Chapter VII: Part IV (3)

I cannot echo your severe remarks on the Queen, though I am _quite_ willing to second your praise of the Prince Consort. Her Most Gracious Majesty is--excuse me--a subject I feel rather strongly about. We are not--as an age--guilty of much weakness in the way of over loyalty to anything or any person, and I cannot help at times thinking that it must be a painful enough reflection to a woman like Queen Victoria, who at any rate is as well read in the history and constitution of England as most of us, to know what harvests of love and loyalty have been reaped by Princes who lived for themselves and not for their people, who were fortunate in the accidents of more power and less conscience, and of living in times when you couldn't get your sovereign's portrait for a penny, or suggest to the loyal and well-behaved Commons that if the King's health was not equal to all that you thought fit, you would rather he abdicated. When one thinks of all that noble hearts bled and suffered and held their peace for--to prop up the throne of Stuart--of all the vices that have been forgiven, the weaknesses that have been covered, the injustice that has been endured from Kings--when one thinks--if _she_ thinks!--of all that has been suffered from successive mistresses and favourites of royalty a thousand times more easily than she can be forgiven for (grant it!) a weak and selfish grief for a noble husband--it is enough to make one wonder if nations are not like dogs--better for beating. If the Queen could cut off a few more heads, and subscribed to a few less charities, if she were a little less virtuous, and a little more tyrannical, if she borrowed her subjects' plate and repudiated her debts, instead of reducing her household expenses, and regulating court mournings by the interests of trade, I am very much afraid we should be a more loyal people! If we had a slender-limbed Stuart who insisted upon travelling with his temporary favourite when the lives and livelihoods of the best blood of Britain were being staked for his throne whilst he amused himself, I suppose we should wear white favours, and believe in the divine right of Kings. It must be impossible for her to forget that the Prince, whom death has proved to be worthy of the praise most people now accord him, was far from popular in his lifetime, and the pet gibe and sport of _Punch_. I suppose when she is dead or abdicated we shall discover that England has had few better sovereigns--and one can only hope that the reflection may not be additionally stimulated by the recurrence of her successor to some of the more popular--if not beneficial--peculiarities of former reigns. It is true that then we might kick royalty overboard altogether, but, judging by the United States, I don't know that we should benefit even on the points where one might most expect to do so. In truth, I believe that the virtue of loyalty is extinct and must be--except under one or two conditions. Either more royal prerogative than we have--or in the substitution of a loyal affection that shall in each member of the commonwealth cover and be silent over the weak points which the publicity of the present day exposes to vulgar criticism--for the spirit which used to give the blood and possessions which are not exacted of us. This is why the Queen's books do not trouble _my_ feelings about her. She is no great writer certainly, and has perhaps made a mistake in thinking that they would do good. I think they will do good with a certain class, perhaps they lower her in the eyes of others. I do think myself that the virtues she (and even her books incidentally) display are so great, and her weaknesses comparatively so small, that one's loyalty must be little indeed if one cannot honour her. "Them's my sentiments." I am ashamed to have bored you with them at such length.

I wonder whether you thought of us yesterday? But I know you did! We had planned a Johnny Gilpin out for the day, but it proved impossible. So we spent it thus--A.M. Full Cathedral Service with the Holy Communion, which was very nice, though, as it was a Feast Day, the service was later than usual, so it took all our morning. Rex played the organ. We spent most of the afternoon in tuning the organ, and then R. went off to mesmerize a man for neuralgia, and I went up town to try and get something good for dinner!

I am very happy, though at times one _longs_ to see certain faces. But GOD is very good, and I have all that I can desire almost.

The Spring flowers are very lovely, some of them. I must go out. Adieu.

_Best_ love to your Mother and all, to Lucy especially.

Your ever affectionate, J.H.E.

TO MRS. GATTY.

_Fredericton._ June 8, 1868.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,

Does the above sketch give you the faintest idea of what it is to paddle up and down these lovely rivers with their smaller tributaries and winding creeks, on a still sunny afternoon? It really is the most fascinating amusement we have tried yet. Mr. Bliss took us out the other day, it being the first time either of us was in a canoe, and Rex took one of the paddles, and got on so well that we intend to have a canoe of our own. Peter Poultice is building it, and I hope soon to send you a sketch of Rex paddling his own canoe! Of us, I may say, for I tried a paddle to-day, and mean to have a little one of my own to give _my_ valuable assistance in helping the canoe along. Next month when Rex can get away we think of going up the river to "Grand Falls" (the next thing to Niagara, they say) by steamer, taking our canoe with us, and then paddling ourselves home with the stream. About eighty miles. Of course we should do it bit by bit, sleeping at stopping-places. One art Rex has not yet acquired, and it _looks_ awful! A sort of juggler's trick, that of _carrying_ his canoe. Imagine taking hold of the side of a canoe that would hold six people, throwing it up and overturning it neatly on your head, without injuring either your own skull or the canoe's bottom.... This canoeing is really a source of great pleasure to us, and will more thaw double the enjoyment of summer to me. With a canoe Rex can "pull" me to a hundred places where a short walk from the shore will give me sketching, botanizing, and all I want! Moreover, the summer heat at times oppresses my head, and then to get on the water gives a cool breeze, and _freshens one up_ in a way that made me think of what it must be to people in India to get to "the hills." I have never wished for some of you more than on this lovely river, gliding about close to the water (you sit on the very bottom of the canoe), all the trees just bursting into green, and the water reflecting everything exquisitely. Kingfishers and all kinds of birds flitting about and singing unfamiliar songs; bob-o-links going "twit-twit," little yellow birds, kingbirds, crows, and the robin-thrushes everywhere. I landed to-day at one place, and went into a wood to try and get flowers. I only got one good one, but it was very lovely! Two crows were making wild cries for the loss of one of their young ones which some boys had taken, and as I went on I heard the queer chirrup (like a bird's note) of Adjidaumo the squirrel! and he ran across my path and into a hollow tree. It is a much smaller squirrel than ours, about the size of a water rat, and beautifully striped.

