Thank you so much for the accounts; how beautifully you have managed them....
It is dreadfully tempting to be so near you all. I long to be amongst you, if it were only just to feel myself with you for an hour or two. You seem to me such a blessed company gathered round that dear old home of ours. But the time will not now seem long before I really see you, and am once more at work. Remember me to all the tenants. Tell Mrs. Moirey she must remember I don’t mean to lose sight of her and hers....
My love to Mrs. Hughes and the children. It is such a comfort to think of your being back to help them at home, and I like to think of your cheering them by your uniform brightness as you used to cheer me.
We had a very nice work class. Andy reads while I attend to the people. They were anxious to hear about you, and were touched at your sending the little presents to the children.... I think I have got a much better set of tenants. M. is very anxious to pay; still I feel it so uncertain with his health in that state. You know he was a year without work; and when he got it, he was too weak and gave himself an internal strain....
It was so nice to see how the pupils had thought of the poor children, and had brought little presents. Mary had brought an ivy root and fern roots, and clothes for the work class. Louisa had cut out and made entirely a lovely dress and jacket for Alice P., and had dressed some very pretty dolls, and brought some splendid flowers. Harriet had gathered blackberries and made them into jam. It is so nice that they remembered and cared for these things in their holidays.
Here I am safe and sound at last, and very cheery and bright. Dear Aunt Emily is so kind; and there is something genial and homelike about being here. The journey from Chambery was very interesting, the Mt. Cenis was so impressive; it was too dark for me really to see it, and perhaps I a good deal misunderstood the things I did see; but it was very quiet and awful and solemn, sitting up in the banquette, so wholly alone as I felt, in the near presence of the great peaks and gulfs and winds and snow; sometimes foaming streams glittered for a few minutes far below; sometimes a great cloud of mist came slowly down and wrapped us round; the horses were many of them grey, and looked very ghostly and unreal under the lamp-light; but their shadows looked like real black horses tearing along. Altogether, it was weird and wild, and I liked it. I had a very stupid companion; but happily he relapsed into perfect silence during the whole time. He was such a forlorn and stupid young Irishman whom I had picked up. He had been travelling with two companions, had got out of the train, and it had gone on without him. He could not speak one word of either French or Italian, and was going to Rome; they had his luggage and his passport. He was very tall, and very miserable, and I had to take pity on him, and do everything for him; but he certainly was very cowardly. At Turin I was weary, and did not want to have any breakfast; and I asked an energetic Prussian lady, who spoke English and Italian, to take him, and see to him, but he wouldn’t go for a long time; and then, just as all the time was over, he returned and said he thought he’d better stay by me; so, to my no small disgust, I had to rouse myself and take him to his breakfast at Alessandria. However, the best of him was he didn’t speak at all, but only clung piteously to my heels. By the way, writing of travelling companions, Aunt Emily just suggests you would be amused to hear that at Turin I fell in with such a polite and attentive Italian officer, who travelled with me all the way. He surprised me so much by his penetration about everything. You know it is rather troublesome to have an expressive kind of face; and yet it is, I suppose, helpful too. He was extremely kind about the window, tho’ he was very cold; and I didn’t say a word, for I knew it was unreasonable to have it open; but he saw in a moment what I wished, and wouldn’t let me even half shut it. Then we had a great deal of talk about cities and countries; and I asked him if he knew London. Long afterwards he said to me, “You asked me if I knew London; and it was with an accent which told me you love it much, tho’ you do call it an ugly and dirty city.” I told him that the worse it was, the more one was bound to help it; and the more one tried to help it, the more one loved it. He said, “We soldiers have to leave our country to serve it.” And I said, “Yes, it did not matter how, but we must all do it.” I kept catching glimpses of the mountains in the distance, and presently he said, “There is something out there which pleases you from time to time.” So I told him what it was; and after that he was so kind in warning me to look here or there, for the mountains would be in sight.... He behaved extremely well, and I think he thought I was the queerest creature he ever saw.... He was rather sneering at the Prussian lady for being une savante and for travelling alone. I was, looking out of the window and thinking. He said, “You smile continually; one sees that you think of what is dear to you. Are you thinking of your country?” So I just told him I was thinking one could travel alone or do this or that or anything when one was really sure that God was with one; and that one often knew it best when one was alone. Then I said all things, all people, help one. “But,” he persisted, “those who really are brave because they know this, they do all things with a different manner, such a manner that all who meet them feel too that they are in His presence and under His protection.”
