Belshazzar’s Feast (Martin). It speaks strongly to the imagination, and is a powerful creation of light, and a new language in painting. The idea is fine, and I augur much from Martin, who seems to have a powerful fancy and a noble daring.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
London, June 2, 1821.
I have always avoided making my letters bulletins, as I wish neither to give pain nor to excite ennui; but I cannot conceal from you the opinion of Sir Henry Halford, justified by the success of his prescriptions, that I shall completely recover my health. My size is undiminished; it makes me very uncourtly in appearance, and is the despair of some of my refined friends; but is the less alarming, as it is not the fulness of relaxation, but such as would do honour to a dairy-maid or farmer’s wife; and is convenient in one respect, for it serves, without the odium of singularity, as an apology for my being far behind my cotemporaries in variety of dress and quantity of trimmings. When gently reproved on that subject, I always say, ‘Oh, you know my size;’ and the decorated lecturer gives a pitying glance at me, an approving one at herself, and becomes silently absorbed in the contemplation of her flounces. The necessity of pleasing him is sometimes hinted at on these occasions. Poor souls! they know not how secure I am. You must know that in this town time brings no relaxation to the vigour of dress. On the contrary, while some of the young have good taste enough to trust to their charms for a few years, and are distinguished by their simplicity, scarcely any of their mothers resign, or cease accumulating, ornaments, till they exchange them for the winding-sheet. An awful instance of this passion occurred in my neighbourhood. A person whose beauty had raised her from the rank of milliner to that of wealthy widow, in her last will ordered that she should be dressed for the grave in all her laces and diamonds, which should be buried with her. This is ‘the ruling passion strong in death’ beyond what fiction would have ventured to describe.
TO THE LADY FANNY PROBY.
London, July, 1821.
All silly persons talk of nothing now but the Coronation, so you may guess how much one hears of it. Such numbers have put on their fool’s-caps about it, and are jangling them in one’s ears, that it is quite deafening.