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DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS
In a Letter to B.F.
Esq. at Sydney, New South Wales My dear F. -- When I think how
welcome the sight of a letter from the world where you were born
must be to you in that strange one to which you have been transplanted,
I feel some compunctious visitings at my long silence. But, indeed,
it is no easy effort to set about a correspondence at our distance.
The weary world of waters between us oppresses the imagination.
It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of mine should ever stretch
across it. It is a sort of presumption to expect that one's thoughts
should live so far. It is like writing for posterity: and reminds
me of one of Mrs. Rowe's superscriptions, "Alcander to Strephon,
in the shades." Cowley's Post-Angel is no more than would
be expedient in such an intercourse. One drops a packet at Lombard-
street, and in twenty-four hours a friend in Cumberland gets it
as fresh as if it came in ice. It is only like whispering through
a long trumpet. But suppose a tube let down from the moon, with
yourself at one end, and the man at the other; it would be some
balk to the spirit of conversation, if you knew that the dialogue
exchanged with that interesting theosophist would take two or
three revolutions of a higher luminary in its passage. Yet for
aught I know, you may be some parasangs nigher that primitive
idea -- Plato's man -- than we in England here have the honour
to reckon ourselves.
Epistolary matter usually
compriseth three topics; news, sentiment, and puns. In the latter,
I include all non-serious subjects; or subjects serious in themselves,
but treated after my fashion, nonseriously. -- And first, for
news. In them the most desirable circumstance, I suppose, is that
they shall be true. But what security can I have that what I now
send you for truth shall not before you get it unaccountably turn
into a lie? For instance, our mutual friend P. is at this present
writing -- my Now -- in good health, and enjoys a fair share of
worldly reputation. You are glad to hear it. This is natural and
friendly. But at this present reading -- your Now -- he may possibly
be in the Bench, or going to be hanged, which in reason ought
to abate something of your transport (i.e. at hearing he was well,
&c.), or at least considerably to modify it. I am going to
the play this evening, to have a laugh with Munden. You have no
theatre, I think you told me, in your land of d---d realities.
You naturally lick your lips, and envy me my felicity. Think but
a moment, and you will correct the hateful emotion. Why, it is
Sunday morning with you, and 1823. This confusion of tenses, this
grand solecism of two presents, is in a degree common to all postage.
But if I sent you word to Bath or the Devises, that I was expecting
the aforesaid treat this evening, though at the moment you received
the intelligence my full feast of fun would be over, yet there
would be for a day or two after, as you would well know, a smack,
a relish left upon my mental palate, which would give rational
encouragement for you to foster a portion at least of the disagreeable
passion, which it was in part my intention to produce. But ten
months hence your envy or your sympathy would be as useless as
a passion spent upon the dead. Not only does truth, in these long
intervals, un-essence herself, but (what is harder) one cannot
venture a crude fiction for the fear that it may ripen into a
truth upon the voyage. What a wild improbable banter I put upon
you some three years since -- - of Will Weatherall having married
a servant-maid! I remember gravely consulting you how we were
to receive her -- for Will's wife was in no case to be rejected;
and your no less serious replication in the matter; how tenderly
you advised an abstemious introduction of literary topics before
the lady, with a caution not to be too forward in bringing on
the carpet matters more within the sphere of her intelligence;
your deliberate judgment, or rather wise suspension of sentence,
how far jacks, and spits, and mops, could with propriety be introduced
as subjects; whether the conscious avoiding of all such matters
in discourse would not have a worse look than the taking of them
casually in our way; in what manner we should carry ourselves
to our maid Becky, Mrs William Weatherall being by; whether we
should show more delicacy, and a truer sense of respect for Will's
wife, by treating Becky with our customary chiding before her,
or by an unusual deferential civility paid to Becky as to a person
of great worth, but thrown by the caprice of fate into a humble
station. There were difficulties, I remember, on both sides, which
you did me the favour to state with the precision of a lawyer,
united to the tenderness of a friend. I laughed in my sleeve at
your solemn pleadings, when lo! while I was valuing myself upon
this flam put upon you in New South Wales, the devil in England,
jealous possibly of any lie -- children not his own, or working
after my copy, has actually instigated our friend (not three days
since) to the commission of a matrimony, which I had only conjured
up for your diversion. William Weatherall has married Mrs Cotterel's
maid. But to take it in its truest sense, you will see, my dear
F., that news from me must become history to you; which I neither
profess to write, nor indeed care much for reading. No person,
under a diviner, can with any prospect of veracity conduct a correspondence
at such an arm's length. Two prophets, indeed, might thus interchange
intelligence with effect; the epoch of the writer (Habbakuk) falling
in with the true present time of the receiver (Daniel); but then
we are no prophets.
Then as to sentiment.
