presses the
bottom of the nature of a man in love except Burns' songs. To the man
not in love they must seem inexplicably simple. When he says, "My
love is like the melody that's sweetly played in tune," it seems
almost a crude way of referring to music. But a man in love with a
woman feels a nerve move suddenly that Dante groped for and
Shakespeare hardly touched. What made me think of Burns, however, was
that one of his simple and sudden things, hitting the right nail so
that it rings, occurs in the song of "O a' the airts the wind can
blaw," where he merely says that there is nothing beautiful anywhere
but it makes him think of the woman. That is not really a mere
aesthetic fancy, a chain of sentimental association--it is an actual
instinctive elemental movement of the mind, performed automatically
and instantly. . . .

Felixstowe (undated)

. . . I have as you see, arrived here. I have done other daring
things, such as having my hair shampooed, as you commanded, and also
cut. The effect of this is so singularly horrible that I have found
further existence in London impossible. Public opinion is too strong
for me. . . . There are many other reasons I could give for being
pleased to come: such as that I have some time for writing the novel;
that I can make up stories I don't intend to write . . . that there
are phosphorescent colours on the sea and a box of cigarettes on the
mantelpiece.

Some fragments of what I felt [about Gertrude's death] have
struggled out in the form of some verses which I am writing out for
you. But for real strength (I don't like the word "comfort") for real
peace, no human words are much good except perhaps some of the
unfathomable, unintelligible, unconquerable epigrams of the Bible. I
remember when Bentley had a burning boyish admiration for Professor
Huxley, and when that scientist died some foolish friend asked him
quite flippantly in a letter what he felt about it. Bentley replied
with the chapter and verse reference to one of the Psalms, alone on a
postcard. The text was, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the
death of one of his saints." The friend, I remember, thought it "a
curious remark about Huxley." It strikes me as a miraculous remark
about anybody. It is one of those magic sayings where every word hits
a chain of association, God knows how.

"Precious"--we co