800 Years of Women's Letters (38 page)

I am patriot enough to take pains to bring this useful invention into fashion in England, and I should not fail to write to some of our doctors very particularly about it, if I knew any one of them that I thought had virtue enough to destroy such a considerable branch of their revenue for the good of mankind. But that distemper is too beneficial to them, not to expose to all their resentment the hardy weight that should undertake to put an end to it. Perhaps, if I live to return, I may, however, have courage to war with them. Upon this occasion admire the heroism in the heart of your friend, etc, etc.

ED. R. HALSBAND,
THE COMPLETE LETTERS OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU
(1965)

She carried out her decision and had her son vaccinated a year later.

The year before she died, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote to Sir James Stewart, vividly depicting the trials of infirmity. Lord Bute is her son-in-law.

Venice, 12 April 1761

Sir,

Though I am preparing for my last and longest journey, and stand on the threshold of this dirty world, my several infirmities like post horses ready to hurry me away, I cannot be insensible to the happiness of my native country, and am glad to see the prospect of a prosperity and harmony that I never was witness to. I hope my friends will be included in the public joy; and I shall always think Lady Fanny and Sir James Stewart in the first rank of those I wish to serve. Your conversation is a pleasure I would prefer to any other; but I confess even that cannot make me desire to be in London, especially at this time when the shadow of credit that I should be supposed to possess would attract daily solicitations, and gain me a number of enemies who would never forgive me the not performing impossibilities. If all people thought of power as I do, it would be avoided with as much eagerness as it is now sought. I never knew any person that had it who did not lament the load, though I confess (so infirm is human nature) they have all endeavoured to retain it at the same time they complained of it.

You observe justly there is no happiness without an alloy, nor indeed any misfortune without some mixture of consolation, if our passions permitted us to perceive it. But alas! we are too imperfect to see on all sides; our wisest reflections (if the word wise may be given to humanity) are tainted by our hopes and fears: we all indulge views almost as extravagant as those of Phaeton, and are angry when we do not succeed in projects that are above the reach of mortality. The happiness of domestic life seems the most laudable as it is certainly the most delightful of our prospects, yet even that is denied, or at least so mixed ‘we think it not sincere or fear it cannot last'. A long series of disappointments have perhaps worn out my natural spirits and given a melancholy cast to my way of thinking. I would not communicate this weakness to any but yourself, who can have compassion even where your superior understanding condemns.

I confess that though I am (it may be) beyond the strict bounds of reason pleased with my Lord Bute's and my daughter's prosperity I am doubtful whether I will attempt to be a spectator of it. I have so many years indulged my natural inclinations to solitude and reading, I am unwilling to return to crowds and bustle, which would be unavoidable in London. The few friends I esteemed are now no more; the new set of people who fill the stage at present are too indifferent to me even to raise my curiosity.

I now begin (very late, you'll say) the worst effects of age, blindness excepted: I am grown timorous and suspicious; I fear the inconstancy of that goddess so publicly adored in ancient Rome and so heartily inwardly worshipped in the modern. I retain, however, such a degree of that uncommon thing called commonsense not to trouble the felicity of my children with my foreboding dreams, which I hope will prove as idle as the croaking of ravens or the noise of that harmless animal distinguished by the odious name of screech-owl. You will say, why then do I trouble you with my old wives' prophecies? Need I tell you that it is one of the privileges of friendship to talk of your own follies and infirmities? You must then, nay you ought to, pardon my tiresome tattle in consideration of the real attachment with which I am unalterably, sir, your obliged and faithful humble servant,

M.W. Montagu

ED. R. HALSBAND,
THE COMPLETE LETTERS OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU
(1965)

This (undated) letter was found, in the eighteenth century, among the papers of Lady Betty, aunt of the younger Lady of Llangollen, Sarah Ponsonby. Lady Betty was an affectionate, naïve woman who did not realize that her husband was hoping for her early death, so that he could remarry, and produce an heir.

