my spirit was young.’  This young woman wished me to write to her some time since, though I have nothing to say—­I e’en put it off, day by day, till at last, fearing that she will ‘curse me by her gods,’ I feel constrained to sit down and tack a few lines together, which she may call a letter or not as she pleases.  Now if the young woman expects sense in this production, she will find herself miserably disappointed.  I shall dress her a dish of salmagundi—­I shall cook a hash—­compound a stew—­toss up an omelette soufflee a la Francaise, and send it her with my respects.  The wind, which is very high up in our 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