at any moment
and to be "parted" even for a time. But to us all, who all enjoy
everything to be seen and heard, and heard of in new places and among
other people; the fact that I have to lead a traveller's life gives us
certain great pleasures we could not have had if Rex had been a curate
at Worksop (we'll say), and we couldn't even afford a trip to the
Continent! Also if I have any gift for writing it really _ought_ to
improve under circumstances so much more favourable than the narrowing
influence of a small horizon.... I only wish my gift were a little
nearer _real_ genius!! As it is, I do hope to improve gradually; and
as I _do_ work slowly and conscientiously, I may honestly look forward
with satisfaction to the hope of being able to turn a few honest
pennies to help us out: and it _is_ a satisfaction, and a blessing I
am thankful for. I only wish I could please myself better! However,
small writers are wanted as well as big ones, and there is no reason
why donkey-carts shouldn't drive even if there are coaches on the
road!...

[_Fredericton_.] February 3, 1868.

* * * * * *

I am so infinitely obliged to you for your wisdom _in re_ Reka Dom,
and very thankful for the criticisms, to which I shall attend. I mean
to compress it very much. I will keep the river part, though that is
really the shadow of some of my best writing, I think, in the _Dutch_
tale describing that scene at Topsham. I wrote a good bit last night,
and was much wishing for the returned MS. But the sight of the proof
will help me more than anything. I lose all judgment of my own work in
MS. I feel as if it must be as laborious to read as it has been to
write. Whereas in print it comes freshly on me, and I can criticize it
more fairly. It will not be very long when all is done, I think, and I
am so anxious to make it good, I hope it will be satisfactory. A
little praise really does help one to work, and I don't think makes
one a bit less conscientious.

It has been a very jolly mail this time, though the Lexicon has not
come. The Bishop's is getting worn with use, for Rex does his daily
chapter with unfailing regularity, and is murmuring Hebrew at my elbow
at this moment as usual. Mr. James McCombie, the uncle who lives in
Aberdeen, the lawyer, has sent me such a pretty book of photographs of
Aberdeen! with a kind message about my letter to the poor old Mother,
and asking me to write to them. I had asked