Letter to S. W.William Holman Hunt1Published with the permission of Iziko Museums of Cape TownLetter to S. W.William Holman Hunt1848 Augustholograph fair copy 14 pagesLibrary of the South African National Gallerypale blue lined8 x 6 1/2 inThe paper is extracted from a notebook.
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This manuscript in preserved in the Rossetti/Wahl
collection in the library of the National Gallery of South Africa.
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Letter to S. W.--Dear Williams, let loud greeting cheer theeUnto us in health: but I fear meThou hast been ill; I have much sorrowedTo hear from thee that thy cool foreheadHath been heated in the clear country,Where I thought—aye, even on Sunday,As to-day, (on Monday), I receivedYour letter—that there man never grieved,And therefore (this joy) never sickened;That, down there, the light never thickenedBefore you so painfully and dull,Or that words spoke sounded musicalAs they do in this infernal town,Where the sense getteth up and goeth downAnd we are not a bit the better.By this letter the sun's our debtorMuch happiness from brave glaring lightShining clearly upon nature bright;We do look upon it blinking here,And well know it shineth very dearUpon white swift clouds and skies clearWhere with distance hazily appearRows of full trees in long perspectiveAnd deep water quietly reflectiveOf fleecy clouds and familiar weedsBy some path which to some dark wood leadsThat reacheth unto the barren heathWhere the poor man's beasts with their sharp teethMake but a sorry meal; gay fieldsBeside of brown corn red poppy yieldsA moral unto him who reapeth,—That with dull life tempting death creepeth,Which urgeth with its rich color redSo rest our souls with the woeless dead.Things of sinfulness are thus akin,Flickering lovelily to make us sin;But thy love there, God, we nigh us see,Which kindles our good thoughts piouslyAnd teacheth to subdue all passion,While the clear sun in heavenly fashionSpreadeth color from our very feetTo the hills that with the heavens meet,And up to the zenith of deep blue,Which is as dark as when gem-stars doCrown this great earth in September night.Stars are wholly hid in bright daylight;So the sea, not one whit enhanced,Sucketh from the great avalanchedOld Alp his ever cold thawing tearsAnd continual sweat the heat bearsTo the absorbing ocean; so theSun with obscuring light drinks whollyFrom our satiated eyes great starsAnd greater systems; so love debarsAll meaner sensualities, allGraver considerations; souls fallBy love, but of it show little heed;No care when prospects blighten, hopes bleed,Or friends frighten now of vows broken;No thought of aught but love-words spoken,But love-token, but enchanting eyes,Enticing laugh, and inviting sighs:Then cometh the undertone of blissWhen fair arms and the feverish kissDrive to perdition and to hell,And they grieve least thou hast loved too well.Oh! these love-delights are a new sin:'Tis a crime since Nicholas PoussinTo live all bacchanted in the wood:Our farm-fathers never understoodThat, to be good, they should lay asideAll passion, or that but the green-dyedShade from the close trees should be to themMore shame than the robe with many a gemEmbroidered: deemed they that the world rawWould ever be hushed from what they sawInto the state it now is? Oh nay;For they knew well how jolly all dayMust young Bacchus have been where he lay'Neath the cypress that fanned the rayOf the hot sun away: 'twas a treatWhen the wind singčd soft in the heat,And the breath of the hot hills did makeThe low distance dance, and when the shadeOf high things was shortened where he laidHim down in the cool but an hour ago:—Then 'twas closely shaded: to and froHow doth the shade of circling swallowsCross him as one the other follows;But farther high is a spot of dark;'Tis the shrill and loudly singing lark:He is the reporter of our joysTo God, sentinel wise with great noiseHarmoniously chorusing our hymnsAnd culling from where joy o'erbrims,—But first kindling,—all gladdening sounds;The giggling streams and the splashing boundsOf the sun-basking trout teach verilyMusic to him,—as doth the bee;Even the chirping green grasshopperAdds to the shout of the wild copperColored Satyrs; the laughs of faunlingsYoung chorus melodiously, so doth the ringOf Bacchantes' clear-noted voices,And the loud halloa of one who tossesThe new torn hay o'er the victimed faun,With the loud blast of the hunting horn,Which he heareth at his high stationAnd poureth to God in an orationOf clear melodies unending,Quicker gleaned than spending,To our senses lendingA sense of rending,With flight unbending,Nor downward tendingTo astonied nation.Oh aye: these joys are for ever goneAnd the drinking-horn is beheld with scorn;Man must think passionless of women,And the deep cup of care is brimmingDrowsingly; and man paineth his browWith thoughts of the coming, and thinketh howHe shall keep madness from the morrow,And pondereth to keep from sorrowThem he dearly loveth: oh to think,As all have, that they but shake the brinkThat abysseth down reason's precipice,The fear of which confuseth and giddyethTill they topple headlong. For the end!Oh for the end! It must come: God will lendUs some relief, some time for restingQuietly, when their will be no breastingWith unanxious fools.