J.H.E.
Have you seen March A.J.M.? I particularly want you to read a thing of mine called "Our Garden." I'll send it if you can't get it.
For Private Circulation Only.
(Oh, Charles! Charles!)
Time, 2 p.m. Julie in bed for the sake of "perfect quiet." M.M. "without a moment to spare."
"I see I'm tiring you—I shall not stop—I haven't a moment—I can't speak—I've given lessons on the mixed Languages this morning—and paid all my bills—Mr. B—— has called—he's better-looking than I thought, but too much hair—and the BREWER all over—you look very white—you're killing yourself—why DO you do it?—and U——'s as bad—I mean D——. Dear me! what a pleasure it has been! When I think of Ecclesfield!!!! You are not to kill yourself—I forbid it—why should you work for daily bread as I have to do?—Our bread bill doesn't exceed £4 a week—I mean a month—TEN pounds a month for groceries and wine—spirits we never have in the house—you've seen all that we have—when I was senseless and Dr. F—— called—when the other doctors came he left his card and retired, but we've employed him since—he ordered gin cloths—they sent out—when the bill came in I said Brown! Brown! BROWN!!—what's this? Gin! GIN! GIN! who's 'ad GIN! They said YOU! Such is life!
"Dear, dear, IT is a pleasure to see you—but I see your head's bad and I'm going—I must dress.—May I ring your bell for the maid—a black silk, Julie, good and well cut is economical, my dear. No underground to Whiteley's for me! Lewis and Allenby—they dress me—I order nothing—I know nothing—I haven't a rag of clothing in the world—they line the bodices with silk and you can darn it down to the last—I eat nothing—I drink nothing—I only work—I never sleep—I read German classics in bed—Lessing—and the second part of Schiller's Faust—I give lessons on it before breakfast in my dressing-gown—this morning the young ladies hung on my lips—I know the lesson was a good one—It was the Sorrows of Goethe. Last week Dr. Zerffi said—'All religions are one and one religion is all—particularly the Brahmas.' It was splendid! and none of the young ladies knew it before they came. But Poor Mrs. S——! She didn't seem one bit wiser. I sent him a Valentine on the 14th—designed by the young ladies. He said 'I knew where it came from—by the word BOPP. Zis is ze only establishment in England where the word BOPP is known.' He's a great man—and the Teutonic element must prevail. The Kelts are very charming, but they will go. We've the same facial angle as the Hindoo, but poor Mrs. S—— can't see it. Dr. A—— says I must have some sleep—so I've given up Sanscrit—You can't do everything even in bed. And it's English when all's done—and Brown speaks it as well as I do!! Go to India, Julie, if ever you have the chance, and talk to the natives—they'll understand you. They understand me. Signor Ricci sometimes does not. But then he speaks the modern—the base—Italian, and I—the classic. He said, 'I do not understand you, Mees M——.' I said, 'E vero, Signor—I know you don't. But that's because I speak classic Italian. All the organ-boys understand me.' And he smiled. Dear, dear! How pleasant it is to see a Gatty—but I wish you didn't look so white—when I see other people suffer, and think of all the years of health I've enjoyed, I never can be thankful enough—and when I've paid my monthly bills I'm the happiest woman in England. When I think of how much I have and how little I deserve, I don't know what to do but say my prayers. Dear, I'm sorry I told you that story about X——. If she sent this morning for £10 I must let her have it, if I had to go out and borrow it. I am going out—the Dr. says I must. In the holidays I go on the balcony—and look down into the street—and see the four-in-hands—and the policemen—and the han(d)som cabmen (they're most of them gentlemen—and some of them Irish gentlemen), and I say—'Such is life!' And poor Mrs. S—— says 'Is it, Miss M——?' and I know I speak sharply to her, which I should not do. And I go into Kensington Gardens—and see the Princess—and the Ducks in the water—and the little ragged boys going to bathe—and I say 'This is a glorious world!' I saw Lord—Lord—dear me! I know his name as well as my own—Lord—Lord—Oh Lord! he believes in Tichborne—K——, that's it—Lord K—— in the Row. He always asks after me. HE married a woman—well. No more about that. He couldn't get a divorce. Her sister married a parson. She was the mother of that poor woman—you know—who was murdered by those people—they lived two streets off Derby House—the brother—a handsome man—lived opposite Gipsey Hill Station. You know that? Well. His wife had a bunch of curls behind (I hate curls and bunches behind—keep your hair clean and put it up simply). She—got off and so did he. They—that's the parson and his wife—wrote to Lord K—— and said 'Lady K—— is dead,' He said 'Then bury her.' and he married again at once. She was a Miss A., and she said—'I marry him because I've been told to'—but that's neither here nor there, and these things occur. ANN! is that you? My dear, how black you are under the eyes—DO, Julie, try and take better care of yourself—and keep quiet. If I were Major Ewing I'd thrash you if you didn't. Coming, Ann!—What was it?—Oh, Lord K—— and Tichborne—well—just let me shut the door. He IS Tichborne—but he murdered him. That's the secret.
"ANN! My black silk—go to my room—murdered who? why—Castor.
"Now try and get some sleep. If I find you with papers I'll burn them. Oh! there go all the drags and Mr. M—— on the box—and there go the 4.45, 5.15, and 5.25 to Baker St.—The days fly! But it's a glorious life. Work! Work!—Keep quiet, dear—I shall be back directly."
To A.E.
"Sheffield House," New Quay, Dartmouth.
June 4, 1874.