The Home | Page 9

his eyes on a wall, or on any other object. I
immediately begin to fancy that we are going instantly to have a new
door opened, or some other change brought about. And oh! I have such
a great necessity for rest and quiet!
One change which is about to take place in our house I cannot
anticipate without uneasiness. It is the arrival of a candidate of
Philosophy, Jacob Jacobi, as tutor for my children. He will this summer
take my wild boy under his charge, and instruct the sisters in writing,
drawing, and arithmetic; and in the autumn conduct my first-born from
the maternal home to a great educational institution. I dread this new
member in our domestic circle; he may, if he be not amiable, so easily
prove so annoying; yet, if he be amiable and good, he will be so
heartily welcome to me, especially as assistant in the wearisome
writing lessons, with their eternal "Henrik, sit still!"--"Hold the pen
properly, Louise!"--"Look at the copy, Leonore!"--"Don't forget the
points and strokes, Eva!"--"Little Petrea, don't wipe out the letters with
your nose!" Besides this, my first-born begins to have less and less
esteem for my Latin knowledge; and Ernst is sadly discontented with
his wild pranks. Jacobi will give him instruction, together with Nils
Gabriel, the son of the District-Governor, Stjernhök, a most industrious
and remarkably sensible boy, from whose influence on my Henrik I
hope for much good.
The Candidate is warmly recommended to us by a friend of my
husband, the excellent Bishop B.; yet, notwithstanding this, his actions
at the University did not particularly redound to his honour. Through
credulity and folly he has run through a nice little property which had
been left him by three old aunts, who had brought him up and spoiled
him into the bargain. Indeed, his career has hitherto not been quite a
correct one. Bishop B. conceals nothing of all this, but says that he is
much attached to the young man; praises his heart, and his excellent
gifts as a preceptor, and prays us to receive him cordially, with all

parental tenderness, into our family. We shall soon see whether he be
deserving of such hearty sympathy. For my part, I must confess that my
motherly tenderness for him is as yet fast asleep.
Yet, after all, this inmate does not terrify me half as much as a visit
with which I am shortly threatened. Of course you have heard of the
lady of the late Colonel S., the beautiful Emilie, my husband's "old
flame," as I call her, out of a little malice for all the vexation her
perfections, which are so very opposite to mine, have occasioned me.
She has been now for several years a widow, has lived long abroad, and
now will pay us a visit on her return to her native land. Ernst and she
have always kept up the most friendly understanding with each other,
although she refused his hand; and it is a noble characteristic of my
Ernst, and one which, in his sex, is not often found, that this rejection
did not make him indifferent to the person who gave it. On the contrary,
he professes the most warm admiration of this Emilie, and has not
ceased to correspond with her; and I, for I read all their letters, cannot
but confess her extraordinary knowledge and acuteness. But to know all
this near is what I would indeed be very gladly excused, since I cannot
help thinking that my husband's "old flame" has something of
cold-heartedness in her, and my heart has no great inclination to
become warm towards her.
It strikes ten o'clock. Ernst will not come home before twelve. I shall
leave you now, Cecilia, that----shall I confess my secret to you? You
know that one of my greatest pleasures is the reading of a good novel,
but this pleasure I have almost entirely renounced, because whenever I
have a really interesting one in my hand, I find the most cruel difficulty
in laying it down before I reach the last page. That, however, does not
answer in my case; and since the time when through the reading of
Madame De Stael's Corinne, two dinners, one great wash, and
seventeen lesser domestic affairs all came to a stand-still, and my
domestic peace nearly suffered shipwreck, I have made a resolution to
give up all novel-reading, at least for the present. But still it is so
necessary for me to have some literary relaxation of the kind, that since
I read no more novels, I have myself--begun to write one. Yes, Cecilia,
my youthful habits will not leave me, even in the midst of the

employments and prosaic cares of every-day life; and the flowers
which in the morning-tide