I send you the last canto of Childe Harold. La fin couronne les œuvres, and magnificently too. What in descriptive poetry is finer than his Italian sunset, or the sketch of the Coliseum—except, indeed, his own more exquisitely touched and highly finished picture of it in the last act of Manfred? What shows more intimate acquaintance with the human heart than his stanza on the scorpion-sting of past, and apparently forgotten, griefs? What is more sublime and pathetic than his address to Time, melting so beautifully and unexpectedly into forgiveness? Then his description of the dying Gladiator, that wonderfully tragic and Shakespearian statue, which seems to blend the subdued sensibility of our later days with the stoical patience of ancient heroism; while all fitly closes with a description of the Apollo, that statue which seems like his own poetry personified. In short, you will be charmed, as all here have been.
The Princess of Hesse Homburg will redeem the character of good behaviour in the conjugal bonds, lost or mislaid by her family. She is delighted with her hero, as she calls him. In his way from the scene of the marriage ceremony to the Regent’s Cottage, where, to his great annoyance, they were destined to pass the first quarter of the honeymoon, he was sick, from being unused to a close carriage, and forced to leave her for the dicky, and put Baron O’Naghten in his place. He said he was not so much ennuyé at the Cottage as he expected, having passed all his time in his dressing-gown and slippers, smoking in the conservatory.
June 10, 1818.—I have seen enough to hope no nearer friend of mine will ever engage in a contested election. It shows our fellow-men in a contemptible light; and yet freedom of election is one of the best features in the best Constitution possessed by any of the old States of the world—for I presume not to compare with our daughter. She is ‘fresh as a nursing mother, the current in whose veins is nectar,’ diffusing hope and plenty, cheerfulness and vigour. To expect that England should resemble America in these points, is as absurd as to expect the daughter should be intellectual and refined, polished and accomplished as her mother. Let each endeavour to improve as her years will permit.
Those who bought their mourning for the Queen may lock it up. It is the only dress we have a certainty of wanting, unless prevented by its being worn for ourselves.
TO A FRIEND.
Bursledon Lodge, July 21, 1818.
You have not been surprised at my late silence; you are aware of the slowness and apathy, mental and bodily, which sometimes creep over me. They are now so great that even writing to you is an effort at the moment; and I do it rather in the hope of hastening a letter from you, and giving you some satisfaction, than from my usual pleasure in pouring out my heart before you. I am glad you have left town for many reasons—first, your wishing it; next, the heat; thirdly, your health of body; and lastly, your health of mind; to which the conversation of your foreign friend was by no means favourable. To those of dull feelings, the picture of an impassioned mind like hers is an interest, an amusement, a spectacle, a sensation. But to those of vivid feelings—like you and me—it is painful. It is a strong gale blowing upon our minds, and not only disturbing their present smoothness, but disclosing wrecks long concealed below—at least, I found it so, even in the descriptions you gave me. I have just read Mˡˡᵉ de Lespinasse’s Letters in French, which remind me of your friend in almost every line. I hope she may never read them. They have done me no good. They are traced with a pen of fire; and you will own she knew how to love;—finely written, without the slightest attempt at fine writing.
I hope you found Mrs. —— quite well. I have an affectionate regard for her far beyond that inspired by her being most agreeable and valuable, from your friendship for her and her lover-like return. The metal is gold; but your love for her adds to it in my eyes a fine and interesting impression.