Hortus Inclusus Part 6

VENICE, _2d December_ (1876).

I have been very dismal lately. I hope the next captain of St.

George's Company will be a merrier one and happier, in being of use. I am inherently selfish, and don't enjoy being of use. And here I've no Susies nor Kathleens nor Diddies, and I'm only doing lots of good, and I'm very miserable. I've been going late to bed too. I picked myself up last night and went to bed at nine, and feel cheerful enough to ask Susie how she does, and send her love from St. Mark's doves.

They're really tiresome now, among one's feet in St. Mark's Place, and I don't know what it will come to. In old times, when there were not so many idlers about, the doves were used to brisk walkers, and moved away a foot or two in front of one; but now everybody lounges, or stands talking about the Government, and the doves won't stir till one just touches them; and I who walk fast[19] am always expecting to tread on them, and it's a nuisance.

If I only had time I would fain make friends with the sea-gulls, who would be quite like angels if they would only stop on one's balcony.

If there were the least bit of truth in Darwinism, Venice would have had her own born sea-gulls by this time building their nests at her thresholds.

[Footnote 19: See "Fors Clavigera", Letter Lx.x.xII.]

VENICE, _11th December_ (1876).

My mouth's watering so for that Thwaite currant jelly, you can't think. I haven't had the least taste of anything of the sort this three months. These wretches of Venetians live on cigars and garlic, and have no taste in their mouths for anything that G.o.d makes nice.

The little drawing (returned) is nice in color and feeling, but, which surprises me, not at all intelligent in line. It is not weakness of hand but fault of perspective instinct, which spoils so many otherwise good botanical drawings.

Bright morning. Sickle moon just hiding in a red cloud, and the morning stars just vanished in light. But we've had nearly three weeks of dark weather, so we mustn't think it poor Coniston's fault--though Coniston _has_ faults.

ST. MARK'S REST.

_23d January, 1877_.

A great many lovely things happened to me this Christmas, but if I were to tell Susie of them I am sure she would be frightened out of her bright little wits, and think I was going to be a Roman Catholic.

I'm writing _such_ a Catholic history of Venice, and chiseling all the Protestantism off the old "Stones" as they do here the gra.s.s off steps.

All the pigeons of St. Mark's Place send you their love. St. Ursula adds hers to the eleven thousand birds' love. And the darlingest old Pope who went a pilgrimage with her, hopes you won't be too much shocked if he sends _his_ too! (If you're not shocked, _I_ am!)

My new Catholic history of Venice is to be called "St. Mark's Rest."

_27th January_ (1877).

Joanie tells me you are writing her such sad little letters. How _can_ it be that any one so good and true as my Susie should be sad? I am sad, bitterly enough and often, but only with sense of fault and folly and lost opportunity such as you have never fallen into or lost. It is very cruel of Fate, I think, to make us sad, who would fain see everybody cheerful, and (cruel of Fate too) to make so many cheerful who make others wretched. The little history of Venice is well on, and will be clear and interesting, I think,--more than most histories of anything. And the stories of saints and nice people will be plenty.

Such moonlight as there is to-night, but nothing to what it is at Coniston! It makes the lagoon water look brown instead of green, which I never noticed before.

VENICE, _4th February, 1877_.

Your praise and sympathy do me double good, because you could not praise me so nicely and brightly without pleasure of your own. I'm always sure a Fors will be good if I feel it will please Susie;--but I can only write them now as they're given me; it all depends on what I'm about. But I'm doing a great deal just now which you will enjoy--I'm thankful to say, I know you will. St. Theodore's horse is delightful[20]--and our Venetian doggie--and some birds are coming too!

This is not a letter--but just a purr.

[Footnote 20: St. Theodore had a contest with a Dragon, and his horse gave considerable help, trampling it down with its four feet. The Saint spoke first to the horse as to a man--"Oh thou horse of Christ comfort thee, be strong like a man, and come that we may conquer the contrary enemy." See "Fors," vol. vii. also "St. Mark's Rest,"]

SAINTS AND FLOWERS.

VENICE, _17th February_ (1877).

It is very grievous to me to hear of your being in that woeful weather while I have two days' suns.h.i.+ne out of three, and starlight or moonlight always; to-day the whole chain of the Alps from Vicenza to Trieste s.h.i.+ning cloudless all day long, and the sea-gulls floating high in the blue, like little dazzling boys' kites.

Yes, St. Francis would have been greatly pleased with you watching p.u.s.s.y drink your milk; so would St. Theodore, as you will see by next Fors, which I have ordered to be sent you in first proof, for I am eager that you should have it. What wonderful flowers these pinks of St. Ursula's are, for life! They seem to bloom like everlastings.

I get my first rosebud and violets of this year from St. Helena's Island to-day. How I begin to pity people who have no saints to be good to them! Who is yours at Coniston? There must have been some in the country once upon a time.

With their help I am really getting well on with my history and drawing, and hope for a sweet time at home in the heathery days, and many a nice afternoon tea at the Thwaite.

VENICE, _8th March, 1877_.

That is entirely new and wonderful to me about the singing mouse.[21]

Douglas (was it the Douglas?) saying "he had rather hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak" needs revision. It is a marvelous fact in natural history.

The wind is singing a wild tune to-night--cannot be colder on our own heaths--and the waves dash like our Waterhead. Oh me, when I'm walking round it again how like a sad dream all this Venice will be!

[Footnote 21: A pleasant story that a friend sent me from France. The mouse often came into their sitting-room and actually sang to them, the notes being a little like a canary's.--S. B.]

VENICE, _15th May, 1877_.

I've not tumbled into the lagoons, nor choked myself in a pa.s.sion, nor gone and made a monk of myself--nor got poisoned by the Italian cooks.

I'm packing up, and coming to the Thwaite as soon as ever I can--after a little Alpine breathing of high air.

I'm pretty well--if you'll forgive me for being so naughty--else I can't be even plain well--but I'm always your loving----