Appreciation! Recognition! Is love appreciated? Why,
ever since Adam, who has got to the meaning of his great allegory--
the world? Then we pygmies must be content to have our paper
allegories but ill comprehended. I say your appreciation is my
glorious gratuity. In my proud, humble way,--a shepherd-king,--I was
lord of a little vale in the solitary Crimea; but you have now given
me the crown of India. But on trying it on my head, I found it fell
down on my ears, notwithstanding their asinine length--for it's only
such ears that sustain such crowns.
Your letter was handed me last night on the road going to Mr.
Morewood's, and I read it there. Had I been at home, I would have sat
down at once and answered it. In me divine magnanimities are
spontaneous and instantaneous--catch them while you can. The world
goes round, and the other side comes up. So now I can't write what I
felt. But I felt pantheistic then--your heart beat in my ribs and mine
in yours, and both in God's. A sense of unspeakable security is in me
this moment, on account of your having understood the book. I have
written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb. Ineffable
socialities are in me. I would sit down and dine with you and all the
gods in old Rome's Pantheon. It is a strange feeling--no hopefulness
is in it, no despair. Content--that is it; and irresponsibility; but
without licentious inclination. I speak now of my profoundest sense of
being, not of an incidental feeling.
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