My Dear Charles >> I keep finding your papers in the most shameful places >> under the silverware case >> behind the tea cabinet >> in the water closet (oh, Charles) >> and tho’ I fear I may be stretching the bounds of a proper lady’s etiquette >> I fear a greater shame >> not giving you my full words >> you tell me you need a perfect proof before you publish your book >> you fear both the well intentioned >> and the wicked >> you think the good will claim that you are scouring off the homely face of God >> as when I polish our ancient brass into that false ephemeral shine >> you think the evil (and let’s not pretend we’ll ever be the rid of them) will mistake your theory of life for marching orders >> and I too fear that many a good man of England >> could die on that account >> Pardon my insolence My Dear Charles >> but I beseech thee to think of those people who >> may someday discover the generations of all in the green of pea pods growing in the shade of a monastery wall >> may see the little dotted world as did your beloved Democritus‎ >> perhaps they will learn to make a lamp of lightening >> or walk out >> freely among the many constellations >> or comprehend the fury of the sun >> and be able by hand to replicate the commonest meadow sheep >> so publish the book My Dear Charles
for them

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