If you liked, one voice, or half the party, might sing, "When the blue eggs hatch," and the other, "The brown birds will sing." Some are doubtful about the last lines, but the word "promise" had a jubilant musical rhythm in my head. However, you can alter it; if it has not the same in yours.... I don't set up for a versifier, and you may do what you please with this.

There is a certain class of child's song which is always taught in the National system by certificated infant school mistresses. They are semi-theatrical, very pretty, and serve at once as music, discipline, and amusement. Such as "The Clock," in which they beat the hours, swing for the pendulum, etc. There are certain actions in these songs which express listening.... I am very fond of the National system for teaching children, and it has struck me that this song is a little of that type.... I am doubly vexed it is so poor, because your next thing to "Jerusalem the Golden" ought to be very good. If you can, make your Processional Hymn very grand, and I will do my very best. I have more hope of that. Would the metre of Longfellow's "Coplas de Manrique" be good for music? It would be a fine hymn measure.... Don't hamper yourself about the metre. I will fit the words to the music.

To Mrs. Gatty.

S.S. China. June 10, 1867.

I staggered up yesterday morning to have my first sight of an iceberg.... The sea was dark-blue, a low line of land (Cape Race) was visible, and the iceberg stood in the distance dead white, like a lump of sugar.... I think the first sight of Halifax was one of the prettiest sights I ever saw. When I first came up there was no horizon, we were in a sea of mist. Gradually the horizon line appeared—then a line of low coast—muddy-looking at first—it soon became marked with lines of dark wood—then the shore dotted with grey huts—then the sun came out—the breeze got milder—and the air became strongly redolent of pine-woods. Nearer, the coast became more defined, though still low, rather bare, and dotted with brushwood, and grey stones low down, and crowned always with "murmuring pines." As we came to habitations, which are dotted, and sparkle along the shore, the effect was what we noticed in Belgium, as if a box of very bright new toys had been put out to play with, red roofs—even red houses—cardboard-looking churches—little bright wooden houses—and stiffish trees mixed everywhere. It looks more like a quaint watering-place than a city, though there are some fine buildings.... We took a great fancy to the place, which was like a new child's picture book, and I was rather disappointed to learn it is not to be our home. But Fredericton, where we are going, has superior advantages in some respects, and will very likely be quite as pretty.

Halifax. June 19, 1867.

Rex and I went down to the fish-market that I might see it. Coming back we met an old North American Indian woman. Such a picturesque figure. We talked to her, and Rex gave her something. I do not think it half so degraded-looking a type as they say. A very broad, queer, but I think acute and pleasant-looking face. Since I came in I have made two rather successful sketches of her.[34] She wore an old common striped shawl, but curiously thrown round her so that it looked like a chief's blanket, a black cap embroidered with beads, black trousers stuffed into moccasins, a short black petticoat, and a large gold-coloured cross on her breast, and a short jacket trimmed with scarlet, a stick and basket for broken victuals. She said she was going to catch the train! It sounded like hearing of Plato engaged for a polka!...

To Miss E. Lloyd.

[Sketch.]
Cathedral Church of Fredericton, New Brunswick.

August 23, 1867.

