Work Text:
My dear Thomas—
Be comforted, my darling, for the present moment is the worst. Time, in its months and days, is lessening the burden of this cruel separation that sets our hearts ill at ease. Be assured I shall ever think of you, and the hour for which you leave my thoughts shall be the darkest of all those left to me.
It is, to my great shame, without you that I most think of you. I love and admire you with a great enthusiasm, and, in what I hope you will suppose is flattery, strive always to imitate you. In some measures I have succeeded, but I will always, owing to the vastness of your knowledge of the world, be all in attention. You speak not with the levity of a sailor, but as a Poet. It is, if you can excuse my joy in the matter, the greatest commonality with which we are Blessed; that the world is beautiful, as is all that has been created within it.
You, of course, most of all.
But I know, once, in that place, you thought this a vile world. I recollect your resentment well enough. Ignorant, all my fears and cares are of this world; if there is another, of which I am humbly of the opinion there is, there is nothing for the honest man to fear. Exempt we will be from pain and want, and all we must do in this life is endure it.
And with a grace almost lost in mankind’s maliciousness, endure it you did.
And forgive you did, such is the magnanimity of your character. I remember, on one particularly wretched night, you came to me with your easy comfort. You! After all the pain I had inflicted upon you, following the orders of Gentlemen who had been most patronising, there was still room in your heart and arms for me. It is, as I know now, no great rarity for you to grasp every creature in the arms of universal munificence, but you will forgive me, in times of our separation, if I may think selfishly.
God forgive me if it causes you any burden, but I wish reverently for you to embrace that place as you might embrace me. Your captain, Mr. Penny, holds a certain affection for it; Alexander tells me you will find him generous, if not overtly pleasant. Whalers are, as he assures me, of a sort that would be most to your liking. With his knowledge—and the draft of my dictionary, of which I have enclosed!—I am sure you will converse most delightfully with those you might happen upon.
Converse, too, my darling, in good nature with the ice.
I shall, in your absence, devote myself to assisting my brother with University matters. You know well of the ill health of Professor Jameson, and my brother’s insistence that he would not see his lectures in abeyance. I fear, with good reason, that he will tax himself a tenfold without the intervention of others. Already his cynanche tonsillaris has worsened. He promises a retreat to the Continent at the end of classes, but I dare not take his word.
Take mine, though, that I will want for nothing but your return until you appear again in Edinburgh. I can have no closer idea of the place of eternal punishment than what should become of life without you here.
The Father of mercies be with you, Thomas. I am yours, here and hereafter,
Harry