t to do it even
after post time, but was too stupid, and am infinitely so to-day also.
Only I _must_ pray you to tell Sarah we all had elder wine to finish
our evening with, and I mulled it myself, and poured it out in the
saucepan into the expectants' glasses, and everybody asked for more;
and I slept like a dormouse. But, as I said, I am so stupid this
morning that----. Well, there's no "that" able to say how stupid I
am, unless the fly that wouldn't keep out of the candle last night;
and _he_ had some notion of bliss to be found in candles, and I've
no notion of anything.

* * * * *

The blue sky is so wonderful to-day and the woods after the rain so
delicious for walking in that I must still delay any school talk one
day more. Meantime I've sent you a book which is in a nice large print
and may in some parts interest you. I got it that I might be able to
see Scott's material for "Peveril;" and it seems to me that he might
have made more of the real attack on Latham House, than of the
fictitious one on Front de Boeuf's castle, had he been so minded, but
perhaps he felt himself hampered by too much known fact.

* * * * *

But you gave my present before[47] a month ago, and I've been
presenting myself with all sorts of things ever since; and now it's
not half gone. I'm very thankful for this, however, just now, for St.
George, who is cramped in his career, and I'll accept it if you like
for him. Meantime I've sent it to the bank, and hold him your debtor.
I've had the most delicious gift besides, I ever had in my life,--the
Patriarch of Venice's blessing written with his own hand, with his
portrait.

I'll bring you this to see to-morrow and a fresh Turner.

[Footnote 47: "Frondes" money.]

* * * * *

The weather has grievously depressed me this last week, and I have not
been fit to speak to anybody. I had much interruption in the early
part of it though, from a pleasant visitor; and I have not been able
to look rightly at your pretty little book. Nevertheless, I'm quite
sure your strength is in private letter writing, and that a curious
kind of shyness prevents your doing yourself justice in print. You
might also surely have found a more pregnant motto about bird's nests!

Am not I cross? But these gray skies are mere poison to my thoughts,
and I have been writing such letters, that I don't think many of my
friends are