Well, I was very thankful for the dear home letters.... I have seen literally nothing of the city as yet. I am to do the picture for Lady Abercrombie. Was it not fortunate I did not go on Saturday from Chambery? A portion of the Mt. Cenis fell and blocked up the road; the diligences had all to be unloaded, and people and luggage carried across a torrent and past the blocked portion of the road to other vehicles beyond.
The houses in Freshwater Place seem getting into much better order now that Minnie is in town again. The P.’s are so energetic about the playground, so anxious to make it succeed. P. has been painting the swings (for which he would only take a trifle). He says a ground like that is a Godsend to the neighbourhood; and he proposes putting up a little direction board outside the court that people may find the way.... Minnie wants to know if she may admit P.’s children on Sunday. He longs so much for quiet to read his newspaper. I suppose the playground would be like a garden to the cottage.
The galleries were closed yesterday, as it was All Saints’ Day; so I wanted to have a long bright day at Fiesole, or somewhere in the country, which is my great joy. But it was not to be; we did not get off till about three, and went to Certosa. Ask F. to tell you what a lovely place it is; and it looked so lovely in the autumn afternoon and evening light. A convent on a hill, the approach almost like that to a castle, so straight and steep, and bounded by such high walls. But the loveliest view was when we ascended a steep road to the south of it, and looked beyond it to the setting sun, the great couchant hills purple and grey beyond its own battlemented wall,—campanile, and cypresses all dark against the sky; but Florence and the mountains beyond Florence were bathed in rose mist. Gradually as the light left the valley it became pale misty blue, the shadow creeping up till it veiled even the snow-covered peaks themselves. Tell dear A. I am not, and never have been, disappointed with anything, except a little perhaps with having to work, after all; but this is very unreasonable. I have no anxiety, and possibly I am after all better for a little compulsory action; or I might go to sleep altogether, or take to thinking too much. As to the country, it might grow upon me; but it hardly seems to me as if it could, it is so supremely perfectly beautiful. I have not even missed my beloved grass; for first it would not fit in with the rest; and second there seems to me to be a kind of uncultivation or perhaps rather of mountain character given to the landscape by its absence which has a peculiar charm. I daresay this is an unreasonable fancy, based on my northern associations of grass with richness of soil; but it is involuntary and to me specially delightful, partly as being different, and so not touching me too much, partly as giving a sense of freedom and air for which I pant. Then it is quite delicious to an eye that glories so in colour, to see the great masses of earth, ready to turn to gold or purple or red, or all these in infinite combinations with brown, and over all the silver network of the weird olive trees. I fancy I should rather miss the grass increasingly than decreasingly....
Remember me affectionately to Mrs. P.[59]; dear, good, bright little George! to think I shall not see him again, and that he is to do no more service here below;—all young lives that go out so, hint so distinctly of the life that is to be—I do think of you all so. Has anyone thanked dear Mrs. Nassau Senior for her letter? and told her of the pleasure it gave and brought me?... I take the opportunity of writing when B. is out. I like to be ready to chat and walk with her when she is here....
I joined the Cherubini Choral Society here; we are singing some lovely things of Bach’s and one of Mozart’s. I believe we are to give our first concert on the 18th.... The anemones are quite wonderful. I gathered on Sunday every imaginable shade of purple, from blue to crimson; such a bunch they made, so soft and deep in their gradations.
