[Postmark: July 4, 1846]JH
Ah, this Saturday ! how heavily the wheels of it turn
round ! as if ‘ with all the weights of sleep and death hung
at them.’ After all it was not possible for me to get to Mrs.
Jameson’s this morning . . not that I was unwell to signify,
mind -but unfit for the exertion — and it would not have
been agreeable to anybody if I had gone there and fainted.
So here I am, the picture of helpless indolence, stretched out
at full length between the chair and the high stool, thinking
how you will not to-day sit on the low one, nor in your old
own place by me – oh how I think, think, think of you,
to make imperfect amends ! Are you disappointed . .
you ? I hope you are, and I fear you are. My generosity
does not carry me through the hope of it to the end. I
love your love too much. And that is the worst fault, my
beloved, I ever can find in my love of you.
Look, what Miss Mitford has sent me from the Daily
News — Mr. Horne’s lament for poor Haydon. Tell me if
you do not like it. It has moved me much, and as a
composition it is fine, I think, — worthy of ‘ Orion.’ I shall
write to Mr. Horne to thank him, as one reader of many,
for touching that solemn string into such a right melody.
To my mind, it is worth, and more than worth, twenty such
books as his ballad-book — tell me if it isn’t. It has much
affected me.
Papa went out early — so we should have escaped
the ‘ complication ‘ — but every half-hour we are expecting
our visitors. And for Monday . . I scarcely dare say yet
‘ Come on Monday.’ Only we will find our lost Pleiads
. . of that, be very sure — I am very sure. Still to miss one
for a moment draws me into darkness — or . . do you not
know that you are all my stars ? yes, and the sun, besides !
The thing which people call a sun seems to shine quite
coldly to-day, because you are not on this side of my window.
‘ All complaining is vain,’ do you say ?
Let me pass the time a little, then, by confessing to you
that what you said, some letters ago, about the character of
our intercourse, in our present relation, being a sort of
security for the future, . . that that did strike me as a true
and reasonable observation as far as it goes. I think, at
least, that if I were inclined to fear for my own happiness
apart from yours (which, as God knows, is a fear that never
comes into my head), I should have sense to reason myself
clear of it all by seeing in you none of the common rampant
man-vices which tread down a woman’s peace — and which begin the work often long before marriage. Oh, I understand
perfectly, how as soon as ever a common man is sure of a
woman’s affections, he takes up the tone of right and might
. . and he will have it so . . and he won’t have it so !
I have heard of the bitterest tears being shed by the victim
as soon as ever, by one word of hers, she had placed herself
in his power. Of such are ‘ Lovers’ quarrels ‘ for the most
part. The growth of power on one side . . and the struggle
against it, by means legal and illegal, on the other. There
are other causes, of course — but for none of them could
it be possible for me to quarrel with you now or ever.
Neither now nor ever do I look forward to the ordinary
dangers. What I have feared has been so different !
May God bless you my own . . own ! For my part, you
have my leave to make me unhappy if you please. It
only would be just that the happiness you have given, you
should take away — it is yours, as I am yours.
Say how your head is — say how your mother is. Think
of me with the thoughts that do good.
Your own
Ba.
TO THE MEMORY OF B. R. HAYDON
By the Author of ‘ Orion ‘
Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse !
Thy fiery whispers rule this mortal hour,
Wherein the toiling Artist’s constant soul
Revels in glories of a visioned world, —
Power, like a god, exalting the full heart ;
Beauty with subtlest ravishment of grace
Refining all the senses ; while afar
Through vistas of the stars where strange friends dwell.
A temple smiles for him to take his seat
Among the happy Dead whose work is done.
Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse !
Thou lead’st the devotee through fruitful bowers
Wherein Imagination multiplies
Divinely, and, with noblest ecstasy.
To nature ever renders truth for truth.
Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse !
Thou teachest to be strong and virtuous ;
In labour, patient ; clear-eyed as a star.
Self-truthful ; vigilant within ; and full
Of faith to be, and do, and send it forth ; —
But teachest no man how to know himself.
His over-measures or his fallings short.
Nor how to know when he should step aside
Into the quiet shade, to wait his hour
And foil the common dragon of the earth.
O fatal Voice ! so syren-sweet, yet rife
With years of sorrow, deathbeds terrible !
Mourn for a worthy son whose aims were high,
Whose faith was strong amidst a scoffing age.
No warning giv’st thou, on the perilous path.
To those who need the gold thy teaching scorns,
Heedless if other knowledge hold due watch.
Thou fill’st with heavenly bliss the enraptured eyes,
While the feet move to ruin and the grave.
Therefore, O voice, inscrutably divine,
Uplifting sunward, casting in the dust,
Forgetting man as man, and mindful only
Of the man-angel even while on earth, —
Mourn now with all thine ancient tenderness,
Mingled with tears that fall in heavy drops.
For One who lost himself, remembering thee !