article on English love-poetry, past and present, in which I mean to
show how the germ of degradation and decay always existed, even in the
chivalric idea of woman's nature and sphere, and how it has gone on
developing itself in the poetry which is its truest expression, till
we have got its different stages from the ideal of the school which
really had a gloss of elevation and fine sentiment about it--the woman
of Herrick and Ben Jonson, and later on of Lovelace and Montrose, to
the woman of Owen Meredith and Swinburne, who, instead of inspiring
men to die for her honor, makes them rather wish her to live to be
the instrument of their pleasure? It was not a bad idea, and I think
I could have traced the gradations very well. But I cannot write, I
cannot think. Let me recall my letter to him. Ah, here is one of the
dozen copies I made before I could make it what I wanted:

"MY DEAR MR. LAWRENCE: I must ask you to forgive me, for I am
conscious of having been thoughtless and selfish. I yielded to an
impulse yesterday, and I put you in an unfair position. I never meant
to do it, and I will never do it again. I trust we may be friends, and
I am

"Yours truly,

"MARGARET LINTON."

That was all I said: I wish now I had said more. Ah me! will evening
never come?

* * * * *

Before I go to bed I must write a word or two. Ah, how much happier I