She has a quick comprehension of all that is taught to her; she already
tasks to the full my mother's educational arts. My father has had to
rummage his library for books to feed (or extinguish) her desire for
"further information," and has promised lessons in French and Italian--
at some golden time in the shadowy "By and by"--which are received so
gratefully that one might think Blanche mistook "Telema que" and
"Novelle Morali" for baby-houses and dolls. Heaven send her through
French and Italian with better success than attended Mr. Caxton's
lessons in Greek to Pisistratus! She has an ear for music which my
mother, who is no bad judge, declares to be exquisite. Luckily there is
an old Italian, settled in a town ten miles off, who is said to be an
excellent music-master, and who comes the round of the neighboring
squirearchy twice a week. I have taught her to draw,--an accomplishment
in which I am not without skill,--and she has already taken a sketch
from nature, which, barring the perspective, is not so amiss; indeed,
she has caught the notion of "idealizing" (which promises future
originality) from her own natural instincts, and given to the old witch-
elm, that hangs over the stream, just the bough that it wanted to dip
into the water and soften off the hard lines. My only fear is that
Blanche should become too dreamy and thoughtful.

Poor child, she has no one to play with! So I look out, and get her a
dog, frisky and young, who abhors sedentary occupations,--a spaniel,
small, and coal-black, with ears sweeping the ground. I baptize him
"Juba," in honor of Addison's "Cato," and in consideration of his sable
curls and Mauritanian complexion. Blanche does not seem so eerie and
elf-like while gliding through the ruins when Juba barks by her side and
scares the birds from the ivy.