with one who had now seen you—­was no continuation of the conduct, as influenced by the feeling, of the letters—­else, they, if near, should have enabled him, if but in the natural course of time and with increase of familiarity, to become nearer—­but it was not so!  The letters began by loving you after their way—­but what a world-wide difference between that love and the true, the love from seeing and hearing and feeling, since you make me resolve, what now lies blended so harmoniously, into its component parts.  Oh, I know what is old from what is new, and how chrystals may surround and glorify other vessels meant for ordinary service than Lord N’s!  But I don’t know that handling may not snap them off, some of the more delicate ones; and if you let me, love, I will not again, ever again, consider how it came and whence, and when, so curiously, so pryingly, but believe that it was always so, and that it all came at once, all the same; the more unlikelinesses the better, for they set off the better the truth of truths that here, (’how begot? how nourished?’)—­here is the whole wondrous Ba filling my whole heart and soul; and over-filling it, because she is in all the world, too, where I look, where I fancy.  At the same time, because all is so wondrous and so sweet, do you think that it would be so difficult for me to analyse it, and give causes to the effects in sufficiently numerous instances, even to ’justify my presentiment?’ Ah, dear, dearest Ba, I could, could indeed, could account for all, or enough!  But you are unconscious, I do believe, of your power, and the knowledge of it would be no added grace, perhaps!  So let us go on—­taking a lesson out of the world’s book in a different sense.  You shall think I love you for—­(tell me, you must, what for) while in my secret heart I know what my ’mission of humanity’ means, and what telescopic and microscopic views it procures me.  Enough—­Wait, one word about the ’too kind letters’—­could not the same Montefiore understand that though he deserved not one of his thousand guineas, yet that he is in disgrace if they bate him of his next gift by merely ten?  It is all too kind—­but I shall feel the diminishing of the kindness, be very sure!  Of that there is, however, not too alarming a sign in this dearest, because last of all—­dearest letter of all—­till the next!  I looked yesterday over the ‘Tragedy,’ and think it will do after all.  I will bring one part at least next time, and ‘Luria’ take away, if you let me, so all will be off my mind, and April and May be the welcomer?  Don’t think I am going to take any extraordinary pains.  There are some things in the ‘Tragedy’ I should like to preserve and print now, leaving the future to spring as it likes, in any direction, and these half-dead, half-alive works fetter it, if left behind.