Hortus Inclusus Part 10

I suppose _I'm_ the grand Monarque! I don't know of any other going just now, but I don't feel quite the right thing without a wig.

Anyhow, I'm having everything my own way just now,--weather, dinner, news from Joanie and news from Susie, only I don't like her to be so very, very sad, though it _is_ nice to be missed so tenderly. But I do hope you will like to think of my getting some joy in old ways again, and once more exploring old streets and finding forgotten churches.

The sunshine is life and health to me, and I am gaining knowledge faster than ever I could when I was young.

This is just to say where I am, and that you might know where to write.

The cathedral here is the grandest in France, and I stay a week at least.

CHARTRES, _13th September_ (1880)

I must be back in England by the 1st October, and by the 10th shall be myself ready to start for Brantwood, but may perhaps stay, if Joanie is not ready, till she can come too. Anyway, I trust very earnestly to be safe in the shelter of my own woodside by the end of October. I wonder what you will say of my account of the Five Lovers of Nature[29]

and seclusion in the last _Nineteenth Century_?

I am a little ashamed to find that in spite of my sublimely savage temperament, I take a good deal more pleasure in Paris than of old, and am even going back there on Friday for three more days.

We find the people here very amiable, and the French old character unchanged. The perfect cleanliness and unruffledness of white cap, is always a marvel, and the market groups exquisite, but our enjoyment of the fair is subdued by pity for a dutiful dog, who turns a large wheel (by walking up it inside) the whole afternoon, producing awful sounds out of a huge grinding organ, of which his wheel and he are the unfortunate instruments. Him we love, his wheel we hate! and in general all French musical instruments. I have become quite sure of one thing on this journey, that the French of to-day have no sense of harmony, but only of more or less lively tune, and even, for a time, will be content with any kind of clash or din produced in time.

The Cathedral service is, however, still impressive.

[Footnote 29: Rousseau, Sh.e.l.ley, Byron, Turner, and John Ruskin.]

PARIS, _18th September_, 1880.

What a _very_ sad little letter, and how very naughty of my little Susie to be sad because there are still six weeks to the end of October! How thankful should we both be to have six weeks still before us of the blessed bright autumn days, with their quiet mildnesses in the midst of northern winds; and that these six weeks are of the year 1880--instead of '81 or '82--and that we both can read, and think, and see flowers and skies, and be happy in making each other happy. _What_ a naughty little Susie, to want to throw any of her six weeks away!

I've just sealed in its envelope for post the most important Fors I have yet written, addressed to the Trades Unions,[30] and their committees are to have as many copies as they like free, for distribution, free (dainty packets of Dynamite). I suspect I shall get into hot water with _some_ people for it. Also I've been afraid myself, to set it all down, for once! But down it is, and out it shall come! and there's a nice new bit of article for the _Nineteenth Century_, besides anyhow I keep you in reading, Susie--do you know it's a very bad compliment to me that you find time pa.s.s so slowly!

I wonder why you gave me that little lecture about being "a city on a hill." I don't want to be anything of the sort, and I'm going to-night to see the Fille du Tambour-Major at the Folies Dramatiques.

[Footnote 30: "Fors," vol. viii., Letter 5.]

BRANTWOOD, _16th February, 1881_.

I've much to tell you "to-day"[31] of answer to those prayers you prayed for me. But you must be told it by our good angels, for your eyes must not be worn. G.o.d willing, you shall see men as trees walking in the garden of G.o.d, on this pretty Coniston earth of ours. Don't be afraid, and please be happy, for I can't be, if you are not. Love to Mary, to Miss Rigbye, and my own St. Ursula,[32] and mind you give the messages _to all three, heartily_.

[Footnote 31: The motto on Mr. Ruskin's seal. See "Praeterita", vol. ii.,]

[Footnote 32: Photograph of Carpaccio's.]

BRANTWOOD, _22d April, 1881_.

I'm not able to scratch or fight to-day, or I wouldn't let you cover me up with this heap of gold; but I've got a rheumatic creak in my neck, which makes me physically stiff and morally supple and unprincipled, so I've put two pounds sixteen in my own "till," where it just fills up some lowering of the tide lately by German bands and the like, and I've put ten pounds aside for Sheffield Museum, now in instant mendicity, and I've put ten pounds aside till you and I can have a talk and you be made reasonable, after being scolded and scratched, after which, on your promise to keep to our old bargain and enjoy spending your little "Frondes" income, I'll be your lovingest again. And for the two pounds ten, and the ten, I am really most heartily grateful, meaning as they do so much that is delightful for both of us in the good done by this work of yours.

I send you Spenser; perhaps you had better begin with the Hymn to Beauty, page 39, and then go on to the Tears; but you'll see how you like it. It's better than Longfellow; see line 52--

"The house of blessed G.o.ds which men call skye."

Now I'm going to look out Dr. Kendall's crystal. It _must_ be crystal,[33] for having brought back the light to your eyes.

[Footnote 33: For a present to Dr. Kendall.]

BRANTWOOD, _12th July, 1881_.

How delightful that you have that nice Mrs. Howard to hear you say "The Ode to Beauty," and how nice that you can learn it and enjoy saying it![34] I do not know it myself. I only know that it should be known and said and heard and loved.

I _am_ often near you in thought, but can't get over the lake somehow.

There's always somebody to be looked after here, now. I've to rout the gardeners out of the greenhouse, or I should never have a strawberry or a pink, but only nasty gloxinias and glaring fuchsias, and I've been giving lessons to dozens of people and writing charming sermons in the "Bible of Amiens"; but I get so sleepy in the afternoon I can't pull myself over it.

I was looking at your notes on birds yesterday. How sweet they are!

But I can't forgive that young blackbird for getting wild again.[35]

[Footnote 34: I learnt the whole of it by heart, and could then say it without a break. I have always loved it, and in return it has helped me through many a long and sleepless night.--S. B.]

[Footnote 35: Pages 101 _et seqq._]

_Last Day of 1881. And the last letter I write on it, with new pen._

I've lunched on _your_ oysters, and am feasting eyes and mind on _your_ birds.

What birds?

Woodc.o.c.k? Yes, I suppose, and never before noticed the _sheath_ of his bill going over the front of the lower mandible that he may dig comfortably! But the others! the glory of velvet and silk and cloud and light, and black and tan and gold, and golden sand, and dark tresses, and purple shadows and moors and mists and night and starlight, and woods and wilds and dells and deeps, and every mystery of heaven and its finger work, is in those little birds' backs and wings. I am so grateful. All love and joy to you, and wings to fly with and birds' hearts to comfort, and mine, be to you in the coming year.

_Easter Day_, 1882.

I have had a happy Easter morning, entirely bright in its sun and clear in sky; and with renewed strength enough to begin again the piece of St. Benedict's life where I broke off, to lose these four weeks in London,--weeks not wholly lost neither, for I have learned more and more of what I should have known without lessoning; but I _have_ learnt it, from these repeated dreams and fantasies, that we walk in a vain shadow and disquiet ourselves in vain. So I am for the present, everybody says, quite good, and give as little trouble as possible; but people _will_ take it, you know, sometimes, even when I don't give it, and there's a great fuss about me yet. But _you_ must not be anxious any more, Susie, for really there is no more occasion at one time than another. All the doctors say I needn't be ill unless I like, and I don't mean to like any more; and as far as chances of ordinary danger, I think one runs more risks in a single railway journey, than in the sicknesses of a whole year.