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CHAPTER X.

EXTRACTS FROM MISS SIDNEY'S JOURNAL.

A strange dissembling sex we women are ;
Well may we men, when we ourselves, deceive.

Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,

In purity were such,

That not an image of the past

Should fear that pencil's touch.

WORDSWORTH.

DECEMBER 26th. A day of consultation, of disquiet, of preparation for the ball. It went off well. Mr. Herbert, and his friend Mr. Lyndham, after having been expected all day, came in very late, owing to disasters on the road. Mr. Herbert stuns me-he is so vociferous; besides, he never says a good thing, or what he means for such, but he pauses for you to chorus it with a laugh. Now,

this is intolerable. I cannot laugh upon compulsion-the very knowledge that it is expected from me, at once divests me of the inclination. Mr. Lyndham I do not quite understand; he is dif ferent to any person I ever met with. Query, Is his manner natural or affected? If the latter, he is

to me singularly revolting. Of all the petty manœuvres for gaining notoriety, this same prevailing puppyism of feigning eccentricity is, I think, the most insupportable. If Mr. Lyndham does not fall into this error, he has an originality of manner which I like, and I rejoice that I have met with him. I wish Lord Glenalbert had been at the ball. I braided my hair as he best likes it.

December 27th. I sought cousin Dorothy at an early hour this morning, but found that the last night's dissipation had been too much for her. She was suffering from a violent head-ache, and declared her inability to walk; so I wandered alone on the sea-shore. O how refreshing were the cool breezes after the feverish heat and glare of the ballroom! I walked beneath those beetling cliffs whose toppling crags and crumbling summits seemed to tell a tale of "vaulting ambition that o'erleaps itself." I walked on with my bonnet in my hand, my hair waving in the wind, my blood bounding in my veins; and, as the snowy spray came drifting in my face, I experienced that

thrilling conviction of buoyant, springy existence which the sea-breeze alone can give. I walked along that pebbly strand, and I mused till my brain ached, and thought became lofty, and imagination winged her flight into the "dream-land of poetry." I thought of the forlorn feeling of heart-broken desolation with which the daughter of Minos, the lone Ariadne, watched, from her sea-girt island, the swiftly receding sail of the false-hearted Theseus, and I thought how, in anguish of mind and weariness of spirit, she must, from day to day, have strained that aching gaze in vain expectation of her lover's return; and I marvelled that those who had once loved, and plighted their faith, could ever be guilty of the black sin of infidelity. Memory wandered into the cavernous recesses of the past, and I strove to pierce the dim vista of futurity; and I longed for Surrey's mirror, as images many and various came crowding o'er my bewildered fancy, shadowy and indistinct as erst appeared the spectre monarchs to the conscience stricken usurper. In these moments, it seemed to me that my soul was striving to free itself from the manacles that fetter it to earth. Dear to me is the ocean in all its fitful moods, and wild varieties. I love it when it sends forth its filmy spray, sparkling in the sun-beams, like some lavish monarch in gorgeous Oriental tale, flinging pearls and rubies

around him. I love it, too, when not a ripple disturbs its clear expanse, and it reposes in stilly slumber beneath the fond guardianship of the paleeyed moon, who looks down intently on it with her calm thoughtful gaze, like a young Madonna watching o'er the placid sleep of infancy: but better still I love it, albeit that love is mingled with awe, when viewed, as to-day, in its wild sublimity of roar and tempest, when it comes bounding on like a war-horse, who "snuffs the battle afar off;" or when wave rushes after wave, like some hard task-master goading and lashing into frenzy his helpless victim. The triumph of the strong over the weak all the world over. Had I been a pagan, Neptune would have been the God of my adoration; yet why do the poets and painters represent the ocean deity as a young man with hair black as the raven's wing? Surely he should be wrinkled and furrowed as is the "ribbed sea-sand;" his beard should be white as ocean's foam; he should be seated in a light bark of mother-of-pearl; a crown of coral on his head; his trident richly ornamented with sparry gems; his mantle of seagreen shot with blue, and studded o'er with the glistering scales of his finny subjects. Thus would I have the ocean monarch painted. In the evening we had music; Mr. Lyndham sang,—I like his voice much I like his conversation too. We all

retired early, being knocked up by our last night's dissipation.

December 28th. A day so undeniably wet and stormy that even the gentlemen could not move out: so it was settled we should all meet in the library after breakfast, and that each should contribute his or her quota to the general amusement. I meditated making my escape to my own apartment, as did also cousin Dorothy, but they had recourse to the "vi et armis" system, and we "force perforce" remained. Oh! what shrieking, shouting, romping, laughing. Every game that ever was invented to exorcise the demon ennui, we in succession had recourse to. Even poor cousin Dorothy was pressed into the service. How bewildered she looked, and how invariably she blurted out wrong answers, and blundered through all. Her mistakes were provocative of superabundant merriment. Dear cousin Dorothy! her singleness of heart, benignant disposition, rare sympathy, and unfailing self-denial, render her the delight and solace of all who are blessed with her acquaintance.*

Even Mr. Lyndham pretermitted his usual gravity, and was as thoughtlessly gay as a school-boy

* Alas! Viola looked at me through the radiant prism of devoted affection, which evermore throws its own bright hues on all seen through its flattering medium.-NOTE BY DOROTHY.

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