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Selected English Letters (XV - XIX Centuries)

Various

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Title: Selected English Letters (XV - XIX Centuries)

Author: Various

Release Date: June 4, 2004 [EBook #12515]

Language: English

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Produced by Dave Morgan, Bill Hershey and PG Distributed Proofreaders

SELECTED ENGLISH LETTERS

(XV-XIX CENTURIES)

ARRANGED BY

M. DUCKITT & H. WRAGG

1913.

PREFACE

This anthology has been compiled with rather mixed motives. First,

'all for our delight'--a rule that editors sometimes observe, and

occasionally acknowledge; then, with the desire to interest as large

a section of the public as may be. Here is a medley of gay, grave,

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frivolous, homely, religious, sociable, refined, philosophic, and

feminine,--something for every mood, and for the proper study

of mankind. We do not hope to satisfy all critics, but we do not

anticipate that we shall please none. Our difficulty has been that

of choice. Many pleasant companions we have had to pass by; to strike

from our list many excellent letters. Those that remain are intended

to present as complete a portrait of the writer as space permits.

Occasionally it was some feature of the age, some nicety of manners,

some contrast in point of view, that obtained inclusion.

Into such an anthology the ordinary reader prefers to dip at random,

looking for old friends or new faces, and has his reward. But if he

is resolute to read letters in chronological order, he will also,

we hope, find in our selection some trace of the development of the

Epistolary art, as, rising through earlier naiveties and formalities

to the grace and _bel air_ of the great Augustans, it slides into the

freer, if less dignified, utterance of an age which, startled by cries

of 'Equality' at its birth, has concerned itself less with form than

with individuality and sincerity of expression.

Three letters are included of which the originals were penned

in Latin. In a few cases the spelling and punctuation have been

modernized.

Our best thanks are due to Mr. J.C. Smith, whose kind criticism and

inspiring suggestions have been of inestimable service to us in the

preparation of this work.

M.D. H.W.

CONTENTS

SIR THOMAS MORE, 1478-1535--

To Margaret Roper. 'Wyth a cole' from prison.

MARGARET ROPER, 1505-1544--

To Sir Thomas More. Reply to the above.

ROGER ASCHAM, 1515-1568--

To Lady Jane Grey. A most accomplished maiden.

To Lady Clarke. An offer of assistance.

FRANCIS BACON, 1561-1626--

To Sir Thomas Bodley. With a copy of his book.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE, 1605-1682--

To his son Thomas. Fatherly commendations.

To his son Edward. Centenarians.

JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674--

To a Cambridge friend. The choice of a profession.

To Leonard Philaras. The blind poet.

JOHN EVELYN, 1620-1706--

To Samuel Pepys. In retirement at Wotton.

ads:

To the same. An old man's occupations.

DAME DOROTHY BROWNE, 1621-1685--

To her daughter in London. Three interesting

postscripts.

GEORGE, LORD BERKELEY, 1628-1698--

To Samuel Pepys. Honourable acquittal.

DOROTHY OSBORNE, 1628-1698--

To Sir William Temple. Passing the time.

To the same. Another pretender.

To the same. A disappointing preacher.

To the same. The ideal husband.

To the same. The growth of friendship.

To the same. Wilful woman.

KATHARINE PHILIPS, 1631-1664--

To the Honourable Berenice. Yielding to opinion.

JOHN LOCKE, 1632-1704--

To William Molyneux. A philosopher's confidences.

To Dr. Molyneux. True friendship.

SAMUEL PEPYS, 1633-1703--

To George, Lord Berkeley. An explanation.

To Mrs. Steward. A wedding in the City.

To John Evelyn. Reply to an old friend.

JONATHAN SWIFT, 1667-1745--

To Stella. The Dean at home.

To Lord Treasurer Oxford. The Dean makes his bow.

To Dr. Sheridan. News from the country.

To Alexander Pope. Mostly about _Gulliver_.

To John Gay. Enquiries into Mr. Gay's pursuits.

JOSEPH ADDISON, 1672-1719--

To Alexander Pope. Translation of Homer.

