for a little while into the company
of those immortals? What does it matter how tiresome and complacent
people are when I am Orsino inviting the Clown to sing words the utter
beauty of which bring the tears to my eyes:

"O fellow, come, the song we had last night:
Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age."

One never comes to the end of the beauty. Only to-day, while I was
browsing for a few minutes in a comedy I have not much acquaintance
with, I happened on these lines, which I am going to write down merely
for the pleasure of writing them:

"I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire, and the
master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. I am for the house with the
narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some
that humble themselves may, but the many will be too chill and tender,
and they'll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and
the great fire."

A very pleasant thing about our present solitude is that one can read
aloud or speak to oneself without risk of being thought demented. The
fact is, the inhabitants of the little village on the outskirts of
which we are camping regard us as so hopelessly and utterly mad
already that no further display of eccentricity on our part could make
any difference.

Even in the jungle there are servant troubles. Our cook, finding, I
expect, this life too uneventful, intimated that his father was dying,
and left last night. We thought we should have to go without dinner,
but Autolycus, stepping gallantly into the breach said No, he would
cook it; he had often cooked while with Colonel-M'Greegor-Sahib. The
next we saw was a hen flying wildly, pursued by Autolycus, and in
about half an hour it appeared on the table, its legs--still rather
feathery--sticking protestingly from the dish. That was all there was
for dinner except two breakfast-cups of muddy coffee.

... The dak came in a little while ago with the. English mail. I have
just finished reading your letter. I think I know what you must feel
about your book. It is sad to come to the end of a long and pleasant
task--something finished you won't do again; a page of life closed.
I know. It scares me, too, how quickly things come to an end. We are
hurrying on so, the ye