DEAR MY FRIEND,--I imagine you are all so cast down, forlorn, and
desolate at my leaving you, and especially "At the close of the day,
when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness
prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught
but the nightingale's song in the grove," that I ought to write a
word to fill the void. I should have said, on coming away, like that
interesting child who had plagued everybody's life out of them, "come
again!"
Bah! you never asked me; or only in such a sort that I was obliged
to decline. Am I such a stupid visitor? Did I not play at bagatelle
with L.? Did I not read eloquently out of Carlyle to you and C.? Did
I not talk wisdom to you by the yard? Did I not let drop crumbs of
philosophy by the wayside of our talk, continually? Above all, am I not
the veriest woman, at heart, that you ever saw? Why, I had like to have
choked upon "Sartor Resartus." I wonder if you saw it. But, ahem!-a
great swallow a man must have, to gulp down the "Everlasting Yea." And
a great swallow implies a great stomach. And a great stomach implies
a great brain, unless a man's a fool. "If not, why not?" as Captain
Bunsby says; "therefore."
Oh, what a mad argument to prove swan sane,--and good company besides
I Well, I am mad, and expect to be so,-at least I think I have a right
to be so, in the proportion of one hour to twenty-four, being so
rational the rest of the time. I think it's but a reasonable allowance.
[252] You will judge that this is my mad hour to-day, and it is;
nevertheless, I am, soberly,
Your friend,