Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton. Your letters are a great comfort as well as pleasure to me; I am extremely obliged to you for them.
I showed my daughter the photograph of your "Vision," and she was enchanted with it. She has not a cultivated or educated taste in matters of art—this country affords no means for such a thing—but she is a person of very fine natural perceptions and great imagination and sensibility, and she was so charmed with it that I hope you will not think it foolish or impertinent in me to tell you of it.
The last political news I have is that the border or Northern slave States will probably not join the cotton states, in which case the latter will, of hard necessity, very soon be compelled to abandon their absurd and infinitely perilous position; but one does not see the end of it all, for if they do come back into the Union, it will be under a burning sense of humiliation which will hardly facilitate their future intercourse with the North, for humiliation and humility are difficult things, and the cotton Lucifer under coercion will not be a pleasant devil to deal with.
Lenox, Saturday, September 7.
You owe me nothing, and you will owe me nothing, dear Mr. Leighton, for expediting your pictures to England. When I wrote to Mr. Ordway about them desiring him to send them back to you, and to let me know the amount of any expenses he incurred in doing so, his reply was that the mere cost of packing and putting them on board ship would not be worth charging you with, and that the possession of your pictures in his gallery was well worth the small outlay of merely despatching them to you. I hope they will reach you safely. I am sorry, sorry they have not remained here; but latterly, as you will easily believe, people's minds have been little inclined to the peaceful arts or any influences of beauty and grace; moreover, the pockets of the wealthiest amateurs are affected, as those of their poorer neighbours are, by the public disasters. My own loss this year is two hundred pounds of my income. What it may be next year, or how far my capital itself is safe, is more than anybody can tell. We are to be taxed moreover beyond all precedent in this country hitherto, and as it is already nearly the dearest place in the world to live in, what with onerous imports and the failure of interest from one's investments it will be simply ruinous. Thank you for all you tell me of my sister and her children. I am beginning to see them again, as the time when I may really hope to do so draws nearer. I am sorry for what you and all my friends tell me about Harry's strong dramatic propensities. Of course, if he is fit for nothing else, or fitter for that than anything else, he had better become an actor, and his being so in England need not prevent his being a worthy fellow and respectable and respected member of society. I am, however, much reconciled to what at first disappointed me extremely—my not being able to bring him out to this country; for if he should eventually take to the stage, here that is simply in most instances equivalent to taking to the gutter. My daughters are both with me just now, and Fanny desires me to remember her very kindly to you. The incidents of the war which reach the other side of the water no doubt strike you as amazing enough; but anything more grotesque than the daily details in the midst of which we live, you cannot conceive. A young gentleman, a friend of ours who has just returned from his share in the campaign in a three months' volunteer regiment (he has entered the regular army, as a very large proportion of the volunteers did as soon as their three months' amateur service expired), described to us a volunteer corps which happened to be encamped in the neighbourhood of his company. He said they were one of the finest bodies of men he ever saw. Lumberers, that is, wood-fellers from the forests of Maine and New Hampshire, perfectly brave and reckless and daring—perfectly undisciplined too, to the tune of replying to their officers when ordered to turn out on guard, "No, I'll be damned if I do," with the most cheerful good humour. Thereupon the discomfited "superior" simply turns to some one else and says, "Oh, well—you're so and so—go." Good-bye; I shall rejoice to see you again, and be once more at home among people who know how to behave themselves.—Believe me, always yours most sincerely,
Fanny Kemble.
After the Prince Consort's death in 1861 Leighton wrote the following letter to his younger sister, who was in Italy:
I have just returned from a fortnight in Bath, where I have at last finished the Johnnies,[22] I believe, and hope you will like them; they are at all events much improved. I am glad for the poor lad that the corvée of settling is over; he was dying to get back to his work. If zeal and enthusiasm can make an artist, he ought to become one.
I don't attempt to give you home news, as you are amply supplied with that article by Mamma. Everybody here is in great sorrow for the poor Queen. She bears up under her overwhelming grief with admirable fortitude, and expresses her anxious desire to do her duty as he would have wished it, but she speaks of all earthly happiness as at an end. The tender sympathy manifested by the whole nation is touching, but deserved.
Whether there will be war or not, the beginning of the year will show; it is, I think, more than probable; there is no probability of the Americans giving up Mason and Slidell. If we do fight, it will be agreeable to feel that we are supported by the sympathy and approval of all Europe; that we are entirely in the right is universally recognised, even by those who have no love for us. Sooner or later, a war with America was, I fear, unavoidable. There is a limit to what even we can overlook. All this need not prevent your coming to England that I can see; it won't stop the Exhibition, nor make any perceptible difference in anybody's doings, except perhaps the picture buyers.—Your very affect. brother,