It fares little better with that. This kind of dish, above all,
requires to be served up hot; or sent off in water-plates, that
your friend may have it almost as warm as yourself. If it have
time to cool, it is the most tasteless of all cold meats. I have
often smiled at a conceit of the late Lord C. It seems that travelling
somewhere about Geneva, he came to some pretty green spot, or
nook, where a willow, or something hung so fantastically and invitingly
over a stream -- was it ? or a rock ? -- no matter -- but the
stillness and the repose, after a weary journey `tis likely, in
a languid moment of his lordship's hot restless life, so took
his fancy, that he could imagine no place so proper, in the event
of his death, to lay his bones in. This was all very natural and
excusable as a sentiment, and shows his character in a very pleasing
light. But when from a passing sentiment it came to be an act;
and when, by a positive testamentary disposal, his remains were
actually carried all that way from England; who was there, some
desperate sentimentalists excepted, that did not ask the question,
Why could not his lordship have found a spot as solitary, a nook
as romantic, a tree as green and pendent, with a stream as emblematic
to his purpose, in Surrey, in Dorset, or in Devon? Conceive the
sentiment boarded up, freighted, entered at the Custom House (startling
the tide-waiters with the novelty), hoisted into a ship. Conceive
it pawed about and handled between the rude jests of tarpaulin
ruffians -- a thing of its delicate texture -- the salt bilge
wetting it till it became as vapid as a damaged lustring. Suppose
it in material danger (mariners have some superstition about sentiments)
of being tossed over in a fresh gale to some propitiatory shark
(spirit of Saint Gothard, save us from a quietus so foreign to
the deviser's purpose!) but it has happily evaded a fishy consummation.
Trace it then to its lucky landing -- at Lyons shall we say ?
-- I have not the map before me -- jostled upon four men's shoulders
-- baiting at this town -- stopping to refresh at t'other village
-- waiting a passport here, a license there; the sanction of the
magistracy in this district, the concurrence of the ecclesiastics
in that canton; till at length it arrives at its destination,
tired out and jaded, from a brisk sentiment, into a feature of
silly ride or tawdry senseless affectation. How few sentiments,
my dear F., I am afraid we can set down, in the sailor's phrase,
as quite seaworthy.
Lastly, as to the agreeable
levities, which, though contemptible in bulk, are the twinkling
corpuscula which should irradiate a right friendly epistle --
your puns and small jests are, I apprehend, extremely circumscribed
in their sphere of action. They are so far from a capacity of
being packed up and sent beyond sea, they will scarce endure to
be transported by hand from this room to the next. Their vigour
is as the instant of their birth. Their nutriment for their brief
existence is the intellectual atmosphere of the by-standers or
this last, is the fine slime of Nilus -- the melior lutus, --
whose maternal recipiency is as necessary as the sol pater to
their equivocal generation. A pun hath a hearty hind of present
ear-kissing smack with it; you can no more transmit it in its
pristine flavour, than you can send a kiss, -- Have you not tried
in some instances to palm off a yesterday's pun upon a gentleman,
and has it answered? Not but it was new to his hearing, but it
did not seem to come new from you. It did not hitch in. It was
like picking up at a village ale-house a two days old newspaper.
You have not seen it before, but you resent the stale thing as
an affront. This sort of merchandise above all requires a quick
return. A pun, and its recognitory laugh, must be co-instantaneous.
The one is the brisk lightning, the other the fierce thunder.
A moment's interval, and the link is snapped. A pun is reflected
from a friend's face as from a mirror. Who would consult his sweet
visnomy, if the polished surface were two or three minutes (not
to speak of twelve-months, my dear F.) in giving back its copy?
I cannot image to myself
whereabout you are. When I try to fix it, Peter Wilkins's island
comes across me. Sometimes you seem to be in the Hades of Thieves.
I see Diogenes prying among you with his perpetual fruitless lantern.
What must you be willing by this time to give for the sight of
an honest man! You must almost have forgotten how we look. And
tell me, what your Sydneyites do? are they th**v*ng all day long?
Merciful heaven! what property can stand against such a depredation!
The kangaroos -- your Aborigines -- do they keep their primitive
simplicity un-Europe-tainted, with those little short fore-puds,
looking like a lesson framed by nature to the pickpocket! Marry,
for diving into fobs they are rather lamely provided a priori;
but if the hue and cry were once up, they would show as fair a
pair of hind- shifters as the expertest loco-motor in the colony.
-- We hear the most improbable tales at this distance. Pray, is
it true that the young Spartans among you are born with six fingers,
which spoils their scanning ? -- It must look very odd; but use
reconciles. For their scansion, it is less to be regretted, for
if they take it into their heads to be poets, it is odds but they
turn out, the greater art of them, vile plagiarists. -- Is there
much difference to see to between the son of a th**f, and the
grandson? or where does the taint stop? Do you bleach in three
or in four generations? -- I have many questions to put, but ten
Delphic voyages can be made in a shorter time than it will take
to satisfy my scruples. -- Do you grow your own hemp ? -- What
is your staple trade, exclusive of the national profession, I
mean? Your lock-smiths, I take it, are some of your great capitalists.
I am insensibly chatting
to you as familiarly as when we used to exchange good-morrows
out of our old contiguous windows, in pump-famed Hare-court in
the Temple. Why did you ever leave that quiet corner ? -- Why
did I ? -- with its complement of four poor elms, from whose smoke-dyed
barks, the theme of jesting ruralists, I picked my first lady-birds!
My heart is as dry as that spring sometimes proves in a thirsty
August, when I revert to the space that is between us; a length
of passage enough to render obsolete the phrases of our English
letters before they can reach you. But while I talk, I think you
hear me, -- thoughts dallying with vain surmise -
Aye me! while thee the seas and sounding
shores Hold far away.
Come back, before I
am grown into a very old man, so as you shall hardly know me.
Come, before Bridget walks on crutches. Girls whom you left children
have become sage matrons, while you are tarrying there. The blooming
Miss W -- r (you remember Sally W -- r) called upon us yesterday,
an aged crone. Folks, whom you knew, die off every year. Formerly,
I thought that death was wearing out, -- I stood ramparted about
with so many healthy friends. The departure of J. W., two springs
back corrected my delusion. Since then the old divorcer has been
busy. If you do not make haste to return, there will be little
left to greet you, of me, or mine.
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