The only drawback to the paddling is that the beloved Hector cannot go with us. He would endanger the safety of the canoe. One has to sit very still....

June 16, 1868.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,

We sent off the first part of "Kerguelen's Land" yesterday.... Rex is so much pleased with the story that _I_ am quite in spirits about it, and hope you may think as favourably. He thinks if you read the end bit before you get the rest you will never like it, and yet I am very anxious to take the chance of the first part's having gone, as I want a proof--so if you do not get the first part, please put this by till you do, and don't read it.

Would it be possible for Wolf to illustrate it? If he knows the breeding islands of the Albatross he would make a lovely thing of it. This is the last _story_. There will only be a _conclusion_ now. I have got my "information" from Rex, and "Homes without Hands."--The only point I am in doubt about is whether the parent birds would have remained on the island so _long_--I mean for _months_. Do you know any naturalist who would tell you this? When they are not breeding they seem to have no home, as they follow ships for weeks.

How we miss Dr. Harvey, and his _fidus Achates_--poor old Dr. Fisher!--I so often want things "looked up"--and we do lack books here!...

_Fredericton_. November 3, 1868.

... I _must_ tell you what Mrs. Medley said to me this evening as we came out of church. She said, "It is an odd place to begin in about it, but I must thank you for the end of Mrs. Overtheway. The pathos of those old Albatrosses! The Bishop and I cried over them. I suppose it's the highest compliment we can pay you to say it is equal to anything of your Mother's, and that you are a worthy daughter of your Mother." Wasn't that a splendid bit of praise to hear all these miles away from one's dear old wonderful old Mother?...

To H.K.F.G.

_Fredericton N.B._ Tuesday, December 8, 1868.

... Tell the dear Mother, please, that I got dissatisfied with my story, and _recast it_ and began again--and got on awfully well, and was very well satisfied with it. But Rex read what was done and doesn't care for it a bit--in fact quite the reverse, which has rather upset my hopes. However, he says he cannot properly judge till it is finished, so I am going to finish it off, and if he likes it better then, I shall send it next mail. It is a regular child's story--about Toys--not at all sentimental--in fact meant to be amusing; but as Rex read it with a face for a funeral, I don't know how it will be. I don't somehow think the idea is bad. It is (roughly) this: A pickle of a boy with a very long-suffering sister (I hope you won't object to her being called Dot. You know it's a very common pet name, and it "shooted" so well) gets all her toys and his own and makes an "earthquake of Lisbon" in which they are all smashed. From which a friend tells them the story of a dream she is supposed to have had (but I flattered myself the dream was rather neatly done up) of getting into fairyland to the Land of Lost Toys--where she meets all her old toys that she destroyed in her youth. Here she is shown in a kind of vision Dutch and German people making these toys with much pains and industry, and is given a lot of material and set to do the like. Failing this she is condemned to suffer what she inflicted on the toys, each one passing its verdict upon her. Eventually a doll (MY Rosa!!!!) that she had treated very well rescues her, and the story reverts to the sister and brother, who takes to amusing himself by establishing himself as toy-mender to the establishment, instead of cultivating his bump of destructiveness. I sketch the idea because (if the present story fails) if you think the _idea_ good I would try to recast it again. If I send it as it is, it is pretty sure to come by the Halifax mail next week.... I do miss poor dear old Dr. Fisher, so! I very much wanted some statistics about toy-making. You never read anything about the making of common Dutch toys did you?...

_Fredericton_, December 8, 1868.

* * * * *

Tell Mother I think she ought to get _Henry_ Kingsley to write for _Aunt Judy's Magazine_. The _children_ and the _dogs_ in his novels are the best part of them. They are utterly first rate! I am sure he would make a hit with a child and dog story.

I told you that Bishop Ewing had written me such a charming letter, and sent me a sermon of his? This mail he sent us a number of the _Scottish Witness_ with "Jerusalem the Golden" in Gaelic in it....

To MRS. GATTY.

