"Fair, gentle, sweet,
Your wit makes wise things foolish."
Shakspeare.

The intimacy between Clara Rivolta and Miss Henderson continued for a time uninterrupted. The friends of the former were not aware of the character of Miss Henderson; and had they been, they would not have supposed that Clara so much admired and esteemed her as she really did. Old Mr. Martindale had paid very kind and friendly attention to the settlement of the affairs of the late Lord Martindale, and having spent as much time in town as he thought desirable, removed his establishment to the coast, that his family might enjoy the pleasures of a watering-place. So it came to pass that the female friends were parted: but though separated, they were not forgetful of each other. Miss Henderson wrote a most beautiful hand, so small, so clear, with letters so peculiarly well-turned, that whenever she put a letter into the post-office, she thought that the letter-sorter and the postman must pause to admire the beauty of the writing. Not one of her numerous acquaintance could condense so many words into the compass of one common-sized sheet of letter-paper. With such qualifications, no wonder that she seized every opportunity of writing letters. People always do with pleasure that which they think they do well. It would gratify us if we could present the public with a fac-simile of one of Miss Henderson's letters, but our publisher will not allow of it. Our readers must therefore be contented with the printed copy of one. It is as follows:

"How feeble, my ever dear Clara, is the power of language to express the emotions of the heart! My heart is the seat of ten thousand times ten thousand agitating and conflicting thoughts, painful recollections, gloomy forebodings, tender regrets, joyous hopes. Oh, what is life without friendship! And how few, alas! who are worthy of the confidence of friendship. When I look upon the multitudes of people that pass and repass every day and every hour—when I see the common-place, every-day people of the world, and observe how careless and how contented they seem in the midst of their gross ignorance and stupidity, I cannot sometimes repress the almost impious wish that I were as stupid as they are. Is it not too true that increase of knowledge is increase of sorrow? The town is now empty, and yet pa's chapel is somehow well attended. Many people come from the city to hear him, and some young lawyers also from the inns of courts. You would be amused to see their vacant looks of admiration, almost amounting to astonishment, when pa gives one of his fine apostrophes, or his well-turned metaphors. Tippetson is still in town. I wonder what he can find to amuse him at this dull time of year. Pa would go to Brighton if he could find any tolerable substitute to fill his place in his absence, but the generality of preachers you know, my dear, are so dull, stupid, and common-place, that it is absolutely impossible for a person of any sense to sit and hear them; I am really astonished that the churches are so full as they are, there is scarcely one clergyman in twenty worth hearing. Tippetson says he is determined never to hear any body but pa. He was at the chapel yesterday, and sat directly opposite to us. I wish, my dear Clara, you could have seen him. He was so attentive, that he looked as if he was desirous of catching every syllable; and when any peculiarly fine and brilliant expression occurred, (you know pa's emphatic manner,) it was quite interesting to see how his countenance was lighted up with admiration. Pa makes it a point to preach quite as well when the fashionable people are out of town as when they are all here. Fashionable people! Ah, Clara, you do not know them so well as I do, and you need not wish to know them; so false, so vain, so hollow, so haughty! Mr. Martindale is the only person I ever saw who seems to understand them aright. What an advantage you have in the society of such an intelligent man! All his thoughts are wisdom, and all his sentences are oracles. Tippetson admires him prodigiously, and says that twenty such men in high life would produce a complete revolution in the fashionable world. I heard Tippetson say, but he did not know that I heard him, that he intended to procure a little velvet paper book, bound in pink satin and with silver clasps, and that he should on one side of the leaves record the wise sayings of Mr. Martindale, and on the other the beautiful similes that occurred in pa's sermons. I am sure, my dear, you will laugh when I tell you what a blunder pa was likely to make last week. He wanted to go out of town for a few weeks, and endeavoured to find a gen gentleman to officiate for him at the chapel, and a friend of ours recommended a person of whom he had some slight knowledge, and pa saw him, and was just on the point of engaging him, when by some odd expression pa found out that he was an evangelical. It would have been the ruin of the chapel if the mistake had not been discovered in time to prevent any engagement. Poor pa made the best excuse he could; and here we all remain for want of a proper substitute to supply the chapel in our absence. When Tippetson heard of the blunder, he laughed outright, and said it was a pity that the gentleman had not been engaged, in order that he might convert some of the good folks at this end of the town. I assure you, my dear, that Tippetson is far from being a dull man; the fact is, he has a considerable degree of wit, but he is not like some people who are always endeavouring to shine in conversation, and to say brilliant things. Now do you know there is nothing so excessively disagreeable to me as a perpetual endeavour to shine in conversation. Tippetson really does say some good things sometimes; I am told that some of those clever articles in the newspapers which are ascribed to Sir William Curtis, are actually the production of Tippetson. Well, my dear, dear Clara, you see what a rambling style I am writing in; but I don't know how it is, when I have the pen in my hand it seems to communicate the perpetual motion to my fingers. Talking of perpetual motion, what an absurdity it is to think that it can ever be discovered! and yet I have heard people who think themselves very clever at mechanics talk as if it might be discovered; I once heard a very superior man say that the perpetual motion was one of nature's arcana. Oh, how pleasant it is to have a correspondent to whom one can write freely and fully on any subject! How few are there like you, my dear friend, who have any interest in the pursuits of science and the discoveries of philosophy; and of those few who pretend to any relish for such things, there are not many who like you understand the subjects on which they converse: they are mere smatterers. You told me, I remember, that you found less literature and science in the world than you expected; and let me assure you, that is much rarer than even you imagine. The number of pretenders is very great; but real science is rare. I am afraid I shall tire you, my dear friend, but the truth is, I know not of any one to whom I can address myself so freely as to my dear Clara: but if I have trespassed too much on your valuable time by my poor unworthy scrawl, I can only cast myself on your mercy, or beg that you will punish me by an answer as long as my letter: punish did I say, I retract the unworthy expression, it would be no punishment to receive a copious epistle from a dear, intelligent, superior-minded friend. Your letters, my dear, are all instruction and wisdom. I could learn more from one of your letters than from a volume. I am almost ashamed of what I am going to say, I hesitate whether I shall acknowledge my sin; yet confession is one-half of repentance. I must acknowledge—will you ever forgive me? The fact is, I was so very naughty as to let Tippetson have a sight of your letter; and I am sure you will forgive me, if you can but imagine the admiration and delight with which he read it. I know you have too much strength of mind to be accessible to flattery, else I would not mention the affair to you; but the truth is, that he was so charmed with it that he begged me on his knees to let him have a copy of it, of course omitting names, and he was pleased to say that no pen was so worthy of the honor of transcribing it as mine: for the young man is pleased to compliment my hand-writing rather more than it deserves. There, now you are near the end of your labor of reading, and I am near the end of my pleasure in writing: for a pleasure it is to write to such a dear, kind, intelligent soul as my Clara Rivolta. Farewell; let me soon have another invaluable treasure in a letter from your intellectual pen to delight and instruct your faithful and sincere Rebecca Henderson."

