ature, ... that in the minor sense, man is not made in
the image of God? It is _not_ true, to my mind--and therefore it is
not true that I know little of you, except in as far as it is true
(which I believe) that your greatest works are to come. Need I assure
you that I shall always hear with the deepest interest every word you
will say to me of what you are doing or about to do? I hear of the
'old room' and the '"Bells" lying about,' with an interest which you
may guess at, perhaps. And when you tell me besides, of _my poems
being there_, and of your caring for them so much beyond the tide-mark
of my hopes, the pleasure rounds itself into a charm, and prevents its
own expression. Overjoyed I am with this cordial sympathy--but it is
better, I feel, to try to justify it by future work than to thank you
for it now. I think--if I may dare to name myself with you in the
poetic relation--that we both have high views of the Art we follow,
and stedfast purpose in the pursuit of it, and that we should not,
either of _us_, be likely to be thrown from the course, by the casting
of any Atalanta-ball of speedy popularity. But I do not know, I cannot
guess, whether you are liable to be pained deeply by hard criticism
and cold neglect, such as original writers like yourself are too often
exposed to--or whether the love of Art is enough for you, and the
exercise of Art the filling joy of your life. Not that praise must not
always, of necessity, be delightful to the artist, but that it may be
redundant to his content. Do you think so? or not? It appears to me
that poets who, like Keats, are highly susceptible to criticism, must
be jealous, in their own persons, of the future honour of their works.
Because, if a work is worthy, honour must follow it, though the worker
should not live to see that following overtaking. Now, is it not
enough that the work be honoured--enough I mean, for the worker? And
is it not enough to keep down a poet's ordinary wearing anxieties, to
think, that if his work be worthy it will have honour, and, if not,
that 'Sparta must have nobler sons than he'? I am writing nothing
applicable, I see, to anything in question, but when one falls into a
favourite train of thought, one indulges oneself in thinking on. I
began in thinking and wondering what sort of artistic constitution you
had, being determined, as you may observe (with a sarcastic smile at
the impertinence), to set about knowing as much as possible of you