t I do not exaggerate its rare beauty, I must inform you that two
friends of ours have each offered a hundred dollars for it, and a
blacksmith in the place--a man utterly unimaginative, who would not
throw away a red cent on a _mere_ fancy--has tried to purchase it for
fifty dollars. I wish most earnestly that you could see it. It is of
unmixed gold, weighing about two dollars and a half. Your first idea on
looking at it is of an exquisite little basket. There is the graceful
cover with its rounded nub at the top, the three finely carved sides
(it is triformed), the little stand upon which it sets, and the tiny
clasp which fastens it. In detail it is still more beautiful. On one
side you see a perfect W, each finely shaded bar of which is fashioned
with the nicest exactness. The second surface presents to view a
Grecian profile, whose delicately cut features remind you of the serene
beauty of an antique gem. It is surprising how much expression this
face contains, which is enriched by an oval setting of delicate
beading. A plain triangular space of burnished gold, surrounded with
bead-work similar to that which outlines the profile, seems left on
purpose for a name. The owner, who is a Frenchman, decidedly refuses to
sell this gem, and you will probably never have an opportunity to see
that the same Being who has commanded the violet to be beautiful can
fashion the gold, crucibled into metallic purity within the earth's
dark heart, into shapes as lovely and curious.

To my extreme vexation, Ned, that jewel of cooks and fiddlers, departed
at the first approach of rain, since when I have been obliged to take
up the former delightful employment myself. Really, everybody ought to
go to the mines, just to see how little it takes to make people
comfortable in the world. My ordinary utensils consist of,--item, one
iron dipper, which holds exactly three pints; item, one brass kettle of
the same size; and item, the gridiron, made out of an old shovel, which
I described in a former letter. With these three assistants I perform
absolute wonders in the culinary way. Unfortunately, I am generally
compelled to get three breakfasts, for sometimes the front-stick _will_
break, and then down comes the brass kettle of potatoes and the dipper
of coffee, extinguishing the fire, spilling the breakfast, wetting the
carpet, scalding the dog, waking up F. from an eleven-o'clock-in-the-day
dream, and compelling poor me to get up a second edition