writer of these letters, and the
crisis of the feeling, when I was positively vexed and jealous of
myself for not succeeding better in making a unity of the two. I could
not! And moreover I could not help but that the writer of the letters
seemed nearer to me, long ... long ... and in spite of the postmark,
than did the personal visitor who confounded me, and left me
constantly under such an impression of its being all dream-work on his
side, that I have stamped my feet on this floor with impatience to
think of having to wait so many hours before the 'candid' closing
letter could come with its confessional of an illusion. 'People say,'
I used to think, 'that women _always_ know, and certainly I do not
know, and therefore ... therefore.'--The logic crushed on like
Juggernaut's car. But in the letters it was different--the dear
letters took me on the side of my own ideal life where I was able to
stand a little upright and look round. I could read such letters for
ever and answer them after a fashion ... that, I felt from the
beginning. But _you_--!

_Monday._--Never too early can the light come. Thank you for my
letter! Yet you look askance at me over 'newt and toad,' and praise so
the Elf-story that I am ashamed to send you my ill humour on the same
head. And you really like _that_? admire it? Grandmama Grey and the
night cap and all? and 'shoetye and blue sky?' and is it really wrong
of me to like certainly some touches and images, but not the whole,
... not the poem as a whole? I can take delight in the fantastical,
and in the grotesque--but here there is a want of life and
consistency, as it seems to me!--the elf is no elf and speaks no
elf-tongue: it is not the right key to touch, ... this, ... for
supernatural music. So I fancy at least--but I will try the poem again
presently. You must be right--unless it should be your over-goodness
opposed to my over-badness--I will not be sure. Or you wrote perhaps
in an accidental mood of most excellent critical smoothness, such as
Mr. Forster did his last _Examiner_ in, when he gave the all-hail to
Mr. Harness as one of the best dramatists of the age!! Ah no!--not
such as Mr. Forster's. Your soul does not enter into his secret--There
can be nothing in common between you. For him to say such a word--he
who knows--or ought to know!--And now let us agree and admire the
bowing of the old ministrel over Bedd Gelert's unfilled grave--

The _long_ beard _fell_ like _snow_ into