But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She was for ever scanning luggage and finding her way about the world, via these miniature pictures. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice.
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