Hortus Inclusus Part 7

[Transcriber's Note: no ending to the sentence here.]

OXFORD, _2d December_ (1877).

I write first to you this morning to tell you that I gave yesterday the twelfth and last[22] of my course of lectures this term, to a room crowded by six hundred people, two-thirds members of the University, and with its door wedged open by those who could not get in; this interest of theirs being granted to me, I doubt not, because for the first time in Oxford, I have been able to speak to them boldly of immortal life. I intended when I began the course only to have read "Modern Painters" to them; but when I began, some of your favorite bits interested the men so much, and brought so much larger a proportion of undergraduates than usual, that I took pains to reinforce and press them home; and people say I have never given so useful a course yet. But it has taken all my time and strength, and I have not been able even to tell Susie a word about it until now. In one of my lectures I made my text your pretty peac.o.c.k and the design[23] of him. But did not venture to say what really must be true, that his voice is an example of "the Devil sowed tares," and of the angels letting both grow together. My grateful compliments to the peac.o.c.k. And little (but warm) loves to all your little birds. And best of little loves to the squirrels, only you must send _them_ in dream-words, I suppose, up to their nests.

[Footnote 22: An Oxford Lecture. _Nineteenth Century_, January, 1878.]

[Footnote 23: Decorative art of his plumage.--J. R.]

HERNE HILL, _Sunday, 16th December_ (1877).

It is a long while since I've felt so good for nothing as I do this morning. My very wristbands curl up in a dog's-eared and disconsolate manner; my little room is all a heap of disorder. I've got a hoa.r.s.eness and wheezing and sneezing and coughing and choking. I can't speak and I can't think, I'm miserable in bed and useless out of it; and it seems to me as if I could never venture to open a window or go out of a door any more. I have the dimmest sort of diabolical pleasure in thinking how miserable I shall make Susie by telling her all this; but in other respects I seem entirely devoid of all moral sentiments.

I have arrived at this state of things, first by catching cold, and since by trying to "amuse myself" for three days. I tried to read "Pickwick," but found that vulgar,[24] and, besides, I know it all by heart. I sent from town for some chivalric romances, but found them immeasurably stupid. I made Baxter read me the _Daily Telegraph_, and found that the Home Secretary had been making an absurd speech about art, without any consciousness that such a person as I had ever existed. I read a lot of games of chess out of Mr. Staunton's handbook, and couldn't understand any of them. I a.n.a.lyzed the Dock Company's bill of charges on a box from Venice, and sent them an examination paper on it. I think _that_ did amuse me a little, but the account doesn't. _1 8s. 6d._ for bringing a box two feet square from the Tower Wharf to here! But the worst of all is, that the doctor keeps me shut up here, and I can't get my business done; and now there isn't the least chance of my getting down to Brantwood for Christmas, nor, as far as I can see, for a fortnight after it. There's perhaps a little of the diabolical enjoyment again in that estimate; but really the days _do_ go, more like dew shaken off branches than real sunrisings and settings. But I'll send you word every day now for a little while how things are going on.

[Footnote 24: "May I ask you to correct a false impression which any of your readers who still care to know my opinions would receive from the reference to d.i.c.kens in your kind notice of my letters to Miss Beever....I have not the letters here, and forget what I said about my Pickwick's not amusing me when I was ill, but it always does, to this hour, when I am well; though I have known it by heart, pretty nearly all, since it came out; and I love d.i.c.kens with every bit of my heart, and sympathize in everything he thought or tried to do, except in his effort to make more money by readings which killed him."

_Letter to "Daily Telegraph", Sandgate, January 4, 1888._]

CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, OXFORD, _26th December, 1877_.

I don't know really whether I _ought_ to be at Brantwood or here on Christmas. Yesterday I had two lovely services in my own cathedral.

You know the _cathedral_ of Oxford is the chapel of Christ Church College, and I have my own high seat in the chancel, as an honorary student, besides being bred there, and so one is ever so proud and ever so pious all at once, which is ever so nice, you know; and my own dean, that's the Dean of Christ's Church, who is as big as any bishop, read the services, and the psalms and anthems were lovely; and then I dined with Henry Acland and his family, where I am an adopted son,--all the more wanted yesterday because the favorite son Herbert died this year in Ceylon,--the first death out of seven sons. So they were glad to have me. Then I've all my Turners here, and shall really enjoy myself a little to-day, I think; but I do wish I could be at Brantwood too.

Oh dear, I've scribbled this dreadfully. Can you really read my scribble, Susie? Love, you may always read, however scribbled.

OXFORD, _27th December_, 1877.

By the way, what a shame it is that we keep that word "jealous" in the second commandment, as if it meant that G.o.d was jealous of images. It means burning, zealous or full of life, visiting, etc., _i.e._, necessarily when leaving the father leaving the child; necessarily, when giving the father life, giving life to the child, and to thousands of the race of them that love me.

