He told me that all the time he had been away the greatest consolation he had had was my fortnightly journals, in letter form, to him, accompanied by all newspaper scraps and public and private information, and accounts of books, such as I knew would interest him, so that when he did get a mail, which was only in a huge batch now and then, he was as well posted up as if he were living in London.
We try to effect a Reconciliation between Speke and Richard.
He never abused Speke, as a mean man would have done; he used to say, "Jack is one of the bravest fellows in the world; if he has a fault it is overweening vanity, and being so easily flattered; in good hands he would be the best of men. Let him alone; he will be very sorry some day, though that won't mend my case." It is interesting now to mark in their letters how they descend from "Dear Jack," and "Dear Dick," to "Dear Burton," and "Dear Speke," until they become "Sir!" But I must relate in Speke's favour that the injury once done to his friend, and the glory won for himself, he was not happy with it.
Speke and I had a mutual friend, a lady well known in Society as Kitty Dormer (Countess Dormer)—she would be ninety-four were she now living. She was one of the fashionable beauties of George IV.'s time, and was engaged to my father when they were young.
About a hundred years or more ago, a John Hanning Speke had married one of the Arundells of Wardour, and Lord Arundell always considered the Spekes as sort of neighbours and distant connections, so through this lady's auspices, Speke and I met, and also exchanged many messages; and we nearly succeeded in reconciling Richard and Speke, and would have done so, but for the anti-influences around him. He said to me, "I am so sorry, and I don't know how it all came about. Dick was so kind to me; nursed me like a woman, taught me such a lot, and I used to be so fond of him; but it would be too difficult for me to go back now." And upon that last sentence he always remained and acted.
Richard was looking so lank and thin. He was sadly altered; his youth, health, spirits, and beauty were all gone for the time. He fully justified his fevers, his paralysis and blindness, and any amount of anxiety, peril, hardship, and privation in unhealthy latitudes. Never did I feel the strength of my love as then. He returned poorer, and dispirited by official rows and every species of annoyance; but he was still, had he been ever so unsuccessful, and had every man's hand against him, my earthly god and king, and I could have knelt at his feet and worshipped him. I used to feel so proud of him; I used to like to sit and look at him, and to think, "You are mine, and there is no man on earth the least like you."
At one time, when he was at his worst, I found the following in his journal—
"I hear the sounds I used to hear,
The laugh of joy, the groan of pain;
The sounds of childhood sound again.
Death must be near!
"Mine eye reviveth like mine ear;
As painted scenes pass o'er the stage,
I see my life from youth to age.
Ah, Death is near!
"The music of some starry sphere,
A low, melodious strain of song,
Like to the wind-harp sweeps along.
Yes, Death is near!
"A lovely sprite of smiling cheer,
Sits by my side in form of light;
Sits on my left a darker sprite.
Sure, Death is near!
"The meed for ever deemed so dear,
Repose upon the breast of Fame;
(I did but half), while lives my name.
Come then, Death, near!
"Where now thy sting? Where now thy fear?
Where now, fell power, the victory?
I have the mastery over thee.
Draw, Death, draw near!"