I have been concealing, in the hope that it
might turn to better. Our little Dora has
been ill, oh, so cruelly ill! I thought she
would have been taken from us. But God
is so good: I believe chiefly because you
are good and self-denying, and He would
not afflict you. But she is out of danger,
and will be well soon. I must tell you all
we had to do to save her. The doctor
here said we must get Baxter, our doctor,
from Birmingham, as he would not be
answerable; and the two visits and consultations
came to near fifty pounds. And,
O dearest, I was obliged to take up that
money we had kept for the rent. So,
what we are to do I know not. But where
the life of pur darling is at stake, I would
beg and go to jail, and do anything.
Besides, I know you are so clever, and can
make such friends, you will find money
somehow. But God will bless you for your
self-denial in the midst of sin. You have
walked through the fire, like the great
Three of scripture, and have not been
harmed. I am indeed proud of you! That
will stand you in grace and salvation—"

Yes, that is all very fine. "God bless
my self-denial!" How easy it is to bring in
these fine pious words; it becomes almost
a conventional shape of cant. She is good
and well brought up, and all that; but I
would like to see the most pious of them
all exposed as I have been, so cruelly,
miserably, and vilely tried. Why their faith
and piety would all parch up like a bit of
paper before the fire. It is easy to preach
far away in a dull, god-speed village,
where you are not worth being tempted.
I'd like to hear our smooth Bulmer and
our smug bishop, with his oily phrases.
O it is easy for them!

For this is all the regular jargon which
she has picked up from—. The poorest
creature among us is able to preach and
advise, and point out the right way; and
there is no such agreeable pastime or one
that so ministers to the vanity of wretched
human nature. A broken down jail bird,
in jail, will find a satisfaction in giving his
advice and experience. Above all, what a
satisfaction in being able to say "I told you
so!" "I warned you!" "I foresaw all this!"

I believe that to be the most exquisite
morsel for the envious crew; and it means at
the bottom, "and I am delighted that I was
proved to be right!" They would not
sacrifice the triumph of that, to save you.

O, what platitudes I am talking! what
useless rubbish I am picking up! what use
can it be to me now? And I do not mean
this, Heaven knows, to her—no, no, no, a
thousand times no. She that did so much
for me, that stood by me, at that critical
time, when every influence was brought to
bear—relations, friends. That I should
have breathed a thought, a word, against
my sweet divinity! O, "angels are painted
fair to look like you!" But can a tried,
harassed, persecuted man like me be held
accountable for every fretful thought? I
have not yet finished her dear letter, it shall
soothe me.

"You may call me anything you please,
invent any names for me. O, I shall
expect one of the 'Blue letters,' as I call
them. I know the next will bring me good
news, good news that you are starting.
And O, I do grieve that I am obliged to tell
you anything that will distress you; but
what can I do? Mr. Bernard says, 'He
will rush to the tables now, and sacrifice
his principles to get this money for you, if
he has not done so already, and lost heavily.'
At this I could not help making him an
indignant speech, that I knew you too well.
In fact I said you would die sooner than
move a hair's breadth towards what you
believe to be wrong. And that is my firm
belief, dearest. He only laughed, and said
good-humouredly 'we would see.' After
all he means well. Later came in Mr.
Bulmer, the clergyman, who asked a great
deal about you; and said he would give
anything if you were home again out of that
fearful place. No one knew the danger of
it. Then I did a wrong thing I know, for
which you will be angry with me; but I
could not resist taking out your diary and
reading him a little extract, especially your
magnificent denunciation of the horrors of
that gambling. I read as well as I could, and
I could see that he was a little jealous. I
know he did not like you at that time, and
he was on the side of my relations, and he
showed his old feeling by saying that it
was all very fine, very elegant, no doubt;
but that the instant you returned he would
put a simple question to you, 'Had you
ever put down a sixpence?'"

What folly, how childish! always making
me ridiculous, hawking me about in this
way! These women's tongues know no
discretion, babbling and chattering to everyone.
What business has he with me.
He'll put his question, will he? What
answer will he get, does he fancy? "My
good and reverend sir, pray attend to your
own concerns. What was the instance of
that horse which you sold to Mr.—?
Was that a bit of sharp practice or not?"
A fine pass I am reduced to—everybody
thinks they can lecture me. What right has