[Postmark: April 16, 1846]
Thursday.
This morning, you would never guess what I have been
doing. — Buying a bonnet ! That looks like a serious purpose
of going out, walking out, driving out . . now doesn’t it ?
And having chosen one a little like a Quaker’s, as I thought
to myself, I am immediately assured by the learned that
‘ nothing can be more fashionable’ . . which is a most
satisfactory proof of blind instinct, . . feeling towards the
Bude lights of the world, and which Mrs. Procter would
highly esteem me for, if she did but know it.
In the meanwhile assure yourself that I understand
perfectly your feeling about the subject of yesterday. Flies
are flies, and yet they are vexatious with their buzzing, as
flies. Only Mrs. Jameson told me the other day that a
remedy against the mosquitos . . polvere di morchia . . had
been discovered lately in Italy, so that the world might sleep
there in peace — as you may here . . let us talk no more of
it. I think I should not have told you if I had not needed
it for a talking-ladder to something else. For the rest, it is
amusing to me, quite amusing, to observe how people cannot
conceive of work except under certain familiar forms. Men
who dig in ditches have an idea that the man who leads the
plough rather rests than works : and all men of out-door
labour distrust the industry of the manufacturers in-doors —
while both manufacturers and out-door labourers consider
the holders of offices and clerkships as idle men . . gentlemen
at ease. Then between all these classes and the
intellectual worker, the difference is wider, and the want of
perception more complete. The work of creation, nobody
will admit . . though everybody has by heart, without laying
it to heart, that God rested on the seventh day. Looking
up to the stars at nights, they might as well take all to be
motionless — though if there were no motion there would be
no morning . . and they look for a morning after all. Why
who could mind such obtuse stupidity ? It is the stupidity
of mankind, par excellence of foolishness ! The hedger and
ditcher they see working, but God they do not see working.
If one built a palace without noise and confusion and the
stroke of hammers, one would scarcely get credit for it in
this world . . so full of virtue and admiration it is, to make
a noise ! Even I, you see, who said just now ‘ Talk no
more of it,’ talk more and more, and make more noise than
is necessary. Here is an end though — we leave Mrs.
Procter here. And do not think that the least word of
disrespect was said of you — indeed it was not ! neither disrespect
nor reproach. So you and I will forgive everybody
henceforward, for wishing you to be rich. And if Miss
Procter would ‘ commit suicide ‘ rather than live as you like
to live, I will not, as long as you are not tired of me — and
that, just now and as things are, is of a little more consequence
perhaps. . .
Scarcely had you gone, dearest, yesterday, when I had
two letters with the very prose of life in them, dropping its
black blotchy oil upon all the bright colours of our poetry !
I groaned in the spirit to read, and to have to answer them.
First was a Miss Georgiana Bennet — did you ever hear
of her? — I never did before, but that was my base
ignorance ; for she is a most voluminous writer it appears . .
and sent me five or six works’ (observe), . . published
under the ‘ high sanction ‘ (and reiterated subscription) of
ever so many Royal Highnesses and Right Reverends . . .
written in prose and verse, upon female education and the
portrait of Harrison Ainsworth (‘I gaze upon that noble
face, and bright expressive eyes ! miscellaneous subjects
of that sort ! — also, there is a poem of some length, called
‘ The Poetess,’ which sets forth in detail how Miss Georgiana
Bennet has found the laurel on her brow a mere nightshade,
and the glories of fame no comfort in the world. Well — all
these books were sent to me, with a note hortative — giving
indeed a very encouraging opinion of my poems generally,
but desiring me to consider, that poets write both for the
learned and the unlearned, and that in fact I am in the habit
of using a great many hard words, much to the confusion of
the latter large class of readers. She has heard (Georgiana
has) that I am a classical scholar which of course (of course)
accounts for this peculiarity . . but it is the duty of one’s
friends to tell one of one’s faults, which is the principle she
goes upon. In return for which benevolence, I am requested
to send back a copy of my poems directly, and to ‘ think of
her, as she thinks of me.’ There an end. The next letter
is from a Mrs. Milner, who used to edit the ‘ Christian
Mother’s Magazine ‘ ; the most idiotic tract-literature,
that magazine was, but supported by the Queen dowager and
a whole train of Duchesses proper — very proper indeed !
She used to edit the ‘ Christian Mother,’ but now she has
‘ generalised ‘ it, she says, to the ‘ Englishwoman’s Magazine ‘
and wants me to write for it and says. . .
Oh — I cannot have patience to go on to tell you. Besides
you will take me to be too bitter, when I ought to be grateful
perhaps ! But if you knew how hard it is for me to have to
read and write sometimes, as if you were not in the world
with me .. as if … Is it wrong to laugh a little, to put it
off, — only to you though ? And do you know, I feel ill
at ease in my conscience, on account of what I said (even
to you) about Mrs. Paine, who came to see me, you remember ; and because she has written me a letter which quite
affected me, I shall send it for you to read, to undo any
false impression. Then you will not dislike reading it on
other grounds. She is very different from the Georgiana
Bennets, and I am interested in her, and touched aright by
what she says.
You will write. You think of me ? I am better to-day,
much — and it is strange to be so, when you are not here.
Ever dearest, let your thoughts be with me —
I am your own . .