Part 39 (1/2)

TO PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY

_Returning advice_

Hampstead, 10 _Aug_. 1820.

MY DEAR Sh.e.l.lEY,

I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will be prevented by a circ.u.mstance I have very much at heart to prophesy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I must either voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery.

My nerves at present are the worst part of me, yet they feel soothed that, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, which I would willingly take the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so much as I have done about reputation. I received a copy of the _Cenci_, as from yourself, from Hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of--the poetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays is considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose, which may be the G.o.d. An artist must serve Mammon; he must have 'self-concentration'--selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together. And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of _Endymion_, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk. I am in expectation of _Prometheus_ every day. Could I have my own wish effected, you would have it still in ma.n.u.script, or be but now putting an end to the second act. I remember you advising me not to publish my first blights, on Hampstead Heath. I am returning advice upon your hands. Most of the poems in the volume I send you have been written above two years, and would never have been published but for a hope of gain; so you see I am inclined enough to take your advice now.

I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley. In hope of soon seeing you--

To CHARLES BROWN

_A despairing cry_

Naples, 1 _Nov_. [1820.]

MY DEAR BROWN,

Yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during which my health suffered more from bad air and the stifled cabin than it had done the whole voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I am well enough this morning to write to you a short calm letter;--if that can be called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I would fainest dwell upon. As I have gone thus far into it, I must go on a little;--perhaps it may relieve the load of _wretchedness_ which presses upon me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will kill me. My dear Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and I should have remained well. I can bear to die--I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, G.o.d! G.o.d! G.o.d! Everything I have in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vivid about her--I see her--I hear her. There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the case when I was in England: I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her again--Now!--O that I could be buried near where she lives! I am afraid to write to her--to receive a letter from her--to see her handwriting would break my heart--even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, what am I to do? Where can I look for consolation or ease? If I had any chance of recovery, this pa.s.sion would kill me. Indeed, through the whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which you will do immediately, write to Rome (_poste restante_)--if she is well and happy, put a mark thus +; if--

Remember me to all. I will endeavour to bear my miseries patiently.

A person in my state of health should not have such miseries to bear.

Write a short note to my sister, saying you have heard from me. Severn is very well. If I were in better health I would urge your coming to Rome. I fear there is no one can give me any comfort. Is there any news of George? O that something fortunate had ever happened to me or my brothers!--then I might hope,--but despair is forced upon me as a habit. My dear Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. I cannot say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in the thousand novelties around me. I am afraid to write to her. I should like her to know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown, I have coals of fire in my breast. It surprises me that the human heart is capable of containing and bearing so much misery. Was I born for this end? G.o.d bless her, and her mother, and my sister, and George, and his wife, and you, and all!...

THOMAS HOOD

1799-1845

To CHARLES d.i.c.kENS

_American Notes_

17 Elm Tree Road, 12 _Oct_. 1842.

DEAR d.i.c.kENS,

Can you let me have an early copy of the _American Notes_ so that I may review it in the _New Monthly_? Is it really likely to be ready as advertised? I aim this at Devons.h.i.+re Place, supposing you to be returned, for with these winds 'tis no fit time for the coast. But your bones are not so weather unwise (for ignorance _is_ bliss) as mine. I should have asked this by word of mouth in Devons.h.i.+re Place, but the weather has kept me indoors. It is no fiction that the complaint, derived from Dutch malaria seven years ago, is revived by Easterly winds. Otherwise I have been better than usual, and 'never say die'. Don't forget about the Yankee Notes. I never had but one American friend, and lost him through _a good crop of pears_. He paid us a visit in England; whereupon in honour of him, a pear tree, which had never borne fruit to speak of within memory of man, was loaded with ninety dozen of brown somethings. Our gardener said they were a _keeping_ sort, and would be good at Christmas; whereupon, as our Jonathan was on the eve of sailing for the States, we sent him a few dozens to dessert him on the voyage. Some he put at the bottom of a trunk (he wrote to us) to take to America; but he could not have been gone above a day or two, when all _our_ pears began to rot! _His_ would, of course, by sympathy, and I presume spoilt his linen or clothes, for I have never heard of him since. Perhaps he thought I had _done_ him on purpose, and for sartin the tree, my accomplice, never bore any more pears, good or bad, after that supernatural crop.

Pray present my respects for me to Mrs. d.i.c.kens. How she must enjoy being at home and discovering her children, after her Columbusing, and only discovering America!