_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday Night.
[Post-mark, April 16, 1845.]
I heard of you, dear Miss Barrett, between a Polka and a Cellarius the
other evening, of Mr. Kenyon--how this wind must hurt you! And
yesterday I had occasion to go your way--past, that is, Wimpole
Street, the end of it,--and, do you know, I did not seem to have leave
from you to go down it yet, much less count number after number till I
came to yours,--much least than less, look up when I did come there.
So I went on to a viperine she-friend of mine who, I think, rather
loves me she does so hate me, and we talked over the chances of
certain other friends who were to be balloted for at the 'Athenæum'
last night,--one of whom, it seems, was in a fright about it--'to such
little purpose' said my friend--'for he is so inoffensive--now, if one
were to style _you_ that--' 'Or you'--I said--and so we hugged
ourselves in our grimness like tiger-cats. Then there is a deal in the
papers to-day about Maynooth, and a meeting presided over by Lord
Mayor Gibbs, and the Reverend Mr. Somebody's speech. And Mrs. Norton
has gone and book-made at a great rate about the Prince of Wales,
pleasantly putting off till his time all that used of old to be put
off till his mother's time;--altogether, I should dearly like to hear
from you, but not till the wind goes, and sun comes--because I shall
see Mr. Kenyon next week and get him to tell me some more. By the way,
do you suppose anybody else looks like him? If you do, the first room
full of real London people you go among you will fancy to be lighted
up by a saucer of burning salt and spirits of wine in the back ground.
Monday--last night when I could do nothing else I began to write to
you, such writing as you have seen--strange! The proper time and
season for good sound sensible and profitable forms of speech--when
ought it to have occurred, and how did I evade it in these letters of
mine? For people begin with a graceful skittish levity, lest you
should be struck all of a heap with what is to come, and _that_ is
sure to be the stuff and staple of the man, full of wisdom and
sorrow,--and then again comes the fringe of reeds and pink little
stones on the other side, that you may put foot on land, and draw
breath, and think what a deep pond you have swum across. But _you_ are
the real deep wonder of a creature,--and I sail these paper-boats on
you rather impudently. But I always mean to be very grave one
day,--when I am in better spirits and can go _fuori di me_.
And one thing I want to persuade you of, which is, that all you gain
by travel is the discovery that you have gained nothing, and have done
rightly in trusting to your innate ideas--or not rightly in
distrusting them, as the case may be. You get, too, a little ...
perhaps a considerable, good, in finding the world's accepted _moulds_
everywhere, into which you may run and fix your own fused metal,--but
not a grain Troy-weight do you get of new gold, silver or brass. After
this, you go boldly on your own resources, and are justified to
yourself, that's all. Three scratches with a pen,[1] even with this
pen,--and you have the green little Syrenusa where I have sate and
heard the quails sing. One of these days I shall describe a country I
have seen in my soul only, fruits, flowers, birds and all.
Ever yours, dear Miss Barrett,