_Fredericton, N.B._

Easter Monday, 1869,

* * * * *

You are very dear and good about our ups and downs, and it makes me doubly regret that I cannot reward you by conveying a perfectly truthful _impression_ of our life, etc. here to your mind, I trace in your very dearness and goodness about it, in your worrying more about discomfort for me in our moves than about your own hopes of our meeting at Home, how little able one is to do so by mere letters, I wish it did not lead you to the unwarrantable conclusion that it is because you are "weak and old" that you do not appreciate the uncertainties of our military housekeeping, and can only "admire" the coolness with which I look forward to breaking up our cosy little establishment, just when we were fairly settled down. You can hardly believe how well I understand your feelings for me, _because I have so fully gone through them for myself_. I never had D.'s "spirit" for a wandering life, and it is out of the fulness of my experience that I _know_ and wish unspeakably that I could convey to you, how very much of one's shrinking dread has all the _unreality_ of fear of an _unknown_ evil. When I look back to all I looked forward to with fear and trembling in reference to all the strangenesses of my new life, I understand your feelings better than you think. I am too much your daughter not to be strongly tempted to "beat my future brow," much more so than to be over-hopeful. Rex is given that way too in his own line; and we often are brought to say together how inexcusable it is when everything turns out so much better than we expected, and when "God" not only "chains the dog till night," but often never lets him loose at all! Still the natural terrors of an untravelled and not herculean woman about the ups and downs of a wandering, homeless sort of life like ours are not so comprehensible by him, he having travelled so much, never felt a qualm of sea-sickness, and less than the average of home-sickness, from circumstances. It is one among my many reasons for wishing to come Home soon, that one chat would put you in possession of more idea of our passing home, the nest we have built for a season, and the wood it is built in, and the birds (of many feathers) amongst whom we live, than any _letters_ can do.... You can imagine the state of (far from blissful) ignorance of military life, tropical heat, Canadian inns, etc., etc., in which I landed at Halifax after such a sudden wrench from the old Home, and such a very far from cheerful voyage, and all the anecdotes of the summer heat, the winter cold, the spring floods, the houses and the want of houses, the servants and the want of servants, the impossibility of getting anything, and the ruinous expense of it when got! which people pour into the ears of a new-comer just because it is a more sensational and entertaining (and _quite_ as stereotyped) a subject of conversation as the weather and the crops. The points may be (isolatedly) true; but the whole impression one receives is alarmingly false! And I can only say that my experience is so totally different from my fears, and from the cook-stories of the "profession," that I don't mean to request Rex to leave Our Department at present!...

TO MRS. GATTY,

_Fredericton._ Septuagesima, 1869.

... I am sending you two fairy stories for your editorial consideration. They are not intended to form part of "The Brownies" book--they are an experiment on my part, and _I do not mean to put my name to them_.

You know how fond I have always been of fairy tales of the Grimm type. Modern fairy tales always seem to me such _very_ poor things by comparison, and I have two or three theories about the reason of this. In old days when I used to tell stories to the others, I used to have to produce them in considerable numbers and without much preparation, and as that argues a _certain_ amount of imagination, I have determined to try if I can write a few fairy tales of the genuine "uninstructive" type by following out my theories in reference to the old traditional ones. Please _don't_ let out who writes them (if you put them in, and if any one cares to inquire!), for I am very anxious to hear if they elicit any comments from your correspondents to confirm me in my views. In one sense you must not expect them to be original. _My aim is_ to imitate the "old originals," and I mean to stick close to orthodox traditions in reference to the proceedings of elves, dwarfs, nixes, pixies, etc., and if I want them to use such "common properties of the fairy stage"--as unscrupulous foxes, stupid giants, successful younger sons, and the traditional "fool"--with much wisdom under his folly (such as Hans in Luck)--who suggests the court fools with their odd mixture of folly and shrewdness. _One_ of my theories is that all real fairy tales (of course I do not allude to stories of a totally different character in which fairy machinery is used, as your Fairy Godmothers, my "Brownies," etc., etc.), that all real "fairy tales" should be written as if they were oral traditions taken down from the lips of a "story teller." This is where modern ones (and modern editions of Grimm, _vide_ "Grimm's Goblins," otherwise a delicious book) fail, and the extent to which I have had to cut out reflections, abandon epithets, and shorten sentences, since I began, very much confirms my ideas. I think the Spanish ones in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ must have been so obtained, and the contrast between them and the "Lost Legends" in this respect is marked. There are plenty of children who can appreciate "The Rose and the Ring," "The Water Babies," your books, and the most poetical and suggestive dreams of Andersen. But (if it can be done) I think there is also a strong demand for new combinations of the Step-mother, the Fox, the Luck Child, and the Kings, Princesses, Giants, Witches, etc. of the old traditions. I say combinations advisedly, for I suppose _not_ half of Grimm's Household Stories have "original" plots. They are palpable "_réchauffées_" of each other, and the few original germs might, I suspect, be counted on one's fingers, even in fairy-lore, and then traced back to a very different origin. Of course the market is abundantly stocked with modern versions, but I don't think they are done the right way. This is, however, for the Editorial ear, and to gain your unbiased criticism. But, above all, don't tell any friends that they are mine for the present. Of course if they DID succeed, I would republish and add my name. But I want to be incognito for the present--1st, to get free criticism; 2nd, to give them fair play; 3rd, not to do any damage to my reputation in another "walk" of story-writing. I do not in the least mean to give up my own style and take to fairy tale-telling, but I would like to try this experiment....

Monday, April 19, 1869.

... I have two or three _schemes_ in my head.

"Mrs. Overtheway" (_2nd series_), "Fatima's Flowers," etc.

"The Brownies (and other Tales)."

"Land of Lost Toys," "Three Christmas Trees," "Idyll," etc.

"Boneless," "Second Childhood," etc., etc.

"The Other Side of the World," etc., etc.

"Goods and Chattels" (quite vague as yet).

"A Sack of Fairy Tales" (in abeyance).

"A Book of _weird queer_ Stories" (none written yet).

"Bottles in the Sea," "Witches in Eggshells," "Elephants in Abyssinia," etc.

And (a dear project) a book of stories, chiefly about Flowers and Natural History associations (_not scientific, pure fiction_),

"The Floating Gardens of Ancient Mexico," the "Dutch Story," "Immortelles," "Mummy Peas," etc., etc. (none even planned yet!)...

To H.K.F.G.

[Undated, _Fredericton_.]