I hardly dare, even now, to write of home. I think of it as little as I can; the abiding sense of it in all its preciousness, and the heart-hunger for it never leaves me for a moment, but I try to pretend to myself that the things here are very engrossing and sufficient; and in a way they are. I have put aside the question of possible wants of one and another which I might satisfy, sure that I shall some day have a richer store of help to pour out for them, if I am (as I now believe I am) gathering strength. Every word mentioning the dear English people is precious. I glance down the letters for proper names very eagerly; you are all too good about writing, but there are necessarily so many you never mention ... and oh so many of the tenants and playground children ... and I always want more and more about the people you mention. Do you not mean to send me Ruskin’s letters to you? I should like to see them. I fancied perhaps you did not send them, because you thought they would make me gloomy; if they are gloomy—or might somehow pain me;—but they would not. I know him too well for that, and I should like to see them.
I have been reading Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra.” I think it one of the truest things he, or anyone else, has ever written.
Miranda’s letters are so delightful. Her fun always touches me somehow, and never too much.... So my pride is to be broken every way, and even those proudly triumphant P. P. accounts are to get into a mess.
I am much honoured by dear Mr. Maurice’s interest about my return; I see S. Ursula[60] never got back; but I think I must give up all claim to the name, if it depended on the 11,000 virgins; tho’ the number swells now even here.
I seize the time when I am bright and hopeful to write to you dear ones at home; and for once will tell you facts not feelings. I have just returned from my visit to the S.’s. It has been very delightful.... M. is full of will and temper, and, not understanding any English, would be wholly unmanageable by me; and I keep a good deal away from her. But the others, strangely enough, have attached themselves warmly to me; and there seems no end to the amusements I can think of for them; and I have so enjoyed it. They are not the least tiring children, partly because they are quiet; partly, I fancy, because I have not to try to do other things too, but give my whole thought to them. It is so soothing to feel the dear little hands in mine, and see the sweet upturned faces. Besides, it is nice to get on with children. I don’t like the things I can’t do. We three wandered out into the quiet poderes which are all round. We turned even away from the view of Florence over to the quiet distances. I set the children gathering daisies to make chains to decorate the dolls’ house for a doll’s birthday which I proposed; and suddenly we came upon a large purple wild anemone. The view was English in colouring, for it has been grey and rainy, but all so wholly different on earth that no sameness of sky or light made it speak to one even in the same language, of which I am always glad. The children were full of delight with their walk. It was so nice going with me, they said.
It is wonderful how smoothly things go on, and I am able to do the most important part of the work. The thing I have most to neglect is going to see the people; but I spent nearly two hours with them; and they all welcomed me. Poor Alice[61] had scalded her hand and was very suffering; but, after I had talked to her a little she said, with tears in her eyes, “Somehow before you came in I was so down-hearted, but telling you my troubles eases my heart, it does indeed.”
... As to me I am thriving in the most unaccountable way.... This week I really have had dissipation, and it has done me all the good in the world....
There was some masquerading at Mrs. Taylor’s, and we were asked to come in costume. I was gloomy and unwilling; but, seeing “B” “in for a spree,” entered into it. I wrote to Mrs. Ross for an Eastern dress; she sent such a magnificent one. It was the admiration of the whole company; in fact, I am never to hear the last of it, I think. It was pronounced very becoming.... Then we went to the Corso. It has been very grand this year; for there is a Society which has offered large prizes, and done a great deal to promote the matter. It was very silly, you know; but I tried to forget that, and managed pretty well. The Turkish Ambassador sent Mrs. Ross his carriage. She did not know he was going to send it, and it came too late for her to send to ask me to go with her; so I went with Mrs. Taylor; but we saw Mrs. Ross looking so lovely and queenly, and child-like, with little Alick by her. I am to dine with her some day soon, and go to the French play afterwards. On Friday I fancy we (Miss Mayo and I) start for Pisa; next week I shall probably spend at Bello Sguardo with the Starks. They have kept asking me to go; but I have deferred it till the Orcagna is finished.
