiful, most beautiful!

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In the evening we finished reading “The Bravo.” I hardly know what to say of it on the whole. It is a very interesting novel, yet not nearly so interesting as the subject would lead one to expect. It is a horrible and improbable tale. Some parts are extremely interesting, the most so are undoubtedly the death of Antonio and the concluding chapter. I had not in the least expected the conclusion. I was taken by surprise as totally and completely as it was possible to be. This last portion is admirably written, it is so sudden as quite to appal one. I happened to be the reader; till the very sentence which tells the end I had expected a reprieve; and when I read the words,

“the head of Jacopo rolled upon the stones as if to meet her,”

it startled me hideously; I felt as if the blood curdled in my heart, my brain swam round, and I was dizzy and giddy from head to foot. I never experienced such a thrill of astonished horror. I could scarcely command my voice to conclude the narrative.

The characters in “The Bravo” are pretty well delineated; undoubtedly the Bravo and Gelsomina are the best. Gelsomina is a lovely character. Don Camillo is the least interesting of all, and next perhaps, Donna Violetta. The Regatta is excellently described. The conversations in general are prolix and spiritless, and the scenes in the council of Three are disappointing from the utter want of dignity or awe. The whole novel is too much spun out. The political dispositions are tiresome and obtrusive. The descriptions are some of them picturesque and beautiful, but in general are far too laboured and artificial. Cooper does not draw by a few bold strokes, but by a number of minute touches, a great defect. His language indeed is seldom simple enough.

†The novel winds up admirably. I like abrupt conclusions, I hate to have the future fortunes of the heroes and heroine related. This reduces the novel to the form of a biography, and allows time for the interest of the tale to evaporate. This is the case in “The Prairie,” “The Pilot,” and Scott’s “Black Dwarf.” But in “The Bravo,” while the feelings are still agitated by the sudden horror of the catastrophe, while the mind id still overpowered with the fate of the hero, and the agony of the survivors, the book is closed, and the impression left by the event is as vivid as at the moment of reading it.

All yesterday we expected to hear from Teignmouth, to say when we are to expect my cousins. To day at dinner came a letter from Aunt Dennis; their places are taken to Bath for Friday, and they all come to [...] to-morrow; we shall have them all here for one night, and then Anna, Phoebe, and Paulina, will remain. O what a merry party we shall be here to-morrow evening! I suppose we shall be rather noisy; how can it be otherwise, when there are six girls together, and three ladies besides? I long for tomorrow. O how delighted I shall be to see Anna so unexpectedly soon!-It is now near nine o’clock; we are a perfectly silent party of four. Grandmamma is in an bee-hive chair; Aunt Bell is writing a letter, Richard and I are writing our journals. Richard has just looked up, and says to Aunt Bell,

“I met the Miss Burltons to day.”

A little more passed on the same subject, and all relapsed into silence. How different to morrow evening will probably be! and indeed every evening for a long time to come.

Well, this is the day of my cousins’ return. I employed myself during the morning in writing letters. After dinner I read a little, and lay down on the sofa with the Last of the Mohicans in my hand. Presently I got up again, took my work, and sat on a footstool by the sofa, talking to Grandmamma. William, whom we had persuaded to stay after dinner, sat at the window with the “Bravo” in his hand, occasionally talking to me. Not knowing when to expect the party, I had been thinking of them and looking for them ever since dinner, and was continually going to the window to see if they were coming. Hours wore away, and they appeared not, to my great sur-

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prise. It was about half past five, when hearing the squeak of the golden-wren, I jumped up and ran to the window to look at it, but could not see it, and sat down again. About five or ten minutes after, when it was growing dusk, William in his slow, solemn tone, said, “They come,” without moving a muscle of face arm or leg. I flew to the window like lightning. A fly, covered with luggage, was turning the corner of the Crescent. As it drew nearer, I saw little Paulina’s head thrust out of the window, then Phoebe’s, and I recognised Julia within. The fly was then at the door. I rushed into the passage; the first I met was Phoebe, Paulina came next, but I passed her by, and flew to meet dear Anna, whom I kissed again and again in a transport of delight. Then came Maria, and we four walked into the drawing-room, wither Julia presently followed us, and soon after Aunt Dennis. Julia looks terribly ill, Anna well, but extremely thin.

I was most happy, and we had a most merry evening, though unfortunately much disturbed by our receiving some of the standing subjects of annoyance and dispute between us, and discussing the painful business of Mr. Dennis forbidding them to take the medicines which do them good. Also, my argument with Julia about dissipation was talked of. They all think her letter quite admirable, and are perfectly unable to see into her false reasoning. Julia began to read aloud this evening my reply, but had only time to finish two passages. She plainly could not understand it. Anna and Phoebe shall read it here, and I shall keep it till Julia returns.

The nonsense Julia talked on this and subjects connected with it was quite extraordinary; her ludicrous style of reasoning produced fits of laughter from me and the two boys: but it would take me too long to explain it all.

At tea we were eleven in number. At the round table were Aunt Bell, Grandmamma, Aunt Dennis, Richard, Anna, Maria, Phoebe, William, and Paulina, in the order in which I have written them. On the sofa were Julia and myself, talking quietly and confidentially. Thus were assembled, for the first time, and perhaps for the last, eight of the eleven Grandchildren, including the oldest and youngest.

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After tea we were very busy, chiefly engaged in making memoranda &c. &c. for Julia and my Aunt’s use in London. We went very late to bed, and we four girls assembled as we used to do round the drawing-room fire to curl of hair. We had but little merriment, however; some painful topics were broached both amongst ourselves and between my Aunts, and we broke up vexed, down-cast, and unhappy. Poor Julia, in particular, who has very acute feelings, was thoroughly miserable. For my part, I was so excited and worked up by a thousand feelings of joy, grief, vexation, and astonishment, which this evening called into action, that [...] slept interruptedly till five, and then lay awake till six, when I rose and dressed.

I made my peace with Julia; and though I am sorry we disagree of some important points, yet we shall part very good friends, and hope to become better acquainted with her. I have seen less of Julia than of any except Paulina.

O what joy it is to me to see Annie again! I fear however it will not be for long. I do wish however that there were not certain subjects to grieve me about all my cousins.

I woke quite feverish, flushed, heated, and my heart palpitating, owing to the vexations all these different annoying businesses give me. I shall try to think of them no more. We breakfasted at seven, and at eight, Aunt Dennis, Julia, and Maria, set off for Bath on their way to London; all parties suffering much mental uneasiness of various kinds, and I not the least of all.

I really must abridge the length of my journal, it causes me to write far too much, and leaves me less time for reading, besides that it certainly injures my chest.

Annie has recommenced writing a journal, it is much on my plan, and very nice. I have been reading it, and much pleased and interested with it. We began again to day La Bruyere, reading it together as we used to do. I had never opened the book since she left us, partly because I had lost all interest in it on her departure, partly because I had a strong presentiment (which is verified) that I should soon see her again.

In the evening we also recommenced reading Holman’s travels. Our evening was extremely mer- [142] ry and cheerful. William, for a wonder, drank tea with us, and remained till after nine o’clock. We have not had so much fun in the evening since Annie and Phoe left us.

I had the pleasure of hearing Annie sing some of my favourite songs. The piano had not been touched since her departure. She and Phoe sung two beautiful duetts, which I never before heard, “Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea,” and “See how beneath the moonbeam’s smile.” The former of these I quite love. The words of both are by Moore, I knew them before, and like them very much, the first most especially,

To my great satisfaction, Anna sung, “They bid me forget thee,” and “The Better land.” But these, like all other pretty things, are murdered on this wretched piano, which Phoebe (very rightly) calls a forte, denying its right to the former epithet.

Most unluckily Anna and Phoebe both had bad headaches, which laid them both up for most of the day, and we had a dull evening in consequence. I hope this will not often happen. As for myself, I suffer more and more form the pain behind my left shoulder whenever I sit up long, and I am obliged to lie down a great deal in the course of the day.

I learnt to day seven hymns in the Pious Minstrel. I know altogether 121 in it now. I read two of James Yonge’s servants on Comforts of Religion, and Justification by Faith, which I thought very nice ones.

I finished “The Way To Do Good” a few days ago and like it extremely. I particularly like the chapter on “Church and Christian union,” it seems to me very clear, sensible, and unprejudiced. There is a paragraph on page 239 in the chapter on “Instruction,” describing the illogical unreasonable character of some minds, which amused me excessively, and I put a pencil mark to it, because it is so exact a portrait of certain persons of my acquaintance.

I continue reading Doddridge’s Rise and Progress. It is an excellent book, though it is entirely without the graces of style and language, which indeed are very secondary merits in a work of this description.

I took a walk with my three cousins, the first I have taken with any of them since Feb. 2. I enjoyed it very much. We went to Exeter, through the [143] whole length of High-Street and Fore-street, down the hill and Bridge-street, over the Bridge into St. Thomas’, along the Okehampton road as far as the Debtor’s Gaol, for my cousins to call on Mrs. Colverly Trevelyan (related by marriage to Mrs. G. T.’s husband) and acquaintance of theirs, whose husband is confined in the above-named prison. I understand that she is a singularly beautiful young woman. I did not see her myself, but leaving my cousins here, I returned alone, stepping into one or two shops by the way. We sat down to dinner without the three girls, wondering much at their lateness. At last they made their appearance in a fly. It turned out that they had, poor things, sustained an unfortunate loss, having dropped, somewhere between the Debtor’s Gaol and Fore-street Hill, a purple velvet bag containing amongst other things a five-pound note, and an order on a Bank for the use of Aunt Dennis in London. The distress of poor Anna at this was so great that she could not walk home, and was obliged to take a fly. They had had the bag cried; and after dinner I drew up for them a hand-bill advertising the loss with a reward for the finder, which Aunt Bell took to Robert’s to be printed; fifty copies were to be struck off and circulated about Exeter. Whether it will be recovered or not is very doubtful. The Assizes are now being held at the Castle, and there is also a show of wild beasts in the city, all which causes it to be unusually crowded; and it was quite in a vulgar part that the bag was lost. Still there is a chance.

In the afternoon I walked with Anna and Paulina round the ring. It was a biting cold day, sharp wind, and occasional snow, but generally bright and fine. Once the northern sky was covered with a vast storm-cloud of a lucid black, which had a magnificent effect; the houses of the Crescent, and a furnace on the Black Boy Road stood out against it nobly. The sunset was gloriously bright.

I finished the Last of the Mohicans, and I think it quite a splendid work, not so much as a novel, but as a picture of Indian manners and American scenery. It is the best by far that [144] I have seen of Cooper’s. As a story too, it is extremely interesting. The master-piece of the characters is undoubtedly Hawk-eye; after him I think Cora and Uncas, but both these latter might have been made more interesting than they are. Heyward, though better drawn than Middleton in the Prairie, Griffith in the Pilot, and Ludlow in the Water-witch, is stupid enough. Alice is but a sketch, and a slight one. I had fully expected Heyward would have proposed for Cora, and I think he had a very bad taste to choose Alice. The nominal and ostensible hero and heroine are certainly Heyward and Alice, like Ivanhoe and Rowena; the real hero and heroine I hardly know. At least, Cora corresponds to Rebecca, but I am uncertain about the hero. Magua corresponds to Bois-Guilbert, but I think Uncas is the hero of the tale. Uncas, though rather to slightly drawn, is a beautiful character. I imagine him to be about twenty years old, Cora nineteen, Alice fifteen, Heyward twenty-five, Magua thirty. There are some improbabilities in the story, but in general I think it is more probable than any of Cooper’s other four. The latter part of it is intensely interesting; the combat which ends in the extermination of the Hurons is admirable. The conclusion of the last chapter but one is horribly affecting, and the end of the whole is exquisitely pathetic, I should like to know who could read it without tears. All interest in the other characters is completely lost and swallowed up in those of Chingachkook, Hawk-eye, and Uncas. Hawk-eye is quite originally conceived and perfectly drawn. He is evidently a favourite with Cooper, who introduces him into no less than three novels, “The Last of the Mohicans,” the “Pioneers,” and “The Prairie.”

I walked again with my three cousins. We went the whole length of High Street, down part of North Street, and by Broad Street into the Cathedral Yard, without seeing any where a single copy of the hand-bill we had printed yesterday. Whereupon we stepped into Roberts’ shop, and asked him about it. He said that all the copies had been distributed last night. We saw one copy in his shop window. He said he feared it was a gone case, and indeed I fear so too.

We went as usual to look at the prints in Gendall’s shop. There are some very excellent ones there now. One called “Sunday” is quite beautiful, it represents a cottage in a thick wood, and the young family clustering round the door before setting out to church. Another is a single figure [145] of a bull-dog, chained, and sitting on its hind legs, looking up. It is an excellent print, very bold and spirited. Another represents sun-rise; a number of nymphs are raising up Aurora out of the sea, they form a light group suspended in the air, the dark ocean beneath is very well done. Another is called “The Parish Beadle,” and another, a very beautiful one, is called “The Covenanters,” and represents a conventicle in the open air among the mountains. The only one I shall mention besides, is “The Canterbury Pilgrims,” of course taken from a bas relief, for it is executed in the exquisitely beautiful style of engraving from medals which I so peculiarly admire, and which is described in Babbage’s Economy of Manufactures, a book which is a very great favourite of mine.

The weather this March, though generally fine, is wondrous cold. The wind, though slight, is keen and piercing; there is a good deal of ice in the mornings, and occasional snow. It is usually however so dry, that the dust flies most disagreeably. To day they were watering the streets to lay it, and in the evening the ground was white with snow.

In the morning I happened to be left alone with little Paulina. Her sisters had directed her to read a chapter in I Samuel, of which, when she had done it, I made her give me an account in her own words. Then I talked to her a little, and told her a story or two out of the Bible, which I thought would interest her. I began with Elisha raising the Shunamite’s son. I went through the whole narrative, making it as simple and intelligible as I could. I was pleased to see with how much interest she listened to it. Afterwards I told her some of Elijah’s adventures, his destroying the prophets of Baal, his escaping into the wilderness, his being fed by ravens (here I made an accidental anachronism), and the whole story about the widow of Zarephath. The questions Paulina asked, and the remarks she made, showed how much she entered into it, which I was pleased to see. She is a very clever little child (her age is six), though she has been injudiciously educated, and her mind is quite untutored.

The weather not allowing us to go out, my cousins and I walked for half an hour up and down the passage, as we used to do, and as we did on Feb. 24. We had a most merry conversation, consisting entirely in castle-building. We were supposing the case of Anna and Phoebe coming to see us at Woodbury next July, a thing which I should like exceedingly, though I hardly think it probable. We supposed also the case of Arthur Malkin and his wife, and Mr. Howard, being there at the same time, which is very possible. We then fell to arranging the different rooms which the different visitors should occupy, and it was settled that Arthur and his wife should have the green room with the little south room next it as a dressing-room; Anna and Phoebe the west room next the green room, and Mr. Howard one of the two rooms opposite, which was occupied in 1835 by Anna. We agreed that every night, we five girls, Anna, myself, Phoebe, Arabella, and Louisa, should meet in Anna’s and Phoe’s room to curl our hair, and O, what fun we should have! We further supposed that Sir George Baker should be staying at Woodbury; and thus, for a few days at least, our party at every meal would consist of thirteen, viz. Papa, Mamma, Arthur, Mrs. Arthur, Mr. Howard, Sir George Baker, Anna, Emily, Phoebe, Richard, Arabella, Louisa, Mackworth. What a large party we should be, walking all together through Whitewood on a summer-evening! It would be very delightful. I wonder whether any of these day-dreams will really come to pass. If they do, how amusing it will be to look back on what I have here written! I long for Phoebe to know Woodbury, and all our family and our neighbours, about whom I often talk to her.

