THE PROOF REFERRED to in the following letter was that of “Fancies of a Believer”: —
To Mr. Blackwood.
Windsor,
11th January.
I send the proof corrected — but pray don’t publish it unless you think you can risk it. I should much prefer not putting any name, but if you prefer that I should take the responsibility, as is quite right, put the initials only. It seems to me, however, that any name would spoil the effect. It is sure to be attributed to me. My “Little Pilgrim” has never had my name, but nobody ever doubted that it was mine; and this too would be better for being without a name, but I leave it to you — nothing more than initials in any case....
There is a phrase in Mr. Skelton’s very interesting article about Mr. Froude which shows that gentleman’s usual methods — I mean Mr. Froude’s methods. He says, “‘A good joy,’ as Mrs. Carlyle used to say.” Now Mrs. Carlyle did say it in her sarcastic way as an absurd expression used by Leigh Hunt’s children, who lived near her, and who, when they were coming back from their walk, used to run in and tell her they had had such a good joy. She quoted it in illustration of the high-flown talk in which they were trained, and here it is put into her own mouth as if she had ever spoken in that way. Will you tell Mr. Skelton? but I fear he will not like it.
To Mrs. Harry Coghill.
Windsor,
27th January.
I should have answered your letter at once. It occurs to me to say that I waited for Sunday, which somehow seems the appropriate day for lettres intimes; but that really would not be true, since it is only a sort of languor of soul which makes me put off everything — a restless languor, idle and yet incapable of keeping still, which makes me break off as soon as I come to the middle of anything I am doing and turn to something else, as if one could cheat one’s weary soul to a sense of novelty in that way. But I need not tell you over and over again the vagaries of that weary soul. Thank you a thousand times, dear Cousin Annie, for your letter and for your most kind invitation. I think I am best where I am, wherever that might happen to be. It is no use for me to stir. We should change the skies but not the mind, and in my present condition one place is much the same as another. I can’t be much worse; I don’t hope, nor indeed scarcely do I wish, to be any better. I just get through every day as I can, not easily, but somehow. The corner that I have crouched into is the best to stay in, especially in this awful and blighting cold. For years past, you know, by this time we have been away to the South, and that, perhaps, makes me feel the look of the cold and the sensations of it more bitterly....
I am greatly grieved to hear that you are not getting up your strength or your heart as you ought. Try, dear Cousin Annie, try. It is your duty, as well as by far the best policy, to look on the bright side. How curious it is that we should find this so difficult to do! I for my part am always telling myself that the new life must be so much better, more blessed in every way for those who are gone, and then return to break my heart over the petty things left behind, — the lives like other men, the work half done or never begun, — when if I could only feel what I believe I should be quite happy. But you, I think it ought to be easier if you would but remind yourself that every probability is in your favour...Do not let yourself think, dear. In some cases there is no such evil exercise, and it is wonderful what control we have over our thoughts when we exercise it steadily. I used almost to brag, though sadly enough, in the time of those anxieties which you know of, which were to my present state what the height of a battle is to the dreary sighing of the captives in prison — that I had got to be able to stop the course of my thoughts, and think of something else, even when the strain was fiercest. Don’t be vexed if I preach. Have not I a little right? though in respect to illness I know it is you who are the professor and I who should be the pupil, and I should not bear physical pain half so well as you do: to tell the truth, I don’t bear anything well nowadays, so that I am little better than a humbug when I begin to advise.
March 3.
...Denny has made an extremely successful drawing of me in pencil — very simple and exceedingly good, I think. It seems to me rather original altogether: I have seen nothing like it. I am anxious to have it shown to the Queen. I like it better than her painting. Perhaps this may turn out the thing she can do. We must have it photographed. She thinks of sending it to the Academy, and Mr. Holmes says certainly she must do so. I am very much pleased with it as a drawing, and people seem to think it is like. It would give me as much pleasure as anything in the world can nowadays, which I fear is not saying much, to see her get into an assured way of doing good work. Madge is coming in about a week, I believe. Never was anybody so fond of a baby as she is. The little thing has got two teeth, and is a wonderful creature altogether.
I am not much to brag of in any way. Did I tell you of my great piece of work, the ‘House of Blackwood’? I spend half of my day reading old letters, which I thought would be a good sane piece of half-mechanical work: but I find it very fatiguing, and the letters not so interesting as I hoped. I am dreadfully busy, and get on with my work well enough, but do it with very little heart.
