Hers is the real and uncentred poetry of being, which pervades and
surrounds her as with an air, which peoples her visions and animates
her love, which shrinks from earth into itself, and finds marvel and
meditation in all that it beholds within, and which spreads even over
the heaven in whose faith she so ardently believes the mystery and the
tenderness of romance.


LETTER I.

FROM LADY FLORA ARDENNE TO MISS ELEANOR TREVANION.

You say that I have not written to you so punctually of late as I used
to do before I came to London, and you impute my negligence to the
gayeties and pleasures by which I am surrounded. Eh bien! my dear
Eleanor, could you have thought of a better excuse for me? You know
how fond we--ay, dearest, you as well as I--used to be of dancing, and
how earnestly we were wont to anticipate those children's balls at my
uncle's, which were the only ones we were ever permitted to attend. I
found a stick the other day, on which I had cut seven notches,
significant of seven days more to the next ball; we reckoned time by
balls then, and danced chronologically. Well, my dear Eleanor, here I
am now, brought out, tolerably well-behaved, only not dignified
enough, according to Mamma,--as fond of laughing, talking, and dancing
as ever; and yet, do you know, a ball, though still very delightful,
is far from being the most important event in creation; its
anticipation does not keep me awake of a night: and what is more to
the purpose, its recollection does not make me lock up my writing-
desk, burn my portefeuille, and forget you, all of which you seem to
imagine it has been able to effect.