for
her to travel comfortably. It is funny--the shops for her purchases of
clothes, necessaries, etc., are specified; she may order to any extent.
Not a shilling of money for her poor purse. What can be the secret of
that? He does nothing without an object. To me, uniformly civil, no
irony, few compliments. Livia writes, that I am commended for keeping
Janey company. What can be the secret of a man scrupulously just with
one hand, and at the same time cruel with the other? Mr. Woodseer says,
his wealth:--"More money than is required for their needs, men go into
harness to Plutus,"--if that is clever.

'I have written my husband--as Janey ceases to call her own; and it was
pretty and touching to hear her "my husband."--Oh! a dull letter. But he
is my husband though he keeps absent--to be longed for--he is my husband
still, my husband always. Chillon is Henrietta's husband, the world
cries out, and when she is flattered she does the like, for then it is
not too presumptuous that she should name Henrietta Chillon's wife.
In my ears, husband has the sweeter sound. It brings an angel from
overhead. Will it bring him one-half hour sooner? My love! My dear! If
it did, I should be lisping "husband, husband, husband" from cock-crow
to owl's cry. Livia thinks the word foolish, if not detestable. She and
I have our different opinions. She is for luxury. I choose poverty and
my husband. Poverty has its beauty, if my husband is the sun of it. Elle
radote. She would not have written so dull a letter to her husband
if she had been at the opera last night, or listened to a distant
street-band. No more--the next line would be bleeding. He should have
her blood too, if that were her husband's--it would never be; but if
it were for his good in the smallest way. Chillon's wish is to give his
blood for them he loves. Never did woman try more to write worthily to
her absent lord and fall so miserably into the state of dripping
babe from bath on nurse's knee. Cover me, my lord; and love, my cause
for--no, my excuse, my refuge from myself. We are one? Oh! we are
one!--and we have been separated eight and twenty days.

'HENRIETTA KIRBY-LEVELLIER.'

That was a letter for the husband and lover to receive in a foreign land
and be warmed.

The tidings of Carinthia washed him clean of the grimy district where
his waxen sister had developed her stubborn insensibility;--resembling
craziness, every perversion of the refinement de