To Thomas Archer Hirst   Sunday 6th. Aug. 1854¹

Sunday 6th. Aug. 1854

My dear Tom

You desired me to let you hear from me after my return from the Isle of Wight,² and here I, like a magnanimous boy sit down to comply with that desire. I thought to finish the week writing to you last night. I thought to lie down in bed with the image of you freshest in my brain; I thought you might cling to me during the night and poke me up in good time in the morning: but I have to mourn the inefficacy of the means, for I lay in bed till nearly 8 o’clock. The fact is Tom I have slidden into bad habits. When I came to London³ it was my righteous determination to rise at least at 6 o’clock every morning. Well, my aching head compelled me to relinquish this resolution, compelled me to indulge myself in bed, and now that the aching has passed away I find the habit around me like a chain weighing me down and preventing me from lifting myself beyond the mud. Instead of a bird soaring aloft on triumphant wing and with fearless eyes looking into the sun I am a mere reptilian waddling amid swamps and quagmires, and seeking my enjoyments in mere slush. How is the creature to be winged again? How are its broken and draggled pinions to be once more fitted to cleave the spiritual atmosphere? Not by knowledge. Knowledge is inefficacious, I know enough, my head assents to all your moral propositions – to every statement of duty. But where is the force which can convert the assent of my head into the practice of my life? This is the grand point. This is the great defect of myself and the world. Where are the fountains of living water at which the fainting soul may quicken its energies? Fool! You would eat the fruit and not earn it. You would feel the force and not toil for it. The patch of the desert lies between you and the palm-tree wells but you shrink upon the desert’s edge. But I am wandering – The very asking of such questions as these tends to awaken me, tends to stir up the embers of the life within me, and here I see your possible value to me. I may make use of you as a purchase to regain the point from which I have slidden.

I left you on Monday last,⁴ 2 o’clock saw us at Ryde⁵ and at 4½ we were on the road to Sandown.⁶ Thence along the beach to Shanklin,⁷ and thence through mist and drifting clouds to Bonchurch.⁸ We did not pause even here, but were tempted on to Ventnor⁹ where we rested our weary limbs at the Marine Hotel.¹⁰

Next morning the sun shone gloriously from a heaven of the deepest blue. We had passed the old burial ground of Bonchurch¹¹ the evening before, without calling to see it. This morning we turned back along the cliffs and soon found ourselves within the little ‘city of the dead.’¹² It is a sweet spot and the thoughts which I had then were able to cast a fragrance over many hours of my existence. Once while looking at John Sterling’s grave¹³ the thought occurred to me of stretching myself between the head and first stone, just to see whether the same grave would answer for me. I did so, looked upward to the ultramarine of the sky and to the green and golden elmtree leaves which twinkled against it. The lark was singing and the sea was sounding while the morning wind blew the perfume of a cluster of roses in my face. I had been warm when I lay down, and after some time I felt chilled and arose. Hector¹⁴ and I faced the hill, and soon reached the summit of the Downs.¹⁵ I rejoiced in my strength as I mounted the declivity when on the top we threw ourselves down with the Island spreading at one side and the ocean at the other and there he sang the ‘Starspangled banner’¹⁶ for me. Thence along the ridge towards Ventnor, but before reaching it lay down again to drink the glory of the scene. Reached our hotel, paid our bill, had a glass of beer which was manifestly sour and started on our way. In an hour or so I found myself invaded by symptoms like cholera.¹⁷ I was forced to pause and rest. The strength in which I had gloried seemed to ooze from every pore, and half an hour’s pain reduced me to a helpless prostrate mortal. I clung to Hector’s arm and staggered feebly on to the Sandrock Hotel.¹⁸ Here I threw myself upon a sofa while Hector prepared some hot brandy and water and ginger for me – drank it but found myself getting quickly weaker. Went to bed, and for two or three hours felt very uncertain whether I should ever leave the Island. It is well that I have been strong previously, for had such a thing invaded me while feeble in health I think it must have carried me off. Towards evening the attacks of pain became less frequent and I had evidently got over the worst. Hector nursed me as if I had been his sweetheart, and having some knowledge of the thing, which I had not, his presence was of great service to me. Our journey was however completely interrupted I crawled with him as far as Blackgang Chine,¹⁹ but the effort to get there merely demonstrated my own feebleness. I remained at the Sandrock two days, and my strength rapidly returned. On Thursday I was well enough to go any where, but Hector prevailed upon me to turn homewards So we left the Island on that day and reached London the same evening. I am now completely restored, thank Heaven, without pain or ache, and fit to accept a wager from you to run round the Island if you have the courage to make such a proposition.

I must now shut out the world and get to work. I think seriously of doing as Bonaparte did and seeing my letters²⁰ hence a fortnight. They distract me greatly. Dr. Simpson has called upon me, but where he is I know not – as he simply left his name, but not his address.

Hector is now gone – I wish you had known more of him. He is extremely clever and honest to the core. He possesses the greatest command of mental imagery which I have ever met in any man.²¹ Fair winds attend him!

Just before writing my name I cast my eye upon my journal which lies open before me and there I read. ‘This day Tom and I dined at Werda &c.’²² But I must not open this vein.

Your affectionate | John

Monday morning up at 6.

Oh! I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet.²³

RI MS JT/1/HTYP/353–354

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