want in men's friendships. There is, believe me, something noble
in the metal which does not rust though not burnished by daily
use.' 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Bell of Manchester in a sweeter strain; I do not quote the one, I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. We go on talking till I have
a picture in my head, and can hardly believe at the end that the
original is Stowting. Even you don't know half how good mamma is;
in other things too, which I must not mention. She teaches me how
it is not necessary to be very rich to do much good. I begin to
understand that mamma would find useful occupation and create
beauty at the bottom of a volcano. She has little weaknesses, but
is a real generous-hearted woman, which I suppose is the finest
thing in the world.' Though neither mother nor son could be called
beautiful, they make a pretty picture; the ugly, generous, ardent
woman weaving rainbow illusions; the ugly, clear-sighted, loving