To Mr. Secretary Craggs. A bequest.

SIR RICHARD STEELE, 1672-1729--

To Mary Scurlock. An explicit declaration.

To the same. A pleasing transport.

To the same. A lover betrays himself.

To his wife. He proposes an outing.

To the same. His greatest affliction.

To the same. Four characteristic notes.

To the same. The natural slave of beauty.

JOHN GAY, 1685-1732--

To Jonathan Swift. Concerning _Gulliver_.

ALEXANDER POPE, 1688-1744--

To William Wycherley. Dryden and his critics.

To Joseph Addison. A few thoughts from a rambling head.

To Jonathan Swift. Friends to posterity.

To the same. A farming friend, and _The Dunciad_.

To the same. An invitation to England.

SAMUEL RICHARDSON, 1689-1761--

To Miss Mulso. A discussion on love.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, 1689-1762--

To the Countess of Mar. The Viennese court.

To Miss Sarah Chiswell. Ingrafting for small-pox.

To the Countess of Bristol. The Grand Signior a slave.

To the Countess of Mar. The Grand Vizier's lady.

To the Countess of Bute. Her grand-daughter's education.

To the same. Fielding and Steele.

PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, 1694-1773--

To his son. Dancing.

To the same. A good enunciation.

To the same. Keeping accounts.

To the same. A father's example.

To the same. Public speaking.

To the same. The new Earl of Chatham.

SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709-1784--

To Bonnet Langton. Postponement of a visit.

To Miss Porter. A mother's death.

To Joseph Baretti. A letter of counsel.

To Mrs. Thrale. Travel in Scotland.

To the Earl of Chesterfield. Patronage.

To James Boswell. A silent friend.

To Mrs. Thrale. A great man's fortitude.

LAURENCE STERNE, 1713-1768--

To Miss Lumley. The disconsolate lover.

To David Garrick. Le Chevalier Shandy.

To Mr. Foley. An adventure on the road.

THOMAS GRAY, 1716-1771--

To Richard West. Scenery at Tivoli.

To the same. A poet's melancholy.

To Horace Walpole. The fate of Selima.

To the same. Publication of the _Elegy_.

To the same. At Burnham.

To the Rev. William Mason. The Laureateship.

To Dr. Wharton. A holiday in Kent.

HORACE WALPOLE, 1717-1797--

To Richard West. Floods in the Arno.

To Richard Bentley. Pictures, and Garrick.

To Lord Lyttelton. Gray's Odes.

To George Montagu. At Lady Suffolk's.

To Lady Hervey. A quiet life.

To the Rev. William Cole. Gray's death.

To the Rev. William Mason. The quarrel with Gray.

To the Countess of Upper-Ossory. Fashionable intelligence.

To the Rev. William Cole. Antiquaries and authors.

To the Miss Berrys. Their first meeting.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1728-1774--

To his mother. At Cork.

To Robert Bryanton. In Scotland.

To his uncle Contarine. In Holland.

To his brother Henry. Family matters.

WILLIAM COWPER, 1731-1800--

To the Rev. John Newton. Escapade of Puss.

To the Rev. William Unwin. A laugh that hurts nobody.

To the Rev. John Newton. Village politicians.

To the same. Village justice.

To the same. A candidate's visit.

To Lady Hesketh. An acquaintance reopened.

To the same. The kindliness of thanks.

To the same. Arrival of the desk.

To the same. Anticipations of a visit.

To the same. Commissions and thanks.

To Mrs. Bodham. His mother's portrait.

EDMUND BURKE, 1729-1797--

To Matthew Smith. First impressions of London.

To James Barry. A friend's infirmities.

To Lord Auckland. An old stag at bay.

To Mary Leadbeater. His last letter.

EDWARD GIBBON, 1737-1794--

To Mrs. Porten. His daily life.

To Lord Sheffield. A great work.

FRANCES D'ARBLAY, 1752-1840--

To Susan Burney. An excited Unknown.

To Samuel Crisp. Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson.

