drifted so far into these tepid, sun-warmed
shallows, the shallows of egoism and self-centred absorption, that
there is no possibility of my finding my way again to the wholesome
brine, to the fresh movement of the leaping wave. I am like one of
those who lingered so long in the enchanted isle of Circe, listening
luxuriously to the melting cadences of her magic song, that I have lost
all hope of extricating myself from the spell. The old free days, when
the heart beat light, and the breeze blew keen against my brow, have
become only a memory of delights, just enabling me to speak deftly and
artfully of the strong joys which I have forfeited.

February 24, 1889.

I have been away for some days, paying a visit to an old friend, a
bachelor clergyman living in the country. The only other occupant of
the house, a comfortable vicarage, is his curate. I am better--ashamed
almost to think how much better--for the change. It is partly the new
place, the new surroundings, the new minds, no doubt. But it is also
the change of atmosphere. At home I am surrounded by sympathy and
compassion; however unobtrusive they are, I feel that they are there. I
feel that trivial things, words, actions, looks are noted, commented
upon, held to be significant. If I am silent, I must be depressed; if I
talk and smile, I am making an effort to overcome my depression. It
sounds unloving and ungracious to resent this: but I don't undervalue
the care and tenderness that cause it; at the same time it adds to the
strain by imposing upon me a sort of vigilance, a constant effort to
behave normally. It is infinitely and deeply touching to feel love all
about me; but in such a state of mind as mine, one is shy of emotion,
one dreads it, one shuns it. I suppose it argues a want of simplicity,
of perfect manfulness, to feel this; but few or no women can
instinctively feel the difference. In a real and deep affliction, one
that could be frankly confessed, the more affection and sympathy that
one can have the better; it is the one thing that sustains. But my
unhappiness is not a real thing altogether, not a FRANK thing; the best
medicine for it is to think as little about it; the only help one
desires is the evidence that one does not need sympathy; and sympathy
only turns one's thoughts inwards, and makes one feel that one is
forlorn and desolate, when the only hope is to feel neither.

At Hapton it was just the reverse; neither Musgrave nor the curate