My Dearest Old Eleanora,

I have been a wretch for not having written to you sooner. It seems strange there should remain any pressure of business or hurry of life in this place, where workmen look out of the windows of the house (our house and a fact!); they are repairing nine at a time, and boys swing their buckets and dawdle to the well for water, as if Time couldn't be lounged and coaxed off one's hands!! And yet busy I have been, and every mail has been a scramble. Getting into our house was no joke, attending sales and shops, buying furniture—ditto, ditto—as to paying and receiving calls on lovely days with splendid sketching lights—they have been thorns in the flesh—and, worst of all, regular colonial experiences of servants—one went off at a day's notice—and for two or three days we had nobody but Rex's orderly, such a handy, imperturbable soldier, who made beds, cooked the dinner, hung pictures, and blew the organ with equal urbanity. He didn't know much—and in the imperfect state of our cuisine had few appliances—but he affected to be au fait at everything—and what he had not got, he "annexed" from somewhere else. One of our maids uniformly set tumblers and wine-glasses with the tea set, and I found "William" the Never-at-fault cleaning the plate with knife-powder, and brushing his own clothes with the shoe brush. However, we have got a very fair maid now, and are comfortable enough. Our house is awfully jolly, though the workmen are yet about. The drawing-room really is not bad. It is a good-sized room with a day window—green carpet and sofa in the recess—window plant shelf—on one long side of the wall—a writing-table between two book-shelves—and oh! my dear, I cannot sufficiently say the pleasure as well as use and comfort all my wedding presents have been to me. You can hardly estimate the comforting effect of these dear bits of civilization out here, especially at first when we were less comfortable. But the refinements of comfort, you know, are not to be got here for love or money as we get them at home. Your dear book and inkstand and weights (uncommonly useful at this juncture of new postage), etc., look so well on my writing-table—on which are also the Longleys' Despatch Box—Frank Smith's blotting book—my Japanese bronzes, Indian box, Chinese ditto, Japanese candlestick and Chinese shoes, etc. of Rex's—our standing photos, table book-stand, etc., etc. You can't imagine how precious any knick-knacks have become. My mother's coloured photo that Brownie gave me is propped in the centre—and we have bought a mahogany bracket for my old Joan of Arc!! We have hired a good harmonium. Altogether the room really looks pretty with a fawn-coloured paper and the few water colours up—round table, etc., etc. Our bedroom has a blue and white paper, is a bright, airy, two-windowed room, with a lovely eastward view over the river—the willows—and the pine woods. Our abundant space mocks one's longing to invite a good many dear old friends to visit one! We have much to be thankful for—which excellent sentiment brings me to the Cathedral. It would be a fine, well-appointed Church even in Europe. It stands lovelily looking over the river, surrounded by maples, etc., etc. (and to the left a beautiful group of the "feathered elms" of the country). There is daily Morning Prayer at 7.30, to which we generally go, and where the Bishop always appears. There is a fair amateur choir, and a beautiful organ built by a man who died just when he had completed it. But, my dear, in addition to these privileges, we weekly "sit under" the most energetic, quaint-looking, and dignified of Bishops—who has a clear, soft, penetrating voice that rings down the Cathedral in the Absolution and Benediction, and who preaches such fine, able, practical, learned, and beautiful sermons—as I really do not think Oxon, or Vaughan, or any of our great men much excel. This would be nearly enough, even if one did not know him; but when we dined at Government House the other night—rather to my surprise, I was sent in with him, and found him very amusing, and full of funny anecdotes of the province. Since when we have rapidly become fast friends. He is very musical, and when he and Rex get nobbling over the piano and organ—there they stick!! Rex is appointed supplementary organist, and to-morrow (being their Annual Festival) he is to play. Last night we had a grand "practice" at the Bishop's, and it felt wonderfully like home. He has lots of books, and has put them at our disposal—and, to crown all, has offered to teach us Hebrew if we will teach him German this winter. His wife is very nice too.... She is a good practical doctor, kind without measure, and being a great admirer of Mother's writings, has taken me under her wing—to see that I do nothing contrary to the genius of the climate! People are wonderfully kind here. They really keep us in vegetables, and I have a lovely nosegay on my table at this moment. There is a very pleasant Regiment (22nd) here, with a lovely band. On my birthday Rex gave me Asa Gray's Botany, a book on botany generally, and on North American plants in particular. Some of the wild-flowers are lovely. One (Pigeon Berry) [sketch] has a white flower amid largish leaves—thus. It grows about as large as wild anemone, in similar places and quantities. When the flower falls the stamens develop into a thick bunch of berries, the size and colour of holly berries, only brighter brilliant scarlet, and patches of pine wood are covered with them.

My dear, you would like this place! My best love to all your people. Isabel's fan could have no more appropriate field for its exhibition than summer here! Adieu, beloved. (I say nothing about home news. Z.'s affair bewilders me. I am awfully anxious for news, but it's useless talking at this distance.) (See Lamb's Essay on Distant Correspondents in the Elia!!!!!)

Your ever loving,

J.H. Ewing.

To Mrs. Gatty.

Fredericton. September 21, 1867.

My Dearest Mother,

The room being rather warm (with a fire!) and having been very busy all day sketching, etc., etc., and having just done my Hebrew lesson in a sleepyish sort of manner—I have turned lazy about working at Mrs. Overtheway to-night, and am going to get on with my letter instead. Rex is mouthing Hebrew gutturals at my elbow, so don't be astonished if I introduce the "yatz, yotz, yomah," etc., that sound in my ears! I must tell you we have actually despatched a small parcel to Ecclesfield. We crossed early one day by the ferry, and went to the Indian settlement, where we bought a small and simple basket of a squaw which she had just made, and which shows their work, and will hold a few of your odds and ends. We send M. a little card-case of Indian work, and R. a cigar-case. These two things are worked by Huron Indians in stained moose hair. The Melicites who are here work in basket-work and in coloured beads. I got two strips of their coloured bead-work, and Sarah and I "ran up" two red velvet bags and trimmed them with these strips for tobacco bags for A. and S. I thought you would like to see the different kinds of work. The MicMacs work in stained porcupine, but I have not sent any of their work. They are only very little things, but they come from us! We have had so much to do, I have got on very badly with my botanizing, but I have sent one or two ferns for you. We were late for flowers. Tell S. the Impatiens Fulva is a wonderful flower. When you touch (almost when you shake with approaching) the seed vessels, they burst and curl up like springs, and fling the seed away. I mean to try to preserve seed. The Chelone Glabra as pressed by me gives no idea of the beautiful dead-white flower, something like a foxglove only more compact. I have told you what the parcel contains that you may not expect greater things than will appear from our little Christmas Box!...