To Mrs. Lock. A royal commission.

GEORGE CRABBE, 1754-1832--

To Mary Leadbeater. The only survivors.

To the same. Comparisons.

WILLIAM BLAKE, 1757-1827--

To John Flaxman. Friends 'from eternity'.

To Thomas Butts. Trouble in the path.

To the same. The wonderful poem.

To the same. The poet and William Hayley.

MARY LEADBEATER, 1758-1826--

To Edmund Burke. Reply to his last letter.

To George Crabbe. She writes to remind him.

ROBERT BURNS, 1759-1796--

To Miss Chalmers. Marriage with Jean.

To Mr. R. Ainslie. A gauger.

To Francis Grose. Witch tales.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850--

To Sir George Beaumont. A brother's character.

To Walter Scott. Dryden.

To Lady Beaumont. The destiny of his poems.

To Sir George Beaumont. The language of poetry.

SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832--

To his mother. Marriage with Miss Carpenter.

To Miss Seward. _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_.

To Lady Louisa Stuart. An amiable blue-stocking.

To Robert Southey. Congratulations.

To J.B.S. Morritt. A small anonymous sort of a novel.

To the same. Acceptance of a baronetcy.

To Lord Montagu. Prince Leopold's visit.

To Daniel Terry. Progress at Abbotsford.

To J.B.S. Morritt. A brave face to the world.

To Maria Edgeworth. Time's revenges.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772-1834--

To Charles Lamb. A sympathetic reply.

To Joseph Cottle. Literary adventurers.

To Josiah Wade. A public example.

To Thomas Allsop. Himself and his detractors.

To the same. The Great Work described.

To the same. Reminiscences.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843--

To Joseph Cottle. Question of copyrights.

To John May. Waterloo.

To Henry Taylor. Anastasius Hope.

To Edward Moxon. Recollections of the Lambs.

CHARLES LAMB, 1775-1834--

To Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Temporary frenzy.

To the same. A friend in need.

To the same. The tragedy.

To William Wordsworth. The delights of London.

To Thomas Manning. At the Lakes.

To the same. Dissuasion from Tartary.

To Mrs. Wordsworth. Friends' importunities.

To Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The famous pigling.

To Bernard Barton. A blessing in disguise.

To the same. A cold.

WILLIAM HAZLITT, 1778-1830--

To Miss Sarah Stoddart. A love-letter.

To his son. Marriage, and the choice of a profession.

To Charles Cowden Clarke. The _Life of Napoleon_.

LEIGH HUNT, 1784-1859--

To Joseph Severn. A belated letter.

To Percy Bysshe Shelley. Outpourings of gratitude.

To Horace Smith. Shelley's death.

To Mrs. Procter. Accepting an invitation.

To a friend. Offence and punishment.

GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON, 1788-1824--

To Mr. Hodgson. Travel in Portugal.

To Thomas Moore. Announces his engagement.

To John Murray. No bid for sweet voices.

To the same. The cemetery at Bologna.

To the same. In rebellious mood.

To Percy Bysshe Shelley. A trio of poets.

To Lady Byron. A plain statement of facts.

To Mr. Barff. Sympathy with the Greeks.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792-1822--

To T.J. Hogg. His first marriage.

To William Godwin. An introduction.

To Thomas Hookham. A subscription for Hunt.

To Mr. Ollier. An article by Southey.

To Mrs. Hunt. Keats and some others.

To Leigh Hunt. A literary collaboration.

JOHN KEATS, 1795-1821--

To John Hamilton Reynolds. Burns's cottage.

To Richard Woodhouse. The poetic character.

To Percy Bysshe Shelley. Returning advice.

To Charles Brown. A despairing cry.

THOMAS HOOD, 1799-1845--

To Charles Dickens. _American Notes_.

To the _Manchester Athenaeum_. The uses of literature.

To Dr. Moir. A humourist to the last.

To Sir Robert Peel. A farewell letter.

ROBERT BROWNING, 1812-1889, and

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 1806-1861--

To Leigh Hunt. A joint epistle.

