ssions from your poetry, ever, ever again? Do you
not see at once what a disqualifying and paralysing phrase it must be,
of simple necessity? So it is _I_ who have reason to complain, ... it
appears to _me_, ... and by no means _you_--and in your 'second
consideration' you become aware of it, I do not at all doubt.

As to 'Consuelo' I agree with nearly all that you say of it--though
George Sand, we are to remember, is greater than 'Consuelo,' and not
to be depreciated according to the defects of that book, nor
classified as 'femme qui parle' ... she who is man and woman together,
... judging her by the standard of even that book in the nobler
portions of it. For the inconsequency of much in the book, I admit it
of course--and _you_ will admit that it is the rarest of phenomena
when men ... men of logic ... follow their own opinions into their
obvious results--nobody, you know, ever thinks of doing such a thing:
to pursue one's own inferences is to rush in where angels ... perhaps
... do _not_ fear to tread, ... but where there will not be much other
company. So the want of practical logic shall be a human fault rather
than a womanly one, if you please: and you must please also to
remember that 'Consuelo' is only 'half the orange'; and that when you
complain of its not being a whole one, you overlook that hand which is
holding to you the 'Comtesse de Rudolstadt' in three volumes! Not that
I, who have read the whole, profess a full satisfaction about Albert
and the rest--and Consuelo is made to be happy by a mere clap-trap at
last: and Mme. Dudevant has her specialities,--in which, other women,
I fancy, have neither part nor lot, ... even _here_!--Altogether, the
book is a sort of rambling 'Odyssey,' a female 'Odyssey,' if you like,
but full of beauty and nobleness, let the faults be where they may.
And then, I like those long, long books, one can live away into ...
leaving the world and above all oneself, quite at the end of the
avenue of palms--quite out of sight and out of hearing!--Oh, I have
felt something like _that_ so often--so often! and _you_ never felt
it, and never will, I hope.

But if Bulwer had written nothing but the 'Ernest Maltravers' books,
you would think perhaps more highly of him. Do you _not_ think it
possible now? It is his most impotent struggling into poetry, which
sets about proving a negative of genius on him--_that_, which the
_Athenaeum praises_ as 'respectable attainment in various walks of