_17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh [December 1877]._
MY DEAR SIR,--I am afraid you must already have condemned me for a very
idle fellow truly. Here it is more than two months since I received your
letter; I had no fewer than three journals to acknowledge; and never a
sign upon my part. If you have seen a Cornhill paper of mine upon
idling, you will be inclined to set it all down to that. But you will
not be doing me justice. Indeed, I have had a summer so troubled that I
have had little leisure and still less inclination to write letters. I
was keeping the devil at bay with all my disposable activities; and more
than once I thought he had me by the throat. The odd conditions of our
acquaintance enable me to say more to you than I would to a person who
lived at my elbow. And besides, I am too much pleased and flattered at
our correspondence not to go as far as I can to set myself right in your
eyes.
In this damnable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost all my
possessions, or near about, and quite lost all my wits. I wish I could
lay my hands on the numbers of the Review, for I know I wished to say
something on that head more particularly than I can from memory; but
where they have escaped to, only time or chance can show. However, I can
tell you so far, that I was very much pleased with the article on Bret
Harte; it seemed to me just, clear, and to the point. I agreed pretty
well with all you said about George Eliot: a high, but, may we not
add?--a rather dry lady. Did you--I forget--did you have a kick at the
stern works of that melancholy puppy and humbug Daniel Deronda
himself?--the Prince of Prigs; the literary abomination of desolation in
the way of manhood; a type which is enough to make a man forswear the
love of women, if that is how it must be gained.... Hats off all the
same, you understand: a woman of genius.
Of your poems I have myself a kindness for _Noll and Nell_, although I
don't think you have made it as good as you ought: verse five is surely
not _quite melodious_. I confess I like the Sonnet in the last number of
the Review--the _Sonnet to England_.
Please, if you have not, and I don't suppose you have, already read it,
institute a search in all Melbourne for one of the rarest and certainly
one of the best of books--_Clarissa Harlowe_. For any man who takes an
interest in the problems of the two sexes, that book is a perfect mine
of documents. And it is written, sir, with the pen of an angel. Miss
Howe and Lovelace, words cannot tell how good they are! And the scene
where Clarissa beards her family, with her fan going all the while; and
some of the quarrel scenes between her and Lovelace; and the scene where
Colonel Marden goes to Mr. Hall, with Lord M. trying to compose matters,
and the Colonel with his eternal "finest woman in the world," and the
inimitable affirmation of Mobray--nothing, nothing could be better! You
will bless me when you read it for this recommendation; but, indeed, I
can do nothing but recommend Clarissa. I am like that Frenchman of the
eighteenth century who discovered Habakkuk, and would give no one peace
about that respectable Hebrew. For my part, I never was able to get over
his eminently respectable name; Isaiah is the boy, if you must have a
prophet, no less. About Clarissa, I meditate a choice work: _A Dialogue
on Man, Woman, and "Clarissa Harlowe."_ It is to be so clever that no
array of terms can give you any idea; and very likely that particular
array in which I shall finally embody it, less than any other.
Do you know, my dear sir, what I like best in your letter? The egotism
for which you thought necessary to apologise. I am a rogue at egotism
myself; and to be plain, I have rarely or never liked any man who was
not. The first step to discovering the beauties of God's universe is
usually a (perhaps partial) apprehension of such of them as adorn our
own characters. When I see a man who does not think pretty well of
himself, I always suspect him of being in the right. And besides, if he
does not like himself, whom he has seen, how is he ever to like one whom
he never can see but in dim and artificial presentments?
I cordially reciprocate your offer of a welcome; it shall be at least a
warm one. Are you not my first, my only, admirer--a dear tie? Besides,
you are a man of sense, and you treat me as one by writing to me as you
do, and that gives me pleasure also. Please continue to let me see your
work. I have one or two things coming out in the Cornhill: a story
called _The Sire de Maletroit's Door_ in Temple Bar; and a series of
articles on Edinburgh in the Portfolio; but I don't know if these last
fly all the way to Melbourne.--Yours very truly,