[Postmark: April 22, 1846]
‘ Vanity ‘ ! I never saw in you, my very dearest, even the
short morning shadow of ‘ vanity.’ ‘ Vanity ‘ is not of you!
You work as the cedars grow, upward, and without noise,
and without turning to look on the darkness you cause upon
the ground. It is only because you are best and dearest
that you let me see the letters . . . yes, and besides, because
I have a little a right to have them sent to me, — since
they concern me more than you, — and are, after a fashion,
my letters. My letters ? what am I saying ? My letters,
my true letters, are different indeed — and one of them came
to-night to prove so !
But Mr. Chorley’s and the illegible man’s whose name
begins with a D (or doesn’t) both gave me pleasure. If Mr.
Chorley did not read ‘Luria’ at once, he speaks of you in the
right words — and the naval illegible man, with his downright
earnest way of being impressed, makes a better critic than
need be sought for in the Athenæum synod. And what a
triumph (after all !) and what a privilege, and what a good
deed, is this carrying of the light down into the mines
among the workmen, this bringing down of the angels of
the Ideal into the very depth of the Real, where the hammer
rings on the rough stone. The mission of Art, like that
of Religion, is to the unlearned . . to the poor and to
the blind — to make the rugged paths straight, and the
wilderness to blossom as the rose — at least it seems so to
me. And now, pray, why am I not to hear what Carlyle
said ? will you tell me ? won’t you tell me ? how shall I
persuade you ? If I can or not, I will say God bless him
too . . since he spoke the right word, to do you good. For
the manifest advance in clearness and directness of expression
. . I quite forgot to take notice of what you said to me
— and you, who never flatter ! — about being the cause of it
— I ! Now do observe that the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ which is
as light as day, I never touched with my finger, except in
one place, I think . . to say . . ‘ Just here there is a little
shade.’ The fact is, that your obscurities, . . as far as they
concern the medium, . . you have been throwing off gradually
and surely this long while — you have a calmer mastery
over imagery and language, and it was to be expected that
you should. For me, I am the fly on the chariot, . . ‘ How
we drive ! ‘ Shall I ever, ever, ever, be of any use or good
to you ? See what a thought you have thrown me into,
from that height ! Shall I ever, ever, be of any use, any
good — and not, rather, the contrary to these? Love is
something : and it is something to love you better than a
better woman could : but . . but . .
There is no use nor good in writing so, and you with a
headache too ! Why, how could you get that headache ?
First with not walking ; then with walking — I ! and read-
ing Balzac. But you had been writing notes perhaps?
or Carlyle had talked too ‘ bracingly ? ‘ or you fasted too long,
being too late for his tea-kettle ? The headache came at any
rate. Did it go ? tell me, dearest beloved ! say how you are.
And let me hear if your mother continues to be better.
How happy that change must make you all ! and shall I not
thank God that it makes you happy?
Mr. Kenyon has not been here, and I have nothing,
nothing, to tell you. The east wind has kept guard at the
door, so that I should not go out, . . and nothing has
happened. I seem not to have drawn breath scarcely,
since we parted. ‘ Parted ‘ — what a word ! As if we could !
— in the full sense !
I have written to Miss Bayley to ask her to come on any
day except Saturday.
Shall the thirty-six Bas love you all together in that one
Ba who is your own ?