532 PRÆTERITA-III

stood up in the meadows tantalizing me in the carriage so much because I wanted to feel them And there were myrtles (wild) growing close to the blue Mediterranean & Mama lay down on them by the seaside at Cannes while Papa and I were talking to a perfectly deaf old French fisherman who gave his* to me as he caught them putting them half alive into my hands, oh, you w^d have been alive there Archigosaurus. How I wish you had been there. Well we got here (Nice) on Saturday evening & we climbed up an old Roman Ampitheatre and saw of all sunsets the most glorious. We said it was like Light in the West, Beauvais,¹ and again we thought of you Oh S^t. Crumpet I think of you so much & of all your dearnesses to me

I wish so very much that you were happy-God can make you so-We will try not to forget all you taught us-It was so nice of you. Thank you so much from both of us.-Mama is very glad you went to Dr. Ferguson She says you must not give him up. How very kind of you to see & talk to our old man Certainly the name is not beautiful We have all read your letter & we all care for it That was indeed a “dear Irish labourer.” I like him so much; such a nice letter. I hope M^r & M^rs Ruskin are well now. Will you give them our love please & take for yourself as much as ever you please. It will be a great deal if you deign to take all we send you. I like Nice but I don’t much like being transplanted except going home. I am ever your rose.

Postscript

Yes, write packets-trunks, & we shall like them so much. Indeed I couldn’t write before, I’ll try to write again. You must see how we think of you & talk of you-rose posie.

APPENDIX TO CHAPTER III

[The following additional passages found among Ruskin’s MSS. carry on the story of his life a little further.]

CHAMOUNI, 18th September, 1888.-I was repeating over this letter to myself last night, the nearly full moon keeping me awake, not unwillingly, with unclouded light, as she rose above the Dôme, and set over the Breven, while the higher two stars of Orion’s belt seemed to pause above the peak of the Aiguille Blaitière, a film of white cloud filling the valley to the south, stretching upwards to Mont Blanc-the aiguilles all silver-grey in moonlight.

Repeating it-and thinking over its character as distinguished from that

* “Fish” to be understood; also that the fisherman was not “perfectly” deaf, for papa could not have talked with his eyes only, as Rose could.

¹ [Plate 66 in Modern Painters, vol. v. (Vol. VII. p. 154).]

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