A letter to the brother himself was written under the same impulse,
even more tenderly affectionate, but so deep and intimate, that it
would almost be treason to give it to the world. The next letter was
written soon after the alarm had passed, but is undated:--

'My dear Fan,--Yesterday I was unluckily too seedy with headache to
go on the ice, and this morning I have been skating for half an hour,
but the ice is spoilt. Very jolly it is to be twisting and turning
about once more. I thought of writing to old Jem to come down for
it, as I should think the frost is not severe enough to freeze any
but the shallow water of the floods, but it was not good enough to
reward him for the trouble of coming so far.

'The constant sense of his preservation from that great danger really
prevents my feeling so acutely perhaps as I ought to do the distress
of others. I really think I ought to be less cheerful and happy than
I feel myself to be. I had a pleasant little talk with Dr. Pusey on
Monday: he was recommending me two or three books for Hebrew reading,
but they would be of no use to me yet; the language is difficult to
advance far into, and you know my shallow way of catching a thing at
first rather quickly perhaps, but only superficially. I find my
interest increasing greatly in philological studies. One language
helps another very much; and the beautiful way in which the words,
ideas, and the whole structure indeed, of language pervades whole
families, and even the different families, (e.g., the Indo-Germanic
and Semitic races,) is not only interesting, but very useful. I wish
I had made myself a better Greek and Latin scholar, but unfortunately
I used to hate classics. What desperate uphill work it was to read
them, a regular exercise of self-denial every morning! Now I like it