To-day has been lovely and we have enjoyed it. Rex has been with me all day, though when I speak of his being with me I speak of his bodily presence only. In spirit he is with the conjugations Kal, Highil, etc., etc. He has bought Gesenius' Grammar, and a very fine one it seems. He lives with Gesenius, and if he doesn't take it to bed, it is not that he leaves Hebrew in the drawing-room. He undresses to the tune of the latest exercise, and puts me through the imperfect and perfect of חָתָ before we get up of mornings! (He has just discovered that Eden was about the same latitude as Fredericton!) There is always Morning Prayer and Holy Communion here on Saints' Days, and to-day being S. Matthew, we went to the 11 service. After Church we went a little way up the road, and I did a sepia sketch of "our street," Rex sitting by me and groaning Hebrew. It was gloriously sunny, and such a lovely sky, and such an exquisitely calm river with white-sailed boats on it. I have enjoyed it immensely....

Fredericton. 19th Sunday after Trinity, 1867.

I wonder if I send it by next mail, whether you would have room for a very short Christmas sort of prose Idyll suggested to me by a scene I saw when we were hunting for a sketch the other day. If I can jot it down, I don't suppose it would be more than two or three pages. If I send it at all it will come by the Halifax mail. It will be called "The Two Christmas Trees."...

To H.K.F.G.

September 29, 1867.

... I have fallen head over ears in love with another dog. Oh! bless his nose!... His name is Hector. He is a white pure bull-dog. His face is more broad and round—and delicious and ferociously good-natured—and affectionately ogreish—than you can imagine. The moment I saw him I hugged him and kissed his benevolence bump, and he didn't even gowly powl....

To Mrs. Gatty.

[Fredericton, 1867?]

... Talking of stories, if I only can get the full facts of his history, I think I shall send A.J.M. a short paper on a Fredericton Dog. Did I ever tell you of him? He has the loveliest face I ever saw, I think, in any Christian. He knows us quite well when we go up the High Street where he lives. When he gets two cents (1d.) given him, he takes it in his mouth to the nearest store and buys himself buscuits. I have seen him do it. If you only give him one cent he is dissatisfied, and tries to get the second. The Bishop told me he used to come to Church with his master at one time; he would come and behave very well—till the offertory. Then he rose and walked after the alms-collectors, wagging his tail as the money chinked in, because he wanted his penny for his biscuits!!! He is a large dog—part St. Bernard, and has magnificent eyes. But (my poor!) they shaved him this summer like a poodle! There is a bear in the officers' quarters here—he belongs to the regiment. I have patted him, but he catches at one's clothes. To see him patting at my skirts with his paw was delicious—but I don't like his head, he looks very sly!

January 2, 1868.

... Indeed it is hard not to be able to see each other at any moment and to be "parted" even for a time. But to us all, who all enjoy everything to be seen and heard, and heard of in new places and among other people; the fact that I have to lead a traveller's life gives us certain great pleasures we could not have had if Rex had been a curate at Worksop (we'll say), and we couldn't even afford a trip to the Continent! Also if I have any gift for writing it really ought to improve under circumstances so much more favourable than the narrowing influence of a small horizon.... I only wish my gift were a little nearer real genius!! As it is, I do hope to improve gradually; and as I do work slowly and conscientiously, I may honestly look forward with satisfaction to the hope of being able to turn a few honest pennies to help us out: and it is a satisfaction, and a blessing I am thankful for. I only wish I could please myself better! However, small writers are wanted as well as big ones, and there is no reason why donkey-carts shouldn't drive even if there are coaches on the road!...

[Fredericton.] February 3, 1868.

I am so infinitely obliged to you for your wisdom in re Reka Dom, and very thankful for the criticisms, to which I shall attend. I mean to compress it very much. I will keep the river part, though that is really the shadow of some of my best writing, I think, in the Dutch tale describing that scene at Topsham. I wrote a good bit last night, and was much wishing for the returned MS. But the sight of the proof will help me more than anything. I lose all judgment of my own work in MS. I feel as if it must be as laborious to read as it has been to write. Whereas in print it comes freshly on me, and I can criticize it more fairly. It will not be very long when all is done, I think, and I am so anxious to make it good, I hope it will be satisfactory. A little praise really does help one to work, and I don't think makes one a bit less conscientious.

