Write to me whenever you dislike at least, and tell me what your plans are. I hear nothing about our leaving Sidmouth.
To Miss Commeline
September 22, 1834 [Sidmouth].
I am afraid that there can be no chance of my handwriting at least being unforgotten by you, dear Miss Commeline, but in the case of your having a very long memory you may remember the name which shall be written at the end of this note, and which belongs to one who does not, nor is likely to forget you! I was much, much obliged to you for the kind few lines you wrote to me—how long ago! No, do not remember how long—do not remember that for fear you should think me unkind, and—what I am not! I have intended again and again to answer your note, and I am doing it—at last! Are you all quite well? Mrs. Commeline and all of you? Shall I ever see any of you again? Perhaps I shall not; but even if I do not, I shall not cease to wish you to be well and happy 'in the body or out of the body.'
We came to Sidmouth for two months, and you see we are here still; and when we are likely to go is as uncertain as ever. I like the place, and some of its inhabitants. I like the greenness and the tranquillity and the sea; and the solitude of one dear seat which hangs over it, and which is too far or too lonely for many others to like besides myself. We are living in a thatched cottage, with a green lawn bounded by a Devonshire lane. Do you know what that is? Milton did when he wrote of 'hedgerow elms and hillocks green.' Indeed Sidmouth is a nest among elms; and the lulling of the sea and the shadow of the hills make it a peaceful one. But there are no majestic features in the country. It is all green and fresh and secluded; and the grandeur is concentrated upon the ocean without deigning to have anything to do with the earth. I often find my thoughts where my footsteps once used to be! but there is no use in speaking of that....
Pray believe me, affectionately yours,
E.B. BARRETT.
To Mrs. Martin
Sidmouth: Friday, December 19, 1834 [postmark].
My dearest Mrs. Martin,—... We have lately had deep anxiety with regard to our dear papa. He left us two months ago to do his London business: and a few weeks since we were told by a letter from him that he was ill; he giving us to understand that his complaint was of a rheumatic character. By the next coach, we were so daring (I can scarcely understand how we managed it) as to send Henry to him: thinking that it would be better to be scolded than to suffer him to be alone and in suffering at a London hotel. We were not scolded: but my prayer to be permitted to follow Henry was condemned to silence: and what was said being said emphatically, I was obliged to submit, and to be
thankful for the unsatisfactory accounts which for many days afterwards we received.... I cannot help being anxious and fearful. You know he is all left to us—and that without him we should indeed be orphans and desolate. Therefore you may well know what feelings those are with which we look back upon his danger; and forwards to any threatening of a return of it.... It may not be so. Do not, when you write, allude to my fearing about it. Our only feeling now should certainly be a deep feeling of thankfulness towards that God of all consolation Who has permitted us to know His love in the midst of many griefs; and Who while He has often cast upon us the sorrow and the shadow, has yet enabled us to recognise it as that 'shadow of the wings of the Almighty,' wherein we may 'rejoice.' We shall probably see our dear papa next week. At least we know that he is only waiting for strength and that he is already able to go out—I fear, not to walk out. Here we are all well. Belle Vue is sold, and we shall probably have to leave it in March: but I do not think that we shall do so before. Henrietta is still very anxious to leave Sidmouth altogether; and I still feel that I shall very much grieve to leave it: so that it is happy for us that neither is the decider on this point. I have often thought that it is happier not to do what one pleases, and perhaps you will agree with me—if you don't please at the present moment to do something very particular. And do tell me, dear Mrs. Martin, what you are pleasing to do, and what you are doing: for it seems to me, and indeed is, a long time since I heard of you and Mr. Martin in detail. Miss Maria Commeline sent a note to Henrietta a fortnight ago: and in it was honorable mention of you—but I won't interfere with the sublimities of your imagination, by telling you what it was.... I should like to hear something of Hope End: whether there are many alterations, and whether the new lodge, of which I heard, is built. Even now, the thought stands before me sometimes like an object in a dream that I shall see no more those hills and trees which seemed to me once almost like portions of my existence. This is not meant for murmuring. I have had much happiness at Sidmouth, though with a character of its own. Henrietta and Arabel and I are the only guardians just now of the three youngest boys, the only ones at home: and I assure you, we have not too little to do. They are no longer little boys. There is an anxiety among us just now to have letters from Jamaica—from my dear dear Bro—but the packet is only 'expected.' The last accounts were comforting ones; and I am living on the hope of seeing him back again in the spring. Stormie and Georgie are doing well at Glasgow. So Dr. Wardlaw says.... Henrietta's particular love to you; and do believe me always,