"Algernon, my heart is breaking, and my selfish pen lingers amongst its sorrows, instead of exercising what little energy remains in the endeavour to recal you from a road which will lead to destruction if you continue to pursue its course. You have fallen amongst evil advisers, who are beginning their work by shaking those principles which Mr. Playfair says are our only pillars of strength--our only rock and refuge in the hour of temptation. Your self-denying parents intend to sacrifice the joy of holding you in their arms this summer, that you may profit by Lord Turnstock's invitation to accompany him on the Continent--_profit_ did I say? Alas! how foreign from my thoughts is the idea which that word conveys. No, dear Algernon, you will never gain by his example, and I weep as I contemplate your growing attachment to his society. I find in all your letters now something that spoils the pleasure which I used to feel in talking to you. Why is this, unless because the sympathy which was wont to knit our pursuits is fading away? "You tell me, too, that I must change; you say that I am a rustic--that I am not skilled in music--that I am too independent, and want that softness (perhaps from your description I should rather call it langour), which you tell me is the most attractive feature of female character. Alas! that I am very imperfect and very ignorant, a very cursory glance into my own heart too fatally convinces me every day; but my self reproach does not fall where you would point it. Why should I desire to be no longer a rustic? Is not the retirement in which I live better suited to the unhappy--the nameless orphan, than those scenes in which 'Who is she?' would be the brand of degradation? Is not my simple song, to which you once loved to sit and listen, adapted to my lowly lot, and the natural language of a sorrowing heart? Why should I regret that I am not versed in the mechanism of instrumental music. What have I to do with an admiring audience? "Yet do not believe me insensible to the charms of melody. I am young, and might improve with opportunity. To make the harp respond to the sadness which dwells within, would be a delightful companionship, but it is denied to me, and I must not repine. Oh no, there is but one murmur in my breast, but one murmur on my tongue, and from my pen.