P.S. See those lines in the _Athenæum_ on Pulci with Hunt's
translation--all wrong--'_che non si sente_,' being--'that one does
not _hear_ him' i.e. the ordinarily noisy fellow--and the rest, male,
pessime! Sic verte, meo periculo, mî ocelle!
Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?
He just now yonder in the copse has '_gone it_' (_n_'andò)
Because across his mind there came a fancy;
He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!
Now Ba thinks nothing can be worse than that? Then read _this_ which I
really told Hunt and got his praise for. Poor dear wonderful
persecuted Pietro d'Abano wrote this quatrain on the people's plaguing
him about his mathematical studies and wanting to burn him--he helped
to build Padua Cathedral, wrote a Treatise on Magic still extant, and
passes for a conjuror in his country to this day--when there is a
storm the mothers tell the children that he is in the air; his pact
with the evil one obliged him to drink no _milk_; no natural human
food! You know Tieck's novel about him? Well, this quatrain is said, I
believe truly, to have been discovered in a well near Padua some fifty
years ago.
Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso
Rilevo, che presto sarò sotterra--
Perchè del mio saper si fa gran chiasso,
E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra.
Affecting, is it not, in its simple, child like plaining? Now so, if I
remember, I turned it--word for word--
Studying my ciphers, with the compass
I reckon--who soon shall be below ground,
Because of my lore they make great 'rumpus,'
And against me war makes each dull rogue round.
Say that you forgive me to-morrow!
[The following is in E.B.B.'s handwriting.]
With my compass I take up my ciphers, poor scholar;
Who myself shall be taken down soon under the ground ...
Since the world at my learning roars out in its choler,
And the blockheads have fought me all round.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, February 10, 1846.]
Ever dearest, I have been possessed by your 'Luria' just as you would
have me, and I should like you to understand, not simply how fine a
conception the whole work seems to me, so developed, but how it has
moved and affected me, without the ordinary means and dialect of
pathos, by that calm attitude of moral grandeur which it has--it is
very fine. For the execution, _that_ too is worthily done--although I
agree with you, that a little quickening and drawing in closer here
and there, especially towards the close where there is no time to
lose, the reader feels, would make the effect stronger--but you will
look to it yourself--and such a conception _must_ come in thunder and
lightning, as a chief god would--_must_ make its own way ... and will
not let its poet go until he speaks it out to the ultimate syllable.
Domizia disappoints me rather. You might throw a flash more of light
on her face--might you not? But what am I talking? I think it a
magnificent work--a noble exposition of the ingratitude of men against
their 'heroes,' and (what is peculiar) an _humane_ exposition ... not
misanthropical, after the usual fashion of such things: for the
return, the remorse, saves it--and the 'Too late' of the repentance
and compensation covers with its solemn toll the fate of persecutors
and victim. We feel that Husain himself could only say afterward ...
'_That is done._' And now--surely you think well of the work as a
whole? You cannot doubt, I fancy, of the grandeur of it--and of the
_subtilty_ too, for it is subtle--too subtle perhaps for stage
purposes, though as clear, ... as to expression ... as to medium ...
as 'bricks and mortar' ... shall I say?
'A people is but the attempt of many
To rise to the completer life of one.'
There is one of the fine thoughts. And how fine _he_ is, your Luria,
when he looks back to his East, through the half-pardon and
half-disdain of Domizia. Ah--Domizia! would it hurt her to make her
more a woman ... a little ... I wonder!
So I shall begin from the beginning, from the first act, and read
_through_ ... since I have read the fifth twice over. And remember,
please, that I am to read, besides, the 'Soul's Tragedy,' and that I
shall dun you for it presently. Because you told me it was finished,
otherwise I would not speak a word, feeling that you want rest, and
that I, who am anxious about you, would be crossing my own purposes
by driving you into work. It is the overwork, the overwear of mind and
heart (for the feelings come as much into use as the thoughts in these
productions), that makes you so pale, dearest, that distracts your
head, and does all the harm on Saturdays and so many other days
besides.
To-day--how are you? It _was_ right and just for me to write this
time, after the two dear notes ... the one on Saturday night which
made me praise you to myself and think you kinder than kindest, and
the other on Monday morning which took me unaware--such a note, _that_
was! Oh it _was_ right and just that I should not teaze you to send me
another after those two others,--yet I was very near doing it--yet I
should like infinitely to hear to-day how you
are--unreasonable!--Well! you will write now--you will answer what I
am writing, and mention yourself particularly and sincerely--Remember!