CHARLOTTE BRONTE, 1816-1855--

To a friend. Trials of a governess.

To William Wordsworth. Thanks for advice.

To a friend. At school abroad.

To a friend. Curates to tea.

To George Henry Lewes. Herself and Miss Austen.

To the same. The argument continued.

To a friend. Illness and death of Emily Bronte.

To Mr. G. Smith. Thackeray and _Esmond_

To the same. _Esmond_ again.

SELECTED ENGLISH LETTERS

SIR THOMAS MORE

1478-1535

To MARGARET ROPER

_'Wyth a cole' from prison_

[1535.]

Myne owne good doughter, our lorde be thanked I am in good helthe of

bodye, and in good quiet of minde: and of worldly thynges I no more

desyer then I have. I beseche hym make you all mery in the hope of

heaven. And such thynges as I somewhat longed to talke with you all,

concerning the worlde to come, our Lord put theim into your myndes, as

I trust he dothe, and better to, by his holy spirite: who blesse

you and preserve you all. Written wyth a cole by your tender loving

father, who in his pore prayers forgetteth none of you all, nor

your babes, nor your nurses, nor your good husbandes, nor your good

husbandes shrewde wyves, nor your fathers shrewde wyfe neither, nor

our other frendes. And thus fare ye hartely well for lack of paper.

THOMAS MORE, knight.

Our Lorde kepe me continuallye true, faithfull and playne, to the

contrarye whereof I beseche hym hartelye never to suffer me live. For

as for longe life (as I have often tolde the Megge) I neyther looke

for, nor long for, but am well content to goe, yf God call me hence

to morowe. And I thanke our lorde, I knowe no person living, that I

woulde had one philippe for my sake: of whiche minde I am more gladde

then of all the worlde.

Recommend me to your shrewde wil, and mine other sonnes, and to John

Harris my frende, and your selfe knoweth to whome els, and to my

shrewde wife above all, and God preserve you all and make and kepe you

his servantes all.

MARGARET ROPER

1505-1544

TO SIR THOMAS MORE

_Reply to the above_

[1534.]

Myne owne moste entierelye beloved father, I thynke my self never

hable to geve you sufficiente thankes, for the inestimable coumforte

my poore hearte received in the readyng of youre moste lovynge and

godlye letter, representing to me, the cleare shynyng bryghtenesse

of youre soule, the pure temple of the holy spirite of God, which I

doubte not shall perpetuallye reste in you and you in hym. Father, if

all the worlde hadde bene geven to me, as I be saved it hadde bene

a small pleasure, in comparison of the pleasure I conceived of the

treasure of youre letter, whiche thoughe it were written with a cole,

is woorthye in myne opinion to be wrytten in letters of golde. Father,

what moved them to shytte you uppe againe, we can nothynge heare.

But surelye I coniecture that when they considered that you wer of so

temperate mind, that you were contented to abyde there all your lyfe

with suche libertie, they thought it wer never possible to enclyne you

to theyr will, excepte it were by restrayning you from the church, and

the companye of my good mother youre deare wyfe and us youre chyldren

and bedesfolke. But father this chaunce was not straunge to you. For

I shal not forgeat howe you tolde us when we were with you in the

gardeyne, that these thinges wer like ynoughe to chaunce you shortlye

after. Father I have manye tymes rehearsed to myne owne coumfort and

dyvers others, your fashyon and wordes ye hadde to us when we were

laste with you: for which I trust by the grace of god to be the better

while I live, and when I am departed oute of this frayle life, which

I praye God I maye passe and ende in his true obedient service, after

the wholesome counsayle and fruitful exaumple of living I have had

(good father) of you, whom I pray god geve me grace to folowe: which

I shal the better thorow the assistaunce of your devoute prayers,

the speciall staye of my frayltie. Father I am sory I have no lenger

laysure at this time to talke with you, the chief comfort of my life,

I trust to have occasion to write again shortly. I trust I have your

daily prayer and blessing.

