Correspondence

423.  EBB to Hugh Stuart Boyd

As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 2, 315–319.

Hope End.

June 24th [sic for 25th] 1831. [1]

Sir,

When I announce myself as about to give you a brief account of the much abused & misrepresented race of the Thoughts, too well am I aware that my doing so might require an apology,—were I not addressing myself to you. Too well am I aware that upon such an announcement, some young readers might immediately begin to yawn soporifically, some old readers, to sigh dolorifically, and many would-be young, & must-be old female ones, to steal a frightened glance at their mirror,—with a “Dear me! I have been avoiding these people all my life! and now that they should thurst [sic] themselves upon me in this manner! How very impertinent & provoking!” But your nature & habits are well known to me. I cannot doubt your willingness to hear, & hear leniently, a Thought upon Thoughts. [2]

Before you can understand one sentence of my epistle, it is necessary for me to introduce to your attention certain ancient acquaintances of my family.

<…> [3]

I allude to the respectable house of the Words, lenial [sic] descendants from the Alphabet, & near connections of the syllables. There is often much harmony & sweetness of disposition among the persons in question, (as none can prove better than yourself) and yet they are of so pugnacious a nature, that the “war of words” is considered the most interminable war. Words could not pass between you & your best friend without your quarrelling,—and Gray seals the opinion of their fiery temperament by his expression “words that burn.” [4] Indeed notwithstanding great obligations to this hapless race, the poets seem to regard it with abhorrence,—of which, among a thousand other proofs, I may mention Virgil’s “non innoxia verba”, [5] & Lord Byron’s “Away with words”, [6] —& Shakespeare’s more serious libel on their reputation when he asserts “Words pay no debts”. [7] This must be a calumny, for we all know that words cost nothing,—and besides, even if they do not pay their own debts, they are very often employed to pay other people’s.

In former times, the Words were intimate with the Thoughts,—and, to speak justly, were extremely kind in introducing them into the best society. It is moreover just to acknowledge that when several of the Thoughts were falling fast into poverty, the Words most benevolently came to their assistance, and fed & clothed them. Horace says

 

Verbaque provisam rem, non invita sequentur, [8]

but upon many occasions the Words, tho’ the Thoughts had provided nothing for their entertaiment [sic], paid them every attention, & attendance. In return however for this charity, they exacted so much,—insisting upon so servile an obsequiousness, and general a precedence, that the Thoughts, who are of noble blood, would bear it no longer. And thus, a coldness arising between the two families, it is now considered the height of ill-breeding to invite them to the same party in the fashionable world.

The first member of the Thought family, of whom I will make mention, is Philosophical Thought, a personnage of retired habits & eccentric disposition. He knew Plato & Socrates & Cicero & Bacon very well,—and was intimate enough with Sir Isaac Newton to hold him down in a frolic before a blazing fire, until the distinguished victim’s proper person was converted into a centre of gravity. But I heard this story from the Words, & they are far from being always accurate. And certain it is, that between them & Philosophical Thought there has been much dissention. Dugald Stewart a friend of the latter, has brought his wrongs before the public, & warmly inveighed against the treachery used towards him by that branch of the Words called Synonymes [sic]: and the dissention is so generally known, that when he sits in his usual solitary silent way, people allude at once to his separation from the Words & his contempt for them, by saying “He has not a Word to throw to a dog”. Philosophical Thought has done a great deal of good in his time; and he takes a great deal of time to do good. He has meddled with all the wheel & steam & wind & water engines which man ever travelled by, in the air & by the air, and in the water & over the water & under the water,—and with all the printing machines & thrashing machines & thinking machines—& with all the mathematical instruments & astonomical instruments & surgical instruments & musical instruments—with all the wind instruments, from St Cecilia’s to a pair of bellows,—& all the stringed instruments, from Paganini’s to a horsewhip—and with all the staring at the stars,—and with all the ordering of legislatures, & with all the arranging of ordinances,—& with all the dy[e]ing of Tyrian purple & printing of English calicos—in short with all that we comprehend, touch, smell, taste, hear, & see,—besides a great deal that we do not see, hear, taste, smell, touch,—or by any means comprehend. Notwithstanding this, he is generally considered as rather a useful than a pleasant person. He is too wise & too grave & too self important & too pedigree-able to be agreable. He will talk an infinite deal of nothing; and nothing can be more learnedly dull than what he will talk. A silly report was once spread about his children the Ideas having had the use of their eyesight from the moment of their entrance into the world. He had no idea of such a report being spread. He made friends with the Words (Mr Locke was the go-between) merely that they might maintain a contrary assertion,—& convince the public of the Ideas having seen neither sun moon nor stars nor his own parental face, until some time after their birth.

