“Such
stuff
As dreams are made of, and
their little life
Is rounded by a sleep.”
Hers is the real and uncentred poetry of being, which
pervades and surrounds her as with an air, which peoples
her visions and animates her love, which shrinks from
earth into itself, and finds marvel and meditation
in all that it beholds within, and which spreads even
over the heaven in whose faith she so ardently believes
the mystery and the tenderness of romance.
From lady Flora Ardenne to
Miss Eleanor Trevanion.
You say that I have not written to you so punctually
of late as I used to do before I came to London, and
you impute my negligence to the gayeties and pleasures
by which I am surrounded. Eh bien! my dear Eleanor,
could you have thought of a better excuse for me?
You know how fond we—ay, dearest, you
as well as I—used to be of dancing, and
how earnestly we were wont to anticipate those children’s
balls at my uncle’s, which were the only ones
we were ever permitted to attend. I found a
stick the other day, on which I had cut seven notches,
significant of seven days more to the next ball; we
reckoned time by balls then, and danced chronologically.
Well, my dear Eleanor, here I am now, brought out,
tolerably well-behaved, only not dignified enough,
according to Mamma,—as fond of laughing,
talking, and dancing as ever; and yet, do you know,
a ball, though still very delightful, is far from
being the most important event in creation; its anticipation
does not keep me awake of a night: and what is
more to the purpose, its recollection does not make
me lock up my writing-desk, burn my portefeuille,
and forget you, all of which you seem to imagine it
has been able to effect.
No, dearest Eleanor, you are mistaken; for, were she
twice as giddy and ten times as volatile as she is,
your own Flora could never, never forget you, nor
the happy hours we have spent together, nor the pretty
goldfinches we had in common, nor the little Scotch
duets we used to sing together, nor our longings to
change them into Italian, nor our disappointment when
we did so, nor our laughter at Signor Shrikalini,
nor our tears when poor darling Bijou died. And
do you remember, dearest, the charming green lawn
where we used to play together, and plan tricks for
your governess? She was very, very cross, though,
I think, we were a little to blame too. However,
I was much the worst! And pray, Eleanor, don’t
you remember how we used to like being called pretty,
and told of the conquests we should make? Do
you like all that now? For my part, I am tired
of it, at least from the generality of one’s
flatterers.