... How well I know what you say about the truth of Mother's sayings of the soothing effects of Nature! I used to feel it about gardening also so much. Visions of three yellow, three white, and three purple crocuses blooming in one pot beguile the mind from less happy fancies--perhaps too the _largeness_ and _universality_ of Nature disperse the selfishness of personal cares and worries. Then I think the smell of _earth_ and _plants_ has a physical anodyne about it somehow! One cannot explain it....

TO MRS. GATTY.

_Fredericton, N.B._ 5th Sunday after Trinity, 1869.

... We have another "dogue."... _Trouvé_ is the name of Hector's successor. 'Cos for why, we found him locked up in one of the barrack rooms, when I was with Rex on one of his inspections. He is a "left behind" either of the 1st Battalion 22nd, or the 4th Battalion 60th Rifles, we do not know which. He has utterly taken to us, and is especially fond of me I think. He is a big, black fellow, between a Newfoundland and a retriever. In the "Sweep" line, but not so big. He is wonderfully graceful and well-mannered (barring a trifling incident yesterday, when he got into my little cupboard, ate about two pounds of cheese and all the rolls, and _snuffed_ the butter). And another trifling occurrence to-day. We chained him to the sofa, which, during our absence, he _dragged_ (exactly as the dogs dragged _Mons. Jabot's bed_) across the room, upset the ink on to the carpet, threw my photo-book down by it, and established himself in Rex's arm-chair. It was most ludicrous, for the other day he slipped his collar, and _chose the sofa_ to lie on, but because he was tied to the sofa, with full permission to use it, he chose the chair! and must nearly have lugged his own head off. He does wonderfully little damage with his pranks; there were wine-glasses, bottles, pickles, &c., in the cupboard when he got the cheese; but he extracted his supper as daintily as a cat, and not a thing was upset! Oddly enough, when we are with him, he never thinks of getting into cushions and chairs like that blessed old sybarite the Bull-dogue. But if we leave him tied up, he plays old gooseberry with the furniture. I had been fearing it would be rather a practical difficulty in the way of his adoption, the question of where he should sleep; but he solved it for himself. He walks up-stairs after us, flops on to the floor, gives two or three sighs, and goes gracefully to sleep.... I wish you could have seen him lying in perverse dignity in the arm-chair, with the sofa attached to the end of his chain like a locket!!!

To H.K.F.G.

12th Sunday after Trinity. _Fredericton, N.B._ August 16, 1869.

... We had a great scene with Peter yesterday. Rex has two guns, you must know--a rifle, and an old fowling-piece--good enough in its way, but awfully _old-fashioned_ (not a breech-loader), and he determined to make old Peter a present of this, for he is a good old fellow, and does not _cheat_ one, and we had resolved to give him something, and we knew this would delight him. I wish you _could_ have seen him. He burst out laughing, and laughed at intervals from pure pleasure, and went away with it laughing. But with the childlike _enjoyment_ (which negroes have also), the Indians have a power and grace in "expressing their sentiments" on such an occasion which far exceeds the attempts of our "poor people," and is most dignified. His first _speech_ was an emphatic (and _always slow_) "_Too_ good! Too much!" and when Rex assured him it was very old, not worth anything, etc., etc., he hastily interrupted him with a _thoroughly_ gentlemanlike air, almost Grandisonian, "Oh! oh! as good as new to me. Quite as good as new." They were like two Easterns! For not to be outdone in courtesy, Rex warned him not to put too large charges of powder for fear the barrel should burst--being so old. A caution which I believe to be totally unnecessary, and a mere hyperbole of depreciation--as Peter seemed perfectly to understand! He told me it was "The first present I ever receive from a gentleman. Well--well--I never forget it, the longest day I live." The graceful candour with which he said, "I am very thankful to you," was quite pretty.

TO MRS. GATTY.

[_Aldershot._] February 23, 1870.

MY DARLING MOTHER,

I was by no means sensible of your iniquities in not acknowledging my poor Neck,[35] for I had entirely forgotten his very existence! Only I was thinking it was a long time since I heard from you--and hoping you were not ill. I am _very_ glad you like the Legend--I was doubtful, and rather anxious to hear till I forgot all about it. The "Necks" are Scandinavian in locality, and that desire for immortal life which is their distinguishing characteristic is very touching. There is one lovely little (real) Legend in Keightley. The bairns of a Pastor play with a Neck one day, and falling into disputes they taunt him that he will never be saved--on which he flings away his harp and weeps bitterly. When the boys tell their father he reproves them for their want of charity, and sends them back to unsay what they had said. So they run back and say, "Dear Neck, do not grieve so; for our father says that your Redeemer liveth also," on which the Neck was filled with joy, and sat on a wave and played till the sun went down. He appeared like a boy with long fair hair and a red cap. They also appear in the form of a little old man wringing out his beard into the water. I ventured to give my Neck both shapes according to his age. All the rest is _de moi-même_....

[Footnote 35: The Neck in "Old-fashioned Fairy Tales."]

[_Aldershot._] March 22, 1870.

MY DARLING MOTHER,

I am so very much pleased that you think better of Benjy[36] now. As I have plenty of time, I mean to go through it, and soften Benjy down a bit. He is an awful boy, and I think I can make him less repulsive. The fact is the story was written _in fragments_, and I was anxious to show that it was not a little boyish roughness that I meant to make a fuss and "point a moral" about--nor did I want to go into fine-drawn questions about the cruelties of sport, and when I came to join the bits into a whole and copy out, I found I had overproved my point and made Benjy a _fearful_ brute. But there _are_ some hideously cruel boys, and I do think a certain devilish type of cruelty is generally combined with a certain _lowness_ and _meanness_ of general style--even in born gentlemen--and though quite curable, I would like to hear what the boys think of it, if it would not bore them to read it. But I certainly shall soften Benjy down--and will attend to all your hints--and put in the "Mare's Nest" (many thanks!). Tell D. I do not know how I could alter about Rough--unless I take out his death altogether--but beg her to observe that he was not the least neglected as to food, etc.; what he died of was joy after his anxiety....

