The welcome sight of your handwriting moves me (though I have nothing to
say) to show you mine, and if I could recollect the passage in Virginius
I would paraphrase it, and say, "Does it seem to tremble, boy? Is it a
loving autograph? Does it beam with friendship and affection?" all of
which I say, as I write, with--oh Heaven!--such a splendid imitation of
you, and finally give you one of those grasps and shakes with which I
have seen you make the young Icilius stagger again.
Here I am, running away from a bad headache as Tristram Shandy ran away
from death, and lodging for a week in the Hotel de l'Ecu de Geneve,
wherein there is a large mirror shattered by a cannon-ball in the late
revolution. A revolution, whatever its merits, achieved by free spirits,
nobly generous and moderate, even in the first transports of victory,
elevated by a splendid popular education, and bent on freedom from all
tyrants, whether their crowns be shaven or golden. The newspapers may
tell you what they please. I believe there is no country on earth but
Switzerland in which a violent change could have been effected in the
Christian spirit shown in this place, or in the same proud, independent,
gallant style. Not one halfpennyworth of property was lost, stolen, or
strayed. Not one atom of party malice survived the smoke of the last
gun. Nothing is expressed in the Government addresses to the citizens
but a regard for the general happiness, and injunctions to forget all
animosities; which they are practically obeying at every turn, though
the late Government (of whose spirit I had some previous knowledge) did
load the guns with such material as should occasion gangrene in the
wounds, and though the wounded _do_ die, consequently, every day, in the
hospital, of sores that in themselves were nothing.
_You_ a mountaineer! _You_ examine (I have seen you do it) the point of
your young son's baton de montagne before he went up into the snow! And
_you_ talk of coming to Lausanne in March! Why, Lord love your heart,
William Tell, times are changed since you lived at Altorf. There is not
a mountain pass open until June. The snow is closing in on all the
panorama already. I was at the Great St. Bernard two months ago, and it
was bitter cold and frosty then. Do you think I could let you hazard
your life by going up any pass worth seeing in bleak March? Never shall
it be said that Dickens sacrificed his friend upon the altar of his
hospitality! Onward! To Paris! (Cue for band. Dickens points off with
truncheon, first entrance P.S. Page delivers gauntlets on one knee.
Dickens puts 'em on and gradually falls into a fit of musing. Mrs.
Dickens lays her hand upon his shoulder. Business. Procession. Curtain.)
It is a great pleasure to me, my dear Macready, to hear from yourself,
as I had previously heard from Forster, that you are so well pleased
with "Dombey," which is evidently a great success and a great hit, thank
God! I felt that Mrs. Brown was strong, but I was not at all afraid of
giving as heavy a blow as I could to a piece of hot iron that lay ready
at my hand. For that is my principle always, and I hope to come down
with some heavier sledge-hammers than that.
I know the lady of whom you write. ---- left there only yesterday. The
story may arise only in her manner, which is extraordinarily free and
careless. He was visiting her here, when I was here last, three weeks
ago. I knew her in Italy. It is not her fault if scandal ever leaves her
alone, for such a braver of all conventionalities never wore petticoats.
But I should be sorry to hear there was anything guilty in her conduct.
She is very clever, really learned, very pretty, much neglected by her
husband, and only four-and-twenty years of age.
Kate and Georgy send their best loves to Mrs. and Miss Macready and all
your house.
Your most affectionate Friend.
[Sidenote: Mr. Haldimand.]