My dear Mrs. Cowden Clarke,—I cannot tell you how much pleasure I have derived from the receipt of your earnest letter. Do not suppose it possible that such praise can be “less than nothing” to your old Manager. It is more than all else.
Here in my little country house on the summit of the hill where
Falstaff did the robbery, your words have
come to me in the most appropriate and delightful manner. When the story can be
read all at once, and my meaning can be better seen, I will send it to you (sending
it to Dean Street, if you tell me of no better way) and it will be a hearty
gratification to think that you and your good husband are reading it together. For
you must both take notice, please, that I have a reminder of you always before me.
On my desk here stand two green leaves, which I every morning station in
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Lord! to think of the bygone day when you were stricken mute (was it not at Glasgow?) and, being mounted on a tall ladder at a practicable window, stared at Forster, and with a noble constancy refused to utter word! Like the Monk among the pictures with Wilkie, I begin to think that the real world, and this the sham that goes out with the lights. God bless you both.