It is very comic the way people have of being so particular about the second and fourth commandments, and breaking all the rest with the greatest comfort. For me, I try to keep all the rest rather carefully, and let the second and fourth take care of themselves.

Cold quite gone; now it's your turn, Susie. I've got a love letter in Chinese, and can't read it!

WINDSOR CASTLE, _2d January, 1878_.

I'm horribly sulky this morning, for I expected to have a room with a view, if the room was ever so little, and I've got a great big one looking into the Castle yard, and I feel exactly as if I was in a big modern county jail with beautiful turrets of modern Gothic.

I came to see Prince Leopold, who has been a prisoner to his sofa lately, but I trust he is better; he is very bright and gentle, under severe and almost continual pain. My dear little Susie, about that rheumatism of yours? If it wasn't for that, how happy we both ought to be, living in Thwaites and woods, instead of nasty castles! Well, about that Shakespeare guide? I cannot, cannot, at all fancy what it is. In and out among the stars; it sounds like a plan for stringing the stars. I am so very glad you told me of it.

"Unwritten books in my brain?" Yes, but also in how many other brains of quiet people, books unthought of, "In the Book and Volume" which will be read some day in Heaven, aloud, "When saw we thee?" Yes, and "When _read_ we ourselves?"

My dear Susie, if I were to think really _lost_, what you for instance have new found in your own powers of receiving and giving pleasure, the beautiful faculties you have, scarcely venturing even to show the consciousness of them, when it awakes in you, what a woeful conception I should have of G.o.d's not caring for us. He will gather all the wheat into His garner.

INGLETON, _17th January_ (1878).

It's a charming post here, and brings me my letters the first thing in the morning; and I took care to tell n.o.body where I was going, except people I wanted to hear from. What a little busy bee of a Susie you've been to get all those extracts ready by this time. I've got nothing done all the while I've been away, but a few mathematical figures, and the less I do the less I find I can do it; and yesterday, for the first time these twenty years at least, I hadn't so much as a "plan"

in my head all day. But I had a lot to look at in the moorland flowers and quiet little ancient Yorkshire farmhouses, not to speak of Ingleborough, who was, I think, a little depressed because he knew you were only going to send your remembrances and not your love to him.

The clouds gathered on his brow occasionally in a fretful manner, but towards evening he resumed his peace of mind and sends you his "remembrances" and his "blessing." I believe he saves both you and me from a great deal of east wind.

Well, I've got a plan in my head _this_ morning for the new extracts.

Shall we call them "Lapides (or "Marmora") Portici"; and put a little preface to them about the pavement of St. Mark's porch and its symbolism of what the education of a good man's early days must be to him? I think I can write something a little true and trustworthy about it.

_26th November._

I have entirely resigned all hope of ever thanking you rightly for bread, sweet odors, roses and pearls, and must just allow myself to be fed, scented, rose-garlanded and bepearled as if I were a poor little pet dog or pet pig. But my cold is better, and I _am_ getting on with this botany; but it is really too important a work to be pushed for a week or a fortnight. And Mary and you will be pleased at last, I am sure.

I have only to-day got my four families, Clarissa, Lychnis, Scintilla, and Mica, perfectly and simply defined.[25] See how nicely they come.

A. Clarissa changed from Dianthus, which is bad Greek (and all my pretty flowers have names of girls). Petal _jagged_ at the outside.

B. Lychnis. Petal _divided in two_ at the outside, and the fringe retired to the top of the limb.

C. Scintilla. (Changed from Stellaria, because I want Stella for the house leeks.) Petal formed by the _two_ lobes of lychnis without the retired fringe.

D. Mica. _Single_ lobed petal.

When once these four families are well understood in typical examples, how easy it will be to attach either subordinate groups or specialities of habitat, as in America, to some kinds of them! The entire order, for their purity and wildness, are to be named, from Artemis, "Artemides", instead of Caryophyllaceae; and next them come the Vestals (mints, lavenders, etc.); and then the Cytheride Viola, Veronica, Giulietta, the last changed from Polygala.

That third Herb Robert one is just the drawing that n.o.body but me (never mind grammar) could have made. n.o.body! because it means ever so much careful watching of the ways of the leaf, and a lot of work in cramp perspective besides. It is not quite right yet, but it _is_ nice.

[Footnote 25: "Proserpina,"]

It is so nice to be able to find anything that is in the least new to _you_, and interesting; my rocks are quite proud of rooting that little saxifrage.

I'm scarcely able to look at one flower because of the two on each side, in my garden just now. I want to have bees' eyes, there are so many lovely things.

I must tell you, interrupting my botanical work this morning, something that has just chanced to me.