After mentioning a failure to see Ruskin, and George Macdonald (the latter failure partly due to her painting and partly to her ill-health), she adds, “But you will know that I am prouder and more thankful for the special place amongst (and love of) the many who have few to love them and few to help them, than even for the friendship of the greatly good; and of these among all classes I have found so many. Monday, I collected rents, and had such happy talks with the people.... When people are kind now, it is a great pleasure, but when, my power of physical effort being all gone, they seem to feel as if I might yet help them by presence and care, it makes me thankful to God who has left me some small work to do for Him; it is almost too much. This I had half hoped to feel in returning. I have far more than realised the hope that I had.” ...
(Speaking warmly of Mr. Watson of the Society of Antiquaries and his wife she says) They are very High Church, but not foolishly so. I fancy it is the refinement and beauty which attract them.
My sisters have asked me so earnestly to leave the main work for the pupils in their hands that I have done so. All is going on so beautifully that I have little temptation to meddle either. It seems a little strange, most so in the mornings, when I no longer read; but the sense of perfect harmony with them all takes away any kind of regret from the change.
... (Speaking of the houses she says), “I have now drifted past the triumphant meeting into full work there, and all its tiresome details; but with the refreshment of seeing people I love, and the stimulus of other minds occupied with other thoughts, I meet these details with less intensity of thought than of old. My sisters are such a rest and joy to me; I could never tell anyone what they are.” ...
... “I have drifted into the old state of intense interest and joy in all the little world I love and work in; it seems like native air to me; and it seems to me, in what Matthew Arnold would call my provincialism, much more interesting (if not important) to see whether a few words will obtain a holiday for the over-worked teacher whom I love, and who is wearing herself out for her family, than to know what Louis Napoleon is doing.”
Altho’ I was not there I have volunteered (like many other reporters) to describe yesterday’s gala. It was a complete success; the prettiest fête that has yet been given; and your sisters were delighted with the improvement in the children compared with last year. On Monday evening Minnie and most of the pupils went up to 207[62] to make wreaths. They found Mr. Ruskin’s and Mrs. Gillum’s flowers there—both most beautiful in their way. Eliza said the gardener had asked to deposit them himself in the kitchen, and had laid them down so carefully, and as if he were so fond of them—worthy servant of his master! Andy spent the whole day there, and the pupils went up, as they finished work, to help. The result was splendid; numbers of lovely wreaths, and a throne made of a chair shape with three steps. The blind fiddler non est inventus; so they got an organ man, which did quite as well. Your sisters were delighted with Mr. and Mrs. Howard ... their sympathy was so genuine—they left with tears in their eyes. Well, the ceremony began by drawing lots for the queen, and it fell on Nelly Kinaly. The child took out the wreaths from the basket; and Florence called the child whom she thought they would suit, and one of our girls in turn crowned them. Andy says the children looked so pretty—their untidiness only went for picturesqueness. They had cakes, biscuits and oranges; but except one or two boys, the flowers interested them more than the cake. Florence played at trap with the boys and Mr. Smale.
The time of my leaving here draws sadly near and I have done so little—mostly weeding I think, and that is so interesting, it keeps me out of doors, not standing or walking and yet gives me something to do. It is quiet and nice and I like the smell of the earth and the soothing monotony of the movement and thought. We have not been reading anything of any depth or weight; usually we do here, but somehow this time we have read scraps of things, and what I should call decidedly light reading. “Scenes in Clerical Life,” part of Chaucer, the “Story of Doom” (I am delighted with Laurence), a good deal of Browning, and a little of Thackeray.
I want Dr. Macleod to let me leave, as I am so without definite illness now; and it hardly seems right to stay here merely to gain strength; but they won’t even let me speak on the subject yet; and nothing is so provoking as to leave things half done; so I must let the matter be finally decided by them.
(Very warm expressions of admiration and gratitude for Dr. Macleod.)
