Thursday Morning.
Here is the copy of Landor’s verses.
You know thoroughly, do you not, why I brought all those good-natured letters, desperate praise and all? Not, not out of the least vanity in the world – – nor to help myself in your sight with such testimony: would it seem very extravagant, on the contrary, if I said that perhaps I laid them before your eyes in a real fit of compunction at not being, in my heart, thankful enough for the evident motive of the writers, – – and so was determined to give them the ‘last honours’ if not the first, and not make them miss you because, through my fault, they had missed me? Does this sound too fantastical? Because it is strictly true: the most laudatory of all, I skimmed once over with my flesh creeping – – it seemed such a death-struggle, that of good nature over – – well, it is fresh ingratitude of me, so here it shall end.
I am not ungrateful to you – – but you must wait to know that: – – I can speak less than nothing with my living lips.
I mean to ask your brother how you are to-night . . . so quietly!
God bless you, my dearest, and reward you.
Your R.B.
Mrs. Shelley – – with the ‘Ricordi.’
Of course, Landor’s praise is altogether a different gift; a gold vase from King Hiram; beside he has plenty of conscious rejoicing in his own riches, and is not left painfully poor by what he sends away. That is the unpleasant point with some others – – they spread you a board and want to gird up their loins and wait on you there. Landor says ‘come up higher and let us sit and eat together.’ Is it not that?
Now – – you are not to turn on me because the first is my proper feeling to you, . . . for poetry is not the thing given or taken between us – – it is heart and life and myself, not mine, I give – – give? That you glorify and change and, in returning then, give me!