How long it is since I have seen my sisters and youngest brother! I wonder whether I shall find them much changed. I think Louisa will be the least so, and Arabella perhaps the most. When I see them again, Arabella will be nearly fifteen, Louisa will be (as she is now), thirteen, and Mackie twelve.

When I looked out of the window I saw that every thing was white with a thick coat of snow, which continued to fall incessantly, the flakes increasing in size every hour. At the moment I write (half-past ten A.M.) the hills are so covered as quite to be confounded with the dense white clouds which mantle all the heavens; Exeter and the cathedral are entirely hidden, and the trees just beyond the ring are quite dusky and indistinct; in the ring the hedge and naked shrubs are speckled with white flakes, and the evergreens are half-bent down with heavy clots of snow.

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About the middle of the day it ceased to snow, but the snow continued to lie thick on the ground, and looked very beautiful. I particularly noticed a bright pyramid of snow on the top of each tower of the Cathedral, between the turrets, and the various mouldings and projections of the building were also edged and rimmed with snow. In the evening there was a splendid sunset. The heavens in general were hid with dull gloomy clouds, but in the west, some way above the hills, there was a small dark-coloured isolated cloud, distinctly defined, and shaped just like a mountain; behind this was the sun, and his rays glowed above the cloud with such fiery brilliance that it gave it just the appearance of a burning mountain.

I was in my room at about eight o’clock, and had nearly finished dressing, I was thinking to myself much as follows: “Well, Anna, we have not yet had together any of the pleasant country walks we had anticipated, though you have been here a week. It is very unlucky that there is so much snow. However, you will of course be here in April, and then we may fully expect to take some pleasant country walks.” Just then some one tapped at my door. “I opened it, and there stood Phoebe. She kissed me, but looked very grave. “I came up to tell you something, Emmy,” said she, “which I thought I had better tell you at once.” “What is it?” “Something you won’t like, Emmy.” I half-guessed, and she told me that, alas! they were going away again. Mr. Dennis has returned from Bath much out of health, he is now in Exeter, and they had a note from him this morning to say that he would take them home from Teignmouth. In a minute or two Annie came up into my room, and we talked over the business. It is quite unavoidable, and makes me very unhappy. We went down to breakfast; after which Annie and Phoe set out a walked to the Globe Hotel to see their father, and then went to church. It is settled that they are to go home with him tomorrow at three o’clock in the afternoon, and I see no prospect of their returning yet. Alas!

While they were out, I was left at home with Paulina and Grandmamma. I endeavoured to compose myself, and having succeeded, I set myself to work in instructing Paulina. I talked to her on the subject of the day, and explained to her as clearly as I could the [148] scheme of redemption, into which she seemed really to enter with interest. I then made her read to me the lesson for the day, John XVIII, and afterwards, to herself, Gen. XXII, of which I then made her give me an account in her own words, which she did not amiss.

After dinner, Anna, Phoebe, and I, retired by ourselves to the drawing-room, and sat there talking rather dismally. My poor cousins have a melancholy foreboding that all the little trials they have had of late are to prepare them for some great calamity which is shortly to come upon them. Well, it may be so, and if it is to be the case, it is happy for them that they are in this frame of mind, which I will try also to make my own.

After all the strange things which have happened lately, I should not wonder if we were to see my cousins again in a week or a fortnight.

They received a letter from Aunt Dennis in London, a very entertaining one, especially on account of an acquaintance which they have very indiscreetly (as I think) struck up with a fellow-traveller, who gave them his card “General Sir Thomas Pierson” of Bath, and offers to conduct Julia about London,- a remarkable proposal for a stranger to make! He is a man about fifty. Aunt Bell and I could not help laughing excessively about it with my cousins, and telling them that Julia would return Lady Pierson. I think some such occurrence by no means improbable, and I only hope the man will not turn out a Bath Swindler. After all, they have consulted about Maria, not Dr. Holland, but a Dr. Wilson Philip, whom their new acquaintance recommended to them. What a comical business!-Possibly Mr. Dennis hearing of all this may post up to London himself to see about it.

Anna and Phoebe talked with me a good deal about Paulina and her education, and spoke very sensibly on the subject. She certainly has much in her that makes her a cause of great uneasiness and anxiety.

We could not see the sun when he set, but the western heavens were very beautiful. All Exeter and the hills were slightly veiled in a delicate dim blue mist; immediately above this, the sky was tinted with a beautiful hazy pink or purplish rose-colour, which melted into yellow, and that again into a pale blue sky.

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Half-past four o’clock. I am again without my dear cousins. I parted with them an hour and a half ago, with infinite sorrow, and a most heavy heart. There is now far less prospect of their return than when they left us last, yet still who can say what may happen next? How little did I think of this two day ago! Who knows what to-morrow may bring forth? And yet if one were always to keep this consideration in one’s mind, it would mar all present happiness. One thing is certain, that whatever happens is for the best, and this I wish I could always think and feel.

Since I have been in Devonshire, a new world has been opened to me in one particular respect, that is, I have been let into the secrets of manoeuvring, and I am perfectly shocked and disgusted by all I have seen and heard. Not indeed that I should have seen through it, or known anything of it, had it not been for Aunt Bell, who has laid every thing open to me, and told me ten thousand gossiping stories and private histories, both of herself, and all her family, and numbers of her acquaintances. In fact, Aunt Bell has had, almost every day, the most confidential conversations with me on all subjects. In consequence of all these things, I have been illuminated not at all to my satisfaction. When I came here, I had no idea of the monstrous excess to which double-dealing, deceit of all kinds, art, disingenuousness, in short manoeuvring, prevail in the world. I am afraid a great deal of this goes on in my Aunt Dennis’ family, and certainly every thing is so interpreted, except in the case of Anna and Phoebe, who are quite simple-minded girls.

[150] vow.

Well, my stay in Exeter has laid open to me all the mysteries of flirtation and the mysteries of manoeuvering, and I have learnt much more on these subjects than I have any pleasure in knowing. It has inspired me with an extreme disgust of all these proceedings, which is well; but it has also made me suspect something underhand in whatever I see or hear, which is not well, and I am much troubled at having acquired so much knowledge of this kind. I do not like the idea that every thing is done with an end in view; and I hope and pray that God will preserve me from such meanness, littleness, and duplicity.

I had formerly thought that Miss Edgeworth’s novel of “Manoeuvring” was excessively overdrawn and exaggerated, but I now see that it is quite a true representation of real life, and I think it is horrible. Even if all my Aunt Bell thinks about the proceedings at Teignmouth is not exactly the case, yet still she could not suspect it so strongly without reason, from what she has personally known. She herself is a most open character, and does no such things.

I think Manoevring is quite detestable.-I have learnt, to my utter astonishment, that the most universal object which mothers propose to themselves in the education of their daughters, is to attract the gentlemen, that the young ladies may never get married. Thank heaven, this odious object was never for a moment considered in my education, and indeed I had never heard of such a thing before. But why plague and bother oneself about getting married? Why not let things take their natural course? Marriage is not the business of life, and I think it quite shameful for either mothers or daughters to make it a matter of consideration, or to trouble themselves a straw about it.

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With respect to this stage-coach acquaintance of my Aunt and cousins, the opinion of my Uncle (to whom Aunt Bell has related it) is, that he is a mere Bath Black-legs, who pretends to be a general; that he will go frequently to John Street (where they are staying, in the house of Mackworth Praed, who being on his circuit, has lent it to them), till he finds an opportunity of making off with something of value, and then he will be gone. Aunt Bell herself does not exactly think this; she says he may possibly be what he professes, he plainly likes Julia, and may very likely make her an offer; [...] At all events, I should fear he was not a gentleman; his forwardness in getting acquainted with these strangers, and his giving his card to Julia instead of her mother, look ill-bred. I

I cannot conceive. So that if [...] which will much [...] estimation.#

As to Mr. Otto, he has certainly behaved extremely ill. He has known Julia for six years, and, of late at least, has paid her decided attentions; she was at Milverton, in the same house with him, for many weeks; he must know that she likes him, and that all his family, as well as hers, wish to promote the union, yet he has made her no offer, and has gone off to his living in Staffordshire. He is twenty-six years old; a most excellent estimable young man; and I heartily wish, for the sake of both parties, that a marriage between him and Julia could take place. If he really has no thoughts of her, he has trifled most unjustifiably with the poor girl’s happiness; if he does think of her, he ought to have declared himself long ago.

I took down in the evening Scott’s Force of Truth; at the end of it I found a sermon on Election and Final Perseverance, which I never saw before, and immediately began to read. I got through only two thirds of it this evening, I shall finish it to morrow. I cannot say that, though it is Calvinistic, I have met with any assertions which I would exactly deny, but the manner in which they are stated seems to me highly dangerous, and the conclusions which must necessarily follow (though I dare say Scott would deny them) [152] are most pernicious. I particularly object to the first four paragraphs of the second Section, containing the supposed instance of two sinners, of whom one repents, the other does not. From the manner in which he has represented the case, it follows that no blame can possibly attach to him who does not repent, for, as his sinful nature, which he was born with, and which was no fault of his, makes it impossible for him even to wish for God’s grace without God first giving him a disposition for it, and as God bestows this disposition quite arbitrarily on whomsoever he will, it can be no man’s fault if he is not saved. This is a most mischievous and shocking doctrine, yet it necessarily follows from the statements of Scott.-By the way, in one part of his argument, every thing depends on the admission of two “ifs,” which Scott does not stop to prove.

I wrote a note to Julia, to go under a frank to Lady Mayo. I have bantered her prodigiously about her new acquaintance, suggested that he might be a black-legs, begged that they would take care of their watches, and hoped that she would not allow him to entice her to Hanover Square before she has ascertained that there is no other Lady Pierson, or Mrs. Blacklegs.

After the note was written and sent, Richard by our request brought from Fitze’s the Army-list for 1837. Into this I looked, and here, sure enough, is the General’s name, Sir Thomas Pearson (not Pierson). He is a major-general, of the 23d, F. and a Knight Commander of the Royal Hanoverian Guelphic Order, also a Companion of the Order of Bath. He is one of

“the officers retired from the army, but who have been specifically allowed to retain their rank, without receiving pay or progressive promotion.”

-The date is July 22, 1830.

But still it is to be ascertained whether this man is the real Sir Thomas Pearson, and if he is whether he is a gentleman (which I doubt) and a man of good character.

The sky is almost spotless, the sun is setting in a sea of glory, and the towers of the cathedral are almost drowned in a flood of golden light, for the sun sets exactly behind them, and tips the summits of the hills with beautiful splendour. Is there in [153]

[154] [155] [156] [157] which he does kneeling,-this is as far as my Aunt has yet to come. It is exceedingly clever, all the characters are drawn to the life, and admirably sustained. It would make an excellent play. There are some other little scenes too, which I have not to mention.

Well, this evening, when my Aunt was detailing the third scene, in which Admiral Praed acts a conspicuous part, the Admiral, to our extreme amusement, actually called in, and spent an hour with us on his way to Cornwall. He comes from London, and told us he had met

the whole affair; he at once guessed that the man wants to marry Julia. He thinks it very indiscreet, and talked of writing to Aunt Dennis to put her on her guard. The business seemed to amuse him much, and make a great impression on him; he frequently recurred to it; and my Aunt told him of the conversations we had been concocting together.

I never saw the Admiral before; he is a short man, very like Grandmamma, his sister. He was very entertaining. He has just been at Windsor, by the King’s invitation.

Lady Mayo and Mrs. Smith, who are seventy years old, seem, by his account, to be now failing, and no wonder.

Poor William seems to be getting ill. His father is decidedly recovering, and can even walk a little about his room. He has been reduced to a mere skeleton. My Aunt continues to spend some hours with him every day.

Still I do not hear from Woodbury, which disappoints me much. It is now nearly three weeks since we last heard, and I have written twice since that. I wonder what can be going on there.

I have not been out since yesterday week.

When shall I hear from Miss Kenyon? I hope the influenza has not carried her off. As she is delicate, I sometimes fear this.

At last, a letter from Woodbury. It was a frank, I was cheated of a sheet, for two notes were enclosed, one for Aunt Bell, the other for Aunt Paul. Mamma’s letter is highly satisfactory. She says they think of settling in Hampshire, and that the Clutterbucks, who are going to live there, will help them to make enquiries. I shall bitterly regret leaving dear, beloved Woodbury, to which I am exceedingly attached; but if we continue there, I shall be compelled to pass another winter away form home, which will be a great unhappiness to me. Mamma talks of my coming back in May, but I think this is out of the ques-

Arabella writes too, as affectionately as usual, and gives a very interesting account of her studies. She is now learning Latin.

The note to Aunt Bell also speaks of the intended removal to Hampshire, and more at length. They think of going in the summer. Alas! shall I then never see Woodbury again? For Aunt Bell declares it is out of the question my going back just for one month, to be there during all the bustle of packing. But as to that, I shall hope to be of use, and I shall not fear being injured by any exertion then. And besides, if I stay here till the removal to Hampshire, I shall be separated from all the family (except Richard) for almost a twelvemonth, which is scarcely tolerable to think of.

Mr. Dornford dined with us, as he frequently does, and in the afternoon accompanied Aunt Bell to my Uncle’s. While they were gone, a person from Selater’s (a nursery-man on the Heavitree road) brought to the house a very handsome hyacinth in a pot, in full blow, with a little parchment ticket attached to it, on which was written “Miss E. Shore, 7 Baring Crescent;” it was evidently quite recently written, for the ink was just sanded. I did not know the hand, but concluded it must be a present from Aunt Bell. However, when she came home, it turned out that Mr. Dornford had very kindly sent it to me. It is a beautiful plant, the blossoms uncommonly large, double white, and very sweet, the stem nearly two feet high. It is called the “Duc de Berri.”

Mr. Dornford observed yesterday that

many parts still capt with [...] the sunshine. I easily distinguished the mouth of the Ex, with boats, and the church of Exmouth. It was a lovely day, bright, clear, calm, and only cool enough to be pleasantly fresh; how I did long for dear Anna! When shall I walk with her again?

On returning, I was so much fatigued that I took a fly, from St. Sidwell Street to Baring Crescent.

Aunt Bell had a letter from my Aunt Dennis, franked by Winthrop Praed, and containing a very kind note for me from Julia. There is a good [...] about the General, as I had requested; it is

[160] mother who is She seems, poor thing, to be much out of spirits about Maria, and has no inclination for sight-seeing.

