October 27, 1845.
How does one make ‘silent promises’ . . . or, rather, how does the maker of them communicate that fact to whomsoever it may concern? I know, there have been many, very many unutterable vows and promises made, – – that is, thought down upon – – the white slip at the top of my notes, – – such as of this note; and not trusted to the pen, that always comes in for the shame, – – but given up, and replaced by the poor forms to which a pen is equal; and a glad minute I should account that, in which you collected and accepted those ‘promises’ – – because they would not be all so unworthy of me – – much less you! I would receive, in virtue of them, the ascription of whatever worthiness is supposed to lie in deep, truest love, and gratitude – –
Read my silent answer there too!
All your letter is one comfort: we will be happy this winter, and after, do not fear. I am most happy, to begin, that your brother is so much better: he must be weak and susceptible of cold, remember.
It was on my lip, I do think, last visit, or the last but one, to beg you to detach those papers from the Athenæum’s gâchis. Certainly this opportunity is most favourable, for every reason: you cannot hesitate, surely. At present those papers are lost – – lost for practical purposes. Do pray reply without fail to the proposers; no, no harm of these really fine fellows, who could do harm (by printing incorrect copies, and perhaps eking out the column by suppositious matter . . . ex-gr. they strengthened and lengthened a book of Dickens’, in Paris, by adding quant. suff. of Thackeray’s ‘Yellowplush Papers’ . . . as I discovered by a Parisian somebody praising the latter to me as Dickens’ best work!) – – and who do really a good straightforward un-American thing. You will encourage ‘the day of small things’ – – though this is not small, nor likely to have small results. I shall be impatient to hear that you have decided. I like the progress of these Americans in taste, their amazing leaps, like grasshoppers up to the sun – – from . . . what is the ‘from,’ what depth, do you remember, say, ten or twelve years back? – – to – – Carlyle, and Tennyson, and you! So children leave off Jack of Cornwall and go on just to Homer.
I can’t conceive why my proof does not come – – I must go to-morrow and see. In the other, I have corrected all the points you noted, to their evident improvement. Yesterday I took out ‘Luria’ and read it through – – the skeleton – – I shall hope to finish it soon now. It is for a purely imaginary stage, – – very simple and straightforward. Would you . . . no, Act by Act, as I was about to propose that you should read it; that process would affect the oneness I most wish to preserve.
On Tuesday – – at last, I am with you. Till when be with me ever, dearest – – God bless you ever – –
R.B.