We have had a fine day’s hunting here. The weather was remarkably clear and sunny, and at least a hundred red coats took the field. Such a sight is certainly full of interest; the many fine horses; the elegantly dressed huntsmen; fifty or sixty beautiful hounds following Reynard over stock and stone; the wild mounted troop behind; the rapid change of wood and hill and valley; the cries and shouts—it is a miniature war.
The country here is very hilly, and at one time the hounds ran up so steep and long a hill, that most of the horses were unable to follow them, and those that did, panted like the bellows of a smithy. But when we had once reached the top, the ‘coup d’œil’ was glorious; you looked down upon the whole, from the fox to the last straggler, all in full movement, with one glance; and besides that, over a rich valley to the left, which extends to London, and to the right over the sea gleaming like a mirror beneath the bright sun.
The first fox we took; the second reached Malapartus[79] in safety, and thus escaped his pursuers. Almost all these hunts are maintained by subscription. The pack here, for instance, consisted of eighty dogs and three huntsmen, with their nine horses, costs 1,050l. a year, which is divided among five-and-twenty subscribers. Any man who has a mind may ride with them. Thus it costs each subscriber not more than forty-two pounds a year. The shares, however, are by no means equally divided. The rich give much, the poor little, according to their means. Some give as much as two hundred a year, some not above ten; and I think this scheme would be a very good one to introduce into Germany, especially for poor men. The most striking thing, however, in the whole business, to German eyes, is the sight of the black-coated parsons, flying over hedge and ditch. I am told they often go to the church, ready booted and spurred, with the hunting-whip in their hands, throw on the surplice, marry, christen, or bury, with all conceivable velocity, jump on their horses at the church-door, and off—tally-ho! They told me of a famous clerical fox-hunter, who always carried a tame fox in his pocket, that if they did not happen to find one, they might be sure of a run. The animal was so well trained that he amused the hounds for a time; and when he was tired of running, took refuge in his inviolable retreat—which was no other than the altar of the parish church. There was a hole broken for him in the church wall, and a comfortable bed made under the steps. This is right English religion.
Feb. 6th.
I caught a cold which brought on a violent nervous fever. This has confined me to my bed for a fortnight, and weakened me to an extraordinary degree. It has not been wholly unattended with danger; but my physician assures me that is quite past; therefore do not be alarmed. Strange that, in a complaint so exhausting, one should be so indifferent to the thought of death! It appears to us only like rest and slumber; and I fervently wish myself such a slow and gradual approach of my dissolution from the body, whenever my time comes. As one that delights in observing, I would fain, so to say, see and feel myself die, as far as that is possible; that is, watch my own sensations and thoughts with full possession of my faculties, and thus taste existence up to the very last moment. A sudden death appears to me something vulgar,—animal; a slow one alone, with perfect consciousness of its approach, refined, noble,—human. I hope moreover to die very tranquilly; for although I have never attained to sanctity of life, I have held fast to the Loving and the Good, and have loved mankind, though not perhaps many individual men. Thus, though not yet ripe for heaven, I wish extremely, according to my doctrine of metempsychosis, to become once more an inhabitant of this beloved earth. The planet is beautiful and interesting enough to like to rove about in it in ever-renewed human shape. But if it be ordered otherwise, I am content. From God and his universe we cannot be cut off; and it is not probable that we shall become more foolish or more wicked; but rather, wiser and better.
The sting of death to me would be the thought of your sorrow; and yet perhaps, without the certainty of your love I could not die so happy and resigned:—it is so sweet a feeling in death, that we leave some one behind who will cherish our memory with tenderness, and in and with whom we shall live, so long as his eyes remain open to the light. Is this selfishness?
As we are talking of dying, I must mention a melancholy incident. Do you remember a Scottish chieftain, of whom I told you during my last visit to Brighton?—a somewhat fantastic, but powerful and original Highlander. In the full pride of manly strength he has ceased to live. He was on board a steamboat with his two daughters, and shortly before landing received such a blow on the head from one of the yards, that he fell into a fit of delirium on the spot, sprang into the sea, and swam to shore, where he soon after expired. This end has a certain kindred tragic character with the history of an ancestor he told me of with such pride, to which he traced the origin of his arms—a bloody hand on a field azure.—This is the tradition:
Two brothers who were engaged in an expedition against some Scottish island had entered into an agreement, that he who should first touch the land with flesh and blood (a Scotch expression) should remain undisputed lord of it. Approaching the shore with all the force with which they could ply their oars, they came to a part where the projecting rocks barred all nearer approach; and both brothers, with their followers, dashed into the sea to swim to the island. As the elder saw that the younger was getting before him, he drew his short sword, laid his left hand on a point of rock, cut it off with one stroke, took it up by the fingers and threw it bleeding, past his brother on the shore: “God is my witness,” cried he, “that my flesh and blood have first touched this land.” And thus was he king of the island, which his descendants ruled for centuries with unlimited sway.
Feb. 8th.
The doctor finds me very patient—Good God! I have been taught patience—and to be just, adversity is an admirable school for the spirit. Adversity, however, if we look deep enough, arises only from these faults in us, which are corrected by it; and we may unconditionally affirm, that if men began and persevered in an undeviating course of reasonable and virtuous conduct, they would scarcely know suffering:—but their pleasures must then become so subtle and ethereal, that they would set but little value on any thing earthly. No more dinners,—at which to get indigestions. No more fame,—which they hunt after with such delighted vanity: no more of love’s sweet and perilous risks: no pomp or show for the sake of surpassing others: it would be at last—God forgive me for saying so!—a very humdrum life—a dead calm, under an outward show of perfection. The essence of life, on the contrary, is motion and contrast. It would therefore be the greatest derangement and annoyance if we were all to become perfectly reasonable. But I don’t think the danger very pressing.—You see my illness has not altered me: I should not have told you anything about it, but that this letter must go before I am quite recovered. You may, however, read it with perfect tranquillity of mind, and be assured that I mean to enjoy everything that a benevolent Creator has bestowed upon us, to my very latest breath; whether halfpence, or guineas; houses of cards, or palaces; soap-bubbles, or rank and dignities,—as time and circumstance present them;—and at last even death itself, and whatever here or elsewhere may follow it. The severer virtues just show their beautiful roots. Thus, for instance, I really enjoy my present temperance; I feel an ethereal lightness from it, and am more elevated than usual above all that is animal. Other égarements are wholly out of the question; and all this gives me a foretaste of that purer pleasure to come—old age. For in certain things—let us but confess it frankly and freely—the wicked Frenchman is half in the right:—‘que c’est le vice qui nous quitte, et bien rarement nous qui quittons le vice.’