My dear Victoria,—Though my head is so beaten with work just at this instant as to be no better than a mashed turnip, and though I am not aware that I have any thorough right to make you pay threepence because I am grateful, yet being apt to obey impulses to that effect, I am unable to forbear thanking you for your very nice and kind letter, so well written because you have a brain, and so warmly felt because you have a heart. I love your love of your mother, and of your husband, and of all other loveable things, and as a lover of them all myself shall think it no impertinence, especially as they give me leave, to beg you to continue to keep a little corner in your heart for the love of
P.S.—I enjoy heartily your Italian’s
“perfection of playful sophistry.” Happily do you describe it; and
yet see what a really different thing he makes a fog from those who do nothing
but grumble at it, for everything is nothing but a result of our sensations,
and the more pleasant we can make this, how lucky we! There is a poor
hand-pianoforte playing at my window this moment the song of “Jenny Jones,” and now “The Light of Other Days,” I believe it is
| LEIGH HUNT AND HIS LETTERS. | 249 |
