and, of course, has straitened
his views since we met, and I, by the reaction of solitude and
suffering, have broken many bands which held me at that time. He was
always straiter than I, and now the difference is immense. For I think
the world wider than I once thought it, and I see God's love broader
than I once saw it. To the 'Touch not, taste not, handle not' of the
strict religionists, I feel inclined to cry, 'Touch, taste, handle,
_all things are pure_.' But I am writing this for you and not for
him, and you probably will agree with me, if you think as you used to
think, at least.

But I do not agree with _you_ on the League question, nor on the woman
question connected with it, only we will not quarrel to-day, and I
have written enough already without an argument at the end.

Can you guess what I have been doing lately? Washing out my
conscience, effacing the blot on my escutcheon, performing an
expiation, translating over again from the Greek the 'Prometheus' of
Aeschylus.

Yes, my very dear friend, I could not bear to let that frigid, rigid
exercise, called a version and called mine, cold as Caucasus, and
flat as the neighbouring plain, stand as my work. A palinodia, a
recantation was necessary to me, and I have achieved it. Do you blame
me or not? Perhaps I may print it in a magazine, but this is not
decided. How delighted I am to think of your being well. It makes me
very happy.

Your ever affectionate and grateful
ELIBET.

_To Mr. Westwood_
March 4, 1845.

I reproach myself, dear Mr. W., for my silence, and began to do so
before your kind note reminded me of its unkindness. I had indeed
my pen in my hand three days ago to write to you, but a cross fate
plucked at my sleeve for the ninety-ninth time, and left me guilty.
And you do not write to reproach me! You only avenge yourself softly
by keeping back all news of your health, and by not saying a word
of the effect on you of the winter which has done its spiriting
so ungently. Which brings me down to myself. For somebody has been
dreaming of me, and dreams, you know, must go by contraries. And
how could it be otherwise? Although I am on the whole essentially
better--on the whole!--yet the peculiar severity of the winter has
acted on me, and the truth is that for the last month, precisely
the last month, I have been feeling (off and on, as people say)
very uncomfortable. Not that I am essentially worse, but essentially
better, on the contrary, on