Literary Love-Letters

Literary Love-Letters and Other
Stories
by Robert Herrick

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Literary Love-Letters and Other
Stories
by Robert Herrick #3 in our series by Robert Herrick
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how
the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since
1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of
Volunteers!*****
Title: Literary Love-Letters and Other Stories

Author: Robert Herrick
Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8113] [Yes, we are more than one
year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on June 15, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITERARY
LOVE-LETTERS ***

Produced by Eric Eldred, Charles Bidwell, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

LITERARY LOVE-LETTERS
AND OTHER STORIES
by
ROBERT HERRICK

TO
G. H. P.

LITERARY LOVE-LETTERS:
A MODERN ACCOUNT

NO. I. INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY.
(Eastlake has renewed an episode of his past life. The formalities have
been satisfied at a chance meeting, and he continues.)
... So your carnations lie over there, a bit beyond this page, in a
confusion of manuscripts. Sweet source of this idle letter and gentle
memento of the house on Grant Street and of you! I fancy I catch their
odor before it escapes generously into the vague darkness beyond my
window. They whisper: "Be tender, be frank; recall to her mind what is
precious in the past. For departed delights are rosy with deceitful hopes,
and a woman's heart becomes heavy with living. We are the woman
you once knew, but we are much more. We have learned new secrets,
new emotions, new ambitions, in love--we are fuller than before."
So--for to-morrow they will be shrivelled and lifeless--I take up their
message to-night.
I see you now as this afternoon at the Goodriches', when you came in
triumphantly to essay that hot room of empty, passive folk. Someone
was singing somewhere, and we were staring at one another. There you
stood at the door, placing us; the roses, scattered in plutocratic
profusion, had drooped their heads to our hot faces. We turned from the
music to you. You knew it, and you were glad of it. You knew that they
were busy about you, that you and your amiable hostess made an
effective group at the head of the room. You scented their possible
disapproval with zest, for you had so often mocked their good-will with
impunity that you were serenely confident of getting what you wanted.
Did you want a lover? Not that I mean to offer myself in flesh and
blood: God forbid that I should join the imploring procession, even at a
respectful distance! My pen is at your service. I prefer to be your
historian, your literary maid--half slave, half confidant; for then you
will always welcome me. If I were a lover, I might some day be
inopportune. That would not be pleasant.
Yes, they were chattering about you, especially around the table where
some solid ladies of Chicago served iced drinks. I was sipping it all in
with the punch, and looking at the pinks above the dark hair, and
wondering if you found having your own way as good fun as when you

were eighteen. You have gained, my dear lady, while I have been
knocking about the world. You are now more than "sweet": you are
almost handsome. I suppose it is a question of lights and the time of
day whether or not you are really brilliant. And you carry surety in your
face. There is nothing in Chicago to startle you, perhaps not in the
world.
She at the punch remarked, casually, to her of the sherbet: "I wonder
when Miss Armstrong will settle matters with Lane? It is the best she
can do now, though he isn't as well worth while as the men she threw
over." And her neighbor replied: "She might do worse than Lane. She
could get more from him than the showy ones." So Lane is the name of
the day. They have gauged you and put you down at Lane. I took