MS location unknown. Printed in Coleridge, Life, 315
My dear Emma1
I may write a Sunday letter to say how much it has been to me to read such a record of the good old days of Nest, and all the wonderful ‘go’ there was at Wantage.2 It was like the sparkling stream, and the clear, still, reflecting pool, both equally pure, but one full of ripples, broken but bright, and the other silent and meditative. And what a development! Certainly prayer and grind do turn the wheels! I wish Dr. Pusey could have been done so as to leave a clearer, stronger impression; I am afraid his life does not give a sense of attractiveness, partly from the brunt of the battles so falling on him, and partly from the sadness of his home life. The Wilsons used to speak of cheerful breakfasts, but how far was that Mr. Wilson’s own cheeriness diffused? I never knew him, only shook hands with him once, at Mr. Keble’s funeral. And I don’t think he was a judge of character.
— told me that ‘one of the most saintly women she knew’ was one of those who could not teach O[ld]. T[estament]. I don’t think saintship could exclude full faith! There is a horrid book, Womanhood in the Old Testament by Dr. Horton, which I wish Arthur or somebody would cut up.3 It divides the narratives up, as by the J, E, or P writers, and then goes on upon the women, Sarah, Rebekah, and all, as if they were Shakespeare’s heroines, patronising and admiring the skill of the author, and finally saying that the book Esther is the same sort of thing as Peter Halkett or Marcella.
Much love to your aunt and Mary. The former will be glad to hear that though Helen goes home this week, I shall have a nice young cousin here for Christmas.
Your affectionate
C. M. Yonge