It has been a very jolly mail this time, though the Lexicon has not come. The Bishop's is getting worn with use, for Rex does his daily chapter with unfailing regularity, and is murmuring Hebrew at my elbow at this moment as usual. Mr. James McCombie, the uncle who lives in Aberdeen, the lawyer, has sent me such a pretty book of photographs of Aberdeen! with a kind message about my letter to the poor old Mother, and asking me to write to them. I had asked for a photo of the old Cathedral graveyard where Rex's parents and brother and sister are buried, and there is a lovely one of it, but it is a set of views of Aberdeen, very good photos, and a very pretty book. All Rex's old haunts. Isn't it nice?

[Sketch of Old Machar Cathedral.]

[Fredericton.] April 4, 1868.

I hoped to have sent you the whole of Reka Dom this mail. But a most unexpected fall of snow has made the travelling so insecure that it is considered a risk to wait till Monday, and I must send off what I can to-day. It is so nearly done that I am not now afraid to send off the first part (which will be more than you will want for May), and you may rely on the rest by next mail; and the remainder of Mrs. O. as rapidly as possible. It has certainly given me a wonderful amount of bother this time, and I was disappointed in the feeling that Rex did not think it quite up to my other things. But to-day in reading it all, and a lot that he had not seen before, I heard him laughing over it by himself, and he thinks it now one of my best, so I am in great spirits, and mean to finish it with a flourish if possible. I have cut and carved and clipped till I lost all sense of what was fit to remain, and Rex has insisted on a good deal being replaced.

Fredericton. April 17, 1868.

The Squaw has been making the blotting-case, and Peter brought it to-day, and I am very much pleased with it and hope M. will like it. I would like to have got an envelope case and a canoe, but they are so difficult to pack, and it would be so aggravating to have them broken, so we got a few flat things. The blotting-case and moccasins, and a cigar-case for F., and a tiny pair of snow-shoes. The blotting-case is a good specimen, as it is made of the lovely birch bark; and they were all got direct from Indians we know. A squaw with a sad face of rather a nigh type called to beg the other day. She could hardly speak English. She said, "Sister, me no ate to-day;" so I gave her some bread-and-butter, which she gave at once to the boy with her, and went away.

We have had some splendid Auroras lately. They are not rosy here, but very beautiful otherwise, and very capricious in shape, long grand tongues of light shooting up into the sky.

We are beginning now to talk of "Mayflower expeditions." I think I shall give one to a few select friends. I had thought of a child's one, but a nice old school-mistress here gives one for children, and I think one raid of the united juvenile population on the poor lovely flowers is enough. The Mayflower is a lovely wax-like ground creeper with an exquisite perfume. It is the first flower, and is to be found before the snow has left the woods....

May 12, 1868.

... I have a wonderful lot of gardening on my shoulders, for we have no gardener—only get a soldier to work in the kitchen garden—so I have had to make my plans and arrange my crops for the kitchen garden, as well as look after my own. We have really two charming bits—a little, hot, sunny, good soil, vegetable plot—and quite away from this—by the house, my flower garden. Two round beds and four borders, with a high fence and two little gates, I have nearly got this tidy. The last occupant had never used it. It is a great enjoyment to me, and does me great good, I think, by keeping me out of doors. Rexie has given me a dear little set of tools—French ones, like children's toys, but quite enough for me. They form the subject of one of the little rhymes that Hector and I make together, and that I croon to the bull-doge to his great satisfaction.

Another that was made in bed on the occasion of one of his raids on my invalid breakfast was—

We sing these little songs together—and then I let him look in the glass, when he gowly powls and barks dreadfully at the rival doge....

To H.K.F.G.

May 18, 1868.

... I am awfully busy with my garden, and people are very kind in giving me things. To-morrow we go to the Rowans, and I am to ransack his garden! I do think the exchange of herbaceous perennials is one of the joys of life. You can hardly think how delicious it feels to garden after six months of frost and snow. Imagine my feelings when Mrs. Medley found a bed of seedling bee larkspurs in her garden, and gave me at least two dozen!!! I have got a whole row of them along a border, next to which I think I shall have mignonette and scarlet geraniums alternately. It is rather odd after writing Reka Dom, that I should fall heir to a garden in which almost the only "fixture" is a south border of lilies of the valley!...

To Miss E. Lloyd.

Fredericton, N.B. June 2, 1868.

My Dearest Eleanor—

I can hardly tell you what a pleasure it is to me to have a garden. The place has never felt so like a home before! I went into my little flower garden (a separate plat from the other—fenced round, and simply composed of two round beds, and four wooden-edged borders and one elm tree) [sketch] early this morning, and it seemed so jolly after the long winter. My jonquils are just coming out, and one or two other things. In the elm tree two bright yellow birds were cheeping. I mean to plant scarlet-runners to attract the humming birds. It is something to see fireflies and humming birds in the flesh, one must admit!

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....