My dear Sir Wm, the greatest Grife I have in leaving this World is parting with you and the thoughts of your sorrow for me. Don't grive my dear Sir Wm, I am, I trust in God going to be happy. You have my sincear Prayers and thanks for your tenderness to me and good behaviour to my dear Child. May God grant you happiness in her. If you Marry again I wish you much happiness. If I ever offended you forgive me. I have never meant any offence, I have always ment to be a good Wife and Mother and hope you think Me so. As to my Funeral I hope youl allow me to be Buried as I like, which is this: When the Women about me are sure I am dead, I would be Carried to the Church and kept out of Ground two days and nights, four Women to sitt up with me. To each Woman give five pound. I would have twenty Pound laid out in Close for the poor People, in all forty. No body to be at My Funeral but my own poor, who I think will be sorry for me. If Nelly be wt me at the time of my death give her fifty Pound, she deserves it much. Take care of yourself (live and do all the good you can) and may God almighty give you as peacefull and happy an End as I think I shall have . . .

COLLECTION OF MS K. KENYON

She was not, however, to go first; Sir William died seven years before she did.

Jane Austen loved her sister Cassandra and lived with her for some years. Here Cassandra describes what the death of Jane means to her, writing to their niece.

Chawton: Tuesday [July 29, 1817]

My dearest Fanny,

I have just read your letter for the third time, and thank you most sincerely for every kind expression to myself, and still more warmly for your praises of her who I believe was better known to you than to any human being besides myself. Nothing of the sort could have been more gratifying to me than the manner in which you write of her, and if the dear angel is conscious of what passes here, and is not above all earthly feelings, she may perhaps receive pleasure in being so mourned. Had
she
been the survivor I can fancy her speaking of
you
in almost the same terms. There are certainly many points of strong resemblance in your characters; in your intimate acquaintance with each other, and your mutual strong affection, you were counterparts.

Thursday was not so dreadful a day to me as you imagined. There was so much necessary to be done that there was no time for additional misery. Everything was conducted with the greatest tranquillity, and but that I was determined I would see the last, and therefore was upon the listen, I should not have known when they left the house. I watched the little mournful procession the length of the street; and when it turned from my sight, and I had lost her for ever, even then I was not overpowered, nor so much agitated as I am now in writing of it. Never was human being more sincerely mourned by those who attended her remains than was this dear creature. May the sorrow with which she is parted with on earth be a prognostic of the joy with which she is hailed in heaven!

I continue very tolerably well – much better than any one could have supposed possible, because I certainly have had considerable fatigue of body as well as anguish of mind for months back; but I really am well, and I hope I am properly grateful to the Almighty for having been so supported. Your grandmamma, too, is much better than when I came home.

I did not think your dear papa appeared unwell, and I understand that he seemed much more comfortable after his return from Winchester than he had done before. I need not tell you that he was a great comfort to me; indeed, I can never say enough of the kindness I have received from him and from every other friend.

ED. R.W. CHAPMAN,
JANE AUSTEN: LETTERS
(1932)

Illness in India killed many people when they were young. Fortunately Emily Eden was tough, even able to joke about the different fevers affecting each place they visited. She writes home from Gugga in 1839.

Wednesday, Jan. 30.

It is four days since I have been able to write. I was ‘took so shocking bad' with fever on Sunday, caught, it is supposed, at that river-side – that eternal Gugga. Captain L.E. was seized just in the same way, and several of the servants, so we all say we caught it there; but it is all nonsense – every inch of the plains in India has its fever in it, only there is not time to catch them all. I think the Gugga fever is remarkably unpleasant, and I did not know that one head and one set of bones could hold so much pain as mine did for forty-eight hours. But one ought to be allowed a change of bones in India: it ought to be part of the outfit. I hope it is over to-night; but as things are, I and L.E., with Captain C. and the doctor, are going straight to Hansi to-morrow – only a short march of ten miles, thereby saving ourselves two long marches of sixteen miles, which G. makes to Hissar, and giving ourselves a halt of three days to repair our shattered constitutions.

