To a friend who had been calumniated.
No rumours nor published statements, or chattering remarks would ever confuse me, or weigh for a moment against the quiet assurance of anyone whom I trusted. The facts which really concern one about one’s friends are not those of their business or circumstances, but of themselves; and I think one knows a little when and how one may trust. When one does feel confidence, much more confusing circumstances than these have ever been do not touch one’s trust. I think one often has to hold two truths apparently utterly inconsistent, side by side in one’s mind, knowing that, both being proved true, there must be some possibility of reconciling them by some unknown third truth, which time may reveal. And I am sure that trust in anyone, known to be good, could not be shaken by merely outward appearances. One likes to know how things are. One objects to be puzzled, and to have no word of explanation about how things are; but trust in human beings is no more to be determined by want of sight, than the trust in God Himself is by the impossibility of seeing why He leads us by certain ways we cannot understand for the moment. For the human trust is based on that which is part of His nature, and as such is quite firmly planted.... We read half a controversy, and largely resolve that the truth lies somewhere between the two correspondents. We do not long for judgment, but “hush matters up,” or let them “blow over”; and do not bring them out to the light, and choose between them.
THE PUBLIC HOUSE CONTROVERSY
March 9th, 1873.
To Mr. Cockerell.
I am in a frantic state of excitement (which I fear will be dashed very completely) as to the public-house. Mr. Fremantle handed me a slip of paper at a meeting yesterday to say that the licence of the “Walmer Castle” had been refused, and asking if he should see Sir J. Hamilton (who is chairman, I think he said, of the Bench), about granting one to us.... Since which, tho’ I have written and sent messengers, I cannot get any answer.... To-morrow I purpose going myself and waiting till I can see him....
I wonder why you enjoy Jason “immensely.” It is marvellously real, and so old-world as to be a refreshment to those mixed up with nineteenth-century things. The images are lovely, and the music of the verse soft; but the sustained melancholy of the whole poem is very terrible, I have always thought, a certain measure being put on all joy by the belief that it has no outcome, no fulfilment anywhere beyond itself. You have not, I daresay, finished the book to see how, with all his fortitude, just because he misses the highest joy of all, he chooses so low a one as to reject all that had made the majesty of life, the companion at once of pain and of his greatness too. I have always longed to see how Morris would treat a distinctly Christian story, and was full of regret that he withdrew—or never wrote—his promised “St. Dorothea.”
March 16th, 1873.
To Mary Harris.
How strangely people do come to me, Mary! I cannot make it out. There is something in the work which strongly attracts them. Mr. —— seemed perfectly engrossed, and could hardly tear himself away. What it is, I cannot tell; but either pity, or some other feeling, is gathering round me a company of allies so kind and so zealous that I ought to achieve a great deal. It is well for me that I am served so willingly, for I would rather do anything at any cost than have it done for me unreadily.