[Footnote 36: Included in "Lob Lie-by-the-Fire, and other Tales," vol. vii.]

[_Aldershot._] May Day, 1870.

... I have got some work into my head which has been long seething there, and will, I think, begin to take shape. It is about _flowers_--the ancestry of flowers; whether the flowers will tell their own family records, or what the _plot_ will be I have not yet planned, and it will take me some time to collect my data, but the family histories of flowers which came originally from old Mexico in the days of Montezuma, and the floating gardens, and the warriors who wore nosegays, and the Indians who paddled the floating gardens on which they lived up the waters of that gorgeous city with early vegetables for the chiefs--would be rather weird! And then the strange fashions and universal prevalence of Japanese gardening. The wistaria rioting in the hedges, and the great lilies wild over the hills. Ditto the camellias. With all the queer little thatched Japanese huts that always have lumps of _iris_ on the top, which the Japanese ladies use for bandoline. Then the cacti would have queer legends of South America, where the goats climb the steep rocks and dig them up with their horns and roll them down into the valley, and kick and play with them till the _spines_ get rubbed off, and then devour them at leisure. I give you these instances in case anything notable about flowers comes in your way, "when found to make a note of" for me....

TO MRS. ELDER.

_Ecclesfield_, October 25, 1871.

MY DEAREST AUNT HORATIA,

Your letter _was_ shown to me, and I cannot tell you how much obliged to you I am for the prospect of the gold thimble, _a thing I have always wished to possess_.

I--(if it fits!!! But, as I told Charlie, if it is too big I _can_ wrap a sly bit of rag round my finger, but if it's too small, unless I cut the tip, as Cinderella's sisters cut their heels, I don't know how I can secure it!) shall additionally value it as a testimony of your approval of my dear old Hermit[37], for that is one of my greatest favourites amongst my efforts. Miss Yonge prefers it, I believe, to anything I have ever done, and Rex nearly so....

Your loving niece, J.H.E.

[Footnote 37: "The Blind Hermit and the Trinity Flower," vol. xvi.]

TO C.T. GATTY.

_Aldershot_. Holy Innocents, 1871,

... I had the very latest widow here for two days "charring." She is the lady alluded to by Rex when he told Stephen that she had been weighed, and was found wanting. In justice to her physique, I must say that this was not according to avoirdupois measure!! but figurative. She whipped about as nimbly as an elephant. She was rather given to panting and groaning. You can fancy her. [_Sketch_.] "Mrs. Hewin, ma'am, _don't_ soil your 'ands! _Let_ me! As I says to the parties at the 'Imperial' at Folkstone, ladies thinks an elderly person can't get through their work, but they can do a deal more than the young ones that has to be told every--Using the table-cloth to wipe the dishes am I? Tst, tst! so I ham! M'm! Hemma! where's your kitchen cloths? I don't know where things his yet, Mrs. Hewin. But I've 'ad a 'Ome of my own, Mrs. Hewin, and been use to take care of things"--("Take care, Mrs. Plumridge")--"Well now! 'owever did _that_ slip through my fingers now? Tst! tst! tst! There must have been a bit of butter on the hunder side I think. Eh! deary dear! Ah--! Oh--!" Pause--Solo recitative--"Eh, dear! If my poor 'usband was but alive, I shouldn't be wanting now! I Ope I give you satisfaction, Mrs. Hewin. If I'm poor, I'm honest. I ope I give satisfaction in hevery way, Mrs. Hewin, Your property is safe in _my_ 'ands, Mrs. Hewin! What do you think of my papers, Mrs. Hewin? One lady as see them said she didn't know what more _hany_ one could require." (Said papers chiefly consisting of baptism registers of the little Plumridges. Marriage lines of Mrs. P., and forms in reference to the late Mr. P., a pensioner.)

SEQUEL.

"Emma, where's the water-can?"

"Please 'm, Mrs. Plumberridge, she left it outside of the door yesterday, and some one's took it."

There is yet a later widow, but I do _not_ think of taking her into the house. The Widow Bone has taken to _boning_ her daughter's clothes, so _she_ is forbidden the house....

To A.E.

_Brighton_. April 17, 1872.

... I got here all right, and wonderfully little tired, though the train shook a good deal the latter part of the way.

Oh! the FLOWERS! The cowslips, the purple orchids, the kingcups, the primroses! And the grey, drifting cumuli with gaps of blue, and the cinnamon and purple woods, broken with yellowish poplars and pale willows, with red farms, and yellow gorse lighted up by the sun!!! The oaks just beginning to break out in yellowish tufts, [_Sketch._] I can't tell you what lovely sketches I passed between Aldershot and Redhill!

On to Brighton I took charge of a small boy being sent by a fond mother to school. When I mention that he was nine years old,--and informed me--that he had got "a jolly book," which proved to be _A School for Fathers_, that his own school wasn't _much of a one_, and he was going to leave, and ate hard-boiled eggs and crystallized oranges by the way--you will see how this generation waxes apace!!

_Ecclesfield_. May 27, 1872.

