but I am not so old as Sir T., and that occupation could not absorb me. I
begin to understand Lady Charlotte and her liking for Mr. Powys better.
He is ready to play or be serious, as you please; but in either case
'Merthyr is never a buffoon nor a parson'--Lady C. remarked this morning;
and that describes him, if it were not for the detestable fling at the
clergy, which she never misses. It seems in her blood to think that all
priests are hypocrites. What a little boat to be in on a stormy sea,
Bella! She appears to have no concern about it. Whether she adores
Wilfrid or not I do not pretend to guess. She snubs him--a thing he would
bear from nobody but her. I do believe he feels flattered by it. He is
chiefly attentive to Miss Ford, whom I like and do not like, and like and
do not like--but do like. She is utterly cold, and has not an affection
on earth. Sir T.--I have not a dictionary--calls her a fair clictic, I
think. (Let even Cornelia read hard, or woe to her in their hours of
privacy!--his vocabulary grows distressingly rich the more you know him.
I am not uneducated, but he introduces me to words that seem monsters; I
must pretend to know them intimately.) Well, whether a clictic or
not--and pray, burn this letter, lest I should not have the word
correct--she has the air of a pale young princess above any creature I
have seen in the world. I know it has struck Wilfred also; my darling and
I are ever twins in sentiment. He converses with Miss Ford a great deal.
Lady C. is peculiarly civil to Captain G. We scud along, and are
becalmed. 'Having no will of our own, we have no knowledge of contrary
winds,' as Mr. Powys says.--The word is 'eclictic,' I find. I ventured on
it, and it was repeated; and I heard that I had missed a syllable. Ask C.
to look it out--I mean, to tell me they mining on a little slip of paper
in your next. I would buy a pocket-dictionary at one of the ports, but
you are never alone. "Aesthetic," we know. Mr. Barrett used to be of
service for this sort of thing. I admit I am inferior to Mrs. Bayruffle,
who, if men talk difficult words in her presence, holds her chin above
the conversation, and seems to shame them. I love to learn--I love the
humility of learning. And there is something divine in the idea of a
teacher. I listen to Sir T. on Parliament and parties, and chide myself
if my interest flags. His algebra-puzzles, or Euclid-puzzles in
figures--sometimes about sheep-boys and sheep, and hu