In a state of great defeat and torment, this morning--having much to
do with the weather and--not living on milk, I have been greatly
helped by--one of my own books![1] It is the best I ever wrote--the
last which I took thorough loving pains with--and the first which I
did with full knowledge of sorrow.
Will you please read in it--first--from 65 at the bottom of page 79[2]
as far as and not farther than, 67 in page 81. That is what helped me
this morning.
Then, if you want to know precisely the state I am in, read the
account of the Myth of Tantalus, beginning at 20--p. 24 and going on
to 25--page 31.
It is a hard task to set you, my dear little Susie; but when you get
old, you will be glad to have done it, and another day, you must look
at page 94, and then you must return me my book, for it's my noted
copy and I'm using it.
The life of Tantalus doesn't often admit of crying: but I had a real
cry--with quite wet tears yesterday morning, over what--to me is the
prettiest bit in all Shakespeare
"Pray, be content;
Mother, I am going to the market-place--
Chide me no more."[3]
And almost next to it, comes (to me, always I mean in my own fancy)
Virgilia, "Yes, certain; there's a letter for you; I saw it."[4]
Ever your loving J. R.
[Footnote 1: "The Queen of the Air." See page 70.]
[Footnote 2: Cf. contemporary edition.]
[Footnote 3: "Coriolanus", Act iii. scene 2.]
[Footnote 4: "Coriolanus", Act ii. scene 1.]
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