Half-past four. It is a glorious evening, I am sitting with the window open alone with Grandmamma. The hills and cathedral are as usual somewhat obscured with the white smoke of the town, and the excessive brightness of the sunbeams, but the air is clear, and at the same time warm; every leaf is gently stirred by the slight breeze, and is sparkling in the sun. I hear no sound but a boy whistling down the Crescent, and the occasional chirping of a sparrow,-At this moment, a robin is uttering his sweet rich notes. The beauty of

[161] inexhaustible delights of a life in the country, and there I have enjoyed the society of almost all the persons I love the best; they have paid us visits which will ever dwell in my memory. And there, above all, I first became acquainted with dear Anna.-At the same time I have many painful associations too with Woodbury, especially the latter part of the year 1833, and a great part of 1836. †The spring of 1833 was one of the happiest times I have ever enjoyed.

The sunset was magnificent, I have rarely seen one so free from clouds. The whole heaven, as far as I could see, was perfectly spotless, except one tiny streak of purple in the west. The sun was a golden ball distinctly defined, but dazzlingly brilliant; the sky around was of a dusky crimson, glowing in beautiful contrast to the blue hills, whose outline was quite sharp and clear. Above the crimson, the sky as usual melted first into lemon-green, and then into a pure pale blue.

I do love to behold a fine sunset. Usually, when the sun is setting, I am lying on the sofa reading Gil Blas corrigée, or some other book; I get up when I see the sun sinking upon the hills, and sit on the sofa or on a foot-stool so as to see it easily, and then watch it till it is quite gone, scarcely once looking at my book all the while.

I have begun the second volume of Gil Blas corrigée. It becomes more and more amusing.

I went to bed early, intending to get to sleep soon, that I might rise early next morning. Instead of this, my thoughts wandered homewards, and it was long before I could sleep. I thought of my absent parents, sisters, and brother; I pictured them to myself, I imagined myself reunited to them, and looked forward to the happiness I should enjoy in their society, which seems to me as if it would be tenfold what it has been. I long to have dear little Mackie again as my pupil; I long to take delightful walks with Arabella and Louisa; and O how I do long to be living once more with Papa and Mamma! I have never been so long separated from them; and the event anticipated in the last letter, if it does take place so soon, makes it very doubtful whether, if I do see them, as I hope, at home, at the end of spring-No, not exactly that-But I am afraid it is uncertain whether I shall see them as soon as I had wished. However, the future, with respect to all of us, and certainly to me, is quite misty and obscure.

†I have often with Arabella laughed at poets and poetasters for prating so much about the pensive re- [162] †collections called up by the moon; as for instance, when Montgomery says

“The full moon’s earliest glance

“That brings unto the home-sick mind,

All we have loved and left behind!”

But I now think it very reasonable and true, for natural and intelligible reasons, which however, I suspect, have rarely occurred to the poets. The moon, the heavens, and all the heavenly bodies, are the only objects which are common at once to all places (of course in one hemisphere) and which can be gazed on and admired at the same moment by absent and distant friends. That very same golden moon, which is gleaming at this moment before my eyes, I have often watched at Woodbury with equal delight, and at this moment perhaps is watched there with equal delight by my dear absent relatives. The same bright heavens which are above my head, are also above theirs; the same sun, the same stars, are common to us both. I cannot feel this with any other object. We breathe different air, we tread on different earth, we behold different features of terrestrial nature, we have different homes and different society,-but there is one sun for both, one moon, one heavenly canopy; to both, all that is celestial is the same. And O! how much more strongly ought we to feel, that wherever we are, in every quarter of the globe, nay in earth or heaven, we all have but one GOD; every where it is the same GOD who sees and watches over us.

†The first of April: how inexpressibly delightful it sounds! With me, the word April is associated with Woodbury, with the orchard, with willow-wrens, nightingales, blackcaps, chiff-chaffs, redstarts, tree-larks; with sunny walks on Tempsford road; with rambles in the garden before breakfast; with orchises, marsh-marigolds, cowslips, blue-bells, and large blue violets; with the budding of larches, lilacs, and hawthorn hedges;-All these ideas come up into my mind; and to look over my formal journals and to see how I have formerly enjoyed them, gives me quite a pang of regret which I cannot avoid.-I ought also to associate with April, colds, coughs, rheumatism, and, pupils.

In the morning I took a walk with Dickon, but only into the town. I went to three shops in High-Street and North Street, and then we walked down Fore-street and turned, near the bridge, into Bunbay, a part of Exeter I had never before seen. It is not on a level with Fore street, but considerably below. It is a mixture of pretty streets and green meadows, lying between the river and a dark stream that joins it [163] by a little rivulet which rushes over a kind of fall, and is crossed by a wooden bridge. There is a pretty path here under trees, and the ground beyond the river is high and wooded. We went but a little way, and then returned. I think all this part of Exeter highly picturesque, on account of the great inequality of the ground. From both sides of Fore-street you look down on clusters of houses and deep narrow streets and courts a great way below you; in one place a dark stream runs far beneath, between two gloomy rows of old mean houses, and puts me in mind of descriptions of the narrow little canals of Venice. North Street, and the surrounding streets, are preeminently picturesque. But almost every part of Exeter is spoilt by being so shockingly dirty, and so very mean and shabby. Through many of the smaller streets drains run along in the middle, as I hear they do in French towns, and this is no improvement. There are scarcely any good houses in any part of Exeter; the modern ones have no merit whatever; the old ones, though generally ruinous and dirty, are often picturesque, and in many instances handsomely carved.

After dinner I walked with Dickon on the Heavitree road and in the Barrack lane. It was a most lovely day, one of the finest we have had this year.

When shall I be able again to go to church? It is now very nearly a twelvemonth since I have enjoyed this privelege, with the single exception of Oct. 16, 1836. But I hope I shall soon be allowed to go again. Spring is now so far advanced, that if the weather is favourable, I cannot conceive that it can do me the least harm.

I began this evening the sermon on Matt. XXV, 29, which Julia wished me to write. I could not get on very quick with it, however, on account of the constant talking around me.

Poor William is now really ill, he has lost his strength and appetite, has a quick pulse, and is miserably thin. My Aunt’s opinion is that his malady is produced by his long and almost constant confinement in my Uncle’s hot and unhealthy sickroom, and by the incessant worry to which he is exposed. Consequently she has obtained my Uncle’s permission to remove him for a tiny time to our house. He came down this evening in a fly, being quite unable to walk. My Uncle wishes him to keep his bed, but we think he had better not. It seems to be nothing but debility and low spirits; I am sure he will be much happier and more comfortable here, and I dare say he will soon get well.

I went to Hampton buildings with Aunt Bell, and saw my Uncle for the first time during his illness, that is, since the beginning of January. He was sitting wrapped up, in an arm-chair by the fire, and looked miserably thin and ill, though, I am told, much better than he has looked. I do not now wonder that William is ill, after being confined so much to such a horribly close room as my Uncle’s.

In the evening I received a note from Aunt Paul, informing me that she will pass through Exeter tomorrow on her way to Dorsetshire, and begging Richard and me, and my Aunt if possible, to meet her at about ten o’clock at the inn; she is not sure whether it is the Old or New London Inn. Her three youngest children, whom I have never seen, are to be with her. As I have not seen her for three years, and then only for a short time, I shall be very glad of this opportunity.

We went to the Old London Inn at about half-past ten, and found Aunt Paul at breakfast. We staid near an hour with her, and had a pleasant chat; a great part of the time we were preaching Morison to her, especially recommending it in the case of her second child, Mary, the poor little ideot girl, now seven years old. Aunt Paul is still very handsome, her manners are ladylike and pleasing. I never before saw my three little cousins, Harriet, Rosa, and Fanny, their ages are five, three, and two. Harriet put me much in mind of Margaret, whom I saw at Casterton in 1834. The Pauls are going to settle in Dorsetshire, the house is called Loder’s House, two miles from Bridport, and is the property of Sir Molyneux Peel. It was built ten or twelve years ago, and has not been let for five years, on account of the neighbourhood not being gay. It is a very large excellent house, with excellent garden greenhouses, and hot-houses; the rent is only 50 £. a year! out of which 50, 10 are to be spent by the landlord on any improvement the Pauls choose. What a good bargain! The house would exactly suit us, I wish we could have it. As the Pauls are so changeable and migratory, they may very likely soon leave it, and we might succeed them, instead of going to Hampshire. It is near the sea, which I should like excessively. Aunt Paul kindly pressed me to come and pay her a visit on my way from Devonshire, with Richard and any others of our family who may be with me.

Richard had a letter from Woodbury; it contains no news of any consequence, except that Eliz’s little boy is to be called Arthur Herbert. Aruthur Malkin and his wife are coming soon to Woodbury. A great deal is said about moving to Hampshire, especially [165] on one half of the sheet, which is to Aunt Bell. They are making enquiries in all quarters, and seem to think of the south of Hampshire. For my part, I have set my heart on this Loder’s House, if we must move; though I believe I had rather stay at dear Woodbury. Oh, I do love that place inexpressibly; never shall I love another so much. I shall be inconsolable if I do not visit it again.

William kept his bed all day. His symptoms are, quick full pulse, coated tongue, thirst, and loss of appetite, and extreme debility, but as he has fortunately no local symptoms of any sort, I do not think it can be called influenza.

As for myself, though well in other respects, I am much annoyed by the uneasy sensation in my left side, which has never left me, ever since the beginning of my attack. It has much increased of late, and has extended itself, which has not been the case for six months, the whole way down my side even to my foot, so that my left leg and ancle are much weaker than the other, and feel constantly in a kind of nervous state, which make it painful to be for two minutes together in any position whatever. To day it is so to an uncommon degree.

We have strange April weather, frequent snow, though hardly enough to lie on the ground. To day there has been small rain and sleet, and it is very cold. It is at this moment somewhere about half-past six; the sun is a ball of gold, not obscured by the excess of light, but still dazzling to look upon. A little dark cloud crosses his disk, and has a curious effect. As he approaches the horizon, he becomes less and less dazzling, and more beautifully distinct.-Now he has touched the summit of the hills, and assumes a blood-red tinge. How curiously he is speckled with some black spots of cloud, which, as he sinks, seem to pass from off his face!-And now the last tuft of flame has vanished, leaving a sky of dim and misty pink. What sort of day does it predict for to-morrow?

Mackworth Praed came and sat for about half an hour, and, both Aunt Bell and Dickon being out, I had a long conversation with him. I told him of our intended removal to Hampshire. He says that the country is prettier about Petersfield [...] in most parts of that coun-

[166] real good in them. The character I like best is Don Alphonso, who is gentlemanly, generous, amiable, and endued with far more good principle than is usual in this novel. But in general, the villainy, the deceit, the treachery, and selfishness, which pervade it, quite disgust the reader. Still one cannot help being amused with the fun and humour; and even with the ingenuity of the knavish tricks played by Gil Blas and his associates. Once or twice there does actually appear a spark of principle in Gil Blas, rogue as he is. The manners and morals depicted seem to be quite Spanish, at all events they are not English. I think the second volume is more occupied with episodes than with the history of Gil Blas himself. The history of Don Raphael, which is the longest of these episodes, is extremely entertaining, but it is the history of a most expert and complete knave. The discovery of him and Ambrose de Lamela in the dresses of hermits, put me in mind of the Friar of Copmanhurst in Ivanhoe. The dialogue in the town of Xelva, between the pretended inquisitor and the servant of Samuel Simon, is most excellent, and is a capital satire on the holy Inquisition. I am greatly amused at the frequent sly cuts at medical men. The conclusion of the volume, containing the scenes between the marquis of Marialva, Laura, and Gil Blas, made me quite shake with laughter; it is really capital.

†I received, to my great delight, a letter from Teignmouth, written partly by Anna, partly by Phoebe. Phoebe’s letter is the longest, and amused me much. She seems much annoyed by our jokes here about Sir Thomas Pearson, which however have ceased since I heard from Julia. She makes some remarks on the Corner-Stone, in which I fully concur. They have made, on Saturday, an excursion to Mary Church, Babicomb, and Torquay, for which I envy them extremely.-Anna’s letter is provokingly short, but she wrote also to Aunt Bell

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So much for this subject of which I purpose writing no more, and if possible, thinking less. I shall now turn to another. As it was a beautifully fine, clear, dry morning, I resolved on having a pleasant country walk. So I sallied forth with Dickon at a little after eleven. We went on the Heavitree road, and turned into a little lane to the left, considerably beyond the turn-pike. This lane had no very promising appearance, but I resolved to explore it, and I do not repent that I did so. It descends slightly, and is shaded with trees; it is a true-born Devonshire lane, winding and winding for ever, very narrow, and apparently endless. We were presently quite out of sight of houses, and found ourselves in unbroken solitude. We rejected every branch and off-set in the lane which seemed likely to lead us back to the city, and at last turned into one which took us into the very depths of the most lovely country. It is a steep, narrow, winding lane, with high hedge-banks, crowned with trees, and beautifully sprinkled with primroses, ivy-leaved ranunculi, and other flowers. At last, after a long descent, it suddenly turned to the right. Instead of pursuing it, we climbed a gate to the left, and got into a high hilly meadow. We went nearly to the top, and found, to our great delight, that though we had a pretty extensive view, we were quite out of sight of horrid Exeter. We saw hills beyond hills, some bare, some wooded, some brown, some of a deep dark purple; and but for a very few white houses scattered here and there, we might almost have forgotten that we were in an inhabited country. I could not imagine where Exeter was, all trace of it was gone. I then turned and looked in the opposite direction, and O! what a sweet scene was before me! The ground descended at my feet, to the banks of a little stream, which ran through a lovely broken pasture-ground; on the other side it rose again in a wooded hill, meadow rose above meadow in my front, and farther on to my right the ground was still more beautifully varied. From the spot where I stood, I could not at first see the stream, the water of which is far below its banks, but thinking from the appearance of it that there must be one there, I ran down the slope, and was quickly on its [168]

and getting into the meadow, we followed the windings of the rivulet to a pretty little bridge of a single stone arch. I crossed it, and was more and more delighted with the natural beauty of the spot. †Just here, I was attracted by the cry of a bird quite new to me, it was like the baaing of a lamb, and I instantly commenced a pursuit. I once or twice caught glimpses of it in the tops of high trees and was able now and then to observe it flying. It seemed to be a slender bird, somewhat of the willow-wren shape, whitish beneath, with black about the head or throat, but in all these points I may be mistaken, for I could see it with great difficulty. From the sound of its cry, I should rather guess it to be a soft-billed bird. I tracked it from tree to tree, from hedge to hedge, from field to field, I crossed and recrossed lane, meadow, and stream, following it by the sound of its voice, sometimes far, sometimes near. The eager delight with which I engaged in the chase reminded me most strongly of past days, when, in full health and strength, I used to ramble for hours amongst the woods and fields of dear Woodbury, in unwearied search of some unknown warbler. Oh how often have I engaged in this delightful occupation! No one who does not love it as I do, can possibly conceive the pleasure of it, nor how irresistible a call is the cry of a bird. I have not been able to enter on one of those bird-hunts, for almost a twelvemonth, and O, how forcibly did it recal recollections of home and of old times! Alas! I can never hope again for these enjoyments at Woodbury, which perhaps I may see no more.

