and smoke, in the infinite din of 'vociferous platitude,' and quack
outbellowing quack, with truth and pity on all hands ground under the
wheels, can one call it a home, or a world? It is a waste chaos, where
we have to swim painfully for our life. The utmost a man can do is
to swim there like a man, and hold his peace. For this seems to me
a great truth, in any exile or chaos whatsoever, that sorrow was not
given us for sorrow's sake, but always and infallibly as a lesson to
us from which we are to learn somewhat: and which, the somewhat
once _learned_, ceases to be sorrow. I do believe this; and study
in general to 'consume my own smoke,' not indeed without very ugly
out-puffs at times! Allan Cunningham is the best, he tells me that
always as one grows older, one grows happier: a thing also which I
really can believe. But as for you, my dear sir, you have other work
to do in the East than grieve. Are there not beautiful things there,
glorious things; wanting only an eye to note them, a hand to record
them? If I had the command over you, I would say, read _Paul et
Virginie_, then read the _Chaumière Indienne_; gird yourself together
for a right effort, and go and do likewise or better! I mean what I
say. The East has its own phases, there are things there which the
West yet knows not of; and one heaven covers both. He that has an eye
let him look!

[Footnote A: There seems to be some omission or slip of the pen here.]

"I hope you forgive me this style I have got into. It seems to me on
reading your book as if we had been long acquainted in some measure;
as if one might speak to you right from the heart. I hope we shall
meet some day or other. I send you my constant respect and good
wishes; and am and remain,