I want, and the world expects, a longer
work from you; and I see in you what I never saw in poet before, a
strange diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot account for, and
which must be unaccountable, when a _Cossac_ like me can appal a
_cuirassier_. Your story I did not, could not, know,--I thought only of
a Peri. I wish you had confided in me, not for your sake, but mine, and
to prevent the world from losing a much better poem than my own, but
which, I yet hope, this _clashing_ will not even now deprive them of
[1].
Mine is the work of a week, written, _why_ I have partly told you, and
partly I cannot tell you by letter--some day I will.
Go on--I shall really be very unhappy if I at all interfere with you.
The success of mine is yet problematical; though the public will
probably purchase a certain quantity, on the presumption of their own
propensity for 'The Giaour' and such "horrid mysteries." The only
advantage I have is being on the spot; and that merely amounts to saving
me the trouble of turning over books which I had better read again. If
_your chamber_ was furnished in the same way, you have no need to _go
there_ to describe--I mean only as to _accuracy_--because I drew it from
recollection.
This last thing of mine _may_ have the same fate, and I assure you I
have great doubts about it. But, even if not, its little day will be
over before you are ready and willing. Come out--"screw your courage to
the sticking-place." [2]
Except the _Post Bag_ (and surely you cannot complain of a want of
success there), you have not been _regularly_ out for some years.
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