My Very Dear Friend: I can hardly give you a greater proof of
affection, than in telling you that your letter of yesterday
affected me to tears, and that I thanked God for it last night in my
prayers; so much a mercy does it seem to me to be still beloved by
one whom I have always loved so much. I thank you a thousand times
for that letter and for the book. I enclose you my own letter to
dear Dr. Parsons. Read it before giving it to him. I could not help
being amused at his having appended my name to a poem in some sort
derogating from the fame of the only Frenchman who is worthy to be
named after the present great monarch. I hope I have not done wrong
in confessing my faith. Holding back an opinion is often as much a
falsehood as the actual untruth itself, and so I think it would be
here. Now we have the book, do you remember through whom you sent
the notices? If you do, let me know. You will see by my letter to
Dr. Parsons that ---- dined here yesterday, under K----'s auspices.
He invited himself for three days,--luckily I have Mr. Pearson to
take care of him,--and still more luckily I told him frankly
yesterday that three days would be too much, for I had nearly died
last night of fatigue and exhaustion and their consequences.
To-night I shall leave all to my charming friend. There is nobody
like John Ruskin for refinement and eloquence. You will be glad to
hear that he has asked me for a letter to dear Mr. Bennoch to help
him in his schools of Art,--I mean with advice. This will, I hope,
bring our dear friend out of the set he is in, and into that where I
wish to see him, for John Ruskin must always fill the very highest
position. God bless you all, dear friends!
Ever most affectionately yours, M.R.M.
Love to all my friends.
You have given me a new motive for clinging to life by coming to
England in April. Till this pull-back yesterday, I was better,
although still afraid of being lifted into bed, and with small hope
of getting alive through the winter. God bless you!
October 18, 1854.
My Very Dear Friend: Another copy of dear Dr. Parsons's book has
arrived, with a charming, most charming letter from him, and a copy
of your edition of "Atherton." It is very nicely got up indeed, the
portrait the best of any engraving that has been made of me, at
least, any recent engraving. May I have a few copies of that
engraving when you come to England? And if I should be gone, will
you let poor K---- have one? The only thing I lament in the American
"Atherton" is that a passage that I wrote to add to that edition has
been omitted. It was to the purport of my having a peculiar pleasure
in the prospect of that reprint, because few things could be so
gratifying to me as to find my poor name conjoined with those of the
great and liberal publishers, for one of whom I entertain so much
respect and esteem, and for the other so true and so lively an
affection. The little sentence was better turned much, but that was
the meaning. No doubt it was in one of my many missing letters. I
even think I sent it twice,--I should greatly have liked that little
paragraph to be there. May I ask you to give the enclosed to dear
Dr. Parsons? There are noble lines in his book, which gains much by
being known. Dear John Ruskin was here when it arrived, and much
pleased with it on turning over the leaves, and he is the most
fastidious of men. I must give him the copy. His praise is indeed
worth having. I am as when I wrote last. God bless you, beloved
friend.
Ever yours, M.R.M.
December 23, 1854.
Your dear affectionate letter, dearest and kindest friend, would
have given me unmingled pleasure had it conveyed a better account of
your business prospects. Here, from what I can gather, and from the
sure sign of all works of importance being postponed, the trade is
in a similar state of depression, caused, they say, by this war,
which but for the wretched imbecility of our ministers could never
have assumed so alarming an appearance. Whether we shall recover
from it, God only knows. My hope is in Louis Napoleon; but that
America will rally seems certain enough. She has elbow-room, and,
moreover, she is not unused to rapid transitions from high
prosperity to temporary difficulty, and so back again. Moreover,
dear friend, I have faith in you..... God bless you, my dear friend!
May he send to both of you health and happiness and length of days,
and so much of this world's goods as is needful to prevent anxiety
and insure comfort. I have known many rich people in my time, and
the result has convinced me that with great wealth some deep black
shadow is as sure to walk, as it is to follow the bright sunshine.
So I never pray for more than the blessed enough for those whom I
love best.
And very dearly do I love my American friends,--you best of
all,--but all very dearly, as I have cause. Say this, please, to Dr.
Parsons and Dr. Holmes (admiring their poems is a sort of touchstone
of taste with me, and very, very many stand the test well) and dear
Bayard Taylor, a man soundest and sweetest the nearer one gets to
the kernel, and good, kind John Whittier, who has the fervor of the
poet ingrafted into the tough old Quaker stock, and Mr. Stoddard,
and Mrs. Lippincott, and Mrs. Sparks, and the Philadelphia Poetess,
and dear Mr. and Mrs. W----, and your capital critics and orators.
Remember me to all who think of me; but keep the choicest tenderness
for yourself and your wife.
Do you know those books which pretend to have been written from one
hundred to two hundred years ago,--"Mary Powell" (Milton's
Courtship), "Cherry and Violet," and the rest? Their fault is that
they are too much alike. The authoress (a Miss Manning) sent me some
of them last winter, with some most interesting letters. Then for
many months I ceased to hear from her, but a few weeks ago she sent
me her new Christmas book,--"The Old Chelsea Bun House,"--and told
me she was dying of a frightful internal complaint. She suffers
martyrdom, but bears it like a saint, and her letters are better
than all the sermons in the world. May God grant me the same
cheerful submission! I try for it and pray that it be granted, but I
have none of the enthusiastic glow of devotion, so real and so
beautiful in Miss Manning. My faith is humble and lowly,--not that I
have the slightest doubt,--but I cannot get her rapturous assurance
of acceptance. My friend, William Harness, got me to employ our kind
little friend, Mr. ----, to procure for him Judge Edmonds's
"Spiritualism." What an odious book it is! there is neither respect
for the dead nor the living. Mrs. Browning believes it all; so does
Bulwer, who is surrounded by mediums who summon his dead daughter.
It is too frightful to talk about. Mr. May and Mr. Pearson both
asked me to send it away, for fear of its seizing upon my nerves. I
get weaker and weaker, and am become a mere skeleton. Ah, dear
friend, come when you may, you will find only a grave at
Swallowfield. Once again, God bless you and yours!
Ever yours, M, R.M.
"_BARRY CORNWALL_"
_And Some Of His Friends_.
* * * * *
"_All, all are gone, the old familiar faces_."
CHARLES LAMB.
"_Old Acquaintance, shall the nights
You and I once talked together,
Be forgot like common things?_"
* * * * *
"_His thoughts half hid in golden dreams,
Which make thrice fair the songs and streams
Of Air and Earth_."
* * * * *
"_Song should breathe of scents and flowers;
Song should like a river flow;
Song should bring back scenes and hours
That we loved,--ah, long ago!_"
BARRY CORNWALL.