... The weather is very nice now. I stayed till the end of the Litany in church yesterday, and then slipped out by the organ door and sat with Mother. I sat on the Boy's school side of the chancel, where a little lad near me was singing _alto_ (not a "second" of thirds!) strong and steady as a thrush in a hedge!! The music went very well.

The country looks lovely, _but for the smoke_. If it had but our blue distance it would be grand. But the

"wreathed smoke afar
That o'er the town like mist upraised
Hung, hiding sun and star,"

gets worse every year! And when I think of our lovely blue and grey folds of distance, and bright skies, and tints, I feel quite _Ruskinish_ towards mills and manufactories.

TO C.T. GATTY.

_X Lines, South Camp, Aldershot._ August 10, 1873.

MY VERY DEAR OLD CHARLIE,

Don't you suppose your sister is forgetting you. Two causes have delayed your drawings.

1. I have been working--oh _so_ hard! It was because Mr. Bell announced that he wanted a "volume," and that for the Xmas Market one must begin at once in July!

Such is competition!

He had an idea that something which had not appeared in any magazine would be more successful than reprints. _So_ I have written "Lob Lie-by-the-Fire, or the Luck of Lingborough," and you will recognize your _Cockie_ in it! I have taken no end of pains with it, and it has been a matter of seven or eight hours a day lately. I mean the last few days. Rather too much. It knocked me off my sleep, and reduced "my poor back" to the consistency of pith. But I am picking up, partly by such gross material aid as _bottled stout_ affords! and any amount of fresh air blowing in full draughts over my bed at night!!

2. I _have_ been at work for you, but I get so horribly dissatisfied with my things. No; I must do some real steady _work_ at it. One can't jump with a little "nice feeling" and plenty of theories into what can give any lasting pleasure to oneself or any one else. I will send you shortly (I hope) a copy of one of Sir Hope Grant's Chinnerys, and perhaps a wee thing of Ecclesfield. The worst of drawing is, it wants mind as well as hands. One can't go at it _jaded_ from head work, as one could "sew a long white seam" or any mechanical thing!...

When D---- was with me, we went to a _fête_ in the North Camp Gardens, and I was talking to Lady Grant about the Chinnerys, and the "happy thought" struck her to introduce me to a Mr. Walkinshaw. They live somewhere in this country, and Mrs. Walkinshaw came up afterwards to ask if she might call on me, as they have a Chinnery collection (gathered in China), and Mr. Walkinshaw would show them to me!... I mean to collect all possible information on the subject, and either to write myself, or _prime you_ to write an article on him some day!

TO C.T. GATTY.

_X Lines._ August 20, 1873.

DEAR OLD BOY,

... I enjoyed your letter very much, and am so glad you keep "office hours." It is very good of you not to be angry with my good advice! "Experientia does it," as Mr. 'Aughton would say.... _I_ break down about once in three months like clockwork--from sheer overwork. I certainly am never happy idle; but I have too often to sit in sackcloth in the depths of my heart--whilst everybody is beseeching me to be "idle"--from a consciousness that, not from doing nothing, but by doing B when I should have done A, and C when I should have done B, a kind of indolence at the critical moment, I have _wasted_ my strength and time, not MERELY overworked myself. Also that on _many_ things--drawing, languages, etc.--I have spent in my life a great deal of labour with little result, because it has not been consecutive and methodical. One would like one's own failures to be one's friends' stepping-stones. I _may_ say too that I have an excuse which, thank GOD, you can't plead now--ill-health. It is not always easy, even for oneself, to judge when languor at the precise instant of recurring duty is spine-ache from brain work, and the sofa is the remedy,--or when it is what (in reference to an unpublished--indeed unwritten--story on this head) I call Boneless on the spine! MY back is apt to ache in any case!... I am trying to teach myself that if one _has_ been working, one has not necessarily been working to good purpose, and that one may waste strength and forces of all sorts, as well as time!

Curious that _you_ and D---- should both have quoted that saying of J.H. Newman to me in one week! I also will adopt it! Indeed "bit by bit" is the only way _I_ feel equal to improve in _anything_, and I do think it is GOD's way of teaching and leading us all as a rule, and it is the principle on the face of all His creation--_Gradual_ growth. The art of being happy was never difficult to me. I think I am permitted an unusual _intensity_ of joy in common cheap pleasures and natural beauties--fresh air, colour, etc., etc., to compensate for some ill-health and deprivations.

Herewith comes my "Portrait by Spoker," and a copy of a Chinnery. The first-fruits of "regular" work at drawing an hour a day!!!

Farewell, Beloved.... Ever your very loving old sister, JULIANA HORATIA EWING.

TO A.E.

_Ecclesfield Vicarage, Sheffield_. Sunday, Oct. 5, 1873.

... It is all over. She _is_ with your Father and Mother, and the dear Bishop, and my two brothers, and many an old friend who has "gone before." Had she been merely a friend she is one of those whose loss cannot but be felt more as years and experience make one realize the value of certain noble qualities, and their rarity; but if GOD has laid a heavy cross upon us in this blow,--which seems such a blow in spite of long preparing!--He has given us every comfort, every concession to the weaknesses of our love in the accidents of her death.... It was an ideal end. GOD Who had permitted her to suffer so sorely in body, and to be often visited in old times--by dread of death and of "death-agonies," parted the waves of the last Jordan, and she "went through dryshod!"... The sense of her higher state is so overwhelming, one _cannot_ indulge a _common_ sorrow. For myself I can only say that I feel as if I were a child again in respect of her. She is as much with _me_ now, as with any of her children, even if I am in Jamaica or Ceylon. _Now_ she knows and sees my life, and I have a feeling as if she were an ever-present _conscience_ to me (as a mother's _presence_ makes a child alive to what is right and what is wrong), which I hope by GOD's grace may never leave me and may make me more worthy of having had such a Mother....