This is the shortest we could find of the epistles of Miss Henderson to Clara Rivolta. The young lady to whom that and many more to the same purpose were addressed, thought that there was something extravagant in the style, but took it for granted that such was the style now in fashion, and therefore made allowances; but the worst of the matter was, that in making those allowances, she was led also to imitate the same style rather more than her good sense approved. As we have not so high an opinion of the superior excellence of Clara Rivolta's letters to Miss Henderson as Mr. Tippetson was pleased to express, we shall not favor our readers by sending any of them to the press. It is enough to state that the correspondence continued rather longer than Signora Rivolta would have approved had she been aware of its style and character. Those letters which Miss Henderson wrote to Clara when Mr. Tippetson had left town, and was gone she knew not whither, were of sad and sable aspect. Many and deep were the lamentations that there was nothing in the great metropolis worth living for, and yet there were several young gentlemen then in town whom Miss Henderson had once been dying for.

Though Signora Rivolta did not think it necessary for the sake of her daughter's well-being, and for the purpose of preserving the purity of her mind, to insist upon seeing all letters which she might receive from or write to her female friends, yet the very frequent arrival of letters from Miss Henderson, and the very copious nature of them, judging from the time which Clara took to read them and reply to them, induced her mother to mention the subject, by way of hinting that such a very great intimacy and attachment to so new an acquaintance was hardly consistent with prudence and proper consideration. One day, when a very long communication had been received from the copiously-corresponding Rebecca Henderson, Signora Rivolta took occasion to say to Clara,

"I have no wish, my dear child, to interfere unnecessarily with your correspondence and with your friendships, but it has often struck me that your frequent and long letters to Miss Henderson are hardly proper, considering how short a time you have been acquainted with that lady. I protest to you that I feel curious to know what is the subject of your correspondence. Is it literary, or scientific, or miscellaneous?"

