us to hold a fire in the hand by thinking of the frosty Caucasus.
"Could you see the reflection of the fire? I spent nearly an hour at our garret-window watching it. The blaze was far higher than any of the intervening houses; it gave me the idea—at least it was like the idea I have, of a volcano. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the sky, loaded in one part with dense clouds of a most peculiar crimson, while in another the moon was dispersing the lightest of snowy vapours, and the air was of the clearest blue. I do so regret that I did not see it. I should be sorry to have any one's chimney take fire for my express pleasure; but if such a thing was to happen, my seeing it could have done no harm, and it would have greatly delighted,—no, that is not the word—astonished me! I never even saw a crowd in my life. Oh! how cold it is. I am really writing, a little worse than usual—my fingers are so chilled."
Another slight passage will take us by a leap into the next summer.
"A thousand thanks for the loveliest of roses. One is certainly more grateful in summer than at any other time. If there is anything in nature, it warms into life with the sunshine. After the long dreary winter, with nothing but colds, shawls and watergruel, it is quite delicious to feel well and clever again. But I am already beginning to fear the enjoyment of this delightful weather; for I know that Fate will revenge itself, and force Pleasure to take its penalty—pain, in some shape or other."
It is unnecessary to multiply these fragments. To how many would L. E. L. write in this vein! reserving whatever was gloomiest in her views for