TO C.T. GATTY,

_R Lines; South Camp._ January 4, 1874.

DEARLY BELOVED,

What _would_ I give to have a visit from you! I fear you did not get home at Xmas! Thank you a thousand times for your card--I think it almost the very prettiest I ever saw!

... As I am not prompt _to time_ with my Xmas Box I may as well be appropriate in kind. Is there any trifle you are "in want" of?

"Price ner object," as Emmanuel Eaton (the old Nursery man) (very appropriately) named his latest Fuchsia, when he saw us children turning down the Wood End Lane in the Donkey Carriage on a birthday, flush of coppers--and bashful about abating prices!

... I was on the border of sending you a nice collection of poetry--and a shadow crossed my brain that you have said you "don't care about poetry"--"Lives there a man with soul so dead"--or does the great commercial whirl weary out the brain?--If I am wrong and you like it--will you have (if you don't possess) Trench's fine collection of poems of all dates?

Your ever devoted J.H.E.

TO C.T. GATTY,

_X Lines, South Camp._ March 13, 1874.

MY DEAREST CHARLIE,

I am _quite a brute_ not to have written before. I didn't, because (to say the truth!) I had a "return compliment" in the Valentine line in my head, and I never got time to do it! You know what the _pressure_ of work is, and I have had a lot in hand, and been _very_ far from well.

It was VERY good of you to send me a Val., and much appreciated.

I also owe you thanks for a copy of the "fretful" Porcupine [_Sketch_] duly received. I was very glad to get it--for you have greatly, wonderfully improved in your writing. I liked your article extremely, and was so very glad to see the marked improvement....

I am _not_, when I speak of improvement in the art of English composition, alluding solely to the time when you wrote as follows (italics and caps your own):

"Mr. Gatty thinks that Messrs. Fisher & Holmes has sent more than he desired _he said 2s._ or _2s. 6d._ and he thinks there is here more than that he hopes he will answer and tell me what price the LOT is and how many plants I may take for _2s._ or _2s. 6d._ by return of post or by Cox which will be better Ecclesfield June 1866."

I wouldn't part with the original of the above under a considerable sum of money! It always refreshes my brain to go back to it--and I laugh as often as one laughs, and re-laughs at Pickwick!--the way the pronouns become entangled and after making an imperfectly distinctive stand at "_he said_," jump desperately to the pith of the matter in "what price the LOT is." All difficulties of punctuation being disposed of by the process of omitting stops entirely--like old Hebrew--written without points!

(What an autograph for collectors if ever you're the "King Cole" of Liverpool!)

* * * * *

... I have been staying with M.M. I wish I could impart my mental gleanings. I made several experiments on her intellect. I tried to _pin her_ again and again--but QUITE without success--or (on _her_ part) sense of failure. I tried to remember what she had said afterwards--and I could not succeed. I couldn't carry a single sentence.

Generally speaking I gather that--

"The Kelts are destroying themselves--the Teuton Element MUST prevail--one feels--genius--the thing--Herr Beringer--Dr. Zerffi--but whatever one may FEEL--so it is! Every other nation COMMENCED where we LEAVE OFF. WE BEGAN with the DRAMA and left off with the Epic--Milton's--what-is-it? But there you have Hamlet--where do you find a character like Hamlet?--NOWHERE! That's the beauty of it. The young lady's maid never reads anything--but Macbeth. ANNE I _can_ trust with Faust. I read Lessing myself--and the Greek Testament (not the Epistles--don't let me exaggerate)--with a bit of dry toast and a cup of tea without a saucer or anything. I never sit down till the Easter holidays--before breakfast--I ought to feel--what is it--PROUD. Dr. Zerffi says he'll show A.B.'s papers at any University against the first-class men--and they won't understand a word of them. What were those girls when they came? There's the Duchess of Somerset's 15th coz twice removed. _Its all blood._ My father drove four-in-hand down this very hill in the old _coaching_ days (!!!)--and there's not another school in England where the young ladies read Bopp before breakfast. But the Vedas are a mine of--you know what--_Sanskrit_ is _English_--change the letters and I could make myself understood by a Parsee better than by half the young ladies of this establishment. We're all Indians!"

If her conversation is what it was--and _more so_, her hospitality, her generosity--and her admirable management of the girls and the house is as A1 as ever. I never saw a prettier, jollier, nicer set of girls. H---- is growing _very_ charming, I think. I believe the secret of her success, in spite of that extraordinary fitful intellect of hers, is that one never learns anything _well_ but what one learns _willingly_, and that she makes life so much more pleasant and reasonable that the girls work themselves, and so get on.

It's getting late! Good-night. I wish we met oftener!

Ever your very loving sister, J.H.E.

Have you seen March _A.J.M._? I particularly want you to read a thing of mine called "Our Garden." I'll send it if you can't get it.

_For Private Circulation Only._

(Oh, Charles! Charles!)

Time, 2 p.m. Julie in bed for the sake of "perfect quiet." M.M. "without a moment to spare."