I came here on Wednesday to see Miss Harris, who has been seriously ill but is now rapidly gaining strength....
I should like to have seen you while I am still in overflowing health and so merry; it seems too bad to go to one’s best friends always when one is broken.
(Description of Turner’s Norham and Melrose.)
We are reading the Spanish Gipsy aloud. I wonder what you think of it. To me it seems full of wonderful passages expressive of fresh fact, and so exquisitely expressed that one longs to remember the exact words; but the whole thing is disjointed; the story improbable. I always find it impossible to believe people would have acted as she makes them. I suppose I am mistaken; but I can never feel the things the least natural; and yet I should find it hard to say on what ground I disbelieved them. To me the power of looking all round questions, and seeing how all view them, is not specially delightful, unless at the end there comes some deliberate or distinctive sense of reverence or sympathy with the most right. The perpetual suspense is painful to me. I feel as if I would say, “See as much, judge as mercifully, as you can; but show just so much enthusiasm on one side or another, as would lead to action in real life.” The other temperament seems always either weak and irresolute, or likely to lead to wrong action.
Now Browning, with all his dramatic power, and turning it upon such various (and often such low) people, has yet distinct love or scorn, has definite grasp of some positive good.
We three sisters have had a jolly meeting; and we are anticipating the arrival of our dear pupils, Mama and Florence, to-morrow.
Dear Alice Collingwood[63] has done wonders; I never knew the business half so well managed when my sisters were away; and she has been so happy in the work, and has learnt to know and care for the people so much.
Have you read Morris’s “Jason”? I have been reading it for the second time. I am increasingly impressed by it. It is marvellous to me how any one can so throw himself into so noble a time without Christianity; the hint of deeper meaning is so telling, and goes so home, because it is only suggested and kept subservient to the intense realism of the scenes and incidents. It is a book one believes from first to last. The accessories are described so beautifully; it is true poetry.
I know it is very forlorn to depend for intellectual intercourse on books and absent people. But for you who have so many resources, I hope it is not quite so bad. At any rate, how you must be feeling yourself useful. Still I am sorry for you; you seem somehow (all sensitive people do) to get so much more pain than pleasure out of your feeling. I wonder whether you are ill-balanced, and your bodies ought to be more vigorous to match your organisations; or whether you are, as it were, martyrs, for us to love and look up to, and learn from and delight in; but appointed, for some inscrutable reason, to bear a large share of the pain of the world—to be purified to a higher point than we, until the last sorrow shall be put under your feet.
Any way and every way, God bless and keep you.
We are all assembled again, and very happy.
We have a very large number of pupils, as many as we could take in; but these are mainly under my sisters’ care, who enjoy the work, and thrive in it. I only teach the girls a few things, and rejoice in their bright young life. I give a few drawing lessons, and am managing my dear houses, which are getting into such excellent order as to be a great joy, and but little painful care. I am drawing again at last, too, to my great delight, and am able to see a good deal of my friends, and to bind up all the links of knowledge of the details of their lives, broken by my illness and absence. So it is a quiet, beautiful, thankful, busy, but not oppressed, life.
I have had a most delightful week. The crowning day was last Sunday, when I dined at Ruskin’s. It was exceedingly interesting. I had been determined to ask him a little about Greek mythology, literature and art; and how, without knowledge of Greek, one might enter into some comprehension of all these; for I have lived long enough to remember the passionate revolt of our then young thinkers against the dead formal worship of all that had its origin in Greece; and now I am interested to notice the men, leading from weight of earnestness, tho’ educated in all the Gothic and Teuton sympathies, turning back to Greek thought, and even imagery, as if it contained nobler symbols of abiding truth than our northern legends. Yes, even to feel the influence of the Grecian wave myself. So we got into interesting talk. He told me that there was little translation of Greek which he knew or cared for; that he had done a little himself, which will be published with next Tuesday’s lecture; that Homer, even translated by Pope, taught one a good deal; that some tales by Cox (do you know them?) were intensely good; but (as I was pleased to know that I had instinctively felt), Morris’s Jason was the most helpful almost of all. He sketched for me most beautifully, a kind of plan of Greek mythology, saying that the deities who governed the elements were the primary ones; the earth the sustainer of man; the water governing the ebb and flow of his fortunes, the two fiery deities earthly and heavenly; and the goddess of the air the inspirer. He quoted curious parallel thoughts from the Bible; “the wind bloweth where it listeth.” He told me some strange things, too, about Minerva giving men strength from winged beings, and once, when enduing Menelaus with courage to fight Paris, giving it from a mosquito; whereas most gods give them strength from quadrupeds that are strong. Round these central deities are grouped many minor ones; Mercury, the cloud-compeller, often represented as a shepherd, guides the footsteps of men in life and death.
