Her words were, 'They are as tender and true as anything you ever wrote, but nothing is equal to the "House of Clouds." Those were her words, or to that effect, and I refer to them to you, not for the sake of Flush's verses, which really do not appear even to myself, their writer, worth a defence, but for the sake of your judgment of her accuracy in judging.

Flush's breathing is my loudest sound, and then the watch's tickings, and then my own heart when it beats too turbulently. Judge of the quiet and the solitude! To H.S. Boyd April 19, 1843. My very dear Friend, The earth turns round, to be sure, and we turn with it, but I never anticipated the day and the hour for you to turn round and be guilty of high treason to our Greeks.

What do you mean about poor Tennyson? I heard of him last on his return from a visit to the Swiss mountains, which 'disappointed him, he was said to say. Very wrong, either of mountains or poet! Tell me if you make acquaintance with Mrs. Hewitt's new ballads. Mrs. Jameson is engaged in a work on art which will be very interesting.... Flush's love to your Flopsy.

The truth is that Flush's nervous system rather than his temper was in fault, and that, in that great cloak, he saw you as in a cloudy mystery. And then, when you stumbled over the bell rope, he thought the world was come to an end. He is not accustomed, you see, to the vicissitudes of life.

Papa insults me with the analogy of a back window in a confectioner's shop, but is obviously moved when the sunshine lights up the castle, notwithstanding. And Mr. Well, and then Mr. Kenyon has given me a new table, with a rail round it to consecrate it from Flush's paws, and large enough to hold all my varieties of vanities.

One afternoon, Flush indiscreetly indulged in some triumphant and rather slighting remarks about the little teacher. Within fifteen minutes, Flush's final earthly home had been excavated, and an amateur undertaker was making his coffin. An untimely proposal by a good-looking young Mexican, and his prompt rejection, left the race between Toledo and a Frenchman named Lecomte.

He is beginning to understand everything chiefly in Italian, of course, as his nurse talks in her sleep, I fancy, and can't be silent a second in the day and when told to 'dare un bacio a questo povero Flush, he mixes his little face with Flush's ears in a moment.... You would wonder to see Flush just now.

Chorley has written the kindest letter to my husband. I much regard him indeed. May God bless you. Your most affectionate BA. Flush's jealousy of the baby would amuse you. For a whole fortnight he fell into deep melancholy and was proof against all attentions lavished on him. Now he begins to be consoled a little and even condescends to patronise the cradle.

It was very kind in you to pat Flush's head in defiance of danger and from pure regard for me. I kissed his head where you had patted it; which association of approximations I consider as an imitation of shaking hands with you and as the next best thing to it.

As for Flush's verses, they are what I call cobweb verses, thin and light enough; and Arabel was mistaken in telling you that Miss Mitford gave the prize to them.