But I am forgetting the history of our walk. After I had spent a long time chasing the bird to no purpose, I gave up the discovery of it for to day and returned to the little stream and bridge. In the ridge of hills on the other side there is a little narrow chasm, overgrown with brambles, which expands within, till it ends in a perpendicular rock of dark red sand, very like that at Sutton. We climbed up the broken hill along the side of the chasm, till we reached the top, and peeping over a low hedge, saw that there ran a little narrow lane behind. We deferred the examination of this till another day, and descended the hill again, going down through an old orchard, which ran down to the water’s edge. Having reached the edge of the stream, which [169] bounds the bottom of the orchard, we continued following its windings for some way, seeking for a place to cross. At last it suddenly expanded in width, and flowed round a hard gravelly spot. I jumped down upon this, mounted on the other side, crossed a plank-bridge, and returned into the lane. We now set out on our return home. I was much tired and out of breath, but infinitely delighted by our sweet walk. I look forward with extreme pleasure to the time when the trees are in leaf, and I shall be able to take the same walk again, with my dear cousins. Whenever I come to anything particularly lovely, I never can help exclaiming, “Oh that Annie and Phoe were with us!” to which Richard always most warmly replies by a wish to the same effect.

Really I abhor Exeter and Heavitree. I think them odious. I long more and more to be in the country again; I do think that Woodbury rises daily in my esteem.

We returned through a different lane, which is very little below the turnpike. I had no idea till to day that there is so much of Heavitree besides what one sees on the Heavitree road. All of it however is odious.

†I was a long time watching the sunset. There were no very striking colours, but the mixture of bright light with heavy masses of purple cloud was very fine. Over the hills just behind the cathedral there was a tract of sky which passed from an angry crimson to a kind of dull lurid red, it continually diminished by the clouds slowly sinking down and burying it beneath their dark heavy pall, but as long as any of it lasted, the cathedral towers shot up into the red sky with uncommon grandeur. Towards the north, there was a very bright pure lemon-coloured light, on which the naked tops of the trees seemed pencilled out with exquisite clearness. But every thing below the winding line which traced out the summits of the hills, was melted into one undistinguished mass of misty blue; hill-sides, city, cathedral (all but its turrets), were confounded in the same dim unvarying shade, where neither shape nor form could be discerned, so that one who knew not the place by day could not have guessed that in the long line of grey evening shades, lay a great and populous town. The lights in the western sky had not yet faded away, when the lamps in Exeter began to be lit, and a few brilliant stars of fire seemed suddenly to start into existence from out of the mass of blue in the distance. The effect was quite beautiful, and I watched it as if it had been a new spectacle, though I have seen the same a hundred times before.

At about twenty minutes to eleven, I set out with Richard, and took the same walk as yesterday, determining to explore it more fully. After again spending some time in uselessly tracking the bird which puzzled me yesterday, we crossed the stream, and followed its course to the left, as we did yesterday to the right. The banks are very broken and varied, and ornamented with picturesque trees and shrubs. After following it for some way, I turned, and began to mount the hill, followed by Dickon. The hill rises in narrow ridges, each of which is a separate meadow with a scrambling woody hedge. On reaching the first, I found a little narrow lane, which led me to the uppermost meadow or highest story. This too, with much toil and difficulty, I climbed, and found myself at the top of the highest ridge of the hill.

Here I stopped to admire the beautiful view. Below my feet extended meadows and pastures with wooded hedges and the little stream, of which however, though I could trace its course, I could not see the water. Beyond, to the horizon, stretched a succession of beautiful hills on every side, for I could catch peeps of them in the blue distance even behind me, through the hedges. I could see ugly Heavitree, but Exeter was quite hidden. I could also distinguish Pennsylvania perched on a hill.

Along the top of this ridge is a hedge, with a little style. By passing over this, we got out into a deep narrow lane, which turned a corner on the ridge of the hill on our left, but instead of going this way, we followed it to the right towards the sandrock. The lane became deeper and deeper, and more secluded, the high banks were covered with primroses and ranunculi. It finally took us only to a farm-yard, so we returned, again descended the hill, and returned home.

The whole of this place is in the most complete unbroken solitude. Two or three red cows, a few sheep and lambs, and in the pond at the end of the stream, a very few geese and ducks, were to be seen. But what delights me most, is the number of wild birds; jays, blackbirds, robins, wrens, hedge-sparrows, chaffinches, and one or two kinds with which I am not acquainted yet.

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†I observe more and more the difference in dialect between not only the songs of the chaffinches of Devonshire and Bedfordshire, but the different individual chaffinches of Devonshire alone. One which I heard to day had a particularly fine variation; he greatly improved his song by the introduction of a clear, liquid, high note near the conclusion. I have not yet perceived that the same individual bird varies at all. By the way, my new unknown bird sings the whole of his song (except perhaps just the conclusion) in one note, which is, I think, about three notes and a half higher than the ordinary commencement of the chaffinch’s song. I long to discover the name of this bird.

I am engaged now in reading George Herbert’s “Temple,” a collection of sacred poems. The religious sentiments are unexceptionable, but I cannot say I like this style of poetry. It is a texture composed of quaint and far-stretched conceits, which occasionally please, but most generally surprise and amuse, sometimes disgust, and at last weary us. These conceits to be sure display a great deal of ingenuity and invention, but I can hardly call it poetic imagination, and of course very bad taste pervades the whole. It is not a sort of poetry I read with any pleasure. The ideas are unnaturally conceived and unnaturally expressed, and so clogged with metaphysical images, that it is not always easy to extract the author’s meaning; and even sentiments of the most genuine piety are so overlaid and smeared with a whitewash of conceits (which I hereby illustrate), that at first sight they are more apt to offend than to please. I have now read eighty of his poems, and of these none are unexceptionable. Those I like best are “Employment,” beginning

“If as a flower doth spread and die,”

“Grace,” beginning

“My stock lies dead and no increase”

“Constancy,” beginning

“Who is the honest man”

“Lent,” beginning

“Welcome, dear feast of Lent: who loves not thee”

“Virtue,” beginning

“Sweet day, so calm, so cool, so bright”

“Antiphon,” beginning

“Praised be the God of love.”

and “Life,” beginning

“I made a posy, while the day ran by.”

I took a walk with Dickon as usual. I had intended to go the same way as on Friday and Saturday, but the wind was so piercing cold that I was not disposed to loiter about on the hills waiting to hear the unknown bird, and it was too late to think of exploring much in that quarter before dinner. So we walked on the Heavitree road, further than either of us have ever walked that way before. Having crossed the bridge, which has hitherto been my limit, we climbed up a steep, round green hill, on reaching the top of which I quite gasped for breath, and felt a great oppression at my chest. I then looked round, and was rather disappointed at the view, which I had expected would have been very fine. Going a few steps further, I came to the brink of a picturesque quarry of bright red sand, partly overhung with trees. We then descended the hill, but instead of getting down into the road, we continued our walk along the top of the bank at its side, through fields, which were about fifteen feet above the level of the road. We continued our walk till we came out at a gate, just where the Heavitree road is joined by that to Sidmouth and Exmouth. We now began our return to Exeter, going by the high road itself. It is a very pretty road, not on account of the surrounding scenery, which is not remarkable here, and could not be seen if it were, but from the beauty of the banks, which are very high, of dark-red earth, covered with ivy and all kinds of plants, and crowned with tall trees. The dust flew horribly, notwithstanding a snow-shower in which we were caught.

When we reached the bridge, my eye was attracted by what seemed to be a very pretty lane, winding at the foot of the quarry hill. We entered it, and soon came to a fork, the left-hand branch goes to the quarry, so we followed that to the right, which conducted us to a regular succession of interminable Devonshire lanes, and sweetly pretty lanes too, both in themselves, and in the scenery directly round them. Devonshire lanes are quite unlike any I ever saw before. They are, in general, very long, narrow, and winding; the banks are high and steep, quite covered with ivy and other herbage, through which sometimes peeps out the rich dark-red soil, and sprinkled with primroses, ranunculi, wild strawberries, and other spring flowers; the hedges are not cropped formal things like the generality of those about Woodbury, but are filled with fine tall trees overshadowing the lane beneath. And there is often a little clear stream either crossing the lane or wandering by its side [173] with a pleasant murmuring sound. Beyond the hedges on either side the ground frequently rises into hilly meadows, and hills beyond hills appear to the horizon. Of this kind are the lanes into which we rambled this morning; they conducted us at last into the Heavitree road again, a little above the bridge, and then we returned home as quickly as we could, resolving to explore these lanes more fully another day.

I dispatched another parcel to Teignmouth, containing three letters, two from me to Annie and Phoe, and one to Phoe from Richard. I shall be delighted to hear from my cousins again.

In the evening I took up Kirke White’s remains, dear Phoebe’s present to me. I have read a good many of the poems and letters at different times. I now began reading them regularly through. I this evening came as far as an Ode on Genius, at page 63. I hardly know how to express my opinion of Kirke White’s poetry, I can hardly make out whether I like it or not. “Clifton Grove” and “Gondoline” I have mentioned before. †He has certainly a great mixture of the original and commonplace, and I must say he generally gives me the idea, not of a self-taught poet, but of one who had acquired to perfection the received language and every day ideas of poetry. He wants simplicity, he is too laboured, and yet at the same time common-place. Still his pieces are often tinctured by the singularities of an ardent and peculiar cast of mind; there is much that is his own, and often much that is striking and brilliant. His versification is various, sometimes smooth and harmonious, sometimes disagreeably rough and careless. I like his sonnet to the river Trent exceedingly; it is, like many of his pieces, full of deep and natural feeling. His poem to “Contemplation” is nothing but a paraphrase of L’Allegro and Il Penseroso, but of course it falls far short of those inimitable performances. There are some beautiful lines in his address to Fuseli, but it is not sufficiently original either in conception or execution. †Kirke White was a youth of great genius, but I do not think his genius was equal to conceiving a poem in an original style, though he might be able afterwards to dress it up with an original invention.-There is also in him a certain want of taste which makes it impossible for him [174] †to put out of hand any completely elegant little poem. Kirke White could not for his life have written Horace’s ode “Quis multa gracilis” &c.

†And so I conclude the seventh volume of my journal. Many feelings crowd upon my mind while thus I wind it up. The first is that of gratitude to Heaven for having mercifully restored me to almost perfect health. Even when I began this volume I was astonished to find myself so infinitely better than I had been a few short months before; and now, though the difference is far less marked, I I am wonderfully improved in health and strength from what I was even then. I shall never forget the state of mind and body which I was in during the summer of 1836. I was then fast sinking into consumption, I felt as if I could not live, I fully expected that death would speedily terminate my sufferings. I remember in particular, that horrid cough seemed nailed to my lungs as if it could never be removed. I could not imagine myself without it, and for months I felt as if freedom from cough and short breath was a state of ease which I should enjoy no more. I remember catching with a sort of convulsive eagerness at any hope which could be held out of recovery. Oh! how much cause of thankfulness have I to Him who has raised me up from this state of sickness, and rescued me from so imminent a danger! Alas! how little have I shown; how have I wasted the life He has preserved; and to how little account have I turned the illness with which He has been pleased to visit me! The retrospect is very, very painful. Oh that I may endeavour henceforth to live life less to myself and more to GOD, that I may learn to delight more in His service, and less in this world and its pleasures. Oh that I may from this time feel that the Holy Spirit has changed and is sanctifying my heart, and see myself steadily improving from year to year, and growing in grace and every Christian virtue. Lord, I beseech thee to grant these things; hear thou my prayer for the sake of our blessed Saviour, Jesus Christ.

I actually begin the eighth volume of my journal. It seems but the other day I began the first. I was writing it in the drawing-room of Brookhouse; papa, mamma, poor Miss Hall, Lady Malkin, and Sir Benjamin were in the room. Alas! such a party shall never meet again on earth. I well remember Benjamin peeping over me as I wrote, and then, taking up the volume, he read a passage aloud for the amusement of the party. I think I can now see his good-humoured face and hear his pleasant voice as he said, in reference to the part he had just read, “This is quite an insult; you have mentioned Arthur’s being of the party at the inn, and you have quite forgotten me;” and I think I can hear the laugh which followed, as all declared that Ben was well punished for his curiosity, while I protested that it was by pure accident that I omitted his name, which he maliciously refused to believe.

The commencement and conclusion of every new volume in my journal always seems a kind of era to me. I expect the one I have now begun to be highly important; it will most probably settle me in Hampshire, and, perhaps, launch me into the nineteenth year of my life. I wonder where [190] we shall all be when this volume is concluded; I wonder which of our family will be together, and whether either of my brothers will have entered on any profession or means of gaining a livelihood. But oh, how impossible is it to calculate on the future! . . .

My occupations this day were as follows:—I read the Bible, then worked, then wrote to Julia, then completed an index to the second volume of my journal, then began a note to Mrs. Arthur Malkin. Dinner came; after which I finished the note, wrote my journal, continued my drama, and sealed up the packet of letters which was to go to Lord Mayo. Then I spent some time in reading Kirke White’s poems, and then read a chapter of Doddridge’s “Rise and Progress.”39 After this, while evening was drawing on, I took up “Gil Blas Corrigé,” which occupied me till we sat down to tea, at half-past seven. After tea, I took up my work, and continued it till prayer-time, while Aunt Bell read to us “The Pioneers.” After prayers, I went up as usual to undress, came down in my dressing-gown, and sat by the fire, reading the Bible, and looking to see the psalm and hymns which came in turn for me to repeat that night. I then proceeded to curl my hair and go to bed, where, after having repeated a number of hymns and psalms, I fell into a painful train of retrospective thought, which kept me awake for some little time. I looked forward also to the happy time of my return to Woodbury, and I amused myself with watching the scenes which, according to custom, seemed to rise up before my eye. One of these was a deep and awful ravine, between two black stupendous cliffs, down which I seemed to be looking. The scene lasted but an instant, and then vanished. It did not return, and I endeavoured to recreate it by tracing it out with the pencil of memory, but this, of course, produced a far less vivid impression. Finally I fell asleep, and dreamed that I was listening to a duet played by Anna [191] and Phœbe towards the close of a still and beautiful summer’s evening. . . .

Richard declares he saw a great many swallows or martins skimming over the river. It is very early for any species, and extraordinary in such weather as this. If possible, I will go to-morrow, and see them myself.

