and I hope that the enemy is growing weaker, less frequent in his attacks, and that in the end you will vanquish him altogether.
"Do not all my letters commence something in this way? Do you not rely for certain upon a particular number of lines of wildness and absurdity and unreason before you get to more serious and sober matters? But in beginning to write to you a sort of tumult of emotion seems to carry me out of myself. I cannot instantly concentrate my ideas. I feel dizzy and unnerved with thoughts of you. It would be the same if I were now to see you here—at a moment's notice. The joy would be too much for me almost. I should be dumb for some minutes. I should feel everything to be swimming round me, and I should fall at your feet overwhelmed by the wondrous magic of your presence. So, in writing to you. my hand quite trembles, and my heart is terribly restless; the love surges up in me till I feel half mad with it, and I have to wait a little till I grow more accustomed to its violence.
"Very extravagant all this, isn't it, Violet? And I fancy those charming deep grey eyes looking mildly reproachful, and a smile that would be critical if it wasn't so tender stealing along the lines of your lips. I ought to be calm. I ought to study to conceal emotion more. I ought not to surrender myself to these paroxysms of feeling. Quite right. The more so because you, I know, dear one, believe rather in quietude, which is not always earnestness, though the one sometimes represents the other; but perhaps it is difficult to believe that fever and excitement may be anything more than effervescence after all.
"There: I am still now, my hand shakes no more. Don't you perceive a difference in the writing? I can bear now calmly to contemplate my happiness, and to think of you placidly, Violet. I remember that I am a gentleman very near middle-life (I am, Vi, though you persist in contradicting me!), with a great many grey hairs (I have them, though you are so wilfully blind on the subject, and will ignore them!), living up a good many pairs of stairs in the Temple, studying law. I ought to conduct myself soberly if anybody ought.
"I have given up my lodgings in Bury Street. They were a useless extravagance. We agreed upon that, did we not? and economy is to be the order of the day henceforward. My old friend, George Martin, of whom I have written to you before, and whom I have begged you to like when you see him, if only for my sake—but I am sure you will like him for his own—has been kinder than ever. He has insisted upon my taking up my abode with him, has made room for me in his chambers, and will have it that for some time to come I shall have no want of any other lodgings or rooms of whatever kind. What could I do but comply with an offer so generous? You must like him! He is so genial and frank, and yet so calm and self-contained, withal. Isn't that a recommendation, Vi? He is a little older than I am—handsome, with marked features—a high bald forehead—he declares he lost his hair at twenty-three—and a wonderful smile. He has been called to the bar some years, but he does not practise; he is engaged in literary pursuits, and is a highly accomplished and most worthy gentleman. He writes constantly in the and Journals, and has been most kind in obtaining work for me. It was through his introduction that my paper appeared in the Magazine; the paper you admired so kindly (you don't know what an incentive to work your admiration is, Vi), and which Madge thought a little heavy. She likes 'funnier kind of things,' does she? I am afraid I cannot manage to be very comical, but I'll try, if it be only for her sake, and she shall be at liberty to laugh quite as much at as with me. Can I do more to please her? I am sorry that I found it necessary to speak unfavourably of the new comic novel she admired so much. Tell her, if she likes, she shall herself review the author's next work.
"Will you take Martin's evidence in my favour? He says there is no reason why I should not take high literary rank, or attach to my name a most creditable share of literary fame. I try to believe this. Do you, Vi? How happy it would make me to seem in any way more worthy of you! The disparity between us is too fearful at present. But, there, I will say no more. I know you have already expressed strong disapprobation at what you call my absurd system of undue exaltation of you and depreciation of myself.
"Good-night, Violet, and good-bye. I looked out of window at the calm moon, and wonder whether it is shining into your face as it is into mine, and what you are doing and saying. But, probably, you are in bed long ago, and fast asleep. Has your last thought to-night been of me as mine will be of you? A lovely night. I see the Thames from my window reflecting the stars, and the lamps on the bridge. A lovely night; and in its hush and beauty—with my mind full of thoughts of you—I seem to be nearer to you than ever, and to love you more; but that is hardly possible. Good-night! God preserve and bless you, and make you love me, and me worthy of your love. Good-night, again, my own dearest Violet!
"Wilford."
"Grilling Abbots.
"Dearest Wilford,
"I love you! Will that do, you restless, impatient man? Or am I to write the words over and over again, beginning and ending every line with them? But if you will not, as you say, though I doubt the fact,—if you will not tire of reading them, don't you think I shall of writing them? When will you give over these doubtings and misgivings? I was in hopes from your former letter that you had quite got rid of your old melancholy. Why did you let it come back to plague you? You frighten me sometimes by the way in which you write to me. Why should you fear that I should cease to love you? Why should I change? What is there in me or in my words that should make you think that I do not know my own mind—that I am feeble, uncertain—that some time or other I shall cease to love you? No, dear Wilford, that will never be. Pray believe it, now and for ever. I have given you my heart