Poetical Thought is a venerable old lady with all the fire of youth about her,—& boasts of having led Homer about in leading strings, & whipped many a poet with his own bay. She is still a great dresser, & flirts away most vigorously with the Words, who continue her humble servants tho’ at variance with the rest of the family. Indeed in order to pay her attention they sacrifice their own dignity & decorum, & submit to all her caprices, even to allowing themselves to be cut & slurred over,—and her reputation has in some degree suffered by her intimacy with them. I except from these observations one branch of the Words, yclepped Technical Terms, who are a stiff necked set of people, & never approached her in their lives without giving her reason to be sorry for it,—and now they are upon no kind of terms with her. They are intimate with Philosophical Thought. Philosophical Thought & Poetical Thought used to be good friends,—but lately whenever they meet in Paternoster Row where they both like walking, Poetical Thought looks another way. From the beginning there have been temporary coldnesses between them,—and they had one serious quarrel about Plato, whom Poetical Thought never names without shaking her head & letting the tears come into her eyes.

But the other members of our family must not be so long dwelt upon. I will mention them briefly. There are Thoughts of the present, who will make you both smile & sigh,—and Thoughts of the future, who are far too flighty,—& Thoughts of the past, who are very bad company. There are merry Thoughts, who will almost kill you with laughing,—and sad Thoughts, who will go to your heart,—& provoking Thoughts, who are sure to come in with your most frequent morning visitors. There are hacknied Thoughts, who have patronized Murray [9] since Ld Byron’s death,—and new Thoughts, who take a great deal upon themselves, and will introduce you into a very mixed society. There are witty Thoughts, who are very amusing but hard to be met with,—and foolish Thoughts, who are more sociable, & according to the general opinion, quite as agreable. There are aspiring Thoughts, who wear their beavers up,—and humble Thoughts, who are quite out of fashion. They associate with Religious Thoughts: and they—oh nobody thinks of them!– There are besides free Thoughts, who go to a Unitarian Chapel,—and vain Thoughts, who often talk of human goodness & happiness,—and idle Thought, who is––myself.

Now with regard to myself, the Words abuse me cruelly,—but Lord Byron says “All words are idle”, [10] —so that they should keep their abuse to themselves. Does anyone enquire about my capabilities,—I will answer him thus. I can make time pass as pleasantly as most of my relatives. I will sit with you while you are fishing, for hours together,—and watch the clouds for you, out of the window,—& draw portraits for you, in the fire,—and build castles for you, in the air,—and write dissertations for you, like these presents. You will commend me I am sure,—but if you do or do not, you will make use of me.

Before I conclude, let me entreat you to consider the wrongs of our family. Are we to be chained & imprisoned by that branch of the Words, called epithets? Are we to be thrown into the shade by the vile conduct of Words who appear incognito? Are we to be absolutely knocked down by Words of six syllables? Are we to be subject to the aspersions of the world,—such as “A Thought strikes me”—and to its contempt—such as, “A penny for your Thoughts”? Let me entreat you to assist us: and I am ready to assure you, in behalf of all our illustrious house, that as we have ever been so we shall ever be

Yours to command.

I had just thrown down my pen, when turning I beheld Condensed Thought an eccentric cousin of ours, so close in his economy as to be considered the Hume of our household. His dwarfish form is contracted by tight stays,—his tiny feet, by Chinese shoes,—for as to be great, is the common ambition of mankind, so, to be little, is the ambition of our cousin. Now as Condensed Thought utterly detests the Words, I expected nothing less than a compliment upon this my performance. Imagine my consternation at hearing the following harangue. “Nobody”, said my cousin (with an epigrammatic turn of the hand) “except idle Thought, would have thought of doing such a thing. Assist our family by such a letter! How! Have you not the wit to observe that in every line of it, you have submitted to the power of those very words whose tyranny you deprecate?”

Was my cousin right? Farewell! lest you should think he was!——

My dearest Friend,

You know you need not read this long letter from your allegorical correspondent, thro’, if you should feel any disinclinations upon the subject. Pray dont, if you do. I shall not be in the very least degree offended by such omission,—nor, if you put it into the fire,—by such a commission. As I conclude that Mrs Boyd has returned, I will send my love to her.

Yours affectionately

E B Barrett.

I got home yesterday before eight; & Bro observed that the poney looked as “fresh” as when he went out of the stable.

Address, on integral page: H S Boyd Esqr / Ruby Cottage / Malvern Wells.

Publication: Diary, pp. 275–279.

Manuscript: Wellesley College.

1. Dated by Diary, pp. 32–33, entry of 25 June.

2. A revised version of this essay was published in The Athenæum, 23 July 1836, pp. 522–523, and later included in HUP, II, 157–165. See also letter 181, which is the version submitted for publication in 1823.

3. About one and a half lines obliterated, apparently by EBB.

4. The Progress of Poesy (1754), III, 3.

5. “Harmful words” (Georgics, II, 129).

6. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto the Fourth (1818), line 972.

7. Troilus and Cressida, III, 2, 55.

8. “And when the matter is in hand, words will not be loath to follow” (De Arte Poetica, 311).

9. John Murray (1778–1843), the London publisher.

10. “Fare Thee Well” (1816), line 53.

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