With few exceptions, I hate historical novels, which, losing the sobriety of fact, are equally divested of the grace which attaches to invention, and present all the whalebone and starch of ruffs and farthingales without being faithful to costume; thus producing a chaos in the memory, and blending incidents and people till we can no longer trace the line between substance and shadow. Emily is the pupil who does you most credit; Charlotte and Fanny are very intelligent, and see their way so well, that if _Em._ were not of our party, the others would perhaps astonish; but old and young, we all flock to your _Pulcheria_, as you have called her from her childhood, to tell us whatever we want to know. Her memory is so admirable that nothing seems _to run through_ it, and she has the whole story of every thing that we see by heart, while, as you know, she cannot imagine herself to be superior to any one with whom she converses. I must tell you, that nothing could exceed the admiration which these amiable, unartificial sisters of mine have excited in Hampshire. How is it that people can relinquish all right and title to understanding or good feeling, in their _own_ case, and yet retain enough of each to admire both when they have met with them in others? I hope that George Bentley has received all my letters, and that he may turn in his thoughts the proposal which I made in my last, that he should meet us at Turin. My uncle talks of remaining here not less than a fortnight. Stanley improves upon us every day: he is a very fine young man, and equally a favourite with us all. I am on the tip-toe of expectation till the post comes in, which will decide whether Arthur and his friend Falkland can come here. It will be delightful if they can join us; and fortunately our hotel is large enough for us to be all together. Huzza!--They will be in Paris to-morrow evening.--God bless you, my dear sir.--Love to Lawrence. Vale, vale, Ever your affectionate, F. DOUGLAS. LETTER XLI. EMILY DOUGLAS TO JULIA SANDFORD. Dearest Julia,