r hills of
Judea, though, I suppose, down in the Philistine flats of B. parish it
is nothing to speak of, has produced the same effects on the contents
of my knowledge-box that a quaigh of usquebaugh does upon those of
most other bipeds. I see everything _couleur de rose_, and am
strongly inclined to dance a jig, if I knew how. I think I must
partake of the nature of a pig or an ass--both which animals are
strongly affected by a high wind. From what quarter the wind blows I
cannot tell, for I never could in my life; but I should very much like
to know how the great brewing-tub of Bridlington Bay works, and what
sort of yeasty froth rises just now on the waves.

"A woman of the name of Mrs. B., it seems, wants a teacher. I wish
she would have me; and I have written to Miss W. to tell her so.
Verily, it is a delightful thing to live here at home, at full liberty
to do just what one pleases. But I recollect some scrubby old fable
about grasshoppers and ants, by a scrubby old knave yclept AEsop; the
grasshoppers sang all the summer, and starved all the winter.

"A distant relation of mine, one Patrick Branwell, has set off to seek
his fortune in the wild, wandering, adventurous, romantic,
knight-errant-like capacity of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester
Railroad. Leeds and Manchester--where are they? Cities in the
wilderness, like Tadmor, alias Palmyra--are they not?

"There is one little trait respecting Mr. W. which lately came to my
knowledge, which gives a glimpse of the better side of his character.
Last Saturday night he had been sitting an hour in the parlour with
Papa; and, as he went away, I heard Papa say to him 'What is the
matter with you? You seem in very low spirits to-night.' 'Oh, I
don't know. I've been to see a poor young girl, who, I'm afraid, is
dying.' 'Indeed; what is her name?' 'Susan Bland, the daughter of
John Bland, the superintendent.' Now Susan Bland is my oldest and
best scholar in the Sunday-school; and, when I heard that, I thought I
would go as soon as I could to see her. I did go on Monday afternoon,
and found her on her way to that 'bourn whence no traveller returns.'
After sitting with her some time, I happened to ask her mother, if she
thought a little port wine would do her good. She replied that the
doctor had recommended it, and that when Mr. W. was last there, he had