Letter to William Michael Rossetti, 27-29 September 1849 DGR 1 By Permission of University of British Columbia. Letter to William Michael Rossetti, 27-29 September 1849 DGR 1849 September 27-29 letter 2 large leaf The text is scripted in two columns on each page. DGR University of British Columbia library Commentary
Introduction

The letter comprises a connected sequence of three poems: “London to Folkstone (half-past one to half-past five)” ; “The Sea-Limits” ; and “Boulogne to Amiens and Paris” . The text here of “The Sea-Limits” is very different from the poem that DGR later published in his 1870 volume; here it comes under the epistolary title “Folkstone to Boulogne. 6 to 9.—rough passage”.

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The text shifts to a second column after line 40 of the first poem. stet DGR's note to the initially cancelled lines 54-55 <hi rend="center">Between London and Paris:<lb/> September 1849.</hi> ------- <hi rend="center">Thursday, 27<hi rend="sup">th</hi> <lb/> <ornlb>-------</ornlb> London to Folkstone.<lb/>1/2 past 1 to 1/2 past 5. <ornlb>-------</ornlb> </hi> A constant keeping past of shaken trees, And a bewildered glitter of loose road; Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop Against white sky; and wires—a constant chain— That seem to draw the clouds along with them; (Things which one stoops against the light to see Through the low window;—shaking by at rest, Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows;) And, seen through fences or a bridge far off, Trees that in moving keep their distances intervals, Still one 'twixt bar and bar; and then at times Long reaches of green level, where one cow, Feeding among her fellows that feed on, Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound. There are six of us, I that write away; Hunt reads Dumas, hard-lipped, with heavy jowl And brows hung low, and the long ends of hair Standing out limp. A grazier at one end (Thank luck not my end!) has [?] blocked out the air, And sits in heavy consciousness of guilt. The poor young muff who's face to face with me Is pitiful in loose collar & black tie, His latchet-button shaking as we go. There are flowers by me, half upon my knees, Owned by a dame who's fair in soul, no doubt. The wind that beats among us carries off Their scent; but still I have them for my eye. Fields mown in ridges; and close garden-crops Of the earth's increase; and a constant sky Still with clear trees that let you see the wind; And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where Rooks, stooping, heave their wings upon the day. Brick walls we pass between, past so at once That for the suddenness I cannot know Or what, or where begun, or where at end. Sometimes a station in grey quiet; whence, With a short gathered champing of pent sound, We are let out upon the air again. Now nearly darkness; knees, & arms, & sides Feel the least touch; and close about the face A wind of noise that is along like God. Pauses of water soon, at intervals, That has the sky in it:—the reflexes O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by, Leaving the water's surface plain. I now Lie back and close my eyes a space; for they Smart from the open forwardness of thought Fronting the wind. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I did not scribble more, Be certain, after this; but yawned, & read, And nearly dozed a little, I believe, Till, stretching up against the carriage-back, I was roused altogether, and looked out To where, upon the desolate verge of light, Yearned, pale and vast, the iron-coloured sea. To where the pale sea brooded motion[less]. The final three lines, initially crossed out, are marked “stet”. ------ <hi rend="center">Folkstone to Boulogne.<lb/> 6 to 9.—rough passage</hi> ------

“Darkness, as darkness itself, and as the shadow of death; without any order, and where the light is as darkness.”

Job.

“If ye know them, they are in the valley of the shadow of death.”

Ibid. ------- <hi rend="center">Friday, 28<hi rend="sup">th</hi> <lb/> <ornlb>------</ornlb> <lb/> At Boulogne: upon the cliffs: noon.</hi> The sea is in its listless chime, Like Time's lapse rendered audible,— The murmur of the earth's large shell. In a sad blueness, beyond rhyme It ends: Sense, without thought, can pass No stadium further. Since Time was, This sound hath told the lapse of Time. No stagnance that Death wins,—it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Always enduring at dull strife. Like the world's heart, in calm and wrath, Its painful pulse is in the sands. Last utterly, the whole sky stands, Grey & not known, along its path. The text shifts to a second column after line 43 of the first poem. <hi rend="c">II</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="center">Boulogne to Amiens and Paris<lb/> <ornlb>-----</ornlb> <lb/> 3 to 11 p.m. (3<hi rend="sup">rd</hi> class.)<lb/> <ornlb>=====</ornlb> </hi> Strong extreme speed, that the brain hurries with Further than trees, and hedges, & green grass Whitened by distance,—further than small pools Held among fields and gardens,—further than Haystacks, and windmillsails, and roofs, & herds,— The sea's last margin ceases at the sun. The sea has left us, but the sun remains. Sometimes the country spreads aloof in tracts Smooth from the harvest: sometimes sky & land Are shut from the square space the window leaves, By a dense crowd of trees, stem behind stem Passing across each other as we pass: Sometimes tall poplar-wands stand white, their heads Outmeasuring the distant hills. Sometimes The ground has a deep greenness; sometimes brown In stubble; and sometimes no ground at all, For the close strength of crops that stand unreaped. The water-plots are sometimes all the sun's,— Sometimes quite green through shadows filling them Or islanded with growths of reeds,—or else Masked in green dust like the wide face o' the fields. And still the swiftness lasts; that to our speed, The trees seem shaken like a press of spears. There is some count of us:—folks travelling capped, Priesthood, and lank hard-featured soldiery; Females (no women), Blouses, Hunt, & I. --------- We are relayed at Amiens. The steam Snorts, chafes and bridles like 300 horse, And flings its dusky mane upon the air. Our company is thinned, and lamps alight. But still there are the folks in travelling-caps, (No priesthood now, but always soldiery, And babies to make up for show in noise,) Females (no women), Blouses, Hunt, & I. Our windows at one side are shut for warmth. Upon the other side, a leaden sky, Hung in blank glare, makes all the country dusk dim, Which too seems bald and meagre,—be it truth, Or of the waxing darkness. Here and there The shade takes light, where in thin patches stand The [?] unstirred dregs of water. Hunt can see A moon, he says; but I am too far back. Still the same speed & thunder. We are stopt Again, and speech sounds tells clearer than in day. Hunt has just stretched to tell me that he fears I and my note-book may be taken for The stuff that goes to make an “émissaire” “De la perfide.” Let me abate my zeal: There is a stout gendarme within the coach. This cursed pitching is too bad. My teeth Jingle together in it; and my legs (Which I got wet at Boulogne this good day Wading for starfish) are so chilled that I Would don my coat, were not these seats too hard To spare it from beneath me, and were not The love of ease less than the love of sloth. Hunt has just told me it is nearly 8: We do not reach till 1/2 past 10. Drat verse, And steam, and Paris, & the songs fins of time! Marry, for me, look you, I will go sleep. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Most of them slept; I could not—held awake By jolting clamour, with shut eyes; my head Willing to nod and fancy itself vague. Only at stations I looked round me, when The s Short silence paused among us, & I felt A creeping in my feet, through from abrupt calm. At such times Hunt would jerk himself, & then Tumble uncouthly forward in his sleep. This lasted near 3 hours. The darkness now Stayeth behind us on the sullen road, And all this light is Paris. Dieu merci. ======= <hi rend="center">Paris, Saturday night, 29<hi rend="sup">th</hi>.</hi> ---------- Send to me, dear William, by return of post, As much as you can manage of that rhyme Incurred at Ventnor. Bothers and delays Have still prevented me from copying this Till now: now that I do so, let it be Anticipative compensation. Numéro 4, Rue Geoffroy Marie, Faubourg Montmartre, près des Boulevards. Dear William, labelled thus the thing will reach. --------------------