Sunday, August 17.
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I have promised —— to go with him to his country-house, where he is now
permitted to dine—and the little darling, to be sure[6]—whom I cannot
help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall
enjoy the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven than satiate my
imagination.
Footnote 6:
The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a
considerable time.
I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a
dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_. But
_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either
the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the
foreground of the picture.
The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the house smelt of commerce
from top to toe, so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only
proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a
room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_. A
nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed
Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air. Ah!
kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the
loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the
_sombre_ day of life—whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see
things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running
stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to
tantalize us.
But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid
me let the square-headed money-getters alone. Peace to them! though none
of the social spirits (and there are not a few of different
descriptions, who sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a
twitch to restrain my pen.
I have been writing, expecting poor —— to come; for, when I began, I
merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally
associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.
Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with
a _gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to
cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the
sentiments in your heart which may be termed romantic, because, the
offspring of the senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother
more than the father[7], when they produce the suffusion I admire. In
spite of icy age, I hope still to see it, if you have not determined
only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the stupid—
Yours
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Footnote 7:
She means, “the latter more than the former.”