I had a letter, so long in the coming, from Miss B—— some days since; so was already in possession of the “pitiful story.” No, not that. I think whatever comes to us is our true work, hard as it may seem at the time. Did you ever see or hear of an argument of William Corry’s in his prime that had a speech of Caesar’s in it? One line of it left its brand in my memory. John (my husband) brought it to me to read when he was George Pugh’s partner, and we were living in Cincinnati. “If I am to die to-morrow, then that is what I have to do to-morrow.” John declaimed it for me as he had just heard Mr. Corry. It was never to be forgotten. I hope you have written to her ere this is in your hands, and may your words be indeed helpful, inspiring. How often we all need such. She is a splendid creature, so gifted for a household deity! “Caterer, cook and nurse,” who so shines at the festal board, in the fireside circle, wherever knowledge, wit and wisdom shed their light and graces! All that is wanting is the proper sphere. And yet there be those so blind they will not see! Who is of them?
What have you found in me that gave you leave to think I cared specially for “Kentucky gossip,” or indeed for any gossip? Please, if you have such an impression, seek for a revised edition of me. “Assuredly” (Mahomet’s cuss-word), your letters hitherto have not run to gossip and I have not complained. “A continuation of the same to the same,” may chance to be all sufficient.
Yes, do not hunt up strange fiddle-strings on my account. You know I have reached the years where old strains are best. “All the same,” write whatever goads you to bestow it upon me. Oh! I glanced from my window—if you could just see that overarching sky, that is heaven; if you could drink in a draught of this air, that is very elixir of life, if—if you could see what I see, feel what I feel Oh! oh! oh! Perfect, perfect Venice!
L. G. C.
Venice, June 8, 1883.
LUCERNE.
ATURDAY, at Zurich, yours of June 26th “came to hand.” Here in the filtered waters of glacier torrents, I drink to the letters that are never written! Now for your response. Let it be brilliant as the dewdrops of early morning, alluring as was to our childhood that trip to find the end of the rainbow with its reward of a bag of gold, satisfying as his day to Longfellow’s “Blacksmith.”