enny postage, when people kept
journals, and wrote long letters--in short, when people had time to think
of themselves, and, more wonderful still, to write about it too.

Lucilla's Journal at Ramsgate lies before me as I trace these lines.

I had planned at first to make use of it, so as to continue the course of
my narrative without a check; still writing in my own person--as I have
written thus far; and as I propose to write again, at the time when I
reappear on the scene.

But on thinking over it once more, and after reading the Journal again,
it strikes me as the wiser proceeding to let Lucilla tell the story of
her life at Ramsgate, herself: adding notes of my own occasionally, where
they appear to be required. Variety, freshness, and reality--I believe I
shall secure them all three by following this plan. Why is History in
general (I know there are brilliant exceptions to the rule) such dull
reading? Because it is the narrative of events, written at second hand.
Now I will be anything else you please, except dull. You may say I have
been dull already? As I am an honest woman, I don't agree with you. There
are some people who bring dull minds to their reading--and then blame the
writer for it. I say no more.

Consider it as arranged, then. During my absence on the Continent,
Lucilla shall tell the story of events at Ramsgate. (And I will sprinkle
a few notes over it, here and there; signed P.)

Lucilla's Journal

_East Cliff Ramsgate, August_ 28th.--A fortnight to-day since my aunt and
I arrived at this place. I sent Zillah back to the rectory from London.
Her rheumatic infirmities trouble her tenfold, poor old soul, in the
moist air of the seaside.

How has my writing got on for the last week? I am becoming a little
better satisfied with it. I use my pen more easily; my hand is less like
the hand of a backward child than it was. I shall be able to write as
well as other ladies do when I am Oscar's wife.

[Note.--She is easily satisfied, poor dear. Her improved handwriting is
sadly crooked. Some of the letters embrace each other at close quarters
like dear friends; and some start asunder like bitter enemies. This is
not to reflect on Lucilla--but to excuse myself, if I make any mistakes
in transcribing the Journal. Now let her go on.--P.]

Oscar's wife! when shall I be Oscar's wife? I have not so much as seen
him yet. Something--I am afraid a difficulty with his brother--still
keeps