with regret, and looking forward to none with greater pleasure than curiosity and change. Were I rich, 'I'd make a tour, and then I'd write it.' I think I could write a most delightful 'journey of a genius.' I would confine myself to portrait-painting. Altered as I am in tastes, feelings (if I have any), I must say I retain my old admiration for my aunt. She is a most delightful woman. Her powers of conversation are very great. I keep thinking, 'oh dear! what would she not be in London!' I yesterday had a drive with my uncle to (to my taste) the prettiest place about; we drank tea, and afterwards, walking through the grounds, I was shown a tree that had been, two days before, struck by the lightning. It was turned to the most beautiful pink inside and out, for when cut down, all the sap was pink. I wish I could learn if this is at all a known circumstance. What a simile! If any misfortunes happen, I beg I may hear of them; as to any good fortune, as I am perfectly sure it will not concern me, you may keep it a fountain sealed, for I am grown very envious. I am very comfortable here. I cannot, though I wish, be insensible to so much affectionate kindness; . . . . but after all, what is affection, but another of those cheats which make present life distasteful to us by comparison with the future?"

The next letter to Mrs. Thomson, dated three weeks afterwards (ever reckoning by post-marks), contradicts this fearful sentiment; or, at least, its writer shows that if affection be a cheat, in her it only exercised its dishonesty to cheat those she loved out of their troubles; for the letter is written expressly to amuse a sick friend, and is well adapted for the purpose, being lively throughout,