In the evening, as I was sitting by the fire, reading “Gil Blas Corrigé,” enter Mr. Dornford.40 I forget how it began, something led Mr. Dornford to speak of the state of his parish, and of the demoralizing effect of the old poor-laws, especially in destroying the feelings of gratitude and affection in the son towards the father, by taking the latter off the hands of the former, and placing him in the workhouse. He mentioned a frightful instance of this callous insensibility in a man of his parish, who, being very well off for his station in life, having a comfortable dwelling, a spare room, and a wife who had little to occupy her time, refused to support a respectable and kind-hearted old father, who was above eighty and bed-ridden, and allowed him to go to the workhouse. When there, he seldom came to see him, occasionally brought him a bit of meat, gave him no money, and said he could not spare him a blanket, when the poor old man was starving with cold. One day the father was being lifted out of bed by a woman not strong enough to do it, and he fell; she sent for his son to raise him up again, and he despatched one of his men to do it! Finally, the father died, and the son followed him to the grave, wept over him, and donned a smart suit of mourning. Mr. Dornford then enlarged a good deal on the horrible evils of the old system, and showed how, by its old provisions, it encouraged early marriages among the poor instead of checking them. He traced it back to the war, when the farmers, through the high price of corn, gaining immense wealth, considered themselves so raised above their servants and labourers, who used always to share [192] their meals with them, that they no longer admitted them to the same table with themselves, and the same familiarity as before, which drove them, some to the public-house, others to early marrying, for the sake of getting a comfortable home. Thus the number of poor was vastly increased, and the poor-rates increased in proportion, till in many places they actually exceeded the rent-roll, and became twenty-one or twenty-three shillings in the pound, so that persons have actually found it expedient to give up an estate in order to escape the poor-rates! Mr. Dornford then enlarged a good deal on the difference between the youth of the upper and lower classes, inasmuch as early marriages are checked, as they ought to be, in the former and encouraged in the latter. He then went on to speak of the horrid money-making propensities of small farmers, particularly those about his parish (Plymtree), in whom the desire of gain, being their one object, makes them frugal, sober, industrious, but completely narrows their minds, hardens their hearts, and shuts up all the avenues of charity, of which he gave me the most appalling instances. He says that the effect of the new poor-laws about Plymtree is on the whole good, though there are some tyrannical provisions which ought to be altered; but he says that we have been so long going wrong, that it is impossible to get back directly into the right road, and that much misery must be expected for some years. One evil is the arrangements about medical man, forcing the poor to go to some particular medical man, who may live perhaps eight miles off, and may not be at home when the patient comes, so that he loses an infinity of valuable time.…

We also had a long political conversation about Ireland, which is in a most wretched state. Mr. Dornford says that, humanly speaking, nothing can preserve Ireland from civil war but a change of ministry. That the present ministry are endeavouring to throw open the corporations to the [193] Catholics, on the ground that they are to the Protestants as five to one. That if this is done, the corporations will be filled with Catholics, and become centres of agitation throughout the country, with O’Connell,41 the master-fiend, at their head. That, notwithstanding they are numerically inferior, yet such is the superiority of the Protestants in lands, in opulence, in education, and chivalric spirit, that if they and the Catholics were to fight it out among themselves, Mr. D. is of opinion the Protestants would conquer. He also stated sentiments about the Catholic Emancipation very different from papa’s, which I gave December 19, 1832.… Mr. Dornford’s style of conversation is peculiar, from its being so full of illustrations, sometimes very apt. I quite agree to one in particular, of which he made use this evening,—that a physician experimenting on his patients is like a pilot in the Pacific, who sounds, and thinks he is in deep water, and then unexpectedly comes on a coral reef. This is just what physicians do, so they need not wonder that their patients die.

I am not of those who think the recollection of past pleasures agreeable; I am much more inclined, with Montgomery,42

“To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep

The joys of former years;”

and while I write this, I feel a sadness at heart which is quite oppressive. Above all, the recollection of one enjoyment is intensely clear and intensely painful, and that enjoyment is the being able to get out into the open air in spring, or summer, after a long confinement with a fever. Twice have I known this at Woodbury, and the delight of it is heavenly. Willingly would I pay the penalty of another fever, for the sake of enjoying it once more. I seem even now to feel the bright sunshine of June; to [194] breathe the soft and balmy air, fragrant with the bloom of summer; to gaze with delight on the garden blazing with ten thousand flowers; to tread, with slow and feeble, yet delighted feet, on the soft green turf; to see the verdurous meadows and cool leafy woods, to drink in the joyous songs of a hundred warblers. Oh, I seemed in paradise! Oh for those times to return! It is impossible for language to describe my sensations when I was first drawn out in a little garden chair on our lovely lawn, unable to walk, but my heart bounding with ecstasies at all I saw and heard and felt. Oh for summer! Oh for Woodbury! Oh for home, for the sweet scenes I know so well, for the dear companions whom I love so much! … Well, I am sure that, wherever my future life will be spent, Woodbury will always be with me “a grave, where sleep the joys of other years.” Ten thousand associations and recollections will cluster round its name, like fragrant woodbine round an elm tree. And if I live in the most lovely spot on earth, my sweetest and most delightful remembrances of nature and the country will always be united with WOODBURY. And every brilliant summer day will always carry me back to the gardens, woods, and fields of WOODBURY. And, last, not least, wherever I meet with the friends whose society I have there enjoyed, I shall think again of dear WOODBURY.

… I have to give my opinion on Kirke White’s poems, which I have finished. This, too, I must do shortly. They have greatly risen in my estimation. I think they display much feeling, and have often great force and spirit. Some passages struck me very much. I extremely like the touching lines beginning—

“’Do I not feel?’ The doubt is keen as steel.”

To my thinking, the most original idea in all that he has written is as follows:—

[195]

“The lark has her gay song begun,

She leaves her grassy nest,

And soars till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast.”

I never before met with this idea to express the great height to which the lark ascends, and I like it.

… The truth is, I am always apt to see things in richer colours at first sight, and then, writing about them while my fancy is yet heated, I unintentionally exaggerate; and I believe I have done this with almost all the scenes I have described in my journal.

Mr. Dornford brought his phaeton at ten o’clock in the morning, and took Julia and me a delightful drive to Haldon, a very long and high hill, which runs along the left of the Exe between Exeter and Teignmouth. I must, alack! be very brief.… Above and before us the scenery was wilder than any I have seen. The rocky slope of Haldon is thickly covered with larches, pines, heath, and gorse, and as we rose towards the top, to our right stretched hill beyond hill of wild unbroken moorland.

The thoughts of my pleasure on the coming morrow long drove sleep from my eyes, and I lay awake in excitement.

[A visit to her cousins at Teignmouth took place between May 17 and June 24.]

Well, the wished-for morn is come at last.… Mr. Dornford came for us at half-past ten, and we set off in high delight.…

I have been exceedingly anxious ever since I came to see the Warrens, and this evening, to my great joy, Matilda Warren (commonly called Tilla) drank tea with us. My cousins tell me that what they told Matilda of me put her so in mind of a dear friend of hers called E. S., now no more, that it almost made her cry. Of [196] this E. S. Julia gave me an account, extremely interesting, to-day; though where the resemblance to me lies I cannot say.…

[A visit to friends at Sidmouth, Bicton, Exmouth, Teignmouth, Torquay, and Marldon occupied the period between May 26 and June 24. On June 7 took place a picnic excursion to Bradley Woods, a merry young party who boated, scrambled, sketched and sang, recited poetry, and read aloud, and dreamed happy young dreams by the sunset and the moonlight. But that summer day, intensely as she enjoyed it, set the seal on the malady she was apparently recovering from. She caught cold, and from that time may be said never to have really rallied, though no one was aware of the fatal harm that had been done.]

… I find William and Richard most delightful companions in walks. They are good, amiable, lively boys, thoroughly fond of scenery, and perfectly well-bred. It is pleasant to have a brother and cousin so civil, attentive, and good-naturedly ready to carry my sketch-book, help me over a stile, or do anything else which I could like them to do.…

Our excursion to-day was to Laderham Cove, which is about two miles and a quarter from Bicton, between the Otter and Sidmouth.… The descent to Laderham is down a steep little rocky lane, under a lofty cliff, which rises before you in a very striking manner. Having descended this, we found ourselves on the beach, in a magnificent cove, in the shape of a semicircle, entirely surrounded by the grandest rocks I have ever seen. They are red, and not merely perpendicular, but in many places overhanging; they are very rugged and craggy, hollowed by the waves into clefts and caverns, nearly bare, but adorned here and there with a few scattered tufts of grass, sea-pink, and gorse, and crowned at the top with straggling hedges. On each side of the entrance of the cove stands [197] a very lofty isolated rock, washed by the waves; one of these overhangs its base considerably, and looks ready to fall; it is crested with gorse, grass, and stunted pines. I was quite astonished at the grandeur of the spot, and ran up to Miss H., who, with the composure of perfect indifference, sat quietly on the shingles, holding her parasol over her, and looking neither to right or left. “How grand, how magnificent this is!” I cried. “Ah,” says she, with great nonchalance, looking round, “it’s very pretty, isn’t it?” I was thoroughly provoked and marched off.

In the evening, as we were taking a walk on the Den, we met Mr. Henry Warren, who frequently walks over from Torquay. He joined us, and walked up and down for some time, and afterwards spent half an hour with us at Spring Gardens. I was very much pleased with what I saw of him; he is decidedly a great improvement on the race of young men of the present day. He is a handsome young man of three and twenty, dark and sunburnt, with curly black hair, and puts me very much in mind of A. Malkin. He has a particularly open, good-tempered, pleasing countenance, most unaffected manners, and is quite gentlemanly (he has been at sea from the age of fourteen). He is naturally very shy, even to nervousness, but is nevertheless merry, good-humoured, and full of fun. It is arranged that he is to accompany us on Wednesday in an excursion we are going to make to Bradley Woods.

… We went by water, and had a boat to ourselves. The Bradley Woods are a mile from Newton, which is seven miles up the Teign.… We had a sweet walk through Newton to Bradley Woods.… We first walked through lovely woods and lawns, between hills, and along the banks of hidden brooks murmuring in the shade, whose margins were profusely covered with stars of Bethlehem and bluebells. We came to a mill in a sweet spot, deep in a little valley between high rocky walls.… [198] As to giving a minute account of all that we did, that is impossible, for we were amongst these rocks and woods for six or seven hours. Some rambled one way, some another; several sketched, and we were all much dispersed. Nearly the first thing I did was to sit down on an edge of rock amongst the gorse, and sketch the profile of a bold rock and part of the valley. Mr. W. sat a little below me, and sketched the same part.… At last we voted that it was time to decamp. I first took a sketch of the two sailors who were lying down asleep on the grass, and then we rose, and having recalled Richard and Phœbe, who had gone exploring, we commenced our return to the watermill beneath the rock. Mr. Warren and I were before the rest; we walked on, conversing about Cooper’s novels and other subjects. Phœbe afterwards joined us on the other side, and sketched the mill, which is an old and highly picturesque building, in a lovely situation. Mr. W. sketches very well, and in a free and spirited manner. The others, as usual, were scattered in all kinds of directions, some on the hill, some in the woods by the mill-stream. At last we all assembled in the mill, where we all refreshed ourselves, some with porter, others with excellent new milk, foaming from the cow. We then scattered again, and Mr. W. and R. took a scamper up a hill covered with gorse, in pursuit of a young kite. But notice that we were going to return to the boat was now given, and Mr. Warren, Anna, R., and I crossed the mill-stream, and proceeded on our walk back to Newton before the rest. A. and R. lagged behind, and we three went on together. Mr. W. and I had a great deal of very interesting conversation, chiefly about poetry and natural scenery, of both of which he is a great, admirer, so that we agreed very well in our tastes. He repeated to me a few bits from Byron and Shelley. On arriving at the passage-house we waited some time for the rest of the party, who were delayed by Paulina’s tumbling [199] into the mill-stream. I think it was a quarter to eight when we were all safe in the boat on our return. The sun set gloriously over the Tors, and the twilight added to the exquisite beauties of the river Teign. Mr. W. sat next me at the stern, and we talked almost all the way home, partly on the same topics as before, partly admiring the lovely scenery and beautiful heavens, partly about what Mr. W. had seen abroad.… So ended our excursion to Bradley Woods, which altogether gave me more pleasure than anything of the sort I ever enjoyed. I only wish A. had not suffered so from headache.

… It happened this evening that all were in uncommonly high spirits during tea, and jokes flew round with wonderful rapidity. My aunt, having finished her tea, went to the piano, and played a waltz or two. Nothing would serve my cousins but wheeling away the tea-table and waltzing about the room; they made me join also, and showed me how to do it, and good fun it was. The windows were opened, the bell rung, the tea-things hurried off, and the candles sent for; and then the universal cry was for a dance. So my aunt played, and we all formed a quadrille. There were but seven of us, and only one gentleman among us, nevertheless we all enjoyed it excessively, and fun and laughter were incessant. From the quadrille we went to a country dance; then the coquette dance, which was capitally amusing; then A. and P. performed the bouquet dance, to exhibit before the rest of the company. The two latter are, I think, highly objectionable in public, though of course nothing could be more harmless among ourselves. At last dancing dropped off, and my cousins took to singing. The merriment did not cease; nothing would serve Miss Julia but she must make Anna play tunes for her to sing to. She set us in roars of laughter. She made Anna sing, “I cannot be a nun.” After this, several other songs were sung, and it was half-past [200] ten when we began to disperse. I then went up as usual and curled my hair with Anna and Phœbe, and we had plenty more fun. It was eleven o’clock when I went into my own room, but I sat up writing my journal, and was not in bed till near one.

It is after eleven o’clock. I am sitting up in my room, writing this when I ought to be in bed. The house is quite quiet. I hear no sound but the motion of my pen, the ticking of my watch, and the distant moaning of the wind, which sighs through the trees, and occasionally rattles the windows and howls in the chimney. Why, there are two persons talking outside my room! Now all is still again. Now I hear a dog barking. The wind increases, and sounds very dismal. Whose voice is that? Mrs. Gee’s, I think. A door is shut, the voice ceases; I look out of the window. Dark and cloudy, moonless and starless; in the south I see a kind of stormy light, like a rent in a pall that hides the day beams; against this I see the tall trees waving their black and gloomy branches. The village lies beneath the hill in deep shadow, save that one glimmering light shines faintly through the obscurity of midnight. Oh, how dreary does it look abroad!

[A visit to Babbicombe.] Never have I seen the sea so beautifully clear as at Babbicombe. The most sparkling summer brook is not more pure and limpid; you cannot gaze on it without longing to taste the wave that seems to roll in liquid diamond. I could not resist it myself. I stooped, dipped in my hand, and sipped the water, salt and bitter as I knew it was. We clambered about the rocks a little, and began to disperse. I mounted an isolated rock which has a narrow ridge up to its summit, where there is room only for two. Mr. H. W. spread his handkerchief for me to sit on, and good-naturedly held my parasol over me while I sketched.…

We returned to Torquay. It was a sweet evening, and [201] I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Mr. W. and I were behind as before, Maria and R. going on much faster. We conversed as before on all kinds of subjects, and I was quite sorry when the journey was at an end. We went to tea, and after tea I sat a little while with dear Miss Warren. I had seen her already before we went to Babbicombe. I love her more and more; I think her almost perfection. It is difficult to stop my pen when once I begin to write of her. She talks to me in the sweetest manner, and likes very much to have me with her, which I feel to be particularly kind, as I am so much her inferior in everything, as well as much younger. Oh, if I were to take any human being as a pattern, it would be Miss W. How I wish I were as detached from earth and as prepared for heaven as she is. How I wish I could cause to my own family half the happiness she does to hers!

