features capable of expressing the vivacity she discovered. She seemed to tread in air, and, whilst with winning smiles and captivating grace, she drew around her the people who were at work, the greater part of whom she called by their names, I could not but apply to this innocent enchantress the lines given to the charms of the mischief-making Armida. “In wavy ringlets falls her beautious hair, That catch new graces from the sportive air: Declin’d on earth, her modest look denies To shew the starry lustre of her eyes: O’er her fair face a rosy bloom is spread, And stains her ivory neck with lovely red: Soft breathing sweets her opening lips disclose, The native odours of the budding rose.” I could not forbear uttering this rhapsody to the captain as he stood near me, whilst Mary was receiving the honest admiration of her humble friends. He smiled, but a sigh succeeded. “She is fair and lovely,” said he with emotion, “and as good as she is fair, and as innocent as she is lovely;—but so was her mother, Miss Cowley; yet she found this world a hard pilgrimage!” He turned away from me, and joined his niece. I will now bid you farewell.—Mrs. Allen joins in my blessings for your repose.—Yours, RACHEL COWLEY. LETTER IX. _From the same to the same._ Your letter of Thursday, my dear Lucy, is in my hands twenty-four hours sooner than I expected it; but good news cannot travel too fast, and I sit down as blithe as a bird to thank you for the contents of an epistle which has renewed my spirits, and which will render me the “best creature in the world with Miss Lucretia;” for whose summons I am prepared in order to take an airing, and which allows me only time at present to tell you, that I am happy to find you do not any longer think your compliance with your brother’s request, is indispensible on the ground of duty. Why should he not be indulged with the sight of my gossiping letters from hence? Erase, expunge what you please; but gratify him with the details which you find amuse yourself. Let him see that his sister contrives to make in this dull portion of her life, those exertions which prevent her mind from stagnating. Do not think you err by deviating from the _letter_ of your father’s harsh law, whilst you so carefully adhere to the _spirit of it_. I would no more tempt my Lucy to sin, than I would sin myself. Horace knows that I am not a spiritless, whining, love-sick girl; but he well knows what I have to sustain in my separation from you, and in my removal from Heathcot. Have no fears, I beseech you, as to the final event of such an attachment as the one which binds me to Horace Hardcastle. When he ceases to be worthy of my esteem and affection, I shall despise him; and when I forget myself, he will despise me.