him. O dio! how good it was to laugh again.




LETTER XIII.


GRAYSMILL, October 18th.

Very dear, I hope this letter will reach Vienna before you do, and
welcome you there. The words we write in one mood are read when
another has taken its place; perhaps you are as merry as a bird in
spring by this time,--perhaps not. My poor little dear. I know
myself what it is to sink into a bottomless pit of senseless misery,
but I must tell you that it nearly always happens when I am idle.

A woman that is debarred from woman's best profession--wifehood
and motherhood--must find some other work to do; idleness,
uselessness--above all, idleness--are the hotbed of all manner of
follies. The stupidest man in existence, working day by day at the
worldliest work, has the better of us in this, that he is weighted,
so to speak, and cannot flutter to and fro with every breeze that
blows. You say that you cannot work, that you have heard all this at
least a thousand times; well, never mind, hear it once more!

Take German lessons, your German is very bad; go on with your
singing, your sweet voice is very ignorant; read, make some study,
however unprofitable, of the French Revolution, the Renaissance, the
Conquest of Peru, anything, anything you like; or buy a