To Mrs. Maxton Graham.
Windsor,
6th April.
I am such a poor correspondent nowadays that I hope you will pardon the delay of my congratulations on your great new acquisition, the dear baby, whose coming I have always thought is the most exquisite moment of a woman’s life. I heard of her arrival with the greatest pleasure and sympathy with you in your joy; so, I am sure, will Madge, who is the most devoted of mothers, and will be truly delighted that you now share with her this great privilege and happiness.
I am sending Miss Maxton Graham a little pair of shoes, the most foolish offering at present, but they will be useful afterwards. Our baby has reached the height of nearly seven months, which is an immense difference at present, but will not tell for much when the two are girl-friends, as I hope they may be. Our little Margaret is with me at present in her mother’s absence. Don’t forget our saintly ancestors in the naming of your little one. I think all the little girls of the race should be put under the protection of that douce patronne.
The first anniversary of Cecco’s death, October 1st, was a day of terrible suffering. Mrs. Oliphant, with her adopted child, made a pilgrimage to Eton to visit the cemetery where her two sons had been laid.
To Mrs. Harry Coghill.
42 Albion Street, Hyde Park, W.,
October 2,
I have not been up to writing, as I am sure you will understand. I am thankful that the immediate moment is over, and that all the details of the anguish of the past can be laid aside, at least as far as they ever can be. I cannot bear to think of my Cecco as — I can’t write the word. He is always living to me, and that is what makes it so dreadful when the mind is forced upon all the last circumstances. I say to myself I will think of them no more, but only of him in the new life; but, alas! how to keep to that. There was a wreath which we think must have come from you. God bless you, and thank you, dear Cousin Annie — I know you think of him.
The short visit to London, during which this last letter was written, was made on the way to Paris. Mrs. Oliphant thought it advisable for her adopted daughter, who had already had some training in a Paris studio, to work there again for a short time, and they went to France, accompanied by Miss Tulloch.
To Mr. Blackwood.
Paris,
26th October.
Thanks very much for your long letter, which is full of information and interest. I have worked out the ‘Tales of my Landlord’ business, and I think have put Murray’s behaviour at the end quite clearly. It is evident that it was his act by showing the as yet unpublished book to Gifford that was the special sting in Scott’s mind. It is clear to me, by your grandfather’s reply, that Ballantyne’s amended version of Scott’s letter was in reality quite genuine, and probably a second letter written after the hot and hasty one which Lockhart prints. I am sorry that you find it needful to go away, yet I am half disposed to congratulate you on it. It is dreary to spend these long cold months in the North after one has acquired the habit of migrating to the South and the sun. It seems to me, however, that it would be agreeable to you to see part of this book in print before you go away, so that I will strain every nerve to get the first three chapters, treating this Scott and Ballantyne business, and the establishment of the Magazine, ready to send by the 1st or 2nd November....You will remember, however, that they must be subject to my large corrections and additions; for with such a mass of correspondence there is always something turning up which I have not observed at first, and of course my knowledge grows as I go on, and the dim passages become clear. It is harder work than it used to be, for the memory which has done me yeoman’s service all my life is not now what it was.
To Mrs. Valentine.
Paris,
12th December.
...I had hoped much to get out to Notre Dame, but it is impossible, and I must just give it up. The last of these days of remembrance — my dear Cyril’s birthday — it was a comfort and very sweet to me to spend an hour in the old, old church laden with the prayers of generations; and now my Cecco’s day has come, and I must just content myself to thank God for him as I may at home. It is a dark day, and yet it must always be a bright and blessed one which gave him to me. I think all sorts of thoughts, as you know, all centring round the one great thought, and lately I have been saying to myself that God separated Himself from His Blessed Son for our sakes for thirty-three years, and I have been parted from my Cecco only for one. It could not be separation to God, who is everywhere; but it must have been to our Lord, who for our everlasting consolation was a man. So He must know, as I am often tempted to say of myself, all the ways of it — parting of every kind! The thing I dread most in the world is to live long, and to be swept as it were away from them, and things dulled to me perhaps by the passage of time, but I hope in God this may not be. I ought not to speak to you like this, perhaps, but I am sure you would rather share my trouble, my dear child, than be left out.