Answer me quick.
A.C.
Here is the amount for the carriage. Berate my fancy.
July 20th, ’43.
Dear William, –
No post from you. Have you gone? Is this forwarded, or must it linger to be read by a scullion? My cousin Edmund has fallen in the Dutch war. A musket-ball shattered his heart. Fortunate young creature.
They have just now took my spy-glass from me. I could not explicate its presence but as a remembrance of my brother. My husband says it must find its use in the box at theatre. He thinks my brother is a pirate, for being salted on the high seas. Each morning this room stinks of my stooclass="underline" the heat allows of no air. I forget to beautify myself at my table. I have few visitors. My husband is like the armadillo in my book of animals from Dürer: his hair curls into horns — he rubs too much fat in, then too thick powder. I have told him. He is Armadillo to the line. I have scribbled a cocked hat upon its head. It is my husband.
My fancy runs faster than my reason. I have night terrors. I asked the maid to entertain me — she told me of the legend here, of a shepherd who made love with a witch, and she bore a boy-lamb, that he reared as his own son, till it went among the flock by mishap — and the shepherd, he being old and deaf, don’t hear its cries and slew his own son, like Isaac might have done! And the old shepherd haunts the crest still, as apparition, calling out — where, where, where? I fancy I hear him at night, tho’ in the morning I think it the owls.
Write me. I cannot be easy till you do.
A.C.
Mabberley came across the lawn when I was spying. He winked at me. I saw him thro’ the spy-glass. I waved at him. One kind soul in a cavern of cruelties.
A heron flapped along the reach of the river, this early morning, spied thro’ my glass. When I returned to my desk, there was not one less — but it had seemed so.
August 16th, 1743.
William, –
I enclose the ribband.
I interpret your silence before your going as all frailty must — with a heavy and vain heart, that my thoughts were ever bent towards you, or that my hopes should dash themselves so repeatedly against such forbidding rock.
Your snuff-box that I gave you, enamelled with a scene of classical love, do not rub it brilliant against the sleeve of the coat that cost you no guineas, I fear, but mine — but cast it into the sea at Naples (I have been studying maps) or let it remain to curse you with my abject spleen.
They harvest beyond my window — I spy them: each row of reapers makes a road into my heart, they flash with grateful weapons, they slice me into ribbands. Our son’s eyes render me nothing but hurt.
I got your address off the Squire, who had it off your cook. I throw caution to the wind. Some melancholy cypress might be fitting burial for our kisses.
Do not communicate with me further. My Armadillo sniffs close — I am in confinement still, till the apples fall and the air is less feverish, they do tell me. I beat against the door in anger last week — I left trails of my nails, the wood of the door was gashed — I would have beat this warm head upon it, save that I gave myself greater hurt, & my poor dear Phoebe was dashed in the stead, that her face lies in tiny pieces still upon my mantelshelf, lest I forget my pain. They put it down to distraction from excess moisture — purged me — placed my spirits on the right course — rendered me unfit to leave before the autumn. I suspect — tho’ my maid reports no ill occurrence between Mabberley & the black — that Armadillo suspects in turn, & must have me hid like in the old fable. I can stand it little longer, without recourse to opiates.
There — I have spilt my coffee upon the paper. Let it spread. Discourse is poison. I shall find a herd of goat, dress in muslin, pipe my hymns to innocence on a thymy slope far from care — & your part of Italy.
I have a blister, where I held my finger above the candle-flame, to see what greater pain is cruel love.
The pain of my son’s bringing out — a large-boned baby — was as nothing to his father’s cunning.
I write this at dawn upon the window-seat — I have been here most the night, moonlight upon me — owls — then dawn came with song, from the far woods — alas, too far! — the room full now of fragrant harvest — & seeds borne upon the breeze, out the hedgerows — that steal in my little gap — settle on my hair, that is loose about the shoulders — poor silvery things — tiny angels, free to go whither they will, now they have found but useless soil here — one caresses my hand, yet I scarce feel it — blows & rolls to the paper — ’tis the seed of wild clymatis, that is named bedwine here, it must grow & tangle these words ere long, or I puff it out again — out the window — there! — it gleams — in the dawn light — high upon the breeze — and higher — & further — whither I don’t know, yet it be where I long to follow — ’till it be no more, tho’ I fancy I glimpse it still — against the glade, the sky — afar off — a gleam — hark! — a lark trills — then nothing — but the scratching of my pen — and the sea — no — ’tis the scythes — ’tis the scythe that mows down kings, exempts no meaner mortal things — you know the verse — we read it together — all flesh is grass — and the aged man that is Time mows these fields — we loved verses –
Alas.
Adieu.
A.C.
Ulverton Hall.
September 12th, 1743.
To Mr William Sykes:
Received — one snuff-box, & a quantity of clothing, formerly your own, addressed to Elijah Mabberley, Maddle Lane, Ulverton.
This is the last communication shall occur between us. Suffice to say that your folly has reaped its ill reward: the bulky nature of the parcel made concealment beneath Mabberley’s shirt impossible. He was thought to be stealing — was followed by Bint — was apprehended in the act of passing the bundle to the black boy, behind the laurel. Both were taken. The black boy don’t know anything. Mabberley would not betray me. A simple and loyal soul. He is before the magistrate on Tuesday. I am to be released, at my husband’s entreaty — he is full of kindness — to attend the spectacle, if he is to hang. Tho’ this won’t be likely sooner than October, when I am Out in any case. The black boy Leeward was delivered of a beating by Wall and Bint between them — I heard his screamings — tied up — carried upon the first ship at Portsmouth direct for the West Indies.
The Squire visits tomorrow. I will give him this to forward. I will tell him it is the invitation to the Christening.
I hope you find your stay in Italy pleasing, after your fashion.
Your verse I have burned.
I might fill a page — but let my consolation be — no, ’tis trash — our senses are all deluded –
— save skin upon a candle –
— so –
5. Dissection, 1775
SONDAY THE 20 day of thi incant aug 1775 Surly Ro Ulver
Deer francis
Mr john Pounds tailer du rite this for mee my sone I dont kno how manny thar will Bee of us take pitty on thy mother francis lunnen is a wickit plaic yr father ood bee dropin teeres He sed as you alers hed a wagin tung I bee afeart francis i ent bin to lunnen afore
Mind yr sole
thy evere loving
mother
Sara Shail
Sonday 3 day of this incant sept 1775 Surlyro Ulvoton
My owne son francis,
I ont bare it you mus reply the wagon doo tak this plees replye francis my som