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Recollections of Writers

Leigh Hunt to Vincent and Mary Sabilla Novello, 9 September 1817

INTRODUCTION & INDEXES

DOCUMENT INFORMATION

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Contents

Preface

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX

John Keats

Charles Lamb

Mary Lamb

Leigh Hunt

Douglas Jerrold

Charles Dickens

Index

Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.

Produced by CATH

Dear, Kind Friends,—The lady who brings you this is the widow of Lieutenant Williams. You know the dreadful calamity we have sustained here—an unspeakable one to me

LEIGH HUNT AND HIS LETTERS.

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as well as to her; but we are on every account obliged and bound to be as patient as possible under it. The nature of the friends we have lost at once demands it and renders it hard. I have reason to be thankful that I have suffered so much in my life, since the habit renders endurance more tolerable in the present instance. Think of me as of one going on altogether very well, and who still finds a reason in everything for reposing on those who love him.

Mrs. Williams wishes to know you, and from what I have seen and heard of her is worthy to do so. My departed friend had a great regard for her. She is said to be an elegant musician, but she has not had the heart to touch an instrument since I have known her. Distance and other scenes will doubtless show her the necessity of breaking through this tender dread. There is something peculiar in her history which she will one day perhaps inform you of, but I do not feel myself at liberty to disclose it, though it does her honour. When she relates it, you will do justice to my reasons for keeping silence. I envy her the sight of you, the hearing of the piano, the sharing of your sofa, the bookcase on the right-hand, the stares of my young old acquaintances, &c. But I still hope to see the best part of these movables in Italy. I dare not dwell upon the break-up that was given here to all the delights I had anticipated. Lord B. is very kind, and I may possibly find a new acquaintance or two that will be pleasant; but what can fill up the place that such a man as S. occupied in my heart? Thank God it has places still occupied by other friends, or it would be well content to break at once against the hardness of this toiling world. But let me hold on. It is a good world still while it is capable of producing such friends. I must also tell you, to comfort you for all this dreary talking, that we have abundance of materials for our new work, the last packet for the first number of which goes to England this week.

I can also work in this climate better than in England, and my brother and I are such correspondents again as we ought to be. This is much. My wife also is much better, and I hear good accounts of her sister and other dear friends. I had heard of the Lambs and their ultra voyages, with what

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RECOLLECTIONS OF WRITERS

pleasure at first and with what melancholy at last, you may guess. Remember me to all the kind friends who send me their remembrances—Mr. Clarke, Mr. Holmes, and particularly the Gliddons, whom I recollect with a tenderness which they will give me credit for when they see—what they shall see, to wit, the letter which accompanies the present one, and which I beg you will give them.

The work will very speedily be out now, entirely made up by Lord B., dear S., and myself. I refer you to it for some account of Pisa.

God bless you. A kiss for you, Mary, and a shake of the hand for you, Vincent.—Your affectionate friend,

P.S.—We drank Novello’s health on his birthday. Be sure that we always drink healths on birthdays.