* * * * * _Ohio._—Since I began to study in the C. L. S. C., I have spent a summer in England and Scotland. Thanks to you and Green, I was thoroughly steeped in English history and literature, which made every place alive with interest. At Oxford did we not wander along the lovely Isis where Addison loved to walk, to ponder, and study? and did we not revel in a mild way under the solemn shade of the venerable trees, and gaze with intense interest at the manuscripts and books of the Bodleian Library? and did we not hear Gray’s Elegy in that very country churchyard? Then, too, we made a pilgrimage to Canterbury, “The holy blisful martir for to seeke.” There were six of us, and we were all of one mind. We crossed the border and made a short tour through Scotland, which included a visit to unfrequented Ayr, “Auld Ayr, whom ne’er a town surpasses For honest men and bonnie lasses;” and to Kirk Alloway, where poor Tam saw such a bewitching sight. The last weeks of the summer were spent in the English lake district, and long shall I remember the wonderful pictures seen from our windows at Keswick: mountains blue and hazy, and again with wreaths of vapor creeping up the sides and capping the summits, or perhaps clouds hanging in pillowy masses over them; and there in the sunlight was the Greta, rippling waves and leaping just as it enchanted Southey, and if I had not known about him, it would have been nothing to me. If there is a paradise upon earth, it must be at Grasmere and Rydyl, sacred with the memory of Wordsworth. There is nothing to disturb the serene, charming place. We sat by the clear, noisy Rothay, and wandered through Grasmere churchyard, where Wordsworth is buried. Dorothy lies beside him. The clergyman intoned the evening service in the church as if it were a tedious affair, and we were glad to be through with it. Maybe he did not think it worth while to be slow and solemn, as there were only five worshippers. May it be your good fortune some day to see the old creature known as guide to the principal fall of Rydyl. As she painfully hobbled along on her cane, she grew quite garrulous over her recollections of the past. H. asked her whether she ever read his poems. “Seeing him and knowing him,” said she, “is a better memory than reading his poetry.” To the C. L. S. C. is due much of the pleasure of the summer. Through the C. L. S. C. I received the first impulse to study systematically at home; and it is my desire to have my gratitude take a substantial form. I remember the scholarships you referred to that Commencement Day. Inclosed you will find ten dollars, which is my contribution for such a scholarship. It is my way to make acknowledgment of what the C. L. S. C has done for me. * * * * *