The time of my leaving here draws sadly near and I have done so little—mostly weeding I think, and that is so interesting, it keeps me out of doors, not standing or walking and yet gives me something to do. It is quiet and nice and I like the smell of the earth and the soothing monotony of the movement and thought. We have not been reading anything of any depth or weight; usually we do here, but somehow this time we have read scraps of things, and what I should call decidedly light reading. “Scenes in Clerical Life,” part of Chaucer, the “Story of Doom” (I am _delighted_ with Laurence), a good deal of Browning, and a little of Thackeray.
I want Dr. Macleod to let me leave, as I am so without definite illness now; and it hardly seems right to stay here merely to gain strength; but they won’t even let me speak on the subject yet; and nothing is so provoking as to leave things half done; so I must let the matter be finally decided by them.
(Very warm expressions of admiration and gratitude for Dr. Macleod.)
2, Ashfield House, Harrogate, September 20th, 1868.
I came here on Wednesday to see Miss Harris, who has been seriously ill but is now rapidly gaining strength....
I should like to have seen you while I am still in overflowing health and so merry; it seems too bad to go to one’s best friends always when one is broken.
(Description of Turner’s Norham and Melrose.)
We are reading the Spanish Gipsy aloud. I wonder what you think of it. To me it seems full of wonderful passages expressive of fresh fact, and so exquisitely expressed that one longs to remember the exact words; but the whole thing is disjointed; the story improbable. I always find it impossible to believe people would have acted as she makes them. I suppose I am mistaken; but I can never feel the things the least natural; and yet I should find it hard to say on what ground I disbelieved them. To me the power of looking all round questions, and seeing how all view them, is not specially delightful, unless at the end there comes some deliberate or distinctive sense of reverence or sympathy with the most right. The perpetual suspense is painful to me. I feel as if I would say, “See as much, judge as mercifully, as you can; but show just so much enthusiasm on one side or another, as would lead to action in real life.” The other temperament seems always either weak and irresolute, or likely to lead to wrong action.