… In the evening Mr. W. told us some very remarkable stories of apparitions and supernatural appearances, for the truth of which he could himself vouch. They interested me very much, and some made me shudder when he told them in the silence and darkness of evening. He himself, like most sailors, believes in apparitions, and no wonder, after he has personally known the following singular occurrence. He happened, during the middle of the night, from twelve to three o’clock, to be the officer placed over fifty or sixty men, who were employed on board an eighteen-gun brig off Port Mahon, which had been sunk, and was now, if I understood him right, being raised again. The men were very merry, and were doing their work to the sound of songs. At last Mr. W. sent down the carpenter, whose business it was at stated times to measure the depth of the water below. He went down with a light, and was absent so long that Mr. W. was alarmed, and sent down another man to look after him. The sailor was presently heard on deck calling from below for a light. In [202] an instant a sudden silence and panic seized all, and Mr. W. descended into the hold with a lantern. Now, a vessel that has been sunk always turns quite black, so that, as may be supposed, its appearance was dismal enough, and in the midst of the gloom and darkness lay on his face the poor carpenter, looking like a dead body. He raised his head, and displayed a countenance of ghastly paleness. He stammered out something about having tumbled down and put out his light, tried to put a good face on it, and followed Mr. W. on deck. Mr. W. saw that something was the matter, and called him aside. “Now, tell me,” said he, “what has happened to you?” “Oh, sir, I won’t tell you; you will laugh at me.” “Why, what is it? I won’t laugh at you. Have you seen a ghost?” “No, sir, I’ve not seen a ghost; but, sir, I saw all my three sisters at the times they died, and to-night I have seen my mother.” And it turned out afterwards that his mother did actually die at this very time.

Poor Miss Warren had passed a sleepless night, and her father was also very unwell; so Tilla and I agreed that it would be best for us not to stay another night. Mr. Henry Warren pressed and urged me to stay, said he could not think why we should go, and was extremely annoyed when I persisted; however, he resolved to accompany us to Teignmouth. The fly was ordered at half-past twelve; so I had a whole morning with Tilla. Mr. Warren showed me some capital sketches of his, and his log-book; he begged me to draw one of my sketches into a blank leaf of the latter as a memento of me. I did so, and while I was drawing it, he read to me some beautiful passages from “Childe Harold,” a poem which I long to read if papa and mamma would allow it.

I went up to Miss Warren’s room to take leave of her, and had a long delightful chat with this angelic young woman. Her affectionate manner to me gave me the most [203] heartfelt pleasure. She was sitting up in bed, looking so sweet and lovely that I could not take my eyes off her. Her writing-case was before her, and she gave me a little pencil note to Phœbe. She made me sit on her bed, and kissed me many times, and was kinder to me than ever. Then, while she held my hand clasped in hers, her eyes full of tears, yet her countenance lighted up with a heavenly smile, she said, “My heart is in heaven, Emily; all my joy and happiness is there.” Her countenance, her voice, and her manner were so earnest and sweet, that it quite overcame me. After a moment’s pause, she said, “It seems strange that it should bring tears to my eyes, and yet you can understand the feeling that causes them.” These were among the last words she spoke to me; again she kissed me, and I was obliged to hurry away. I cannot without tears think of the farewell I then took of Miss Warren; I look back on the happy conversations I have had with her, I recall her most sweet countenance and gentle voice, and I feel a melancholy presentiment that we shall meet no more on earth. Oh that we may hereafter meet in heaven! …

We entered the fly and left the place where I have spent the happiest hours I have passed for many months. Farewell, dear Torquay!

We took up Mr. Henry Warren into the fly at a little distance from Torquay, he having walked on before. I enjoyed conversing with him very much. He talked a great deal about his intended journey to Switzerland, which he means to begin next week. He was continually saying how he longed to have me with him, that we might climb the mountains and enjoy the lovely scenery together. He says that he shall be quite alone, with nobody to talk to who can understand his feelings. He means to correspond with Richard. “I must not write to you,” he said to me, “so I shall write to your brother.” He then begged me to [204] write to him just three lines in a postscript to Richard’s answers, saying he should value them so much; but this I am afraid I cannot do.

Mr. W. came to breakfast and spent the day with us. After breakfast we went into the drawing-room, and I read to him several of Keble’s hymns.…

Mr. W. came to breakfast as before, and then he took a walk with us.… Here the two boys left us to do an errand in the town, and while waiting for them, Mr. W. and I ascended the castle wall, looked at the view of Exeter, and sat down under the trees, where we conversed for some time. He was not well, poor fellow, and at last resolved, which my aunt had wished him to do, to give up the tour to Dartmoor, and set off for Switzerland on Wednesday. In consequence of this change in his plans, I shall see him once more before he leaves England, as he will call at Baring Crescent on his way. He wishes me to send him every information on literary subjects, the names of books which I should wish him to read, and the best course of study for him to adopt. He also begged me to write out for him some of my favourite little poems which I know by heart, that he may learn them too.

I am pining to be at Woodbury. It is now in all its beauty; the drawing-room is perfumed with the China roses, and the garden is in full bloom. Alas! I shall see Woodbury no more.

I took a walk in the evening with Jane and Selina Molesworth. The lanes about Exeter, which I used to admire so much, have quite sunk in my estimation after those round Teignmouth and Marldon, for which I am quite sighing. It is hateful to have to walk through the horrid dusty streets and high-roads before I can get into anything like country; and even then it is not solitude, [205] for all Exeter turns out every evening into the lanes and meadows. Richard received a letter from Mr. H. W., who says that he has postponed his journey to Switzerland, and wishes to set out to-morrow to the Dart with R., who is to meet him at the Teign bridge. R. is delighted at the idea of going. Matilda added a page to me.

When we were coming from Teignmouth last Saturday, Mr. W. wished me very much to net him a silk purse. I promised to do so, if I had time before he went; but now finding that I shall not, having many other things to do, I purpose making him instead several marks for books, of coloured and gilt paper, which will be useful to him in his studies, and will not take me much time in making. Accordingly, I bought several sheets of fancy paper this evening, and shall set about the business to-morrow.

My constant fatigue and weakness are quite distressing to me. About bed-time I generally feel brisker, but during the rest of the day the slightest thing is a painful exertion to me; I dread walking up-stairs. Both my mind and my body feel worn out and exhausted; my hands can with difficulty hold a book; and actually I am content on these beautiful summer mornings to sit quietly and stupidly at my needle, alone for any length of time, silent and scarcely thinking, unwilling even to repeat poetry. Besides, I am out of spirits; my mind continually turns involuntarily at all hours of day and night to Woodbury, Teignmouth, and Torquay, where those I love best dwell, and which I shall in all probability behold no more.

I shall hurry over this day, not being in a humour to relate, except very briefly, the events and circumstances thereof; in fact, I had rather think of them than write them down.

As we were assembled in the drawing-room at four o’clock, [206] Mr. H. Warren was announced. He is going to leave England on Friday, and is now come to spend a night in Exeter, and take leave of us. I proposed to go and see the view on the Tiverton Road, to which he gladly assented. So he, Richard, and I walked to Exeter, took a fly, and drove along that beautiful road, returning by the ravine and the lovely Cowley Road. Mr. W. admired both exceedingly, but did not enjoy it, being unhappy and out of spirits, and, in fact, he was more employed in talking to me than in looking at the views. I imagine he speaks more confidentially to me than to any one else; he says he has told no one so much about himself, his feelings, views, and wishes. Indeed, I’m highly honoured; for all the times he has seen me do not when put together amount to a week.

[The next day came the parting; an extract from a letter follows.]

A packet from Teignmouth—there was also a letter directed by Julia to Richard; it is written by Mr. W., and is evidently meant for both of us. He has neither dated it, directed it, begun or concluded it; he has written nothing but what I here copy out. “I might have spent another day with you, for Mr. Spencer only returned from Plymouth this morning; this I regret; but, as it must be, as the word ‘good-bye’ (which like a barrier has sprung up between us) has been spoken, I have to comfort myself with the flattering idea that I am not to be forgotten, that the ties of friendship that have been formed are not to be broken, that we are still to know each other. If you but knew the pleasure that this feeling gives me, you would forgive my rhodomontading on it.

“Next Saturday I sail in the yacht for Cherbourg, from which place I intend to steam to Rouen.”

[And here the innocent idyll closes. There were some after meetings, but its further progress was stopped, with [207] much suffering to at least one of the parties, and some painful correspondence, by paternal prudence. The preceding extracts, thus brought together, may give the idea that her journal and her mind were at that time wholly taken up with this love affair. But in fact those passages are everywhere interspersed with others which have been omitted, indicating an apparently equal interest in many other things, and filled most especially with her passionate love for Mary W.]

Well, all is settled. We do not go to Binderton, nor anywhere in Sussex, but to the New Forest.… A month, a month—and I shall once more embrace and kiss them all. I shall feel once more at home, a feeling I have not known for almost a twelvemonth.… I shall soon, I think, be sick of Devonshire, much as I have enjoyed myself here.… But I regret to find my health going back so much; I know how it will disappoint papa and mamma.… The effect of my cold at Bradley Woods (which certainly became a fever at Marldon), together with the heat of the weather and the state of my spirits (for I am anxious and unhappy on many accounts), will certainly account for some of it.

The last day of July, which to me has flown very quickly, in so unvaried a manner has it been spent. During its course, one event interesting to us all has taken place, namely, the fixing on a new place of abode; and one event, or perhaps I should say circumstance, of consequence to me personally, which may be the beginning of what will affect my future lot in life.

This is the last letter I shall receive from Woodbury. Mamma thus describes their evening party: “We are all round the drawing-room table at nine o’clock in the evening. Papa and your sisters at their foolish books [i.e. books [209] of amusement]: Mackie out, I suppose, after his moth-catching. The day has been the hottest we have had this year, the glass having been 82 ½° in the shade. The windows are both open, and the jessamine, that is now full of flowers, perfumes the room. The limes in flower perfume all the air around them. The children say it is delightfully snug.”

I am highly amused now at seeing the strong and universal interest which is taken in the elections at present pending. The election for the county is the one now proceeding, the candidates being Mr. Parker and Sir J. Buller, Conservatives, and Mr. Bulteel, a Radical. The two first are likely to succeed, and their cause is warmly espoused in this house, especially by the two youths who are continually going to the castle yard to ascertain the state of the poll.… “Aunt,” says R., as they are assembling at tea, “that abominable boy has been into the town, and I can’t get him to tell me anything about it.” “Why, how’s that, Will?” “Why, he asked me when I was reading.” “Well, if you did that, I think he was justified in not answering you.” “No, but, aunt, just listen. I said, ‘William, have you been in the town?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Where have you been?’ ‘Elections.’ ‘And what did you see?’ ‘People.’ And that’s all he would tell me.” “Oh,” says my aunt, laughing, “if he told you that, he might as well have told you all, for it must have interrupted him full as much to say ‘Yes,’ ‘Elections,’ ‘People.’ But come, I have heard it all.” …

It is a matter of concern to us that our cousin Lord Teignmouth, who stood for Marylebone, and was thought sure of success, has failed. Another cousin, Winthrop Praed, has just come in for Aylesbury, having withdrawn from Yarmouth. Both these are Conservatives.

… On coming home, we were surprised to find our Parliamentary cousin whom I mentioned [210] yesterday, Winthrop Praed,* who had come here to vote, together with his wife, to whom he has been married two years.… He is a very clever and very agreeable man … about thirty-five years old, as thin as a lath, and almost ghastly in countenance; his pallid forehead, haggard features, and the quick glances of his bright blue eyes are all indications, I fear, of fatal disease. He seems, alas! sinking into a consumption which his Parliamentary exertions are too likely to hurry forward, if indeed he be not in one already. The profile of Winthrop’s face is very like that of Lord Byron, and at times there is a sort of wildness in his look, but the usual expression of his countenance is remarkably sweet.

This day took place the chairing of the two newly elected members for South Devon, Sir John Yarde Buller and Montague Edmund Parker, for I should have mentioned that on Saturday, Bulteel, the Radical, finding he had no chance of success, withdrew from the contest; and we now hear that the excitement, exertion, and disappointment have made him dangerously ill; nay, it is even reported that he is in a state of derangement. Our party went to see the chairing from Winthrop’s apartments in the New London Inn.…

We were there at eleven o’clock, wearing the proper colours, pink and blue, which we exhibited in the shape of a pink carnation and blue convolvulus. The chairing did not begin till after twelve. I call it chairing, but I should properly have said horsing, for at Exeter the members, instead of being chaired, ride round the city in a long procession of horsemen. On this occasion the horsemen assembled first in a dense crowd before the New London Inn, threw themselves into a sort of order, and rode to the castle, where they marshalled, and then the procession [211] began. Every window was crowded with heads and gay with banners, the street and area were thronged with spectators, and the repeated hurrahs gave notice of their approach long before they appeared. It was a fine spectacle, though not equal to what I had expected. First came a band; then a long line of men carrying boughs of oak, and flags of pink and blue with mottoes of gold; then the herald, a portly man in a sky-blue dress, with a brass helmet and bearing a bugle; then the procession of horsemen, which seemed almost endless. The members were distinguished by their bare heads, their repeated bows and looks of satisfaction.…

When the procession had passed, all our party went back to Baring Crescent, except me, Mrs. W. Praed having kindly offered to take me with her to hear the speeches after the election dinner.… We three sat down in the inn to a quiet dinner; presently some one tapped at the door. It was Mr. Parker, come to call Winthrop to the dinner, where every one was waiting. So away they went. When we had dined, Lady Frances Stephens and her daughter, Miss Bentinck, friends of the Praeds, came to offer us tickets of admission to the orchestra, where we were to look down on the electors, and to tell us that it was time to come and secure good places. So away we went. We ascended the orchestra, where we had two front places which Lady Frances had kept for us. It was a fine sight, four hundred electors seated at four long tables; the wine and dessert were just being brought in.… I shall not assume the office of the newspaper, and detail all the proceedings which took place. I presume they were all much as usual. The chairman gave the toasts, accompanying each with a pompous and prosy speech. As the whole was a scene quite new to me, I was much amused to see the whole body of electors rise at every toast, wave their glasses in the air, and with united voice [212] fill the whole room with hurrahs. I think the most thundering cheers of all were received by the toast “Church and State,” and next, perhaps, “The Duke of Wellington.” Mr. Taylor, of Bishop’s Teignton, a very young man, returned thanks for the “Army” in a speech not worth hearing, which indeed may be said of all that I heard spoken, with one exception, which I shall presently mention. Sir John Buller’s speech was perfectly commonplace, and his delivery very bad—a kind of measured, unvaried sing-song. Mr. Parker’s was evidently learnt by heart, and was delivered in a solemn, funereal, hesitating voice, in the manner of an ill-preached sermon. Nevertheless both were much clapped, especially when the electors were informed that they had shown their independence, and had made their own choice.

At last was given “Winthrop Praed.” Immediately followed shouts of “Praed! Praed!” and a long loud hurrah. Then “Sir Robert Peel and the Conservative Members of the House of Commons,” a toast Mrs. Praed and I had been anxiously expecting, as it was the signal for Winthrop to speak, and we knew he would far outshine all the rest.

