Part 5 (1/2)

HERNE HILL, LONDON, _11th February, 1875_.

I have your sweet letter with news of Dr. John and his brother. I have been working on the book to-day very hard, after much interruption; it is two-thirds done now. So glad people are on tiptoe.

Paddocks are frogs, not toads in that grace.[17] And why should not people smile? Do you think that G.o.d does not like smiling graces? He only dislikes frowns. But you know when once habitual, the child would be told on a cold day to say ”Cold as paddocks;” and everybody would know what was coming. Finally the deep under-meaning, that as the cold hand is lifted, so also the cold heart, and yet accepted, makes it one of the prettiest little hymns I know.

I cannot tell you how very apposite to my work these two feathers are.

I am just going to dwell on the exquisite result of the division into successive leaves, by which nature obtains the glittering look to set off her color; and you just send me two feathers which have it more in perfection than any I ever saw, and I think are more vivid in color.

How those boys must tease you! but you will be rewarded in the world that good Susies go to.

[Footnote 17: Herrick's. See ”Fors Clavigera”, Letter XLIII.]

HERNE HILL, _4th October_ (1875).

All your letter is delicious, but chiefest the last sentence where you say you like your Chaucer so much.--And you need never fear touching that wound of mine--It is never more--never less--without its pain. I like you to lay your pure--gentle hand on it.

But I am not despondent or beaten at all, and I'm at work on your peac.o.c.k's feathers--and oh me, they should be put into some great arch of crystal where one could see them like a large rainbow--I use your dear little lens deep in and in--and can't exhaust their wonderfulness.

HoTEL MEURICE, PARIS, _26th August, '76_.

I'm so very miserable just now that I can't write to you: but I don't want you to think that I am going so far away without wis.h.i.+ng to be near you again. A fit of intense despondency coming on the top, or under the bottom, of already far-fallen fatigue leaves me helpless to-day, my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Oh dear, the one pleasant thing I've to say is that it will make me know the blessings of Brantwood and dearness of the Thwaite, twenty fold more, when I get back.

VENICE, _10th September, '76_.

I am a sad long way from the pretty garden steps of the Thwaite, now, yet in a way, at home, here also--having perhaps more feeling of old days at Venice than at any other place in the world, having done so much work there, and I hope to get my new ”Stones of Venice” into almost as nice a form as ”Frondes.” I'm going to keep all that I think Susie would like, and then to put in some little bits to my own liking, and some other little bits for the pleasure of teasing, and I think the book will come out quite fresh.

I am settled here for a month at least--and shall be very thankful for Susie notes, when they cross the Alps to me in these lovely days.

Love to Mary--I wish I could have sent both some of the dark blue small Veronica I found on the Simplon!

VENICE, _12th September, 1876_.

I must just say how thankful it makes me to hear of this true gentleness of English gentlewomen in the midst of the vice and cruelty in which I am forced to live here, where oppression on one side and license on the other rage as two war-wolves in continual havoc.