I asked him how far Virgil was too Roman to be trusted. He seemed very much pleased to find that I could read Virgil, and was fond of him; it seems that he is very fond. He said moreover that Latin was untranslateable—being so magnificent a language; whereas Greek, mainly depending for its interest on thought, could be perfectly well translated. I found that he and I agreed in liking the 2nd and 7th books best, he rather inclining to the Infernal Regions and the Fall of Troy. He told me that the exquisite tenderness between fathers and sons delighted him above all things in Virgil, and led one to the root of the main source of Roman greatness in its noblest time.
You will be sorry to hear that Miss Cons can only, at present, give one day and a half weekly to the work; and that Miss Sterling is so much interested in what she calls “linking my little affairs to whatever has life,” that she will not work except near us—nor of course could Miss Cons do more than this in so short a time.
On Wednesday we are to have our play.[64] We are actually to have an audience of 200 poor people. Everyone is very kind about it; we have a splendid room, and all promises well.
Oh, Mary! life and its many interests is a great and blessed possession. I love it so much.... And yet it seems such a simple, quiet thing to slip out of it presently; and for other and better people to take up their work, and carry it on for their day too.
... The trees are of course very small; but the creepers helped us, and the playground never looked so pretty. Our new swings were put up; and three people were entirely occupied with superintending them the whole time. Each child had a definite time allowed; and all others were kept out of the way; no easy matter with children so eager and so unaccustomed to control. The little band acquitted itself admirably, considering how young it is yet; it is an acquisition. We had numbers of games of course. The see-saw was crowded all the time. Two people took charge of it; and it seemed about as much as they could manage. It was very touching to see the children, when they first saw me open the gate. Our tenants were to come in first; and I had to pick them out from the dense mass of eager faces. Such impatience! as if a few minutes were hours! Such a break of light came over the face as I caught the eye of a tenant; the “Mary, you may come,” or “Dickey, you next,” was entirely unnecessary to the child addressed, but was the signal for others to make way; and thro’ such tiny avenues, or from under bigger girls’ skirts, the tiny creatures emerged to the wonderful place of flowers and the many welcoming friends. I was rather proud to see that I was usually guided by a neater dress or cleaner face to a tenant. Then followed the admission of a few children coming to classes, or members of the band or drill classes, but not tenants. And then the mass of children from the neighbourhood. Oh such a troop! The grown up people crowded on any place from which they could see. I wished our wall had been moved, and the rails up, both for the extra space, and that more people might have seen. All children had flowers, cake, and an orange on leaving. My conclusion is, the place is really getting into order.
I had the report from a surveyor on the houses for which we are in treaty. He says very naïvely, “It seems to me the houses are much out of repair, tho’ considered by the landlord in excellent condition for the class of inmates.” He says, too, the property in the neighbourhood is in excellent condition, and will let well.... Will you send me a copy of papers respecting boarding out? I should much like to send them to Mrs. N. Senior. I believe the chances are better in the country, and the plan more likely to be tried there.
