' It is well said; but the last letter to Frank Scott is
scarcely of a noble metal. It is plain the writer has outgrown his
old self, yet not made acquaintance with the new. This letter from
a busy youth of three and twenty, breathes of seventeen: the
sickening alternations of conceit and shame, the expense of hope IN
VACUO, the lack of friends, the longing after love; the whole world
of egoism under which youth stands groaning, a voluntary Atlas.
With Fleeming this disease was never seemingly severe. The very
day before this (to me) distasteful letter, he had written to Miss
Bell of Manchester in a sweeter strain; I do not quote the one, I
quote the other; fair things are the best. 'I keep my own little
lodgings,' he writes, 'but come up every night to see mamma' (who
was then on a visit to London) 'if not kept too late at the works;
and have singing lessons once more, and sing "DONNE L'AMORE E
SCALTRO PARGO-LETTO"; and think and talk about you; and listen to
mamma's projects DE Stowting. Everything turns to gold at her
touch, she's a fairy and no mistake.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101