office which is equivalent to a King's bodyguard--then "Tragedy with sceptred pall comes sweeping by." According to my state of mind I am with Achilles shouting in the Trenches, or with Theocritus in the Vales of Sicily. Or I throw my whole being into Troilus, and repeating those lines, "I wander like a lost Soul upon the stygian Banks staying for waftage," I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so delicate that I am content to be alone. These things, combined with the opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar Plum than my time, form a barrier against Matrimony which I rejoice in. I have written this that you might see I have my share of the highest pleasures, and that though I may choose to pass my days alone I shall be no Solitary. You see there is nothing spleenical in all this. The only thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one short passing day, is any doubt about my powers for poetry--I seldom have any, and I look with hope to the nighing time when I shall have none. I am as happy as a Man can be--that is, in myself I should be happy if Tom was well, and I knew you were passing pleasant days. Then I should be most enviable--with the yearning Passion I have for the beautiful, connected and made one with the ambition of my intellect. Think of my Pleasure in Solitude in comparison of my commerce with the world--there I am a child--there they do not know me, not even my most intimate acquaintance--I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child. Some think me middling, others silly, others foolish--every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will, when in truth it is with my will--I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so great a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room and eclipse from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet. I hope I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species, and though it may sound paradoxical, my greatest elevations of soul leave me every time more humbled--Enough of this--though in your Love for me you will not think it enough. [Later, October 29 or 31.]