[Postmark: July 9, 1846]
My own darling, my Ba, do you know when I read those
letters (as soon as I remembered I had got them, – for you
hold me long after both doors, up and down stairs, shut)
when I looked through them, under a gateway . . I was
pricked at the heart to have thought so, and spoken so, of
the poor writer. I will believe that he was good and even
great when in communication with you – indeed all men
are made, or make themselves, different in their approaches
to different men – and the secret of goodness and greatness
is in choosing whom you will approach, and live with, in
memory or imagination, through the crowding obvious
people who seem to live with you. That letter about
the glory of being a painter ‘ if only for the neglect ‘ is most
touching and admirable . . there is the serene spot attained,
the solid siren’s isle amid the sea ; and while there, he was
safe and well . . but he would put out to sea again, after a
breathing time, I suppose ? though even a smaller strip of
land was enough to maintain Blake, for one instance, in
power and glory through the poor, fleeting ‘ sixty years ‘ – then
comes the rest from cartooning and exhibiting. But there
is no standing, one foot on land and one on the waves, now
with the high aim in view, now with the low aim, – and all
the strange mistaken talk about ‘ prestiges,’ ‘ Youth and its
luck,’ Napoleon and the world’s surprise and interest.
There comes the low aim between the other, – an organ grinds
Mr. Jullien’s newest dance-tune, and Camoens is vexed that
the ‘choral singing which brought angels down,’ can’t also
draw street-passengers round.
I take your view of H.’s freedom, at that time, from the
thoughts of what followed.
He was weak – a strong man would have borne what so
many bear – what were his griefs, as grief goes ? Do you
remember I told you, when the news of Aliwal and the
other battles came to England, of our gardener, and his son,
a sergeant in one of the regiments engaged . . how the father
could learn nothing at first, of course . . how they told him
at the Horse Guards he should be duly informed in time,
after his betters, whether this son was dead, or wounded.
Since then, no news came . . ‘ which is good news ‘ the father
persuaded himself to think . . so the apprehensions subside,
and the hope confirms itself, more and more, while the old
fellow digs and mows and rakes away, like a man painting
historical pictures . . only without the love of it. Well, this
morning we had his daughter here to say ‘ the letter ‘ had
arrived at last . . her brother was killed in the first battle,
so there’s an end of the three months’ sickness of heart, –
and the poor fellow must bear his loss ‘ like a man ‘ – or
like a woman . . for I recollect another case, of an old
woman whom my mother was in the habit of relieving, –
who brought a letter one day which she could hardly under-
stand – it was from her son, a sailor, and went on for a
couple of pages about his good health and expectations, –
then, in a different handwriting, somebody, ‘ your son’s
shipmate’ ‘took up his pen to inform you that he fell from
the masthead into the sea and was drowned yesterday, –
which he therefore thought it right to put in the unfinished
letter.’ All which the old woman bore somehow, – seeing
she lives yet.
Well, – ought not I to say Mr. Kenyon was as kind as
usual, and his party as pleasant ? No, for you know – what
you cannot by possibility know, it seems, is, that I am not
particularly engaged next Saturday ! Ba, shall I really see
you so soon ? Bless you ever, my very, very own ! I shall
not hear to-day . . but to-morrow, – do but not keep me
waiting for that letter, and the mules shall be ready hours
and hours, for any sign I will have, at La Cava !
Ever your R.