Dearest Julia,
Oh what reproaches! However, three letters at once are a compensation for every thing. I read the news from home till I nearly appeased my appetite for it, and can hardly express my gratitude to you * * *
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You are indeed right; such an ally as you would be of great use to me. Governess Prose would have kept Poetry better within bounds; and the boy who never grows old, and whose nature it is to play with gay soap-bubbles, would perhaps, under the guidance of a sage Mentor, have tried to pluck some more solid earthly fruit, instead of grasping at the rainbow balls. ‘Mais tout ce qui est, est pour le mieux!’ Let us never forget this axiom. Voltaire was wrong to turn it into jest; and Panglos was really in the right. This persuasion can alone console us under all afflictions; and for myself, I confess it is the essence of my religion.
Your letter No. I. is wisdom and goodness itself: but, dear Julia, as far as the former is concerned, it is powder and shot thrown away upon me. I am too much—what shall I call it?—a man of feeling and impulse, and shall never be wise, i. e. prudent in a worldly sense. But I am so much the more accessible to kindness,—yours only excepted; the measure of which is already so full and overflowing, that not a drop more can find entrance into my heart. With this full heart you must once for all be satisfied; your poor friend can give you no more. But is it possible that you can find room for fears that these two years of absence can have changed me towards you? that I may no longer find in you what I formerly found,—and so on. Do you know what the English would call this?—‘Nonsense.’ That I can wish nothing more intensely than to see you again, my unwearied correspondence might surely convince you; but you quite forget that * * *
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How often have I told you that I am not suited to the world! My defects as well as my merits, nay even the intellectual character which you imagine you find in me, are only so many stumbling-blocks in my way. A man who is intelligent, somewhat poetical, good-natured and sincere, is commonly awkward and ill at ease in every-day society. Like all those,—to use the words of an English writer,—whose feelings and affections paralyze their advantages, I do not find out till too late what was the prudent and discreet course: “an artless disposition,” continues the Englishman, “which is ill adapted to enter the lists with the cunning and the cold selfishness of the world.” I know a distinguished man, a hundredfold my superior, who in this respect is in the same predicament, and who continually laments that he has been transformed from a poet into a statesman. “I ought to have ended my life as I began it,” said he; “wandering about the world unknown, and rejoicing undisturbed in the beauty and grandeur of God’s works; or remote from men, shut up in my study, alone with my books, my fancy, and my faithful dog.”[148]
Oct. 31st.
I spent a very pleasant evening to-day at Lady M——’s. The company was small, but amusing, and enlivened by the presence of two very pretty friends of our hostess, who sang in the best Italian style. I talked a great deal with Lady M—— on various subjects, and she has talent and feeling enough always to excite a lively interest in her conversation. On the whole, I think I did not say enough in her favour in my former letter; at any rate, I did not then know one of her most charming qualities,—that of possessing two such pretty relatives.
The conversation fell upon her works, and she asked me how I liked her Salvator Rosa? “I have not read it,” replied I; “because,” (I added by way of excusing myself, ‘tant bien que mal,’) “I like your fictions so much, that I did not choose to read any thing historical from the pen of the most imaginative of romance writers.” “O, that is only a romance,” said she; “you may read it without any qualms of conscience.” “Very well,” thought I; “probably that will apply to your travels too,”—but this I kept to myself. “Ah,” said she, “believe me, it is only ennui that sets my pen in motion; our destiny in this world is such a wretched one that I try to forget it in writing.” (Probably the Lord Lieutenant had not invited her, or some other great personage had failed in his engagement to her, for she was quite out of spirits.) “What a fearful puzzle is this world,” said she: “Is there a presiding Power or not? And if there be one, and he were malevolent! what a horrible idea!” “But in Heaven’s name,” replied I, “how can a woman of sense, like you,—forgive me,—utter such nonsense?” “Ah, I know well enough all that you can say on that subject,” said she; “certainly, no man can give me.” This obscurity in a most acute mind was unintelligible to me, even in a woman. (‘Ne vous en fachez pas, Julie!’)