Part 10 (1/2)
In a paper of the _Tatler_, written by Addison or Steele, or possibly by both, is described a party in a country village which is suddenly broken into confusion by the entrance of the s.e.xton of their parish church, fresh from the digging of a grave. The s.e.xton tells the merrymakers how a chance blow of his pickaxe has opened a decayed coffin, in which are discovered several papers.
These are found to be the love letters received by the wife of Sir Thomas Chichley, one of the admirals of King William. Most of the letters were ruined by damp and mould, but ”here and there,” says the _Tatler_, ”a few words such as 'my soul,' 'dearest,' 'roses,' and 'my angel,' still remained legible, resisting the corrupting influence of Time.”
One of these letters in a grave, which Lady Chichley had requested might be buried with her in her coffin, was found entire, though discoloured by the lapse of twenty years. Its words were these:
”Madam:
”If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of your own beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom, that graceful person, return every moment to my imagination; the brightness of your eyes hindered me from closing mine since I last saw you. You may still add to your beauties by a smile. A frown will make me the most wretched of men, as I am the most pa.s.sionate of lovers.”
[Sidenote: The Advertis.e.m.e.nt]
Death is the advertis.e.m.e.nt, at the end of an autobiography, wherein people discover its virtues. The public which refused a bare subsistence to the living genius will make his children comfortable by generously purchasing his letters, which were never meant for them.
The pathetic story of the inner struggle, which would have crucified the sensitive soul were it known to any save his dearest friends, is proudly blazoned forth--in print! Hopes and fears and trials are no longer concealed. Illness, poverty, and despair are given rubricated pages. The sorrowful letter to a friend, asking for five or ten dollars, is reproduced in facsimile.
[Sidenote: The Soldier of the World]
That it shows the human side of the genius is no excuse for the desecration. What of the sunny soul who always sang courage, while he himself was suffering from hope deferred! What of him who wrote in an attic, often hungry for his daily bread, and took care to give the impression of warmth and comfort! Why should his stern necessity be disclosed to the public that would not give him bread in return for his songs? It is enough to make the gallant soldier of the world turn uneasily in his grave.
In this way a bit of the greatness so bravely won is often lost, and sometimes illusions are dispelled which all must regret. For years, we have read with delight Mrs. Browning's exquisite poem beginning:
”I have a name, a little name Uncadenced for the ear.”
Throughout the poem there is no disclosure, but, so sure is her art, that there is no sense of loss or wonder. But the pitiless searchlight of the century is turned upon the Browning love letters, and thus we learn that Mrs. Browning's pet name was _Ba_!
Pretty enough, perhaps, when spoken by a lover and a poet, or in shaded nooks, to the music of Italian streams, but quite unsuited to the present, even though it were to be read only by lovers equally fond.
”Though I write books, it will be read Upon the page of none--”
Poor Mrs. Browning! Little did she know!
[Sidenote: With the Future in View]
There have been some, no doubt, who have written with the future in view, though Abelard, who broke a woman's heart, could not have foreseen that his only claims to distinction would rest upon his letters to loving, faithful Heloise. The life which was to be too great for her to share is remembered now only because of her. Mocking Fate has brought the wronged woman an exquisite revenge.
That delightful spendthrift and scapegrace, Richard Steele, has left a large number of whimsical letters, addressed to the lady he married. She might possibly object to their publication, but not Steele! Indeed, she was a foolish woman to keep this letter:
”Dear Prue:
”The afternoon coach will bring you ten pounds. Your letter shows that you are pa.s.sionately in love with me. But we must take our portion of life without repining and I consider that good nature, added to the beautiful form G.o.d has given you, would make our happiness too great for human life. Your most obliged husband and most humble servant,
Rich. Steele.”
Alexander Pope was another who wrote for posterity. In spite of his deformity, he appears to have been touched to the heart by women, but vanity and selfishness tinged all of his letters.
[Sidenote: Systematic Lovers]
Robert Burns was a systematic lover of anything in petticoats, and has left such a ma.s.s of amatory correspondence that his biographer was sorely perplexed. There could not have been a pretty maid in the British Isles, to whom chance had been kind, who had not somewhere the usual packet of love letters from ”Bobby” Burns.
Laurence Sterne was no less generous with his affection, if the stories are true. At twenty, he fell in love with Elizabeth Lumley, and from his letters to her, one might easily fancy that love was a devastating and hopeless disease. There was a pretty little ”Kitty” who claimed his devotion, and countless other affairs, before ”Eliza” appeared. ”Eliza”