Above all, you will care for your head. I have been thinking since
yesterday that, coming out of the cold, you might not have refused as
usual to take something ... hot wine and water, or coffee? Will you
have coffee with me on Saturday? 'Shunning the salt,' will you have
the sugar? And do tell me, for I have been thinking, are you careful
as to diet--and will such sublunary things as coffee and tea and cocoa
affect your head--_for_ or _against_! Then you do not touch wine--and
perhaps you ought. Surely something may be found or done to do you
good. If it had not been for me, you would be travelling in Italy by
this time and quite well perhaps.
This morning I had a letter from Miss Martineau and really read it to
the end without thinking it too long, which is extraordinary for me
just now, and scarcely ordinary in the letter, and indeed it is a
delightful letter, as letters go, which are not yours! You shall take
it with you on Saturday to read, and you shall see that it is worth
reading, and interesting for Wordsworth's sake and her own. Mr.
Kenyon has it now, because he presses on to have her letters, and I
should not like to tell him that you had it first from me.... Also
Saturday will be time enough.
Oh--poor Mr. Horne! shall I tell you some of his offences? That he
desires to be called at four in the morning, and does not get up till
eight. That he pours libations on his bare head out of the
water-glasses at great dinners. That being in the midst of
sportsmen--rural aristocrats--lords of soil--and all talking learnedly
of pointers' noses and spaniels' ears; he has exclaimed aloud in a
mocking paraphrase--'If I were to hold up a horse by the tail.' The
wit is certainly doubtful!--That being asked to dinner on Tuesday, he
will go on Wednesday instead.--That he throws himself at full length
with a gesture approaching to a 'summerset' on satin sofas. That he
giggles. That he only _thinks_ he can talk. That his ignorance on all
subjects is astounding. That he never read the old ballads, nor saw
Percy's collection. That he asked _who_ wrote 'Drink to me only with
thine eyes.' That after making himself ridiculous in attempting to
speak at a public meeting, he said to a compassionate friend 'I got
very well out of _that_.' That, in writing his work on Napoleon, he
employed a man to study the subject for him. That he cares for
nobody's poetry or fame except his own, and considers Tennyson chiefly
illustrious as being his contemporary. That, as to politics, he
doesn't care '_which_ side.' That he is always talking of 'my shares,'
'my income,' as if he were a Kilmansegg. Lastly (and understand, this
is _my_ 'lastly' and not Miss Mitford's, who is far from being out of
breath so soon) that he has a mania for heiresses--that he has gone
out at half past five and 'proposed' to Miss M or N with fifty
thousand pounds, and being rejected (as the lady thought fit to report
herself) came back to tea and the same evening 'fell in love' with
Miss O or P ... with forty thousand--went away for a few months, and
upon his next visit, did as much to a Miss Q or W, on the promise of
four blood horses--has a prospect now of a Miss R or S--with hounds,
perhaps.
Too, too bad--isn't it? I would repeat none of it except to you--and
as to the worst part, the last, why some may be coincidence, and some,
exaggeration, for I have not the least doubt that every now and then a
fine poetical compliment was turned into a serious thing by the
listener, and then the poor poet had critics as well as listeners all
round him. Also, he rather 'wears his heart on his sleeve,' there is
no denying--and in other respects he is not much better, perhaps, than
other men. But for the base traffic of the affair--I do not believe a
word. He is too generous--has too much real sensibility. I fought his
battle, poor Orion. 'And so,' she said 'you believe it possible for a
disinterested man to become really attached to two women, heiresses,
on the same day?' I doubted the _fact_. And then she showed me a note,
an autograph note from the poet, confessing the M or N part of the
business--while Miss O or P confessed herself, said Miss Mitford. But
I persisted in doubting, notwithstanding the lady's confessions, or
convictions, as they might be. And just think of Mr. Horne not having
tact enough to keep out of these multitudinous scrapes, for those few
days which on three separate occasions he paid Miss Mitford in a
neighbourhood where all were strangers to him,--and never outstaying
his week! He must have been _foolish_, read it all how we may.
And so am _I_, to write this 'personal talk' to you when you will not
care for it--yet you asked me, and it may make you smile, though
Wordsworth's tea-kettle outsings it all.
When your Monday letter came, I was reading the criticism on Hunt and
his Italian poets, in the _Examiner_. How I liked to be pulled by the
sleeve to your translations!--How I liked everything!--Pulci, Pietro
... and you, best!
Yet here's a naiveté which I found in your letter! I will write it out
that you may read it--
'However it' (the headache) 'was no sooner gone in a degree, than a
worse plague came--_I sate thinking of you_.'
Very satisfactory _that_ is, and very clear.
May God bless you dearest, dearest! Be careful of yourself. The cold
makes me _languid_, as heat is apt to make everybody; but I am not
unwell, and keep up the fire and the thoughts of you.