[
1231]
I remember you say, that forlorn seasons often turn out the most profitable.
Perhaps I shall find it so. I have been reading
Plato all the week, because I could not write.
I hoped to be tuned up thereby.
I perceive, with gladness, a keener insight in myself, day by day; yet, after all, could not make a good statement this morning on the subject of beauty.
She had, indeed, a rude strength, which, if it could nave been supported by an equal health, would have given her the efficiency of the strongest men. As it was, she had great power of work.
The account of her reading in
Groton is at a rate like
Gibbon's, and, later, that of her writing, considered with the fact that writing was not grateful to her, is incredible.
She often proposed to her friends, in the progress of intimacy, to write every day.
I think less than a daily offering of thought and feeling would not content me, so much seems to pass unspoken.
In
Italy, she tells
Madame Arconati, that she has “more than a hundred correspondents;” and it was her habit there to devote one day of every week to those distant friends.
The facility with which she assumed stints of literary labor, which veteran feeders of the press would shrink from,— assumed and performed,—when her friends were to be served, I have often observed with wonder, and with fear, when I considered the near extremes of ill-health, and the manner in which her life heaped itself in high and happy moments, which were avenged by lassitude and pain.
As each task comes,
she said,
I borrow a readiness from its aspect, as I always do brightness from the face of a friend.
Yet, as soon as the hour is past, I sink.
