pened to us here is the
coming down on us of the Laureate, who, being in London for three or
four days from the Isle of Wight, spent two of them with us, dined with
us, smoked with us, opened his heart to us (and the second bottle of
port), and ended by reading 'Maud' through from end to end, and going
away at half-past two in the morning. If I had had a heart to spare,
certainly he would have won mine. He is captivating with his frankness,
confidingness, and unexampled _naivete_! Think of his stopping in 'Maud'
every now and then--'There's a wonderful touch! That's very tender. How
beautiful that is!' Yes, and it _was_ wonderful, tender, beautiful, and
he read exquisitely in a voice like an organ, rather music than speech.

War, war! It is terrible certainly. But there are worse plagues, deeper
griefs, dreader wounds than the physical. What of the forty thousand
wretched women in this city? The silent writhing of them is to me more
appalling than the roar of the cannons. Then this war is _necessary_ on
our sides. Is _that_ wrong necessary? It is not so clear to me.

Can I write of such questions in the midst of packing?

May God bless you both! Write to me in Paris, and do come soon and find
us out.

Robert's love. My love to you both, dearest friends. May God bless you!
Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Ruskin_

13 Dorset Street:
Tuesday morning, October 17, 1855 [postmark].

My dear Mr. Ruskin,--I can't express our amount of mortification in
being thwarted in the fulfilment of the promise you allowed us to make
to ourselves, that we would go down to you once more before leaving
England. What with the crush rather than press of circumstances, I have
scarcely needed the weather to pin me to the wall. Sometimes my husband
could not go with me, sometimes I couldn't go with him, and always we
waited for one another in hope, till this last day overtook us.
To-morrow (D.V.) we shall be in Paris. Now, will you believe how we have
wished and longed to see you beyond these strait tantalising
limits?--how you look to us at this moment like the phantasm of a thing
dear and desired, just seen and vanishing? What! are you to be ranked
among my spiritualities after all? Forgive me that wrong.

Then you had things to say to me, I know, which in your consideration,
and through my cowardice, you did not say, but yet will!

Will you write to me, dear Mr. Ruskin, sometimes, or