My dear Mary,—Your letter, full of warm and most welcome old friendship, to say nothing (which means much) of the box of my favourite sweetmeats, came like a beam of sunshine upon a house full of trouble; for your husband’s namesake had been taken suddenly ill. . . . . But we have all experienced these sorrows in the course of our lives, so I will say no more of them.
Truly, in spite of anxiety, did I rejoice to think of your
southern rest, and our patient’s condition has made us doubly desirous to
hear more of a place, where you so naturally wish to have more old friends near
you, and where we should be so willing to find ourselves. . . . We might pass some
months perhaps at Nice, or some longer time, as cheaply as we live in this
neighbourhood (where, by the way, I have not yet seen the exhibition, so anxious
have I been!) . . . . . A thousand recollections of past times often spring up in
my mind, connected with yourselves and other friends, all loving, and wishing I
could have made them all happy for ever. But some day I believe we shall be so, in
some Heavenly and kindly place. Meantime, just now, I shall dry my eyes, and fancy
myself with you at Nice, imitating some happy old evening in Percy Street. We would
have a little supper, precisely of the old sort, and fancy ourselves not a bit
older in years; and “Victoria” if she were there,
should put on a pinafore to help the illusion; and we would repeat the old jokes,
and at all events love one another and so deserve to have all the happiness we
could. Now is not this a thing to look forward to, in case I can take the journey?
Marianne, who sends cordialest greetings,
looks up with a bright eye at what
| 258 | RECOLLECTIONS OF WRITERS |
