"John Knox" and "J. K." herein mentioned are the two papers on _John
Knox and His Relations with Women_, first printed in Macmillan's
Magazine and afterwards in _Familiar Studies of Men and Books_.
_Swanston, Wednesday [Autumn], 1874._
I have been hard at work all yesterday, and besides had to write a long
letter to Bob, so I found no time until quite late, and then was sleepy.
Last night it blew a fearful gale; I was kept awake about a couple of
hours, and could not get to sleep for the horror of the wind's noise;
the whole house shook; and, mind you, our house is a house, a great
castle of jointed stone that would weigh up a street of English houses;
so that when it quakes, as it did last night, it means something. But
the quaking was not what put me about; it was the horrible howl of the
wind round the corner; the audible haunting of an incarnate anger about
the house; the evil spirit that was abroad; and, above all, the
shuddering silent pauses when the storm's heart stands dreadfully still
for a moment. O how I hate a storm at night! They have been a great
influence in my life, I am sure; for I can remember them so far
back--long before I was six at least, for we left the house in which I
remember listening to them times without number when I was six. And in
those days the storm had for me a perfect impersonation, as durable and
unvarying as any heathen deity. I always heard it, as a horseman riding
past with his cloak about his head, and somehow always carried away, and
riding past again, and being baffled yet once more, _ad infinitum_, all
night long. I think I wanted him to get past, but I am not sure; I know
only that I had some interest either for or against in the matter; and I
used to lie and hold my breath, not quite frightened, but in a state of
miserable exaltation.
My first _John Knox_ is in proof, and my second is on the anvil. It is
very good of me so to do; for I want so much to get to my real tour and
my sham tour, the real tour first; it is always working in my head, and
if I can only turn on the right sort of style at the right moment, I am
not much afraid of it. One thing bothers me; what with hammering at this
J. K., and writing necessary letters, and taking necessary exercise
(that even not enough, the weather is so repulsive to me, cold and
windy), I find I have no time for reading except times of fatigue, when
I wish merely to relax myself. O--and I read over again for this purpose
Flaubert's _Tentation de St. Antoine_; it struck me a good deal at
first, but this second time it has fetched me immensely. I am but just
done with it, so you will know the large proportion of salt to take
with my present statement, that it's the finest thing I ever read! Of
course, it isn't that, it's full of _longueurs_, and is not quite "redd
up," as we say in Scotland, not quite articulated; but there are
splendid things in it.
I say, _do_ take your macaroni with oil: _do, please_. It's _beastly_
with butter.--Ever your faithful friend,