I am glad you think it is best to wait and see the June list for Macmillan. It will be very odd if the thing ever is published. I am looking forward so eagerly to throwing the burden of the playground expenses, at least partially, on our new buildings; they are such a perpetual worry to me, and for so small a sum it seems a pity to be annoyed. If the surplus profit of the rooms will, as I hope, pay for the superintendence, it will make a great difference to me. We hope to finish the building this week. I feel so ungrateful when I complain of anything, when all has prospered in this wonderful way. Perhaps I am a little tired to-night.
I cannot tell you what my people are to me. We are such thorough friends. Sometimes small actions of theirs go straight to one’s heart, making me feel how nice our relation to one another is. The other day I went down the court, once so savage and desolate. I saw two or three of the worst boys in the neighbourhood looking very happy and smiling. “Have you seen Mrs. Mayne?” they clamoured eagerly. Mrs. Mayne is our superintendent there. “She’s got something taking care of for you.” I found that the boys had walked twelve miles, doubtless delighted with the expedition, but specially to bring me back a great quantity of “palm.” And, as I came out carrying it, “Will you have some more?” “Wait a bit and have some more,” they cried. When I remembered that these same boys had been our greatest trouble, defying authority, climbing walls, breaking windows, throwing stones, with their hands against us in all things, I could not but feel that we had got on a little, however the houses may fall short in external perfection of what one longs for them to be. I have hardly any of the teaching at home; dear Andy and Minnie having thrown their strength fully into it; so Flo and I only take special classes; but the bright young life round one is very refreshing; and I grow much attached to some of the girls;—not the old sense of being any longer their head; this, you will understand, I am not sorry to resign, however precious the position was. Meantime, I have my little sanctum here and go out among my ever-increasing circle of real friends. My work now is mainly teaching drawing, which I enjoy much.
... We are having a large meeting in the parish this week to try to organise the relief given; very opposite creeds will be represented—Archbishop Manning, Mr. Davies, Mr. Fremantle, Eardley-Wilmot, and others. I must go myself. I shall try to get Rose to go too....
Lady Ducie writes that she is perfectly engrossed in your book, and tells me she must get it. She is quite appalled at the state of things in the workhouse; it seems quite to be weighing on her mind.
... I daresay one is apt to overrate one’s own work; but one is the more anxious to have it fairly weighed, and receive all advice from other people; and I do want to have it fairly considered, and get the authorities to recognise it. Mr. F., the rector of our district, and the main mover in the matter, is to call on me to-day. May some power inspire me with intellect and speech! I have hardly a hope that they will place me on the Committee. I shall try boldly; but I think no ladies will be admitted. Mr. F. is happily a friend of Lady Ducie’s.
P.S.—Mr. F. has just been, and will propose my name at the Committee.
... Life here has been a great success every way. It is odd, in a place like this, to get on so well; but energy and enjoyment are such a delight to people, they forgive much, where they can secure them and have these. A large picnic party went to Fountains yesterday. They begged me to go. I could not, and said, “I will ask all the people, and, when you are started, you really won’t want me.” “Oh,” said a young, buoyant Quaker youth, “but we do want you to talk.” ... In pity also give me some more teaching; it is the only anchor I have, and I shall be destroyed by dissipation if you don’t preserve me. Oh dear, I have been writing three hours; and I did so want to do my miniature; for you don’t know how much I want to finish it.
To-night there is to be a dinner party here. Dr. Bridges and several influential people are asked to meet me;—I do feel such a take-in of a person. I wish someone would explode me; it is so difficult to un-humbug oneself. It is all taken for extreme modesty (fancy mine!) and laid to one’s account as so much excellence. A Mr. and Mrs. R. K., who are looked upon as great guns, are giving a dinner party in my honour. Really it’s very ridiculous; what I am glad of is that I am going to see Saltaire, a model village near here which has grown up round a manufactory, belonging to a Mr. Titus (now Sir Titus) Salt; no beer shops there, only model cottages, schools, etc.... I’m very happy, and as bright as can be; but save me from this again! I’m going to settle down to a steady, quiet old age, if ever the happy time arrives when I reach home.