Voices from the past
Jan. 26th, 2011 02:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
avevale_intelligencerMore treasures. My grandfather's Masonic certificates, his indenture to a chemist in Dartmouth (on parchment with wax seals), poems by both my maternal uncles written while they were serving with the Navy overseas (good ones too), my great-grandfather's sketch book and his will (also on parchment, with a hefty seal), and a pouch full of (I think) my great-great-grandfather's records while serving on board various Revenue cutters in the early eighteen-hundreds.
And a letter, written on black-edged paper in a lovely copperplate hand, which I think is from my great-grandfather to my great-grandmother-to-be on the occasion of his father's death.
"Albert Place, August 21st 1862.
"My Darling Rosa,
"Many thanks for your very kind letter; indeed I am in need of consolation. This is my first great trial and it is a heavy one, but I must not make it worse by complaining. I am obliged to assume a degree of composure which seems to me quite un-natural in order to comfort poor Mother - I am thankful to say she bears up wonderfully. Better than I could have expected. She sends you her love and thanks for your kind and consoling letter.
"Poor Father was buried yesterday. It was quite necessary that it should be done early. The funeral was a very quiet one, as little show as possible. Mother did not go. The crew of the cutter bore him to his last resting place. I followed him there, and O dearest Rosa, what a crowd of sweet memories came rushing through my brain as that kindest of Fathers was lowered into the grave. I will not be selfish nor dwell on this part of my story now, you need comfort as well as I do. May God grant it to you.
"My Uncle arrived from Norfolk last night, just too late; he has done much towards cheering me. I want to give up the house and pack up the furniture and store it till you and I settle, then it will be for us. In the meantime I will send Mother to Norfolk for a while, thence to Ireland. I think the change will be beneficial.
"One thing is certain, she must not remain here alone. She would fret herself to death. I have not decided when I shall return to town.
"I delivered the parcel to the Porter at Wellington Station, and after he had it he said he must charge the carriage from London, so you see I did not benefit the young lady at all.
"I have not been down street[?] yet, but shall endeavour to do so as soon as possible. We have met with much kindness from the people here; everyone seems to pity us. I have a great deal of writing to do so I must not stay too long with you. Good bye, my own love. God bless you. I remain, yours now,
"Robert.
"P.S. Please remember me to Mr & Mrs [?] - tell me how they are and how is your health."
If someone wrote a letter like that today, it would be for public consumption; this is a private letter, so much so that I had some misgivings about sharing it, till I remembered that the only person who would be likely to object would be, well, me. But the frame of mind in which one could write "O dearest Rosa" and so on and mean it, and not be striking a pose or being ironic or merely funny--is that gone beyond recall? Are we now so knowing, so self-aware, that no actual emotion can pass our lips or our writing fingers without being censored, unless it comes in a great primal howl of grief or rage that overwhelms the filters? And is that a good thing?
I don't know. I do know I haven't expressed any actual tangible grief at all over either of my parents, and I'm starting to think I never will, that maybe I can't. They were truly the kindest of fathers, the most loving of mothers, and I miss them terribly, but...nothing.
Ah well. You probably can't get black-edged notepaper any more either.
And a letter, written on black-edged paper in a lovely copperplate hand, which I think is from my great-grandfather to my great-grandmother-to-be on the occasion of his father's death.
"Albert Place, August 21st 1862.
"My Darling Rosa,
"Many thanks for your very kind letter; indeed I am in need of consolation. This is my first great trial and it is a heavy one, but I must not make it worse by complaining. I am obliged to assume a degree of composure which seems to me quite un-natural in order to comfort poor Mother - I am thankful to say she bears up wonderfully. Better than I could have expected. She sends you her love and thanks for your kind and consoling letter.
"Poor Father was buried yesterday. It was quite necessary that it should be done early. The funeral was a very quiet one, as little show as possible. Mother did not go. The crew of the cutter bore him to his last resting place. I followed him there, and O dearest Rosa, what a crowd of sweet memories came rushing through my brain as that kindest of Fathers was lowered into the grave. I will not be selfish nor dwell on this part of my story now, you need comfort as well as I do. May God grant it to you.
"My Uncle arrived from Norfolk last night, just too late; he has done much towards cheering me. I want to give up the house and pack up the furniture and store it till you and I settle, then it will be for us. In the meantime I will send Mother to Norfolk for a while, thence to Ireland. I think the change will be beneficial.
"One thing is certain, she must not remain here alone. She would fret herself to death. I have not decided when I shall return to town.
"I delivered the parcel to the Porter at Wellington Station, and after he had it he said he must charge the carriage from London, so you see I did not benefit the young lady at all.
"I have not been down street[?] yet, but shall endeavour to do so as soon as possible. We have met with much kindness from the people here; everyone seems to pity us. I have a great deal of writing to do so I must not stay too long with you. Good bye, my own love. God bless you. I remain, yours now,
"Robert.
"P.S. Please remember me to Mr & Mrs [?] - tell me how they are and how is your health."
If someone wrote a letter like that today, it would be for public consumption; this is a private letter, so much so that I had some misgivings about sharing it, till I remembered that the only person who would be likely to object would be, well, me. But the frame of mind in which one could write "O dearest Rosa" and so on and mean it, and not be striking a pose or being ironic or merely funny--is that gone beyond recall? Are we now so knowing, so self-aware, that no actual emotion can pass our lips or our writing fingers without being censored, unless it comes in a great primal howl of grief or rage that overwhelms the filters? And is that a good thing?
I don't know. I do know I haven't expressed any actual tangible grief at all over either of my parents, and I'm starting to think I never will, that maybe I can't. They were truly the kindest of fathers, the most loving of mothers, and I miss them terribly, but...nothing.
Ah well. You probably can't get black-edged notepaper any more either.
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Date: 2011-01-26 03:05 pm (UTC)