And talking of poetesses, I had a note yesterday (again) which quite touched me ... from Mr. Hemans—­Charles, the son of Felicia—­written with so much feeling, that it was with difficulty I could say my perpetual ‘no’ to his wish about coming to see me.  His mother’s memory is surrounded to him, he says, ’with almost a divine lustre’—­and ’as it cannot be to those who knew the writer alone and not the woman.’  Do you not like to hear such things said? and is it not better than your tradition about Shelley’s son? and is it not pleasant to know that that poor noble pure-hearted woman, the Vittoria Colonna of our country, should be so loved and comprehended by some ... by one at least ... of her own house?  Not that, in naming Shelley, I meant for a moment to make a comparison—­there is not equal ground for it.  Vittoria Colonna does not walk near Dante—­no.  And if you promised never to tell Mrs. Jameson ... nor Miss Martineau ...  I would confide to you perhaps my secret profession of faith—­which is ... which is ... that let us say and do what we please and can ... there is a natural inferiority of mind in women—­of the intellect ... not by any means, of the moral nature—­and that the history of Art and of genius testifies to this fact openly.  Oh—­I would not say so to Mrs. Jameson for the world.  I believe I was a coward to her altogether—­for when she denounced carpet work as ‘injurious to the mind,’ because it led the workers into ‘fatal habits of reverie,’ I defended the carpet work as if I were striving pro aris et focis, (I, who am so innocent of all that knowledge!) and said not a word for the poor reveries which have frayed away so much of silken time for me ... and let her go away repeating again and again ...  ’Oh, but you may do carpet work with impunity—­yes! because you can be writing poems all the while.’!

Think of people making poems and rugs at once.  There’s complex machinery for you!

I told you that I had a sensation of cold blue steel from her eyes!—­And yet I really liked and like and shall like her.  She is very kind I believe—­and it was my mistake—­and I correct my impressions of her more and more to perfection, as you tell me who know more of her than I.

Only I should not dare, ... ever, I think ... to tell her that I believe women ... all of us in a mass ... to have minds of quicker movement, but less power and depth ... and that we are under your feet, because we can’t stand upon our own.  Not that we should either be quite under your feet! so you are not to be too proud, if you please—­and there is certainly some amount of wrong—­:  but it never will be righted in the manner and to the extent contemplated by certain of our own prophetesses ... nor ought to be, I hold in intimate persuasion.  One woman indeed now alive ... and only that one down all the ages of the world—­seems to me to justify for a moment an opposite opinion—­that