The Letters of Two Romantics
Thursday Evening.
June 27, 1845.
After all it must be for Saturday, as Mrs. Hedley comes again on Friday, to-morrow, from New Cross, — or just beyond it, Eltham Park — to London for a few days, on account of the illness of one of her children. I write in the greatest haste after Miss Mitford has left me . . . and so tired! to say this, that if you can and will come on Saturday, . . . or if not on Monday or Tuesday, there is no reason against it.
Your friend always,
E.B.B.
Tuesday Evening.
June 25, 1845.
What will you think when I write to ask you not to come to-morrow, Wednesday; but . . . on Friday perhaps, instead? But do see how it is; and judge if it is to be helped.
I have waited hour after hour, hoping to hear from Miss Mitford that she would agree to take Thursday in change for Wednesday, — and just as I begin to wonder whether she can have received my letter at all, Continue reading “#49”
Monday.
June 24, 1845.
I had begun to be afraid that I did not deserve to have my questions answered; and I was afraid of asking them over again. But it is worse to be afraid that you are not better at all in any essential manner (after all your assurances) and that the medical means have failed so far. Did you go to somebody who knows anything? — because there is no excuse, you see, in common sense, Continue reading “#47”
Thursday Evening.
June 20, 1845.
If on Greek literature or anything else it is your pleasure to cultivate a reputation for ignorance, I will respect your desire — and indeed the point of the deficiency in question being far above my sight I am not qualified either to deny or assert the existence of it; so you are free to have it all your own way. Continue reading “#45”
Monday.
June 17, 1845.
Yes, I quite believe as you do that what is called the ‘creative process’ in works of Art, is just inspiration and no less — which made somebody say to me not long since; And so you think that Shakespeare’s ‘Othello’ was of the effluence of the Holy Ghost?’ — rather a startling deduction, . . . only not quite as final as might appear to somebodies perhaps. Continue reading “#43”
Friday.
June 14, 1845.
Yes, the poem is too good in certain respects for the prizes given in colleges, (when all the pure parsley goes naturally to the rabbits), and has a great deal of beauty here and there in image and expression. Still I do not quite agree with you that it reaches the Tennyson standard any wise; Continue reading “#41”
Tuesday Morning.
June 10, 1845.
I must thank you by one word for all your kindness and consideration — which could not be greater; nor more felt by me. Continue reading “#40”
Friday Morning.
June 7, 1845.
When I see all you have done for me in this ‘Prometheus,’ I feel more than half ashamed both of it and of me for using your time so, and forced to say in my own defence (not to you but myself) that I never thought of meaning to inflict such work on you who might be doing so much better things in the meantime both for me and for others — Continue reading “#37”
Friday Morning.
May 30, 1845.
Just one word to say that if Saturday, to-morrow, should be fine — because in the case of its raining I shall not expect you; you will find me at three o’clock.
Yes — the circumstances of the costume were mentioned in the letter; Mr. Rogers’ bag-wig and the rest, and David Wilkie’s sword — and also that the Laureate, so equipped, fell down upon both knees in the superfluity of etiquette, and had to be picked up by two lords-in-waiting. It is a large exaggeration I do not doubt — and then I never sympathised with the sighing kept up by people about that acceptance of the Laureateship which drew the bag-wig as a corollary after it. Not that the Laureateship honoured him, but that he honoured it; and that, so honouring it, he preserves a symbol instructive to the masses, who are children and to be taught by symbols now as formerly. Isn’t it true? or at least may it not be true? And won’t the court laurel (such as it is) be all the worthier of you for Wordsworth’s having worn it first?
And in the meantime I shall see you to-morrow perhaps? or if it should rain, on Monday at the same hour.
Ever yours, my dear friend,
E.B.B.
Monday Morning.
May 27, 1845.
You will think me the most changeable of all the changeable; but indeed it is not my fault that I cannot, as I wished, receive you on Wednesday. There was a letter this morning; and our friends not only come to London but come to this house on Tuesday (to-morrow) to pass two or three days, until they settle in an hotel for the rest of the season. Therefore you see, it is doubtful whether the two days may not be three, and the three days four; but if they go away in time, and if Saturday should suit you, I will let you know by a word; and you can answer by a yea or nay. While they are in the house, I must give them what time I can — and indeed, it is something to dread altogether. Continue reading “#34”