Friday. August 26.
Read some passages from Shelley’s Revolt of Islam[1] before I was up. He is a great poet; but we acknowledge him to be a great poet as we acknowledge Spenser[2] to be so, & do not love him for it. He resembles Spenser in one thing, & one thing only, that his poetry is too immaterial for our sympathies to enclasp it firmly. It reverses the lot of human plants: its roots are in the air, not earth!— But as I read him on, I may reverse this opinion.
Will there be a letter today? If there is, it will be a decisive one. God give us strength!— I am afraid that dear Henrietta clings too strongly to hope, & that when it give[s] way altogether, she may fall low!— God give her strength--
Let me consider circumstances, while I am calm, in a degree. I may have to leave this place where I have walked & talked & dreamt in much joy; & where I have heard most beloved voices which I can no more hear, & clasped beloved hands which I can no more clasp: where I have smiled with the living & wept above the dead & where I have read immortal books, & written pleasant thoughts, & known at least one very dear friend— I may have to do this; & it will be sorrow to me!— But let me think of it calmly. I can take with me the dear members of my own family,—& my recollections which, in some cases, were all that was left to me here: I can take with me my books & my studious tastes,—and above all, the knowledge that “all things” whether sorrowful or joyous, “work together for good to those who love God”.[3] And my dear Papa’s mind,—(should he not be dearest to me?;) will be more tranquil perhaps when he is away from a place so productive of anxieties. There is one person, whom it will indeed pain me to leave. But he may follow us,—& in the meantime he will write to me & not forget me. Oh I hope not! To whatever place we go, I will seclude myself there, & try to know & like nobody,—but live with my books & writings & dear family. With them, can I be altogether unhappy? I am unhappy now. There is no use in disguising it from myself!— I will wait for the letters, & in the meantime, get on with Isocrates.
Thank God! Hope End, dear Hope End, is not sold. It was bought in by our antagonists themselves; & may yet go by private contract: but still, thank God for this reprieve. A letter from Papa!—
I was in the dining room. Bummy came in to me with overflowing eyes, & an exclamation of “Good news!” The good news were too much for me, prepared as I was for the worst news: and I should have sunk to the floor, if she had not caught me. Thank God for this blessed good news! Many tears were shed, & all for joy, at Hope End today[.]
1. Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Revolt of Islam (London, 1817).
2. Edmund Spenser, author of The Faerie Queene.
3. Rom. viii.28: “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.”
