[Postmark: August 25, 1846]
When your letter came, my love, I could have easily borne the over-ruling its objections to a visit to-day, for all my cautious philosophy ! But it seems best arranged as at present . . indeed it must be best, if you agree. To-morrow repays me : nor is very long to wait !
I will only write briefly because I want to go to Town, (since there is nothing better practicable), and enquire precisely about that steamboat and the prices. I see that one may go to Trieste, a much greater journey, for ‘ £12 and £15,’ according to Mr. Waghorn’s bill. Besides, the advertisement speaks of the ‘ economy ‘ of this way – and certainly under ordinary circumstances anybody would prefer the river-voyage with its picturesqueness. There is a long account, in the paper to-day, of the earthquakes in Tuscany – which have really been formidable enough to keep away the travelling English for the next month or two – whole villages were overthrown, Leghorn has suffered considerably, the inhabitants bivouac outside the walls and at Pisa the roof of a church fell in . . also the villas in the vicinity have been damaged. Do you fear, dearest ? If you do not, – I fear that the eligibility of Pisa as our place of abode is only doubled and tripled by all this. Think ; there is a new lake risen, just by ! and great puffs of sulphureous smoke came up through chinks in the plains. How do these wonders affect you ?
You asked me about Ossian – now here is truth – the first book I ever bought in my life was Ossian . . it is now in the next room. And years before that, the first composition I ever was guilty of was something in imitation of Ossian, whom I had not read, but conceived, through two or three scraps in other books – I never can recollect not writing rhymes . . but I knew they were nonsense even then this, however, I thought exceedingly well of, and laid up for posterity under the cushion of a great arm-chair. ‘And now my soul is satisfied ‘ – so said one man after killing another, the death being suggested, in its height of honour, by stars and stars (* * * *). I could not have been five years old, that’s one consolation. Years after, when I bought this book, I found a vile dissertation of Laing . . all to prove Ossian was not Ossian . . I would not read it, but could not help knowing the purpose of it, and the pith of the hatefully-irresistible arguments. The worst came in another shape, though . . an after-gleaning of real Ossianic poems, by a firm believer whose name I forget – ‘if this is the rear – I thought! Well, to this day I believe in a nucleus for all that haze, a foundation of truth to Macpherson’s fanciful superstructure – and I have been long intending to read once again those Fingals and Malvinas.
I remember that somewhere a chief cries ‘ Come round me, my thousands ! ‘ – There is an Achilles ! And another, complaining of old age remarks ‘ Now – I feel the weight of my shield ! ‘ Nestor ; and both beautifully perfect, are they not, you perfect Ba ?
I will go now. To-morrow I trust to see you face to face ; dearest that you are !
Ever your own.
My poor mother suffers greatly. I am much better.