[Postmark: August 12, 1846]
Wednesday Morning.
I have been putting all the letters into rings — twenty
together — and they look now as they should — ‘ infinite
treasure in a little room ‘ — note, that they were so united
and so ranged from the beginning, at least since I began to
count by twenties — but the white tape I used (no red tape,
thank you !) was vile in its operation, — the untying and
retying (so as to preserve a proper cross ) hard for
clumsy fingers like mine : — these rings are perfect. How
strange it will be to have no more letters ! Of all the
foolishnesses that ever were uttered that speech of mine, —
about your letters strewing the house, — was the most thoroughly
perfect ! yet you have nothing to forgive in me, you say !
Just now I took up a periodical and read a few lines of
a paper on the charm that there is in a contrariety of tempers
and tastes, for friends and lovers — and there followed
platitudes in a string — the clever like the stupid, the grave
choose the lively, and so forth. Now, unless, the state of the
liker and chooser is really considered by him as a misfortune,
— what he would get rid of if he could in himself, so shall
hardly desire to find in another — except in this not very
probable case, is there not implied by every such choice,
an absolute despair of any higher one ? The grave man
says (or would if he knew himself) — ‘ except on my particular
grounds such a serious humour would be impossible
and absurd . . and where can I find another to appreciate
them ? Better accept the lower state of ignorance that they
exist even, and consequent gaiety, — than a preposterous
melancholy arising from no adequate cause. ‘ And what
man of genius would not associate with people of no talent
at all, rather than the possessors of mere talent, who keep
sufficiently near him, as they walk together, to give him
annoyance at every step ? Better go with Flush on his four
legs, avowedly doglike, than with a monkey who will shuffle
along on two for I don’t know how many yards. Now
for instance, is the writer of that wise notice of Landor in
last week’s Athenceum, one whit nearer your sympathy
in that precise matter, than somebody who never heard of
Landor or supposed him to have usually written under the
signature of L. E. L.? With the exception of a word or
two about the silly abuse of Plato, and on the occasional
unfairness of statement, is there one word right and
seasonable ?
Here am I letting the words scratch themselves one
after another while my thought as usual goes quite
another way. Perhaps my wits are resting because of the
great alacrity they are to display at Mr. Kenyon’s this
evening . . I shall take care not to be first comer, nor last
goer. Dearest, you are wrong in your fancy about my little
caring whether he knows or does not. I see altogether with
your eyes . . indeed, now that you engage to remove any
suspicion of unkindness or mistrust which might attach to
me in his thoughts (all I ever apprehended for myself), there
is no need to consider him — at all. He can do no good
nor harm. Did you ever receive such a letter ? The dull
morning shall excuse it — anything but the dull heart —
for you fill it, however the heat may keep within, sometimes.
Bless you, Ba, my dearest, perfect love — now I will
begin thinking of you again — let me kiss you, my own !