——I had writtenTo here, when the seat on which I had sittenGot hard; so I left and went to bed.Next morning better, to myself said:“What ailed thee last night? 'Twas not porter,'Twas not gin, not rum, wine, nor water;Perhaps 'twas the rain.” (I, you must knowHad got wet, and, in getting dry,Had grown prosaic and dull). “This againMust not be done; never write after rain,While still wet: fool, have you still to findA man writes better when he hath dinedWell? he thinks much more reasonable,Certainly much more seasonable,—To a convalescent man, at least:Then again, craniums are much clearerAnd we are all very much nearerTo a state of. . . . .let me see. . .content,—Content—yes, that is the word I meant—Than before, or long after, dinner; If very long, why, we get much thinnerAnd write devilish ugly thingsAbout dead kings, howlings, black birds' wings,Mad brains et caetera.” But, as good dinnersAre not had by us hungry sinnersEvery day, I waited till meatAnd cold pie should be a rich surfeitTo my pining muse; so I long timeWaited for this desirable rhyme,But found the happy Muse was as coyAs the dinner I was to enjoy:However, I one day felt jolly;So I deemed I should not write melancholyIf I set to work at once: I feltQuite pregnant, thought that I should have dealtOut to me some of the rich conceitsWherewith our blue-eyed grave Pallas beatsMomus, to make him laugh him sore,Or some rich puns wherewith I would boreYou. So, to begin , I coughed; then frowned;Put fingers to my hair, and crownedMyself with its divided locks;Squared my elbow; gave my forehead knocks;Tucked up my sleeves; then I bit my nails;(I hear such strategem never fails).I wrote me then what has delightenedMe ever since by its own brightenedGaiety, such as has often lightenedThe horrors of a man thus frightened.I began thus lively:— “Here in townAh the green grass is brown, and the brownFaces get pale. Alas! we're entombed;Fellows and friends most fearfully doomedTo reach wants which the flesh doth craveBy the soul's struggling: this God gaveAs a curse; and verily 'tis oneWhich presseth upon him in LondonWho chaseth high desires; it chainethHim to each man who with care gainethThe fulsome feedings of this rich earth,Who treateth thought with contempt and mirth.”Thus was the mighty verse continued,Every line by some great wrong sinewed.—But thou wouldst be told all of friends dear;And one has gone mad I know thou'lt fearBy the way he writes;— thou hast reasons;But know madness goeth by seasons;And, by next season, I will retrieveMyself from this suspicion, relieveYou from your fears; I know how difficult,If from this epistle they result.Well, I'll of the folio tell: it flagsConsiderably; perhaps it dragsTo the time when the dark sponge givenTo the parched lips helpeth the heaven-ly greeting given unto the twentyAnd four Elders; but now let's see'Bout the Cyclographic Society.Burchett hath suddenly us foorsook;Dennis is absent; so is E. Brook;The folio last came from Millais,And yet the old sketch is not away;But this night he will bring one insteadOf King Lear rising from his mad bed.There is the design you must have seenOf the red-haired man by our friend Green;And the new design of Mr. KeeneIs but another fine christening.We should be amazing dull, you see,If it was not for Gabriel RossettiAnd Collinson. The etched designBy G. C. R. is immensely fine.Margaret at Mass, from Göthe's Faust,Thinks of her mother and brother lostThro' her sinning; then the Evil SpiritTaunteth with the virtue she did inheritAnd presseth full heavily into herToo conscious heart that it is not pure,And that the now chaunting day of wrathChaunteth threateningly and brings forthFearful promises. Me to describeIt is ridiculous. I would bribeThe devil with my soul if he couldGive me power to do that which wouldNerve so to look at as MargaretTortured and writhing with deep regret.Collinson sends a “Novitiate”:Young and pure is she; by her do fretThe pleasures of the world; she carethNot, but, full of her great Lord, swearethTo forsake such sinful vanitiesAnd all other frail humanities.Clifton sends a damned aspirationWhich certainly deserves damnation:'Tis done in black lead, that well known styleWhich, when babes, we all stumped at a while,With double h's, and single bAnd washes of black ink 1, 2, 3.This is all about our Society.When you're up, come to 7 Cleveland
Street.This is the sole place that you will meetMe; I have taken a studio there;Rossetti will also have a share.W. H. HuntAugust 1848.