judices, that they really do both as if they were doing something very wrong. It is to be doubted whether Lord Etheringhame, after destroying some dozen sheets of paper, and pens the produce of a whole flock of geese, would not almost sooner have renounced his beautiful bride, than have had his letter to write-only that the former alternative was now the greater trouble of the two. "After all," said the unwilling writer, am only doing what Edward himself advised. I wish I had not been quite so positive when he was last here." All who hate letter-writing, particularly on disagreeable subjects, can sympathise with Lord Etheringhame. It is very pleasant to follow one's inclinations; but, unfortunately, we cannot follow them all. They are like the teeth sown by Cadmus ; they spring up, get in each other's way, and fight. The letter was at length written and despatched; then, as usual, came the afterthoughts of a thousand things left unsaid, or that might have been said so much better. Algernon started up; -man and horse were hurried after the epistle;-but time, tide, and the post, wait for no one; it was off by the mail. Well, an obstinate temper is very disagreeable, particularly in a wife; a passionate one very shocking in a child; but, for one's own particular comfort, Heaven help the possessor of an irresolute one! Its day of hesitationits night of repentance the mischief it does -the miseries it feels!-its proprietor may well exclaim, " Nobody can tell what I suffer but myself!" CHAPTER IV. "Thus death reigns in all the portions of our time. The autumn, with its fruits, provides disorders for us, and the winter's cold turns them into sharp diseases; and the spring brings flowers to strew our hearse, and the summer gives green turf and brambles to bind upon our graves." "You can go no whither, but you tread upon a dead man's bones." JEREMY TAYLOR. IN all the slowness of sorrow, in all the weariness of monotony, had the last few months worn away: Emily recovered from regretting her uncle only to find how much she missed him. It is a wretched thing to pass one's life among those utterly incapable of appreciating us; upon whom our sense or our sentiment, our wit or our affection, are equally thrown away: people who make some unreal and distorted picture of us-say it is our likeness, and act accordingly. After the first grief, or rather fright, of Mr. Arundel's death, and when broad hems and deep crape-falls had been sufficiently discussed to have induced an uninitiated person to believe that people really died to oblige others to wear bombasin; Mrs. Arundel went back to her ordinary avocations-small savings and domestic inspections. To her the putting out of an extra candle, or detecting an unfortunate housemaid letting a sweetheart into the kitchen, were positive enjoyments. Intended by nature for a housekeeper, it was her misfortune, not her fault, that she was the mistress. She was one of those who, having no internal, are entirely thrown upon external resources: they must be amused and employed by the eye or the ear, and that in a small way. She never readnews was her only idea of conversation. As she often observed, "she had no notion of talking about what neither concerned herself nor her neighbours." Without being vulgar in her manners-that, early and accustomed habits forbade - she was vulgar in her mind. She had always some small, mean motive to ascribe to every action, and invariably judged the worst and took the most unfavourable view of whatever debateable subject came before her. Like most silly people, she was selfish; and the constant fear of being overreached, sometimes gave a degree of shrewdness to her apprehensions. Your weak animals are almost always cunning; and when any event, however improbable, justified suspicions, perhaps quite unjustifiable in the onset, then great was her small triumph — that ovation of the little mind: to borrow again one of her own favourite expressions, "Well, well, I don't set up for being so over clever; I'm none of your bookish people; but, thank Heaven, I have plenty of common sense”—as if common sense were occasioned by the mere absence of higher qualities! The secret of Mrs. Arundel's character was, that she was a very vain woman, and had never had her vanity gratified. As an only child, she had enjoyed every indulgence but flattery. Her father and mother had been, after the fashion of their day, rather literary: the lady piqued herself upon writing such clever letters; and the gentleman had maintained a correspondence with the Gentleman's Magazine, touching the reign to which two brass candlesticks in the parish church belonged; which important and interesting discussion arrived at every thing but a conclusion. Her deficiency in, and disinclination to, all kinds of literary pursuits the utter impossi -- bility of making the young idea shoot in any |