spent their fury on land, and not ruffled the sea much.  If it has been otherwise, she has been sorely tossed, while we have been sleeping in our beds, or lying awake thinking about her.  Yet these real, material dangers, when once past, leave in the mind the satisfaction of having struggled with difficulty, and overcome it.  Strength, courage, and experience are their invariable results; whereas, I doubt whether suffering purely mental has any good result, unless it be to make us by comparison less sensitive to physical suffering . . .  Ten years ago, I should have laughed at your account of the blunder you made in mistaking the bachelor doctor for a married man.  I should have certainly thought you scrupulous over-much, and wondered how you could possibly regret being civil to a decent individual, merely because he happened to be single, instead of double.  Now, however, I can perceive that your scruples are founded on common sense.  I know that if women wish to escape the stigma of husband-seeking, they must act and look like marble or clay—­cold, expressionless, bloodless; for every appearance of feeling, of joy, sorrow, friendliness, antipathy, admiration, disgust, are alike construed by the world into the attempt to hook a husband.  Never mind! well-meaning women have their own consciences to comfort them after all.  Do not, therefore, be too much afraid of showing yourself as you are, affectionate and good-hearted; do not too harshly repress sentiments and feelings excellent in themselves, because you fear that some puppy may fancy that you are letting them come out to fascinate him; do not condemn yourself to live only by halves, because if you showed too much animation some pragmatical thing in breeches might take it into his pate to imagine that you designed to dedicate your life to his inanity.  Still, a composed, decent, equable deportment is a capital treasure to a woman, and that you possess.  Write again soon, for I feel rather fierce, and want stroking down.”

   “June 13th, 1845.

“As to the Mrs. —–­, who, you say, is like me, I somehow feel no leaning to her at all.  I never do to people who are said to be like me, because I have always a notion that they are only like me in the disagreeable, outside, first-acquaintance part of my character; in those points which are obvious to the ordinary run of people, and which I know are not pleasing.  You say she is ’clever’—­’a clever person.’  How I dislike the term!  It means rather a shrewd, very ugly, meddling, talking woman . . .  I feel reluctant to leave papa for a single day.  His sight diminishes weekly; and can it be wondered at that, as he sees the most precious of his faculties leaving him, his spirits sometimes sink?  It is so hard to feel that his few and scanty pleasures must all soon go.  He has now the greatest difficulty in either reading or writing; and then he dreads the state of dependence to which blindness will inevitably reduce