He rose when the hurrahs had ended. During the preceding time he had been sitting silent, grave, and thoughtful; to my eyes there was even a shade of melancholy across his pale and interesting countenance, as if he had secret forebodings of the result of the unseen malady within him, that malady which is so often the accompaniment of fine genius and deep feeling. But when he had risen and begun to speak, the pensive look was gone, and was succeeded by a union of intellect and animation; his eyes lighted up, and, as he kindled, flashed round him with bright and rapid glances.

His speech was long and excellent, and his delivery ready, natural, and graceful. Both matter and manner [213] were as different from those of the other orators as light from darkness. Sir John Buller’s was full of awkward pauses between numbers of sentences; Winthrop’s was spoken with perfect ease and fluency. Mr. Parker’s was learnt by heart; much of Winthrop’s must have been quite unpremeditated, as it referred to what he had just heard uttered. In short, it was quite a treat to hear him, and so the electors thought; they listened far more attentively than they had previously done, and continually gave the most hearty and universal cheers. In Winthrop’s speech alone there was point and wit, which frequently produced loud laughter. He wound up very cleverly, and finally sat down amid roars of deafening applause.…

I must just add a few lines to say that I have taken up the paper, and that Winthrop’s speech is most incorrectly reported. I was quite provoked to see it. The mistakes made are ridiculous; all the point and wit are destroyed, and the whole is shamefully abridged. No one would think it a good speech from this edition of it.

I was much amused to read of “the glorious phalanx of ladies who graced the orchestra, whose bright eyes and sweet smiles, from behind the Old English heart of oak, told far more than words how deeply they felt the success of the Conservative cause.” Now, I was one of this glorious phalanx, and I think it would be more correct, at least in some instances, to say that their broad grins and hearty laughter showed the high entertainment they derived from the scene. I am sure this was my case.

Uncle Paul, like papa, takes pupils; and his vacation being ended, one came back this morning, for which I am very sorry. He is a Mr. Carden,* of Irish family, and is a very [214] handsome youth, of pleasing appearance; but I understand that he is by no means an agreeable inmate.

… The last stage before Southampton is Stoney Cross, eleven miles from that place. Here we put on lanterns, for it was between eight and nine o’clock, and a thick cloudy night. Soon after, the welcome sound of a drag-chain rattling beneath us fell on my ear, and, to my great delight, we descended into deep dark, uninterrupted forest, the road seeming pierced through dense wood. The lateness of the hour prevented my distinguishing much; the trees each successively gleamed with a frosty white, as they came within the area of the light cast from the lanterns, and then each passed rapidly away into the thickening mass of gloom behind. I saw that there must be “interminglings mild of light and shade,” though at present the shade was that of night, and the light only the rapidly moving illumination of the lantern and the sparks of fire which streamed brilliantly from the drag-chain as it struck the stones on the road. I was greatly delighted. “At last,” thought I, “we have really reached the New Forest.” We continued to travel through thick wood till we reached Cadnam, a village about a mile from Bartley Lodge. A little beyond Cadnam, on the roadside, stands a public-house, called the Coach and Horses. Here it was arranged that papa should meet us. The coach stopped; my heart beat quick with expectation. Through the darkness I distinguished two individuals. I knew one of them, who approached the coach-door. I held out my hand; it was seized by dear papa, and I was happy.

All went down to prayers before I was dressed; when I descended, I saw a group of happy smiling faces assembled round the breakfast table, a sight to which I had long been unaccustomed.

In a shrubbery round the little wicket-gate I saw a yew tree. I stopped before it and remarked to my sisters who were with me, “I hope the golden-crested wrens will build here; it is just the place for them.” I had scarcely uttered the words when I suddenly perceived, suspended from a bough, the elegant nest of the very bird of which I had been speaking. “Why, here’s the nest!” I exclaimed in amazement. The young were flown; I broke off the bough and carried my prize into the house.

… And now I will do what I have long waited to do—describe my room, my dear little room, the possession of which is a true delight to me. I call it my lion’s den. It is quite my property, and I feel completely independent in it; I can spend here whatever time I like, sit up in it when all the house are gone to bed and suppose me gone too, and can arrange its contents as I think proper. Everything in it is my own, and everything which is my own is in it.

To begin: it is at one end of the long passage in the second story; its aspect is north-east, looking into the garden; its dimensions are near eighteen feet by twelve feet four inches, and it has two windows with white curtains. On one of the long sides is a four-posted bedstead, hung with moreen; opposite to which is the fireplace, which has a handsome carved chimney-piece. On one side of the bed, near the windows, is a cupboard with five shelves, opposite to which is the washhand-stand; on the other side [217] of it, between it and the door, is a bonnet-press. The dressing-table is between the windows, and at the opposite end of the room are a mahogany chest of drawers and a painted bookcase of five shelves. Before the fireplace stands a little mahogany table, at which I am now writing. The room contains three chairs.

And now I must describe the ornaments of the walls, which consist of various engravings, likenesses, and charts drawn up by myself, altogether fifty-eight in number, quite covering the paper-hangings, against which I have fastened them with pins. The engravings are views, groups of figures, heads, birds, and beasts, etc., besides a framed one of Potton Church over the chimney-piece. The likenesses are shades, cut in full length, representing Grandmamma Shore, my uncle, Aunt D., Aunt B., papa, and William. The charts are tables of chronology, and a set of arguments against dissipation, all fastened to the wall with tin-tacks.

In one window is a chair, in the other a little chest of drawers of chestnut-wood, holding my collection of insects. Between the bed and the cupboard are pegs to hang up cloaks, etc. The cupboard contains, on the first shelf, stuffed birds and large birds eggs; on the second, the nests of the baya and golden-crested wren; on the third, drawing-books, scrap-books, manuscripts, etc.; on the fourth, map-books. On the chimney-piece stand bottles of lavender and eau-de-Cologne, a little writing-box, the bronze-mounted thermometer which Anna gave me, a bag, and a morocco case.

On the table there is nothing just now but my rosewood desk, at which I am writing, a china candlestick, and a drawing-book. Near it is a deal box containing dresses. The bookcase contains the greater part of my library of one hundred and twenty-eight volumes, besides five of my own works bound up. On the top shelf stand also a work-box, a pen-box, a paint-box, and a botanical tin case.

[218] Between the fireplace and bookcase stand against the wall a bonnet-box, a drawing-frame, and a “System of Birds” glued on a board.

Between the bookcase and chest of drawers stands a little cabinet or portable cupboard of two shelves—one filled with letters; the other containing shells, a palette, bottles of gold and silver dust, chalks for drawing, ornamental baskets, locks of hair, etc.

On this cabinet stands a deal box filled with birds’ eggs. On the chest of drawers are placed a great portfolio filled with Penang ferns and mosses, a portfolio of my drawings and drawing-paper, a portfolio of maps, a little black leather portfolio containing various miscellaneous articles, my registering book of birds’ songs, and two bound volumes of the Diffusion Society Maps.

Between the drawers and the door is a trunk of dresses. On the bonnet-press is a box of minerals and other curiosities, and on the box my large old mahogany desk, and on the desk a work-basket.

And so ends the description of my room, the appearance of which is somewhat grotesque and singular. I like it all the better in consequence.

[In a ramble through the glades an adder was killed by the youngest boy.]

I did not ride, but took a stroll with papa about the garden and grounds. Papa took me to the stables, which I had not seen. As soon as we had opened the door, to our great amazement, Mackworth presented himself, and, walking up, exhibited the skin of his viper stretched on a stick. We burst into a fit of laughter. It is quite entertaining to see the silent absorbing interest of that boy in his own pursuits in natural history and natural philosophy. He has not a spark of vaunting or bragging; he killed and carried home this viper without a word of exultation or self-congratulation, as if it had been [219] a matter of indifference to him, yet it has been in his mind ever since. The first thing I saw on coming into the drawing-room in the morning was a pencil sketch he had taken of the animal, and his copy-book to-day contained an account of it.

In looking back on the beginning of my illness, I feel sure that one of the principal causes of it was overworking my mind with too hard study, which is no uncommon cause of consumption. For many months before I was actually ill, I tasked my intellectual powers to the utmost. My mind never relaxed, never unbent; even in those hours meant for relaxation, I was still engaged in acquiring knowledge and storing my memory. While dressing, I learnt by heart chapters of the Bible, and repeated them when I walked out, and when I lay in bed; I read Gibbon when I curled my hair at night; at meals my mind was still bent on its improvement, and turned to arithmetic, history, and geography. This system I pursued voluntarily with the most unwearied assiduity, disregarding the increasing delicacy of my health, and the symptoms that it was giving way.

I am going to turn author. I am writing some articles for the Penny Magazine, which I shall first send to Arthur for his inspection. I shall explain to him, with mamma’s high approval, and consult him about it, my plan of publishing a book entitled “Extracts from a Naturalist’s Journal.” I want to know if the market for such works is overstocked.

… My packet to Arthur consists of a letter to him, and a sketch of Ugbrook, and some articles for the Penny Magazine. The articles are on “The Golden-crested Wren,” “Account of a Young Cuckoo,” two anecdotes in natural history, and my “Epitaph on a Goldfinch killed by a Cat.” The sketch is meant as a specimen; I want to publish in the Penny Magazine a [220] series of views of Devonshire scenery, with short notices of each, and this is to be one, if approved.

… My cough is gradually returning with the approach of winter, more than it did last year. My short breath and palpitations of the heart on moving or lying down are very annoying; my heart beats so loud at night that it is like the ticking of a clock. I am subject, too, to pains in the chest and side; and altogether I am very weak and out of health. I feel as if I should never recover the strength of body and unwearied vigour and activity of mind I once possessed. God’s will be done, it is meant for the best, though so early in life, when I have but just quitted childhood; it is a painful prospect, and a severe trial both in endurance and anticipation.

I am installed housekeeper; mamma has given the whole of the household accounts into my keeping. I am glad of it; it will greatly assist mamma, and will be of much service to me. I am highly pleased at the idea of making myself of use in some way, now that I cannot do it by teaching my brothers and sisters.

I began regularly to-day the plan of study I intend to pursue for some time. The books I am reading are, “Sketches of Venetian History,”43 “India,” in the “Modern Traveller,” and the “History of the United States” in Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia.44 In the morning, I am up but a short time before breakfast, and am employed in my room in reading the Bible till prayer-time. After breakfast, while my own room is being put to rights, I sit in the drawing-room, employed with the “United States.” I first draw out (from the book) a short chronological abridgment of my preceding day’s lesson; then I read a fresh portion, of course with maps. Then I go and sit in mamma’s room, painting one or two maps, by way of relaxing my mind sufficiently. Then I go to my own room, and study chronology. This I do by [221] means of my tables of comparative chronology; I carefully read through a portion of one, and then learn by heart all the dates I think it necessary to remember. This occupies me for some time. Then I take up the Venetian History, doing the same as with that of the United States. I then take up the “India.” As yet I have not got further than the geography, natural history, etc., so I do not yet abridge it. In these readings of history, I make great use both of my chronological tables and of the Society maps, which I take in. All this occupies me till about two or three o’clock; till tea at eight, I am employed in taking exercise, in desultory reading, in lying down, and in accidental occupations. After tea I read, in the “Biographie Universelle,”45 the life or lives of one or more distinguished individuals mentioned in my English studies of the day, which both keeps up my knowledge of French, and impresses the history more strongly on my memory.

In addition to this, I learn by heart, or rather keep up what I have already learnt, from the New Testament. This I do while I am curling my hair in the morning.

I do not know whether I shall be strong enough to pursue this system of study very long, particularly as my health seems getting worse. Mamma is afraid of my overworking my mind again; still I cannot bear the idea of living, even in sickness, without systematically acquiring knowledge. So I shall devote myself at present to making myself mistress of history, chronology, and geography; the study of languages, mathematics, arithmetic, and the sciences of mechanics, etc., I must leave till I am quite restored to health.

… It is no small delight to me to possess the works of Massinger and Ford.46 They are amongst the most celebrated of our admirable old English dramatists; Massinger is often considered inferior to none but Shakespeare. They are very little read in modern [222] times, and I shall have great pleasure in exploring their unknown or forgotten beauties.

… I rode on my pony, accompanied only by papa. We explored some lovely glades on the right of the Lyndhurst road, between the road to Mistead and our common. There was nothing to be seen that had life, but the wild deer or an occasional jay, and no sound to be heard but the cries of blue-tits and the whisper of the golden-crested wren. Sometimes on the little open common we fall in with peasants loading a waggon with fern, or a girl carrying a bundle of faggots on her head, and driving home a few cows to be milked, the tinkling of the cow-bell sounding through the arches of the trees.

The first fine Sunday since we have been at Bartley Lodge; but I, of course, could not go to church. Being unable to walk, I sat out of doors for an hour or two in the afternoon, in a little sheltered spot in front of the house, before the eastern wing, which recedes a few feet back. It is a very small piece of grass, between rhododendrons on one side, and laurustinus on the other, with the wall of the house covered with jessamines behind. In front is the park and forest; so that altogether it is a sweet little spot, and I enjoyed sitting here very much. It was a calm, delicious day, the forest bathed in sunlight, the sky a pure pale blue. On my left, close to the wall of the house, is an oak grey with lichens; here I watched the merry ox-eyes flitting from twig to twig, and tapping them with head downwards; and the handsome nuthatch, with his loud clear whistle, running up the boughs like a mouse, and hammering at them with all the concentrated force of his powerful body. In the herbage of the park, I heard the mingled tinkling warble of a dozen goldfinches; the sweet song of the robin sounded from tree to tree. From the forest arose a few melodious notes of the thrush, and the loud laugh of the green woodpecker. A pied [223] wagtail with his cheerful “chippeet” alighted on the roof of the house above me; a lark flew across the park, uttering his pretty plaintive cry. In the garden, the scream of the jay and the chattering of jackdaws completed the gay, though not always melodious, concert.

It is a great satisfaction to me to find myself daily making a very visible progress in my present studies. I have just finished the first volumes of the Venetian and American histories, abridging each as I go on. With neither of these histories have I been previously acquainted, so that the reading of both adds greatly to my stock of knowledge. I am particularly pleased at the insight the former gives me into the different and complex annals of the great families and principalities of Northern Italy, such as the Carrara of Padua, the della Scala of Verona, and the Visconti of Milan, of whom I before knew little but the name. Really there is hardly any pleasure equal to that of acquiring knowledge. And yet, at the same time, every step we make in the path of learning opens to us so vast a number of endless vistas and newer tracks (just as in our forest rambles), that it quite discourages one. It is hopeless to think of exhausting all the stores of knowledge. In chronology, too, I am making great progress. I really think my memory is improving, which at my age is more than I could expect.

