and you give yourself up to it with a violence which I confess I am not
able to emulate. I feel as if I must arrive at some conclusion and fix
my belief on certain points. Art and life seem to me intensely serious
things, and in our travels in Europe we should especially remember the
immense seriousness of Art. You seem to hold that if a thing amuses you
for the moment, that is all you need ask for it, and your relish for
mere amusement is also much higher than mine. You put, however, a kind
of reckless confidence into your pleasure which at times, I confess, has
seemed to me--shall I say it?--almost cynical. Your way at any rate is
not my way, and it is unwise that we should attempt any longer to pull
together. And yet, let me add that I know there is a great deal to be
said for your way; I have felt its attraction, in your society, very
strongly. But for this I should have left you long ago. But I was so
perplexed. I hope I have not done wrong. I feel as if I had a great deal
of lost time to make up. I beg you take all this as I mean it, which,
Heaven knows, is not invidiously. I have a great personal esteem for you
and hope that some day, when I have recovered my balance, we shall meet
again. I hope you will continue to enjoy your travels, only DO remember
that Life and Art ARE extremely serious. Believe me your sincere friend
and well-wisher,

BENJAMIN BABCOCK

P. S. I am greatly perplexed by Luini.


This letter produced in Newman's mind a singular mixture of exhilaration
and awe. At first, Mr. Babcock's tender conscience seemed to him a
capital farce, and his traveling back to Milan only to get into a
deeper muddle appeared, as the reward of his pedantry, exquisitely and