I am very glad that you lifted yourself at last from your mahogany desk,
and took such a trip as you describe in your last letter. I don't think
you could have made a better in the same given space of time. It is some
years since I have seen the Castle at Windsor, except from Eton. The
view from the Terrace is the noblest I know of, taking it with all its
associations together. Gray's Ode rises up into the mind as one looks
around--does it not?--a sure proof that, however people may condemn
certain conceits and expressions in the poem, the spirit of it is
genuine. 'Ye distant spires, ye antique towers'--very large and noble,
like the air that breathes upon one as one looks down along the view. My
brother John told me he thought the Waterloo gallery very fine: the
portraits by Sir Thomas almost as fine as Vandyke. You saw them, of
course. You say nothing of having seen the National Gallery in London:
indeed I rather fear it is closed these two months. This is a great loss
to you: the Rubens landscape you would never have forgot. Thank you for
the picture of my dear old Bredfield which you have secured for me: it is
most welcome. Poor Nursey once made me a very pretty oil sketch of it:
but I gave it to Mr. Jenney. By all means have it engraved for the
pocket book: it is well worthy. Some of the tall ash trees about it used
to be visible at sea: but I think their topmost branches are decayed now.
This circumstance I put in, because it will tell in your verse
illustration of the view. From the road before the lawn, people used
plainly to see the topmasts of the men-of war lying in Hollesley bay
during the war. I like the idea of this: the old English house holding
up its enquiring chimneys and weather cocks (there is great physiognomy
in weathercocks) toward the far-off sea, and the ships upon it. How well
I remember when we used all to be in the Nursery, and from the window see
the hounds come across the lawn, my Father and Mr. Jenney in their
hunting caps, etc., with their long whips--all Daguerreotyped into the
mind's eye now--and that is all. Perhaps you are not civilised enough to
know what Daguerreotype is: no more do I well. We were all going on here
as merrily as possible till this day week, when my Piscator got an order
from his Father to go home direct!) So go he would the day after. I
wanted to go also: but they would have me stay here ten days more. So I
stay: I suppose I shall be in London toward the end of this week however:
and then it will not be long before I pay you a visit. . . .
I have gone through Homer's Iliad--sorry to have finished it. The
accounts of the Zoolu people, with Dingarn their king, etc., {64} give
one a very good idea of the Homeric heroes, who were great brutes: but
superior to the Gods who governed them: which also has been the case with
most nations. It is a lucky thing that God made Man, and that Man has
not to make God: we should fare badly, judging by the specimens already
produced--Frankenstein Monster Gods, formed out of the worst and
rottenest scraps of humanity--gigantic--and to turn destructively upon
their Creators--
'But be ye of good cheer! I have overcome the world--'
So speaks a gentle voice.
I found here a Number of Tait's Magazine for August last, containing a
paper on Southey, Wordsworth, etc., by De Quincey. Incomplete and
disproportioned like his other papers: but containing two noble passages:
one, on certain years of his own Life when Opium shut him out from the
world; the other, on Southey's style: in which he tells a truth which is
obvious, directly it is told. Tait seems to be very well worth a
shilling a month: that is the price of him, I see. You have bought
Carlyle's Miscellanies, have you not? I long to get them: but one must
wait till they are out of print before the Dublin booksellers shall have
heard of them. Now here is really a very long letter, and what is more,
written with a pen of my own mending--more consolatory to me than to you.
Mr. Macnish's inscription {65} for Milton is--
His lofty spirit was the home
Of inspirations high,
A mighty temple whose great dome
Was hidden in the sky.
Who Mr. Macnish is, I don't know. Didn't he write some Essays on
Drunkenness once? or on Dreams?
Farewell for the present, my dear Sir. We shall soon shake hands again.
Ever yours,