Thankful, and so am I, for those thirty-four peaceful
years we spent together, or rather for the seventy
years of perfect brotherhood that we have been granted,
and though he has left me behind him, I am content
to wait. It cannot be for long. My brothers
and sisters, their children, and my faithful Amos
Bell, are very good to me; and in writing up to that
mezzo termine of our lives, I have been living it
over again with my brother of brothers, through the
troubles that have become like joys.
Uncle Edward has not said half enough about his dear
old self. I want to know if he never was unhappy
when he was young about being like that,
though mother says his face was always nearly as
beautiful as it is now. And it is not only goodness.
It is beautiful with his sweet smile and snowy
white hair. Ellen Winslow.
And I wonder, though perhaps he could not have told,
what Aunt Anne would have done if Uncle Clarence
had not been so forbearing before he went to China.
Clare Frith.
The others are highly impertinent questions, but we
ought to know what became of Lady Peacock.
Ed. G. W.
Poor woman, she drifted back to London after about
ten years, with an incurable disease. Clarence
put her into lodgings near us, and did his best for
her as long as she lived. He had a hard task,
but she ended by saying he was her only friend.
To question No. 2 I have nothing to say; but as to
No. 1, with its extravagant compliment, Nature, or
rather God, blessed me with even spirits, a methodical
nature that prefers monotony, and very little morbid
shyness; nor have I ever been devoid of tender care
and love. So that I can only remember three
severe fits of depression. One, when I had
just begun to be taken out in the Square Gardens, and
Selina Clarkson was heard to say I was a hideous
little monster. It was a revelation, and must
have given frightful pain, for I remember it acutely
after sixty-five years.
The second fit was just after Clarence was gone to
sea, and some very painful experiments had been tried
in vain for making me like other people. For
the first time I faced the fact that I was set aside
from all possible careers, and should be, as I remember
saying, ‘no better than a girl.’
I must have been a great trial to all my friends.
My father tried to reason on resignation, and tell
me happiness could be in myself, till he broke
down. My mother attempted bracing by reproof.
Miss Newton endeavoured to make me see that this
was my cross. Every word was true, and came round
again, but they only made me for the time more rebellious
and wretched. That attack was ended, of all
things in the world, by heraldry. My attention
somehow was drawn that way, and the study filled
up time and thought till my misfortunes passed into
custom, and haunted me no more.
