THE AMERICAN
mine. You put moreover a kind of reckless finality into your pleasures which at times, I confess, has seemed to me—shall I say it?—almost appalling. Your way, at any rate, is not my way, and it's unwise that we should attempt any longer to pull together. And yet let me add that I know there is a great deal to be said for your way; I have felt its attraction, in your society, very strongly. Save for this I should have left you long ago. But I was so deeply perplexed. I hope I have not done wrong. I feel as if I had a great deal of lost time to make up. I beg you take all this as I mean it, which heaven knows is not harshly. I have a great personal esteem for you and hope that some day when I have recovered my balance we shall meet again. But I must recover my balance first. I hope you will continue to enjoy your travels; only do remember that Life and Art are extremely solemn. Believe me your sincere friend and well-wisher,
P. S. I am very unhappy about Luini.
This letter produced in Newman's mind a singular mixture of exhilaration and awe. Mr. Babcock's tender conscience at first seemed to him as funny as a farce, and his travelling back to Milan only to get into a deeper muddle to be, for reward of his pedantry, exquisitely and ludicrously just. Then he reflected that these are mighty mysteries; that possibly he himself was indeed almost unmentionably "appalling," and that his manner of considering the treasures of art and the privileges of life lacked the
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