‘The princess Egeria’ originally (I must have written word of it to you—­I remember the evening off Palermo!) was conceived as a sketch; by gradations she grew into a sort of semi-Scudery romance, and swelled to her present portliness.  That was done by a great deal of piecing, not to say puffing, of her frame.  She would be healthier and have a chance of living longer if she were reduced by a reversal of the processes.  But how would the judicious clippings and prickings affect our “pensive public”?  Now that I have furnished a house and have a fixed address, under the paws of creditors, I feel I am in the wizard-circle of my popularity and subscribe to its laws or waken to incubus and the desert.  Have I been rash?  You do not pronounce.  If I have bound myself to pipe as others please, it need not be entirely; and I can promise you it shall not be; but still I am sensible when I lift my “little quill” of having forced the note of a woodland wren into the popular nightingale’s—­which may end in the daw’s, from straining; or worse, a toy-whistle.

’That is, in the field of literature.  Otherwise, within me deep, I am not aware of any transmutation of the celestial into coined gold.  I sound myself, and ring clear.  Incessant writing is my refuge, my solace—­escape out of the personal net.  I delight in it, as in my early morning walks at Lugano, when I went threading the streets and by the lake away to “the heavenly mount,” like a dim idea worming upward in a sleepy head to bright wakefulness.

’My anonymous critic, of whom I told you, is intoxicating with eulogy.  The signature “Apollonius” appears to be of literary-middle indication.  He marks passages approved by you.  I have also had a complimentary letter from Mr. Dacier: 

’For an instance of this delight I have in writing, so strong is it that I can read pages I have written, and tear the stuff to strips (I did yesterday), and resume, as if nothing had happened.  The waves within are ready for any displacement.  That must be a good sign.  I do not doubt of excelling my princess; and if she received compliments, the next may hope for more.  Consider, too, the novel pleasure of earning money by the labour we delight in.  It is an answer to your question whether I am happy.  Yes, as the savage islander before the ship entered the bay with the fire-water.  My blood is wine, and I have the slumbers of an infant.  I dream, wake, forget my dream, barely dress before the pen is galloping; barely breakfast; no toilette till noon.  A savage in good sooth!  You see, my Emmy, I could not house with the “companionable person” you hint at.  The poles can never come together till the earth is crushed.  She would find my habits intolerable, and I hers contemptible, though we might both be companionable persons.  My dear, I could not even live with myself.  My blessed little quill, which helps me divinely to live out of myself, is and must continue to be my one companion.  It is my mountain height, morning light, wings, cup from the springs, my horse, my goal, my lancet and replenisher, my key of communication with the highest, grandest, holiest between earth and heaven-the vital air connecting them.