’Your loving Brother,

‘J.  C. P.’

Just at this time heavy sorrow fell upon Bishop Hobhouse of Nelson; and the little council of friends at Auckland decided that Bishop Patteson should go at once to do his best to assist and comfort him, and bring him back to Auckland.  There was a quiet time of wholesome rest at Nelson; and the effects appeared in numerous letters, and in the thinking out of many matters on paper to his sisters.

’Oh! how I think with such ever-increasing love of dear Fisher and Edwin!  How I praised God for them on All Saints’ Day.  But I don’t expect to recover spring and elasticity yet awhile.  I don’t think I shall ever feel so young again.  Really it is curious that the number of white hairs is notably increased in these few weeks (though it is silly to talk about it.  Don’t mention it!), and I feel very tired and indolent.  No wonder I seem to “go softly.”  But I am unusually happy down in the depths, only the surface troubled.  I hope that it is not fancy only that makes the shortness and uncertainty of this life a ground of comfort and joy.  Perhaps it is, indeed I think it is, very much a mere cowardly indolent shirking of work.

’Did I say I thought I might some day write a book?  It will be some day indeed.  It seems funny enough to think of such a thing.  The fact is, it is much easier to me to speak than to write.  I think I could learn with a good deal of leisure and trouble to write intelligibly, but not without it.  I am so diffusive and wanting in close condensed habits of thought.  How often I go off in a multitude of words, and really say nothing worthy to be remembered.

’How I should enjoy, indeed, a day or two at Hursley with Mr. and Mrs. Keble.  A line from him now and then, if he can find time, would be a great delight to me; but I know that he thinks and prays, and that is indeed a great happiness.

‘Oh, the blessing of such thoughts as All Saints’ Day brings!—­and now more dear than ever, every day brings!—­“Patriarchs, prophets, apostles, martyrs, and every spirit made perfect in the faith of Christ,” as an old Liturgy says.  And the Collects in the Burial Service!  How full, how simple and soothing, how full of calm, holy, tender, blessed hopes and anticipations!

’So you think the large Adelaide photograph very sad.  I really don’t remember it; I fancy I thought it a very fair likeness.  But you know that I have a heavy lumpy dull look, except when talking—­indeed, then too for aught I know—­and this may be mistaken for a sad look when it is only a dull stupid one.  You can’t get a nice picture out of an ugly face, so it’s no use trying, but you are not looking for that kind of thing.  You want to see how far the face is any index of the character and life and work.