an Englishwoman, in rank something between a lady’s-maid and a nursery governess.  The difference in country and religion makes a broad line of demarcation between us and all the rest.  We are completely isolated in the midst of numbers.  Yet I think I am never unhappy; my present life is so delightful, so congenial to my own nature, compared to that of a governess.  My time, constantly occupied, passes too rapidly.  Hitherto both Emily and I have had good health, and therefore we have been able to work well.  There is one individual of whom I have not yet spoken—­M.  Heger, the husband of Madame.  He is professor of rhetoric, a man of power as to mind, but very choleric and irritable in temperament.  He is very angry with me just at present, because I have written a translation which he chose to stigmatize as ‘peu correcte’.  He did not tell me so, but wrote the word on the margin of my book, and asked, in brief stern phrase, how it happened that my compositions were always better than my translations? adding that the thing seemed to him inexplicable.  The fact is, some weeks ago, in a high-flown humour, he forbade me to use either dictionary or grammar in translating the most difficult English compositions into French.  This makes the task rather arduous, and compels me every now and then to introduce an English word, which nearly plucks the eyes out of his head when he sees it.  Emily and he don’t draw well together at all.  Emily works like a horse, and she has had great difficulties to contend with—­far greater than I have had.  Indeed, those who come to a French school for instruction ought previously to have acquired a considerable knowledge of the French language, otherwise they will lose a great deal of time, for the course of instruction is adapted to natives and not to foreigners; and in these large establishments they will not change their ordinary course for one or two strangers.  The few private lessons that M. Heger has vouchsafed to give us, are, I suppose, to be considered a great favour; and I can perceive they have already excited much spite and jealousy in the school.

You will abuse this letter for being short and dreary, and there are a hundred things which I want to tell you, but I have not time.  Brussels is a beautiful city.  The Belgians hate the English.  Their external morality is more rigid than ours.  To lace the stays without a handkerchief on the neck is considered a disgusting piece of indelicacy.

To A FRIEND

Curates to tea

[1845.]

You thought I refused you coldly, did you?  It was a queer sort of coldness, when I would have given my ears to say Yes, and was obliged to say No.  Matters, however, are now a little changed.  Anne is come home, and her presence certainly makes me feel more at liberty.  Then, if all be well, I will come and see you.  Tell me only when I must come.  Mention the week and the day.  Have