I got here but yesterday, from Bedford, where I left W. Browne in train
to be married to a rich woman. When I heard that they could not have
less than five hundred a year, I gave up all further interest in the
matter: for I could not wish a reasonable couple more. W. B. may be
spoilt if he grows rich: that is the only thing could spoil him. This
time ten years I first went to ride and fish with him about the river
Ouse--he was then 18--quick to love and quick to fight--full of
confidence, generosity, and the glorious spirit of Youth. . . . I shall
go to Church and hope he mayn't be defiled with the filthy pitch. Oh! if
we could be brought to open our eyes. I repent in ashes for reviling the
Daddy who wrote that Sonnet against damned Riches.
I heard a man preach at Bedford in a way that shook my soul. He
described the crucifixion in a way that put the scene before his
people--no fine words, and metaphors: but first one nail struck into one
hand, and then into another, and one through both feet--the cross lifted
up with God in man's image distended upon it. And the sneers of the
priests below--'Look at that fellow there--look at him--he talked of
saving others, etc.' And then the sun veiled his face in Blood, etc. I
certainly have heard oratory now--of the Lord Chatham kind, only Matthews
has more faith in Christ than Pitt in his majority. I was almost as much
taken aback as the poor folks all about me who sobbed: and I hate this
beastly London more and more. It stinks all through of churchyards and
fish shops. As to pictures--well, never mind them. Farewell!
In the chapel opposite this house preaches Robert Montgomery!
19 CHARLOTTE ST., RATHBONE PLACE.
[13 _June_ 1844.]
Oh, Barton man! but I am grilled here. Oh for to sit upon the banks of
the dear old Deben, with the worthy collier sloop going forth into the
wide world as the sun sinks! I went all over Westminster Abbey yesterday
with a party of country folks, to see the tombs. I did this to vindicate
my way of life. Then we had a smoke with Carlyle and he very gloomy
about the look of affairs, as usual. I am as tired this morning as if
I'd walked fifty miles. Morton, fresh from Italy, agrees that London is
not fit to live in. I can't write, nor can you read perhaps. So
farewell. Early next week (unless I go round by Bedford) I expect to see
good Woodbridge.
_To S. Laurence_.
BOULGE, _July_ 4/44.