It is so absurd to hear people talk of their fevers. Mr M. was to have joined us a month ago, but unfortunately caught ‘the Delhi fever' coming up: he is to be at Hansi. Z. caught ‘the Agra fever' coming up; hopes to be able to join us at Hansi, but is doubtful. Then N., our Hansi magistrate, looks with horror at Hansi: he has suffered and still suffers so much from ‘that dreadful Hansi fever.' I myself think ‘the Gugga fever' a more awful visitation, but that is all a matter of opinion. Anyhow, if N. wished us to know real hardship, fever in camp is about the most compendious definition of intense misery I know. We march early each morning; so after a racking night – and I really can't impress upon you the pain in my
Indian
bones – it was necessary at half-past five – just when one might by good luck have fallen asleep – to get up by candle-light and put on a bonnet and cloak and – one's
things
in short, to drive over
no
road. I went one morning in the palanquin, but that was so slow, the carriage was the least evil of the two. Then on arriving, shivering all over, we were obliged to wait two hours till the beds appeared; and from that time till ten at night, I observed by my watch that there was not one minute in which they were not knocking tent-pins, they said into the ground, but by mistake they all went into my head – I am sure of it, and am convinced that I wear a large and full wig of tent-pins. Dr D. put leeches on me last night, and I am much better to-day. L.E. is of course ditto: the Gugga fevers are all alike.

E. EDEN,
UP THE COUNTRY: LETTERS FROM INDIA
(1872)

Fanny Burney, the novelist, here writes to her niece, Mrs Barrett, about loss and facing illness.

March 5, 1839

Ah! My dearest! how changed, changed I am, since the irreparable loss of your beloved mother! that last original tie to native original affections!

Wednesday
. I broke off and an incapable unwillingness seized my pen; but I hear you are not well, and I
hasten
– if that be a word I can ever use again – to make personal inquiry how you are.

I have been very ill, very little
apparently
, but with nights of consuming restlessness and tears. I have now called in Dr Holland, who understands me marvellously, and am now much as usual; no, not that – still tormented with nights without repose – but better.

My spirits have been dreadfully saddened of late by whole days – nay weeks – of helplessness for any employment. They have but just revived. How merciful a reprieve. How merciful is
all
we know!
The ways of Heaven
are not
dark
and intricate, but unknown and unimagined till the great teacher, Death, develops them.

ED. A. DOBSON,
THE DIARY AND LETTERS OF MME D'ARBLAY
(1904)

Charlotte Brontë here writes to W.S. Williams, reader at Smith & Elder and first admirer of
Jane Eyre
. Branwell Brontë had died on 24 September.

October 2nd, 1848

My Dear Sir,

‘We have buried our dead out of sight.' A lull begins to succeed the gloomy tumult of last week. It is not permitted us to grieve for him who is gone as others grieve for those they lose. The removal of our only brother must necessarily be regarded by us as rather in the light of a mercy than a chastisement. Branwell was his father's and his sister's pride and hope in boyhood, but since manhood the case has been otherwise. It has been our lot to see him take a wrong bent; to hope, expect, wait his return to the right path; to know the sickness of hope deferred, the dismay of prayer baffled; to experience despair at last – and now to behold the sudden early obscure close of what might have been a noble career.

I do not weep from a sense of bereavement – there is no prop withdrawn, no consolation torn away, no dear companion lost – but for the wreck of talent, the ruin of promise, the untimely dreary extinction of what might have been a burning and a shining light. My brother was a year my junior. I had aspirations and ambitions for him once, long ago – they have perished mournfully. Nothing remains of him but a memory of errors and sufferings. There is such a bitterness of pity for his life and death, such a yearning for the emptiness of his whole existence as I cannot describe. I trust time will allay these feelings.