"I SEE I'm tiring you--I shall NOT stop--I haven't a moment--I can't speak--I've given lessons on the mixed Languages this morning--and paid all my bills--Mr. B---- has called--he's better-looking than I thought, but too much hair--and the BREWER all over--you look very white--you're killing yourself--why DO you DO it?--and U----'s as bad--I mean D----. Dear me! what a pleasure it has been! When I THINK of Ecclesfield!!!! You are NOT to kill yourself--I forbid it--why should you work for daily bread as I have to do?--Our bread bill doesn't exceed £4 a week--I mean a month--TEN pounds a month for groceries and wine--spirits we never have in the house--you've seen all that we have--when I was senseless and Dr. F---- called--when the other doctors came he left his card and retired, but we've employed him since--he ordered gin cloths--they sent out--when the bill came in I said Brown! BROWN! BROWN!!--_what's this?_ GIN! GIN! GIN! WHO'S 'ad GIN! They said YOU! Such is life!

"Dear, dear, IT is a pleasure to see you--but I see your head's bad and I'm going--I MUST dress.--May I ring your bell for the maid--a black silk, Julie, good and well cut is economical, my dear. No _underground to Whiteley's_ for me! Lewis and Allenby--they dress me--I order nothing--I know nothing--I haven't a rag of clothing in the world--they line the bodices with silk and you can darn it down to the last--I eat nothing--I drink nothing--I only _work_--I never sleep--I read German classics in bed--Lessing--and the second part of Schiller's _Faust_--I give lessons on it before breakfast in my dressing-gown--this morning the young ladies hung on my lips--I _know_ the lesson was a good one--It was the Sorrows of Goethe. Last week Dr. Zerffi said--'All religions are one and one religion is all--particularly the Brahmas.' It was splendid! and none of the young ladies knew it before they came. But Poor Mrs. S----! She didn't seem one bit wiser. I sent him a Valentine on the 14th--designed by the young ladies. He said 'I _knew_ where it came from--by the word BOPP. Zis is ze only establishment in England where the word BOPP is known.' He's a great man--and the Teutonic element _must_ prevail. The Kelts are very charming, but they will GO. We've the same facial angle as the Hindoo, but poor Mrs. S---- can't see it. Dr. A---- says I must have some sleep--so I've given up Sanscrit--You can't do everything even in bed. And it's _English_ when all's done--and Brown speaks it as well as I do!! _Go_ to India, Julie, if ever you have the chance, and talk to the natives--they'll understand you. They understand me. Signor Ricci sometimes does NOT. But then he speaks the modern--the base--Italian, and _I_--the _classic_. He said, 'I do not understand you, Mees M----.' I said, 'E vero, Signor--I know you don't. But that's because I speak _classic_ Italian. All the organ-boys understand me.' And he smiled. Dear, dear! How pleasant it is to see a Gatty--but I wish you didn't look so white--when I see other people suffer, and think of all the years of health I've enjoyed, I never can be thankful enough--and when I've paid my monthly bills I'm the happiest woman in England. When I think of how much I have and how little I deserve, I don't know what to do but say my prayers. Dear, I'm sorry I told you that story about X----. If she sent this morning for £10 I must let her have it, if I had to go out and borrow it. I am going out--the Dr. says I must. In the holidays I go on the balcony--and look down into the street--and see the four-in-hands--and the policemen--and the han(d)som cabmen (they're most of them gentlemen--and some of them Irish gentlemen), and I say--'Such is life!' And poor Mrs. S---- says '_Is it_, Miss M----?' and I know I speak sharply to her, which I should _not do_. And I go into Kensington Gardens--and see the Princess--and the Ducks in the water--and the little ragged boys going to bathe--and I say 'This is a glorious world!' I saw Lord--Lord--dear me! I know his name as well as my own--Lord--Lord--Oh Lord! he believes in Tichborne--K----, that's it--Lord K---- in the Row. He always asks after me. HE married a woman--well. No more about that. He couldn't get a divorce. HER sister married a parson. SHE was the mother of that poor woman--you know--who was murdered by those people--THEY lived two streets off Derby House--the brother--a handsome man--lived opposite Gipsey Hill Station. You know _that_? _Well._ His wife had a bunch of curls behind (I hate curls and bunches behind--keep your hair clean and put it up simply). SHE--got off and so did HE. THEY--that's the parson and his wife--wrote to Lord K---- and said 'Lady K---- is dead,' He said 'Then bury her.' and he married again at once. SHE was a Miss A., and she said--'I marry him because I've been told to'--but that's neither here nor there, and these things occur. ANN! is that you? My dear, how black you are under the eyes--DO, Julie, try and take better care of yourself--and _keep quiet_. If I were Major Ewing I'd _thrash_ you if you didn't. Coming, Ann!--What was it?--Oh, Lord K---- and Tichborne--well--just let me shut the door. He IS Tichborne--but _he murdered him_. That's the secret.

"ANN! My black silk--go to my room--murdered who? why--_Castor_.

"Now try and get some sleep. If I find you with papers I'll _burn them_. Oh! there go all the drags and Mr. M---- on the box--and there go the 4.45, 5.15, and 5.25 to Baker St.--The days fly! But it's a glorious life. Work! Work!--Keep quiet, dear--I shall be back directly."

TO A.E.

_"Sheffield House," New Quay, Dartmouth._ June 4, 1874.

... The above I find is our _correct_ address, though what I sent you is all-sufficient, especially as you can't land without our seeing you out of our window, as we are almost within speaking distance of the steamer....

From Exeter here the line is lovely. Half the way you run along the shore. The fields ploughed and meadowed, and with trees, and cattle come down to the shore. [_Sketch._]

TORBAY is in this line. The cliffs are a deep red sandstone, the sky deep blue, and the fields deep green!! [_Sketch._]