Dearest mother, do I see you shake your head, and call this ill nature? If I thought that a shadow of displeasure glanced over that brow on which I pray unceasingly that I may never be the means of gathering a cloud, I would make a vow against opening my eyes to the ridiculous while I remain in London; but I hope that even _you_ will laugh with me at the absurdities which we must be blind not to see, and dumb not to tell of. If the sisters imagine that my heart is likely to be perforated like a _cullender_, tell them that not a single missile has reached it as yet, "Th' invaders dart their jav'lins from afar." Nevertheless, I am safe, and likely to remain _unscathed_ by any lightning from London eyes. This is fortunate; for what chance would a poor Kerry _bog-trotter_ have of meeting "sweet return" in this meridian blaze--this dazzling glare? "For sight no obstacle found here, or shade, But all sunshine; as when his beams at noon Culminate from the Equator." I love our dear Glen better than any scenery that I have met with since I left its sunny lawns and tangled dells; and, if I may be allowed to compare the moral with the physical world, there is an enchanting refreshment in the lights and shades of a refined yet _natural_ character, beyond all the glow of fashion's artificial splendour to impart. Last night I sat for a short time by a young lady who had something pensive in her countenance, which brought Emily to my mind: and feeling a sort of _attraction_ towards her, I listened to her conversation, in which, hearing some words through the din of voices, that bespoke a love of painting and sculpture, I determined on getting _alongside_, as the sailors say. I did so, and we talked of the Exhibition, the Elgin Marbles, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Chauntry, Canova, &c. but _talk_ it was, aye, "_vox et preterea nihil_." Not a particle of enthusiasm had reached her mind, it only flickered round her lips. She had been in Rome, had seen Naples, visited the Louvre, ransacked every _atelier_ of every celebrated artist in her travels; and, as a matter of course, is come back discontented with every thing in England. I sought as vainly for a single grain of taste in her conversation as I generally do for a strain of sweetness in the music which I daily hear: no;--terms of art and fashionable echoes met my ear, but not a sentiment that originated in feeling: no description drawn by a pencil dipped in the heart.