Hortus Inclusus | Page 7

and
the butter's bad; half the country people are shepherds, but there's no
mutton; half the old women walk about with a pig tied to their waists,
but there's no pork; the vine grows wild anywhere, and the wine would
make my teeth drop out of my head if I took a glass of it; there are no
strawberries, no oranges, no melons, the cherries are as hard as their
stones, the beans only good for horses, or Jack and the beanstalk, and
this is the size of the biggest asparagus--
[Illustration: hand-drawn sketch of asparagus stalk]
I live here in a narrow street ten feet wide only, winding up a hill, and it
was full this morning of sheep as close as they could pack, at least a
thousand, as far as the eye could reach,--tinkle tinkle, bleat bleat, for a
quarter of an hour.
[Footnote 9: Cimabue.]
* * * * *

IN PARADISE.
ASSISI, SACRISTAN'S CELL, 25th June (1874).
This letter is all upside down, and this first page written last; for I didn't
like something I had written about myself last night when I was tired,
and have torn it off.
That star you saw beat like a heart must have been a dog star. A planet
would not have twinkled. Far mightier, he, than any planet; burning
with his own planetary host doubtless round him; and, on some
speckiest of the specks of them, evangelical persons thinking our sun
was made for them.
Ah, Susie, I do not pass, unthought of, the many sorrows of which you
kindly tell me, to show me--for that is in your heart--how others have
suffered also.
But, Susie, you expect to see your Margaret again, and you will be
happy with her in heaven. I wanted my Rosie here. In heaven I mean to
go and talk to Pythagoras and Socrates and Valerius Publicola. I shan't
care a bit for Rosie there, she needn't think it. What will gray eyes and
red cheeks be good for there?
These pious sentiments are all written in my sacristan's cell.
This extract book[10] of yours will be most precious in its help to me,
provided it is kept within somewhat narrow limits. As soon as it is done
I mean to have it published in a strong and pretty but cheap form, and it
must not be too bulky. Consider, therefore, not only what you like, but
how far and with whom each bit is likely to find consent and service.
You will have to choose perhaps, after a little while, among what you
have already chosen. I mean to leave it wholly in your hands; it is to be
Susie's choice of my writings.
Don't get into a flurry of responsibility, but don't at once write down all
you have a mind to; I know you'll find a good deal! for you are exactly

in sympathy with me in all things.
[Footnote 10: "Frondes Agrestes."]
* * * * *
ASSISI, 9th July, 1874.
Your lovely letters are always a comfort to me; and not least when you
tell me you are sad. You would be far less in sympathy with me if you
were not, and in the "everything right" humor of some, even of some
really good and kind persons, whose own matters are to their mind, and
who understand by "Providence" the power which particularly takes
care of them. This favoritism which goes so sweetly and pleasantly
down with so many pious people is the chief of all stumbling-blocks to
me. I must pray for everybody or nobody, and can't get into any
conceptions of relation between Heaven and me, if not also between
Heaven and earth, (and why Heaven should allow hairs in pens I can't
think).
I take great care of myself, be quite sure of that, Susie; the worst of it is,
here in Assisi everybody else wants me to take care of them.
Catharine brought me up as a great treat yesterday at dinner, ham
dressed with as much garlic as could be stewed into it, and a plate of
raw figs, telling me I was to eat them together!
The sun is changing the entire mountains of Assisi into a hot bottle
with no flannel round it; but I can't get a ripe plum, peach, or cherry.
All the milk turns sour, and one has to eat one's meat at its toughest or
the thunder gets into it next day.
* * * * *

FOAM OF TIBER.
PERUGIA, 17th July (1874).

I am made anxious by your sweet letter of the 6th saying you have been
ill and are "not much better."
The letter is all like yours, but I suppose however ill you were you
would always write prettily, so that's little comfort.