'"
My mother was especially fortunate in finding the smallest rose-tinted
and most gleaming among the shells which we came across upon the
sands, and of these a few superlative but almost invisible specimens
were long the cherished possession of her English work-box. She often
went with me to the sands, spending much time there; her diary saying:
"Superb, calm day. I went on sands with Rosebud to gather shells.
Stayed three hours." Or: "Most superb day possible. I went on the
sands with Rose, and sat all the morning in a sand-chair, reading,
while Rose played. It was a divine day; the air like rose petals, the
sky cerulean, the sea sapphire. I felt so serene and quiet;--a great
calm." Then comes the inevitable contrast: "Tremendous sea. Rose and I
went on the sands to gather shells." These shells, which we could none
of us find in so perfect a state as my mother could, were
object-lessons to me in the refinements of art, as the harebells were
in the refinements of nature; for were not the dancing flowers alive,
and the stirless shells the passive work of thought?
Sometimes she read Disraeli's "Sibyl," while I built a sand fortress
round her; or she read "Venetia," "Oliver Twist," "The Life of Mary
II.," "Romany Rye," and "The Lives of the Last Four Popes." She
remembered Pio Nono with unflagging interest, and mentions his serious
illness, and then his recovery. She read "a queer biography of
Wordsworth by Hood," and she regarded Carlyle's diction in the "French
Revolution" as "rubbishy.
Pages:
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336