I took up Shakespeare this evening, and read parts of “Hamlet.” This is my favourite play; I do admire it most thoroughly. The whole interest, indeed, is swallowed up in Hamlet, but how deep, how absorbing is that interest! His profound melancholy, the struggles and conflicting passions in his noble mind, his painful sense of his own want of resolution, unite in forming one of the grandest conceptions and creations of even Shakespeare’s mighty genius. There is no character in any of his [224] plays (at least of those which I have read, and I know all the best except “Othello”) which displays such a splendid depth of talent. Nor am I acquainted with anything in the range of the drama so intensely pathetic as the character of Hamlet.

Winthrop and Mrs. Praed came to-day, as we had hoped, and we enjoyed their visit very much. Poor Winthrop looks exceedingly delicate; he is so pale and thin that he seems as if a breath would blow him away.… He was, as usual, very agreeable, and I like his wife as much as ever.

… From dinner to tea I was busily occupied in studying those parts of Keightly’s “Outlines of History” (Lardner’s Cyclopædia), of Russell’s “Modern Europe,” and of Muller’s “Universal History,” which relate to the times of Charles VIII., Louis XIII., and Francis I. of France, the Popes Alexander VI., Julius XII., and Leo X., Maximilian I. and Charles V., of Germany, which I have reached in the Venetian History; being of the opinion that to read the history of the same period in different books is an excellent way of impressing it on one’s memory.

… I have finished learning from my four charts of general history down to the present time; they are complete in themselves, and begin with ancient history. The first chart contain the histories of the Jews, Greece, Rome, Egypt, and Syria, in comparative columns, to the Christian era; the second, the Roman emperors, those of the East and West, Persia, the caliphs, and miscellaneous history; the third, Italy, the emperors of the East (succeeded, where they end, by Greece), Persia, the caliphs (succeeded by Poland), miscellaneous history, and the Ottomans.

The number of dates out of all these, which I have learnt by heart, amounts to three hundred and sixty-five, [225] and I dare say that I shall add to it continually, besides beginning another set of charts.

Finding myself stronger, I am resolved to begin again the study of languages. I rather think I shall study Greek one week and Latin another. I began to-day with Greek, and spent about half an hour on it, which is the utmost I shall give to either that or Latin at present. My intention is to resume Herodotus, of which I have already read three books, pursue it regularly through, and, besides, read alternately a speech of Demosthenes and a Greek play. As my time is now so much more occupied, I only read the Indian History every other day.

A horrible accident, accompanied by fearful loss of life, has occurred at Southampton. A rocket, amongst the fireworks on the 5th November, set fire to an oil and turpentine warehouse on the water-side. Nobody was in it; but a number of respectable tradesmen and others rushed to the spot and attempted to save the property, when a large quantity of turpentine within blew up, burying the poor men under the ruins of the building. It is supposed that as many as thirty suffered this fate; several have been dug out, mostly dead, but some few still alive.…

… I find Herodotus (as I can read it quite easily) so very entertaining. It is as easy to me, pretty nearly, as French, only that I have every now and then to look out a word in the dictionary; and when once I take it up, I find it difficult to lay it down again. Demosthenes is much harder work, and requires close attention.

… This reading of lives is very laborious, and always leaves me thoroughly fatigued. Papa and mamma are both afraid that I am overtasking my brain again. But what shall I do? It is so delightful to be at all able to study again, and I have so much lost time to make up for, that I really cannot restrain myself. Sometimes [226] I am quite disheartened at the huge mountain of knowledge which I have to climb, and feel myself like an ant at the foot of the Andes. Still it is encouraging to see what can be done by exertion and industry, and I am gratified to find myself making a very visible progress every day. I now generally spend the last half-hour or twenty minutes before tea in reading Shakespeare, being then so tired with my matter-of-fact studies as to require some relaxation in the way of works of imagination. I am at present engaged with the “Tempest.”

I have begun to teach geography to Mackworth regularly on the following plan:—I give him the name of some town, as Jerusalem; he is to examine the maps, and find out every town of note on the same degree of latitude; the next day he is to tell me them, and give an account of their situation, and everything he can find in books about their history, natural productions, etc. This is, I think, a useful and entertaining way of learning geography.

… I usually repeat a chapter from the Bible by heart while I am dressing in the morning, and a chart of genealogy (from about seventy to a hundred dates) while undressing at night.

During this week I have been reading “Romeo and Juliet” to mamma and the three young ones, who all enjoy it exceedingly.… I am always obliged, for health’s sake, to limit myself in the use of the pen, so I shall only add that, to my mind, one of the most touching parts of the whole play—touching from its exquisite yet solemn simplicity—is that short speech of Friar Lawrence to Juliet, when she wakes in the tomb and finds Romeo dead.

… We took another drive to Romsey, where I have not yet been, and I enjoyed it very much. The cottages hereabouts are remarkably pretty and picturesque; the eaves of the roofs project, and are [227] supported by slender columns of the trunks of firs, so as to form little rustic verandahs; the porches are formed in the same way, and are adorned with creeping plants. The entrance into Romsey is strikingly beautiful; indeed, it excels that of any other town I know, except Torquay, and perhaps Hastings, which places have the advantage of the sea. From the top of a steep hill you look down on the old dark-red town lying beneath you, with its noble cathedral-like church towering above every other building, and a rich extent of distant wooded country behind; to our right and left were beautiful green sweeping hills with little dells between them, and their sides and summits mantled with thick woods, now of course nearly naked. The appearance of the distant country from behind the waving outlines of these hills is very fine. We drove down into Romsey by a road bordered with elms, and crossed at the entrance of the town by the pretty little river Test, on whose wooded banks, in a sweet situation, is Lord Palmerston’s place. Romsey is a neat old town of some size; the most singular feature in it is a little narrow stream or aqueduct, bricked in, very clear and very rapid, which flows for perhaps half a mile along the side of the principal street, turning two mills on its way, and falls into the Test. It runs close to the houses all the way, and is crossed by little bridges, much in the manner of the stream at Budleigh Salterton. Its clearness is remarkable; every stone at the bottom can be distinctly seen. In most parts I think it cannot be more than two yards across, though it sometimes dilates.…

With the single exception of St. Albans, this is beyond comparison the most magnificent country church I have anywhere seen. The size is considerable, and the plan that of a cathedral, with transepts, and side aisles to both nave and choir, and, moreover, a space behind the choir, as in French cathedrals. Nearly the whole church is in the Norman style of architecture, and Norman of very rich [228] character, far surpassing the interior of Ely, or anything at Dunstable. The beauty of the capitals is remarkable. There are some interesting specimens of transition from one style to another, especially in the nave, which is chiefly Early English, Norman arches having been hewn into pointed ones in a very curious manner. The western window is a very fine specimen of plain Early English three tall lancets with deep mouldings, like those at Jesus Chapel, Cambridge. The font is a curious piece of old stonework, which we had not time to examine. There are some Decorated windows, and a beautiful Decorated arch over an old monument; there are several other old monuments and brasses, and many details of various kinds deserving minute attention; but unfortunately we had only a few minutes to spare.

… I finished “Timon of Athens.” I am ill qualified, I know, to pass any opinion on the matter, but if I were to give one, I should say that it was not the work of Shakespeare. Not but that I admire it exceedingly, and think it a noble play, but it seems to me that the style and language are not those of the author of “Hamlet.” The poetical descriptions, many of which are exceedingly beautiful, seem to me to be written differently; the choice of words, the construction of the sentences, the cast of ideas, are peculiar; the tone of the dialogues between Timon and Apemantus, in particular, is not like that which pervades most of Shakespeare’s scenes.…

I think dramatic writing one of the highest efforts of human genius. To excel in it, one must not merely think what it is likely that the characters would do and say in the situation in which they are placed—we must think what we ourselves should do in those situations,—no, rather, we should throw our whole soul into the character we are depicting, and make it, as it were, our own, so as to feel ourselves, naturally and deeply, every passion which racks [229] his soul, and be able to express it by expressing our own unstudied sensations at the moment. How strange it seems, then, that the dramatist, who must thus be personifying himself, should be able, by so doing, to personify so many various and conflicting characters, and to paint passions which in the natural state of his own mind he may have never felt! He must as it were multiply his own character, and create new feelings in himself; all which requires a mind which soars infinitely above the common level.

I received a letter from dearest Eliz.… I do not remember the time when she was unknown to me; she was a dear friend of papa and mamma before I was born.… Sometimes it appears but the other day that I saw her last and kissed her last; sometimes, that I kissed her and laughed and talked with her years before she went away; sometimes ages, a lifetime, a separate existence, appear to have passed since then. I can hardly realize it. Indeed, it is now a different existence; life seems changed to me, young as I am, since I parted with Eliz.; one of its chief features is blotted out of the landscape. My heart aches when I think of those past pleasant days, and as I now write this my eyes are almost blinded with tears. So I will think of it, if I can, no more just now. Farewell, my kind, most beloved friend Eliz.

The unusual interruption of visitors prevented me from attending to all my studies to-day. But when I went up to bed I could not resist the temptation of taking up my favourite Herodotus, and I sat up reading him till after eleven o’clock. I have now nearly finished the fourth book; it is the most entertaining work I ever read.

I have at last finished the “Thirty Years’ Correspondence of Knox and Jebb.”47 I was beginning to get rather tired of it; the second volume is far less interesting than the first.… Both had an exceeding [230] dislike to the Bible Society, their reasons seeming to be that it receives the support of all denominations of religion indiscriminately, and that it publishes the Bible without comment, neither of which appears to me to be any objection. They had a dislike, however, to the whole Evangelical party. By the way, I have a great horror of this division of Christians into two parties.… In Devonshire the two parties will not even speak to each other; they each profess to hate the other, and avoid them as serpents; even my cousins say, “If you find that any persons have prayer-meetings, they are of the professing party—avoid them!” I cannot bear that prayer-meetings, or the Bible Society, or anything else should be made a test of party. I abhor tests.

… The sensation created through half the south of England by the late catastrophe at Southampton is really extraordinary, and amounts to a mania. Subscriptions for the survivors and the destitute families have been received from Winchester, Oxford, London, and many other places. Above £4000 have been collected, which is more than is wanted, and is a great pity; for these are not the only objects deserving of charity, and such extravagant aid to these will render it difficult to give adequate assistance to others.

… The little village of Cadnam is celebrated for its oak, which is said to put forth leaves on Christmas Day. This, called the Cadnam Oak, is described in the Saturday Magazine. It is a small half-withered tree, with part of the trunk gone, and only one bough left; it stands on a rising ground close to the road, on the banks of a rill, with a vigorous young tree by it, just as represented in the Saturday Magazine. We have been talking about this tree lately, and resolving to examine it at Christmas, for it appears that about that time it really does shoot forth. This evening Mr. Trower, who had visited it in his walk with Henry Mallet, brought me two little twigs [231] from it, which he had found with great difficulty high up in the tree. One of these twigs has two young leaves perfectly formed, and the other one smaller ones. The largest leaf is about two inches long. Both twigs are covered with little brown buds, but this is the case also with all trees at this time of year. It is almost a fortnight before the reputed time of sprouting.… Even though the oaks and beeches are bare, there is still great variety in the foliage—the contrast of brown woods in the foreground, blue woods in the distance, and, close to the roads, of bright green hollies with scarlet berries, ivy round the naked stems of the oaks, moss on those of the beeches, and hawthorns hung with festoons of ivy and thick grey lichens.

Well, it is of no use to go on always struggling with weakness and incapability of exertion. I cannot hold out for ever; and now I begin to feel thoroughly ill. I am afraid I must relax.

I have now concluded my batch of writings for the Penny Magazine, and I find it no small relief to be rid for the present of the cares of authorship! I do not think I could have gone on with it much longer, in my present state of health, especially as I am now suffering from pain in the side. How ridiculous that, at the age of seventeen, I should have anything to do with the cares of authorship! It makes me laugh. The articles I have just finished are, “Account of the Willow-wren,” “A Tame Squirrel,” and “Anecdotes of Dogs.”

… Being as usual wakeful at night, I could do nothing but think of Matilda and her arrival to-morrow, when a striking couplet of Cowley’s,48 which I have always admired, darted forcibly into my mind—

       “Hope, thou bold taster of delight,

Which, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour’st it quite!”

Tilla and I fell into a long theological discussion about regeneration, the new birth, and the use of baptism, [232] points on which we disagree … It was very foolish of us to enter into the controversy, for we were neither of us qualified to decide on so deep a question. We certainly did not succeed in convincing one another, and ended by ascertaining that, after all, we agreed in loving each other very dearly.

… When I was with her (Tilla) in her room at night, she showed me some little pencil notes of E. S.—the only relic she has of that sweet and lovely girl. I read them, small and insignificant as they are in themselves, with the deepest interest; and I could not repress my tears when Tilla again talked about her now sainted friend. I never heard of any one like her; I do not suppose another E. S. ever existed. It is strange I should enter so much into the story of one so utterly unknown to me; and yet I do, as strongly as if she had been my friend too. I seem to have the image of her before me with the distinctness of reality.

… The clock had done striking, I jumped up, and stood an instant, saying, “It has struck twelve, and I am eighteen years old.” …

And am I really eighteen years old? Am I no longer a child, and are so many of the years allotted to me for intellectual and spiritual improvement already past? How quickly they have flown! How appalling is the progress of time, and the approach of eternity! To me, that eternity is perhaps not far distant; let me improve life to the utmost while it is yet mine, and if my span on earth must indeed be short, may it yet be long enough to fit me for an endless existence in the presence of my God.

Papa spent the evening in finishing to us “Othello.” What shall I say of this wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful work? To criticize it were absurd, to attempt an elaborate investigation of its merits [233] were hopeless. The only way in which I can praise it is by speaking of its effects on us all. It harrowed our feelings to a degree I never saw equalled amongst us, and produced an emotion which even astonished ourselves.… We could not speak, even to thank papa, or to express our opinion of the play. Neither shall I attempt to do so now, except to say briefly that I think it a work none has or ever can equal; it is the most glorious effort of human genius, and as much surpasses any expectations that can be formed of it, as it interests you intensely while you hear it, and astonishes you with its almost miraculous display of mental power when it is concluded, and you think it over. When I went up to Tilla’s room, I found her still with eyes full of tears; she threw her arms round my neck, and said, “Oh, Emily, I wish Shakespeare did not write so beautifully, or I wish your father did not read so beautifully, or I wish I were not a fool!”

We had this evening a little party.… And now, if I chose, I could pen an amusing and ludicrous account of the evening, and hold up to ridicule several of those who formed the party; shall I, or shall I not? I think not, though such subjects would give variety to my journal, and make it far more entertaining to write. It is no little amusement to me to watch and study characters, manners, and faces in my own mind; but to put all these observations to paper would occupy some time, and be very unsafe. And what is the good of representing in a ridiculous light the errors or follies of our acquaintance, or noticing them at all, except to avoid them and profit by the example?

I have been peeping, almost for the first time, into the celebrated “Pickwick Papers.” My brothers and sisters, and even papa and mamma, who read them with the keenest relish, have long revelled in them, and admire their wit and talent exceedingly. There seems no doubt that they are exquisitely faithful delineations of [234] real life, and also that they have as little coarseness as the nature of the subject will allow; indeed, their talent is unquestioned, except when the author attempts the pathetic. Still I cannot make up my mind to go through them all; a little of them is quite enough to satisfy me.