If there were the least bit of truth in Darwinism, Venice would have
had her own born sea-gulls by this time building their nests at her
thresholds.

[Footnote 19: See "Fors Clavigera", Letter LXXXII.]

* * * * *

VENICE, _11th December_ (1876).

My mouth's watering so for that Thwaite currant jelly, you can't
think. I haven't had the least taste of anything of the sort this
three months. These wretches of Venetians live on cigars and garlic,
and have no taste in their mouths for anything that God makes nice.

The little drawing (returned) is nice in color and feeling, but, which
surprises me, not at all intelligent in line. It is not weakness of
hand but fault of perspective instinct, which spoils so many otherwise
good botanical drawings.

Bright morning. Sickle moon just hiding in a red cloud, and the
morning stars just vanished in light. But we've had nearly three weeks
of dark weather, so we mustn't think it poor Coniston's fault--though
Coniston _has_ faults.

* * * * *

ST. MARK'S REST.

_23d January, 1877_.

A great many lovely things happened to me this Christmas, but if I
were to tell Susie of them I am sure she would be frightened out of
her bright little wits, and think I was going to be a Roman Catholic.
I'm writing _such_ a Catholic history of Venice, and chiseling all the
Protestantism off the old "Stones" as they do here the grass off
steps.

All the pigeons of St. Mark's Place send you their love. St. Ursula
adds hers to the eleven thousand birds' love. And the darlingest old
Pope who went a pilgrimage with her, hopes you won't be too much
shocked if he sends _his_ too! (If you're not shocked, _I_ am!)

My new Catholic history of Venice is to be called "St. Mark's Rest."

* * * * *

_27th January_ (1877).

Joanie tells me you are writing her such sad little letters. How _can_
it be that any one so good and true as my Susie should be sad? I am
sad, bitterly enough and often, but only with sense of fault and folly
and lost opportunity such as you have never fallen into or lost. It is
very cruel of Fate, I think, to make us sad, who would fain see
everybody cheerful, and (cruel of Fate too) to make so many cheerful
who make others wretched. The little history of Venice is well on, and
will be clear and i