MY dear Friend,—Since we heard of your sad sorrow,
you have been perpetually in our thoughts; therefore, you may well imagine how
welcome your kind remembrance of it must be. I know not how enough to thank you
for it. You bid me write a long letter; but my mind is so possessed with the
idea that you must be occupied with one only thought, that all trivial matters
seem impertinent. I have just been reading again Mr.
Hunt’s delicious Essay; which I am sure must have come so home to your hearts, I
shall always love him for it. I feel that it is all that one can think, but
which none but he could have done so prettily. May he lose the memory of his
own babies in seeing them all grow old around him! Together with the
recollection of your dear baby, the image of a little sister I once had comes
as fresh into my mind as if I had seen her as lately. A little cap with white
satin ribbon, grown yellow with long keeping, and a lock of light hair, were
the only relics left of her. The sight of them always brought her pretty, fair
face to my view, that to this day I seem to have a
| 1820 | LIFE AT NEWINGTON | 539 |
Our solitary confinement has answered its purpose even
better than I expected. It is so many years since I have been out of town in
the Spring, that I scarcely knew of the existence of such a season. I see every
day some new flower peeping out of the ground, and watch its growth; so that I
have a sort of an intimate friendship with each. I know the effect of every
change of weather upon them—have learned all their names, the duration of their
lives, and the whole progress of their domestic economy. My landlady, a nice,
active old soul that wants but one year of eighty, and her daughter, a rather
aged young gentlewoman, are the only labourers in a pretty large garden; for it
is a double house, and two long strips of ground are laid into one, well stored
with fruit-trees, which will be in full blossom the week after I am gone, and
flowers, as many as can be crammed in, of all sorts and kinds. But flowers are
flowers still; and I must confess I would rather live in Russell Street all my
life, and never set my foot but on the London pavement, than be doomed always
to enjoy the silent pleasures I now do. We go to bed at ten o’clock. Late
hours are life-shortening things; but I would rather run all risks, and sit
every night—at some places I could name—wishing in vain at eleven o’clock
for the entrance of the supper tray, than be always up and alive at eight
o’clock breakfast, as I am here. We have a scheme to reconcile these
things. We have an offer of a very low-rented lodging a mile nearer town than
this. Our notion is, to divide our time, in alternate weeks, between quiet rest
and dear London weariness. We give an answer to-morrow; but what that will be,
at this present writing, I am unable to say. In the present state of our
undecided opinion, a very heavy rain that is now falling may turn the scale.
“Dear rain, do go away,” and let us have a fine cheerful sunset to
argue the matter fairly in. My brother walked seventeen miles yesterday before
dinner. And notwithstanding his long walk to and from the office, we walk every
evening; but I by no means perform in this way so well as I used to do. A
twelve-mile walk one hot Sunday morning made my feet blister, and they are
hardly well now. Charles is not yet come
home; but he bid me, with many thanks, to present his love to you and all
yours, to all whom and to each individually, and to Mr. Novello in particular, I beg to add mine. With the
sincerest wishes for the health and
| 540 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | May |