Clara was rather confused, because she was well aware of the rigid and severe judgment of her mother, and she was nearly sure that such a correspondence would not altogether meet her approbation; she replied,

"There are some parts of the letters which treat of literature and science, but they are for the most part miscellaneous: they are a species of written conversation."

"There is very little conversation worth writing," replied her mother, "and of course little worth reading;" but, continued she with a smile, "I must own that I should be gratified, if you would so far indulge my curiosity as to permit me to see one of Miss Henderson's letters, I will not dictate which, one will answer my purpose as well as another. Where the correspondence is so frequent and copious, it must display or form character, and I am interested to know what kind of a correspondent you have."

"I will show you any or all of the letters," replied Clara, who knew her mother's character of mind too well to attempt to elude her penetration; "will you take the trouble to read this, which I have received this morning. Miss Henderson is a very kind friend, and perhaps she is disposed to be rather too flattering; but I can assure you, my dear mother, that, though I am pleased to have her good opinion, I am not rendered vain by her praises. It is her peculiar manner to compliment."

Clara presented the letter, Signora Rivolta read it with great attention and with much seriousness; occasionally indeed she smiled, but that smile was presently checked. Clara watched her mother's countenance with great anxiety, observed its changes with much emotion, and was very much hurt and abashed by the look with which her mother returned her the letter when she had read it through.

"My dear Clara, I must have some conversation with you on the subject of this correspondence. I cannot flatter you quite so adroitly as Miss Henderson does, but I have a much higher opinion of you than she has, for I do assure you that I would never have insulted your understanding so much as to send you such a ridiculous epistle as this. The language of this letter is foolish in the extreme. I hope your conversation was not in this style. You may well say that the letters are miscellaneous. Now my child, as I can only have your welfare in view, will you be kind enough so far to favor me with your confidence as to indulge me with a sight of some more of Miss Henderson's letters. Indeed, I acknowledge to you that I am anxious to see them all: from this specimen I could wish that you had never received any."

Clara had much tenderness of feeling and great respect and reverence for her mother's superior understanding, and she felt very unpleasantly and painfully at the emotion with which her mother addressed her. Her color rose and fell, and the poor girl burst into tears. It was indeed truly mortifying, after having received such flattering homage from Miss Henderson, to be thus suddenly let down in her own judgment, and be thus brought to feel that she was not quite so superior to the rest of the world as she had been led to suppose herself. Signora Rivolta soothed her and spoke kindly to her. The letters were produced, for they had been carefully laid by as treasures of some value. And let not our readers judge harshly of the inexperienced mind of poor Clara; her very humility made her proud: for not positively thinking very highly of herself, when she found herself flattered and complimented by Miss Henderson, she was unduly exalted and gratified; and she began to fancy that she was indeed something extraordinary, to receive compliments from so accomplished a young lady.

Every one of the letters did Signora Rivolta carefully peruse, having taken them to her own apartment for that purpose: it was a task indeed of some difficulty, and attended with much weariness, but she felt anxious on her daughter's account, and would not relinquish her task till it was completed; and when it was completed, her astonishment was great indeed, that such nonsense could have ever been agreeable to her daughter; but she forgot the love of praise and the insinuations of flattery, how strong their influence is on young and inexperienced minds. When she had made an end of reading, she called Clara to her again, and after giving her own opinion of the character of Miss Henderson's mind, she said,

"Now, my dear child, I have one more request to make of you concerning these letters; that is, will you give me leave to destroy them? They will never be an honor to you; if you seek for praise, you must endeavour to procure it in a less equivocal shape than this. Here you are told in so many words almost, that your knowledge is most extensive and profound; that your taste is pure and perfect; that your strength of mind is superior to the rest of your sex; in short, that you possess every virtue and every excellence that can be attributed to a human being. Can you believe that Miss Henderson is silly enough to entertain such an opinion of you; and if she be not sincere, what can be her motive, but merely to indulge her own foolish inclination to talk or to write? I dare say that, if the fact could be ascertained, you would find that she has used the same kind of language to many others with whom she has corresponded; for her style seems to be that of a practised letter writer, who scribbles for her own gratification."

Clara saw that there was truth and justice in these observations, and though she felt a considerable degree of reluctance, she could not refuse her mother's request; and the letters in all their fulness and interest and with all their fine compliments, were committed to what newspaper editors call the devouring element.