For _myself_ you know, that I have no possible feeling upon such a subject. Were I called _Blue_, because I was seen with the Stanleys, or reading any thing but a novel, it would not signify. _My_ walk in life has long been determined, and I have outlived (if indeed I ever felt like the Mimosa upon such occasions) all sensibility to those nick-names, which are so generously bestowed upon single women. I am a _veteran_, and can stand fire. I can endure to be called by any appellation, the _true_ meaning of which, is that I have preferred remaining unmarried to being encumbered by the cares of wedded life; and if heaven have granted any measure of understanding, have chosen to employ, rather than let it lie fallow. But this is my individual view of the matter. Have I a right to place my _nieces_ in society which they would certainly love and imitate? am I to incur for them the obloquy that waits on superior knowledge and acquirements in their sex? impeding perhaps, also, the chances of that settlement in future life which, though I have never desired for myself, and am in reality very indifferent about for them, I am still bound to consider as the ordinance of nature, besides being the point to which the artificial laws of the world are universally directed. Many cares will necessarily spring up in my way as I proceed, but at present, how to steer a middle course between Scylla and Charybdis is my chief difficulty. With the inanity of fashion, and its opposite vulgarity on the one hand; a religion which deals too much in external observances, and the reproach of female _learning_ on the other, is there any _honest_ method by which, without sacrificing integrity of principle, I may _skim the cream_ of _each_ class, and save my children from the evils attendant upon _all_ the classes that I have described? Be my Cumean Sybil; look into the page of destiny for me; say what is before me, and how I shall act. The priest in the proverb, "christens his own child first;" you see that I have adopted the same prudent maxim, and given you nothing as yet, but my own story; but for this you need no apology my dearest Caroline. Innumerable interruptions break my purposes, and deprive me of any command over my time just now. By and by I shall be able to write less selfishly I trust, and repay your kindness by more agreeable matter than you will find in a _dish_ of egotism which I have served up for your this day's fare. Before I release you, however, I must tell you that I was not a little surprised yesterday, by the appearance of an Irish acquaintance, Mr. Bentley, whom I have seen frequently at Lisfarne, and uncle to George, who is, I believe, an intimate still at your house, and Mr. Otway's. When I was at Glenalta, the young man was, I suppose, at the University, for I did not see him, but I heard the girls and Frederick name him familiarly.