But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious Vessel—a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the Pipkin is a pipkin, made of common clay—even though it has the uncommon sweetness and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay—and fashioned for those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes from the Potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow.
O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, as you will be—a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's 'a good fellow and 'twill all be well.'
For the Pot—he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share—to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shall continue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall return at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.
But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory.
LATIMER."
O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him how sorely the Pipkin needed the Pot's letter!
IX.
It's all come so quick, Maggie, and it was over so soon that I hardly remember the beginning.