The rights of the young woman with the
eyelashes would be similarly respected. No
Model would suffer, except in liberty, by the
incalculable addition to the stock of general
comfort and happiness. Over and above
these great advantages, I would concede to
the Models the right of encasing themselves
in all the armour, wearing all the fancy
dresses, lolling in all the high-backed chairs,
putting on the boots of all periods and
striding them under, over, or upon, all the
twisted-legged tables, and pretending to drink
out of all the knobby glasses and bossy
tankards, in the collection. As they have
seldom done anything else, and, happily for
themselves, have seldom been used to do this
to any purpose but the display of themselves
and the property, I conceive that they would
hardly discern a difference between their
being under the proposed restraint and being
still at large.

This is my project. Whether the
withdrawal of the Models would reduce our men
of genius, who paint pictures, to the shameful
necessity of wresting their great art to the
telling of stories and conveying of ideas, is a
question upon which I do not feel called to
enter. To close with quite another head of
remark, I will observe that I may be told
that the Act of Parliament necessary for
carrying out my purpose, is a sweeping one,
and might be opposed. I have considered
that, too, and have discovered the remedy.
It is (which can be easily done), but to get
some continental sovereign to demand it, on
a threat of invasion, fire, sword, and
extermination; and a spirited Minister will
do his utmost to pass it with the greatest
alacrity.

MR. PEARSON.

INTERLACHEN, 25th September, 1857.

DEAREST SISTER,

I promised I would tell you faithfully all the
events of that great day of my life—I could
not bear to think of those things, still less to
write about them, till time had somewhat
calmed the terrible effect they had upon my
whole being; indeed even now I am sure a
recurrence to that day will cause me much
pain—but I will redeem my promise. I shall
relate to you the events just as they occurred
and the manner in which they affected me.

You know how reluctant a consent papa
gave to my engagement with Ernest—how
long and vehemently he opposed it, forbidding
Ernest the house, and using every
means in his power to make me forget him
I was forced into all the gaiety of the London
season, and then nothing would do but I
must accompany papa to the German baths
It was of no avail; I was so very unhappy
that I at last grew seriously ill, and we
returned to England. I know my complaint
quite puzzled that dear good Dr. Roberts: one
day he half guessed, and I half confessed the
cause, and then he had a long conversation
with papa, after which papa gave way, and
allowed Ernest to visit at our house.

It was a great delight to see Ernest again
—to be able to talk to him, to listen to all he
had to say about his dearly loved painting.
Yet there were a great many things to
hinder perfect happiness. Papa and Ernest
never got on together, they are so differently
constituted—papa, a man of business, and
Ernest all for art; and papa never seemed to
be able to forgive him for having attracted
my love. He was often very taunting and
hard to Ernest, hinting that he chiefly cared
for me because I was the daughter of a rich
man. So half the time I spent with Ernest
was occupied in smoothing down matters,
and in trying to explain away the sharp
things papa had said; for I knew Ernest,
with his high spirit, felt all this conduct very
deeply, and I was in constant fear, day after
day, that Ernest would answer papa in his
own language, that there would be a
complete rupture between them, and that I
should again lose Ernest.

Affairs did not improve—all my attempts
to promote a better understanding between
papa and Ernest failed entirely, and then
I became sensible of a gradual change in
Ernest's manner. He would become at times
strangely absorbed in thought, breaking
suddenly away from the subject of conversation,
and appearing irritated even with me when
I attempted to arouse him.

There was evidently something pressing on
Ernest's mind. I tried hard to discover the
cause, whether it was that he dwelt on
papa's unkind remarks, or whether pecuniary
matters embarrassed him; all my attempts
were in vain.

On the second Wednesday in last July, papa
came down to breakfast not in the best of
humour; he had had a touch of the gout
in the night, so by my persuasion he gave
up going to town, and I wrote off to Dr.
Roberts to ask him, if possible, to call on
papa during the day.

You know how irritable the gout always
renders papa, and though I always try to
make every allowance for him, I was
certainly very much hurt by his manner of
talking about Ernest, and I begged that he
would change the subject. At that moment
the servant announced that Ernest had
called: I was in hopes that papa had not
heard the man, and I whispered to him
to say that his master was ill and that I
could not see any one; but unfortunately
papa did hear what the servant had said, and
would insist on Ernest being shown into the
room, remarking that he would not have it
thrown in his teeth that he had again turned
my lover from the door.

Oh, Clara! I could have given worlds if
Ernest had not called that day; I felt from
papa's irritable condition that a collision was