Dick is at school—and Ned. They both want what no schools give, some man who will know how to educate the peculiar, and not insist that it be like the unpeculiar. As for Jack, he has begun to work, and takes it hard, and has more rows than ever. One envies England her India for these restless young Vikings. In a week we join Lyndsay on the river.
Carington looked at the date. It was two weeks old.
My niece is very well; as handsome as ever; rather too serious, as I think: one wants a little foolish vagueness in the young. It gives to the human landscape atmosphere, as the painters say. If you don’t know what I mean, I am sorry for you. I tell Col. Fox that is what the Quakers lack—atmosphere. (I call that very clever: vide Ellett.) Fox says Friends are rather definite,—think of the arrogance of calling themselves Friends, and a big F also. This is the great and lovely liberty of the letter. It may wander like a gipsy. I think really I must go back and look. I meant to tell you what North said about tombstone biography. He called it “epitaffy.” Isn’t that lovely? Also, it has no manner of connection with the rest of this meandering screed.
I was saying that Rose has become too grave. Do not be alarmed. It is only a mood elongated. And now I am going to do a very silly thing. No, I won’t! A word to the wise is said to be enough; sometimes the silence of wisdom is better. I dreadfully hunger after a chance to give you a dose of advice. I write a big ℞, like the doctors’, in due form, with that stupid flourish below, which is, I believe, their invocation to Jupiter for luck (they need it); and then—I hesitate. Be so good as to fill in this blank with what I shall only think, not say:
I advise most positively—
...........?
...........?
I can hear your anathema.
“I should think so, indeed!” exclaimed Carington; “and what next?”
We shall be in camp before this reaches you. I had some doubt about going myself, but I mean to have all the joys life offers, or that I can decently lay hands on. When the thing is over, I shall just say to my dear people, “By-by; see you again shortly,” and laugh a little, and go to sleep. I never could see why folks make such a fuss about dying. The way some people think of it rises to the gravity of a jest. What would the goody-goody world say to that—or my dear Margaret Lyndsay?