Huzza!—They will be in Paris to-morrow evening.—God bless you, my dear sir.—Love to Lawrence.
Vale, vale,
Ever your affectionate,
F. Douglas.
LETTER XLI.
Emily Douglas to Julia Sandford.
Dearest Julia,
Here we are, in that truly magnificent street, the Rue Royale, to which we removed immediately after I sent off my last letter. From our hotel we look upon such a world of monuments, that every object which the windows open upon seems to beckon like a ghost, and invite one to hear the tales which it could disclose; but you lived so near this spot when you were in Paris, that you can place yourself in the midst of us, and accompany your friends in every excursion.—I am bewildered! The beauty of the buildings, the foreign air of all things around me, the confusion of tongues, the quantity to be seen and heard on the one hand; then the anxiety which presses daily on our hearts, and mamma’s evident apprehension that the end so much dreaded is not far distant, hang a mill-stone round my neck and chequer every enjoyment; but I have a great deal to tell you, of one sort or other.
Here I broke off; my letter, only written thus far, has lain by during upwards of a week. Arthur and his friend are with us; and Time flies on golden pinions. If happiness be not made for mortals, why have we sometimes a cup of such sparkling brilliancy presented to our lips only to make us suffer the fate of Tantalus? I am driven to ask this murmuring discontented question on looking around, and casting up the sum of such treasures as I cannot bear to part with.