To Charles Eliot Norton

Denmark Hill, 23rd January, 1867.

Dear Norton,—I have just got your New Year's letter (for which a thousand thanks and thoughts); but I am vexed because you seem never to have got mine, giving account of Burne-Jones's breakdown with the portrait and enclosing a fragment of your fifty-pound cheque to show that it was destroyed; and promising, if ever I can draw again, to try and do you a sketch of myself. This letter was sent a good while ago; I forget how long, but you should certainly have had it before the end of the year, it seems to me. However, it is always late enough to hear of failures. I am painting birds, and shells, and the like, to amuse myself and keep from sulking, but I sulk much.

Yes, it is indeed time we should meet—but it will be to exchange glances and hearts—not thoughts—for I have no thoughts—I am so puzzled about everything that I've given up thinking altogether. It seems to me likely that I shall draw into a very stern, lonely life, if life at all, doing perhaps some small work of hand with what gift I have, peacefully, and in the next world—if there is any—I hope to begin a little better and get on farther. I want to send this by” return of post” and must close.—Ever your affectionate

J. Ruskin.

My mother's love. She is well, but her sight is failing fast now. She may revive a little in spring,—perhaps may only last long enough to let her see my father's tomb.