His
disease, as I have from of old construed it, is a burning of him
up by his own fire. The restless vehemence of the man,
struggling in all ways these many years to find a legitimate
outlet, and finding, except for transitory, unsatisfactory
coruscations, none, has undermined its Clay Prison in the weakest
point (which proves to be the lungs), and will make outlet
_there._ My poor Sterling! It is an old tragedy; and very
stern whenever it repeats itself of new.
Today I get answer about Alfred Tennyson: all is right on that
side. Moxon informs me that the Russell Books and Letter arrived
duly, and were duly forwarded and safely received; nay, farther,
that Tennyson is now in Town, and means to come and see me. Of
this latter result I shall be very glad: Alfred is one of the
few British or Foreign Figures (a not increasing number I think!)
who are and remain beautiful to me;--a true human soul, or some
authentic approximation thereto, to whom your own soul can say,
Brother!--However, I doubt he will not come; he often skips me,
in these brief visits to Town; skips everybody indeed; being a
man solitary and sad, as certain men are, dwelling in an element
of gloom,--carrying a bit of Chaos about him, in short, which he
is manufacturing into Cosmos!
Alfred is the son of a Lincolnshire Gentleman Farmer, I think;
indeed, you see in his verses that he is a native of "moated
granges," and green, fat pastures, not of mountains and their
torrents and storms.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98