8th Mo. 27th. To her Sister, F. T., she writes the day before her marriage :—

* *

I am still a wonder to myself-so thankful for dear Mother's cheerfulness, and for the kindness and love of all around. Last evening, for the first time, I felt as if the claims of the past, present, and future, were perfectly and peacefully adjusted to my great comfort.

She was married to WILLIAM SOUTHALL, JUN., at Liskeard, on the 28th of 8th Month.

A fortnight spent amongst the lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland, was a time of much happiness. It was her first introduction to mountain scenery; and her letters to the home circle she had just left, contain animated descriptions of the beauties around her. A few extracts from these, showing the healthy enjoyment she experienced, and the cheerful and comfortable state of her mind, particulars which acquire an interest from the solemn circumstances so soon to follow, may not be unsuitably inserted.

My dear L.

Bowness, 9th Month, 1st, 1851.

* * * We had a lovely ride and ferrying over Windermere to Colthouse meeting on First-day * * I am almost well, and able to enter into these beauties. Will you be satisfied with seven sketches, such as they are, for this day?

I thought, as we passed Doves' Nest, and read in the guide book, F. Hemans's description of her dwelling there for twelve months, and how many sad hearts, beside her's, had come thither for a refuge from sorrow, what cause we had to be thankful for (so far) another lot; and yet, dear L., with all I see around me, my heart is very often with you, and turns

From glassy lakes, and mountains grand,
And green reposeful isles,

To that one corner of the land,
Beyond the rest that smiles.

Beyond the rest it smiles for me,

Thither my thoughts will roam-
The home beloved of infancy,

My childhood's precious home!

And yet somehow it is not with a reproachful smile, that it looks on me, nor with a regretful heart that I think upon it. It is delightful to think of dear Father and Mother's coming to Birmingham so soon, and of meeting R. this day fortnight.

To her Mother.

Grasmere, 3rd of 9th Month, 1851.

My dear Mother,

* We have had a lovely day, and I scarcely know where or how to begin the tale of beauty. If there be any shadow of truth in the notion, that "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever," we must have been laying in a store of delight which may cheer many a busy and many a lonely hour. Truly, as we have gazed upon the

glorious mountains; looked down from the summit of Silver How, on the green vale of Grasmere, and the far off Windermere; looked with almost awful feelings on the black shadowy rocks that encompass Easdale Tarn, (all that yesterday,) and to-day, passed from waterfall to waterfall, through the solemn and desolate Langdales, under the twin mountain Pikes, "throned among the hills," dived into the awful recess of Dungeon Ghyll, where the rock, with scarcely a crack to part it, stands high on each side of the foaming torrent, which dashes perpendicularly down the gorge, then out upon the sunny vale, and home through the brotherhood of mountains to our quiet dwelling of Grasmere ;-surely all this, and much, much more has made the days very precious for present enjoyment and for future recollections. moon is bright as ever I saw it, and we have lately returned from the smooth, still Grasmere, where there was hardly ripple enough to multiply its image; and where we could have sat for hours, nourishing the calm and solemn thoughts we had just brought from the quiet corner of the church-yard where we had sat by Wordsworth's grave. It was growing, dark, but we could just read on the plain slate head stone, the sole inscription"William Wordsworth."

The

But I cannot make you fully imagine these scenes, so varied, so picturesque. How little pleasure I had in anticipating this journey, while those formidable things lay between! The thought of the mountains seemed not worth a straw, and now looking back to only this day week is wonderful. Home still smiles upon me

M

like a lake that catches a sunbeam; and sometimes I

feel truly thankful that the way that I knew not, has led me here.

*

The thought of seeing you is bright indeed.

Thy loving Daughter,

ELIZA.

To her Sister.

Lodore Inn, 5th of 9th Month, 1851.

My beloved M.

I am glad to say that we still have very fine weather. At Keswick we were planning how we could see Frederick Myers, but that evening his widow was returning to the parsonage with her three fatherless children, and we could only look on the family vault in the lovely church yard, the school-room, library, etc., and think of his anticipations, now no doubt so happily realized, of the "well done,' which it will be heaven to hear." A fine black storm hung over Skiddaw and Saddleback, and such a rainbow spanned it. The western sky was full of the sunset, and the lake lay in lovely repose beneath. Of the clouds we really cannot say more than that they are often very beautiful, and sometimes dress up the mountains in grandeur not their own; but I have seen none that might not be Cornish clouds.

To her Father.

Scale Hill Hotel, Sth of 9th Month, 1851.

My beloved Father,

On Seventh-day, after breakfast at Lodore, we set off for a treat indeed-a canter up Borrowdale. The morning splendid. Keswick lake sparkling behind us. The crags of Borrowdale in the blue misty sunshine of morning, overhung by not less beautiful shades. We were quite glad to get to this sort of mountain scenery again, which we had so enjoyed at Grasmere, and leave smooth, bare, pyramidal Skiddaw and its "ancient" fellows behind. We at last ascended the steep zigzag, which begins Sty Head Pass, confirming our resolution now and then, by admiring the plodding industry of our mountain horses. It was indeed pleasant when the last gate was opened and we were safe within the wall of rough stones which headed the steep ascent, and we could wind more at leisure beside the foaming "beck" which runs out of Sty Head Tarn. This desolate mountain lake was soon reached, and the noble dark Scawfell Pikes-the highest mountain in England, (3166 feet) were its majestic back-ground. But that we had been gradually inured to such scenes, this would indeed have been the most impressive we have beheld. On we rode till deep shady Wastdale opened below us, and we found ourselves at the head of the Pass.

I have enjoyed this journey very much more than I expected, and the weather, on the whole, has been