er
tints of the dear Girl's dress; and she, too, pensive, not sentimental: a
Lady, as her Painter was a Gentleman. Faded as it is in the face (the
Lake, which he would use, having partially flown), it is one of the most
beautiful things of his I have seen: more varied in colour; not the
simple cream-white dress he was fond of, but with a light gold-threaded
Scarf, a blue sash, a green chair, etc. . . .

I was rather taken aback by the Master's having discovered my last--yes,
and bona-fide my last--translation in the volume I sent to your Library.
I thought it would slip in unobserved, and I should have given all my
little contributions to my old College, without after-reckoning. Had I
known you as the Wife of any but the 'quondam' Greek Professor, I should
very likely have sent it to you: since it was meant for those who might
wish for some insight into a Play {109} which I must think they can
scarcely have been tempted into before by any previous Translation. It
remains to be much better done; but if Women of Sense and Taste, and Men
of Sense and Taste (who don't know Greek) can read, and be interested in
such a glimpse as I give them of the Original, they must be content, and
not look the Horse too close in the mouth, till a better comes to hand.

My Lugger has had (along with her neighbours) such a Season hitherto of
Winds as no one remembers. We made 450 pounds in the North Sea; and
(just for fun) I did wish to realize 5 pounds in my Pocket. But my
Captain would take it all to pay Bills. But if he makes another 400
pounds this Home Voyage! Oh, then we shall have money in our Pockets. I
do wish this. For the anxiety about all these People's lives has been so
much more to me than all the amusement I have got from the Business, that
I think I will draw out of it if I can see my Captain sufficiently firm
on his legs to carry it on alone. True, there will then be the same risk
to him and his ten men, but they don't care; only I sit here listening to
the Winds in the Chimney, and always thinking of the Eleven hanging at my
own fingers' ends.

This Letter is all desperately about me and mine, Translations and Ships.
And now I am going to walk in _my_ Garden: and feed _my_ Captain's Pony
with white Carrots; and in the Evening have _my_ Lad come and read for an
hour and a half (he stumbles at every third word, and gets dreadfully
tired, and so do I; but I renovate him with Cake and Sweet Wine), and I
can't just n