Your most loving obedient daughter and bedeswoma Margaret Roper, which

daily and howrely is boude to pray for you, for whom she prayeth

in this wise, that our lord of his infinite mercye geve you of hys

hevenly comfort, and so to assist you with hys speciall grace, that ye

never in any thing declyne from hys blessed will, but live and dye his

true obedient servaunt. Amen.

ROGER ASCHAM

1515-1568

To Lady Jane Grey

_A most accomplished maiden_

Augsberg, 18 _Jan_. 1551.

Most Illustrious Lady,

In this long travel of mine, I have passed over wide tracts of

country, and seen the largest cities, I have studied the customs,

institutes, laws, and religion of many men and diverse nations, with

as much diligence as I was able: but in all this variety of subjects,

nothing has caused in me so much wonder as my having fallen upon you

last summer, a maiden of noble birth, and that too in the absence of

your tutor, in the hall of your most noble family, and at a time

when others, both men and women, give themselves up to hunting and

pleasures, you, a divine maiden, reading carefully in Greek the

_Phaedo_ of the divine Plato; and happier in being so occupied than

because you derive your birth, both on your father's side, and on your

mother's, from kings and queens! Go on then, most accomplished maiden,

to bring honour on your country, happiness on your parents, glory to

yourself, credit to your tutor, congratulation to all your friends,

and the greatest admiration to all strangers!

O happy Elmar in having such a pupil, and happier still you, in having

such a tutor ... I ask two things of you, my dear Elmar, for I suppose

you will read this letter, that you will persuade the Lady Jane to

write me a letter in Greek as soon as possible; for she promised she

would do so ... I have also lately written to John Sturm, and told him

that she had promised. Take care that I get a letter soon from her as

well as from you. It is a long way for letters to come, but John Hales

will be a most convenient letter-carrier and bring them safely....

To LADY CLARKE

_An offer of assistance_

[London], 15 _Jan_. 1554.

Your remarkable love of virtue and zeal for learning, most illustrious

lady, joined with such talents and perseverance, are worthy of great

praise in themselves, and greater still because you are a woman, but

greatest of all because you are a lady of the court; where there are

many other occupations for ladies, besides learning, and many other

pleasures besides the practice of the virtues. This double praise

is further enhanced by the two patterns that you have proposed to

yourself to follow, the one furnished you by the court, the other

by your family. I mean our illustrious queen Mary, and your noble

grandfather, Thomas More--a man whose virtues go to raise England

above all other nations....

I am led to write thus not altogether by my admiration of you, but

partly by my own wish and more from the nature of my own office. It

was I who was invited some years ago from the University of Cambridge

by your mother, Margaret Roper--a lady worthy of her great father,

and of you her daughter--to the house of your kinsman, Lord Giles

Alington, to teach you and her other children the Greek and Latin

tongues; but at that time no offers could induce me to leave the

University. It is sweet to me to bear in mind this request of your

mother's, and I now not only remind you thereof, but would offer you,

now that I am at court, if not to fulfil her wishes, yet to do my

best to fulfil them, were it not that you have so much learning

in yourself, and also the aid of those two learned men, Cole and

Christopherson, so that you need no help from me, unless in their

absence you make use of my assistance, and if you like, abuse it.

I write thus not because of any talents I possess (for I know they are

very small) but because of my will (which I know is very great), and

because of the opportunity long wished for and now granted me. For

by favour of that great bishop the Lord Stephen of Winchester, I have

been fetched away from the University to serve our illustrious queen

at court, and that too in such a post, that I can there follow the

same mode of life for the discharge of my duties as I did at the

University for study. My office is to write Latin letters for the

queen, and I hope I shall fulfil that office, if not with ability,

yet faithfully, diligently, and unblameably ... Farewell, most

accomplished lady!

SIR FRANCIS BACON

1561-1626

To Sir Thomas Bodley

_With a copy of his book_

[_Nov_. 1605.]

SIR,

I think no man may more truly say with the Psalm _Multum incola

fuit anima mea_, than myself. For I do confess, since I was of any

understanding, my mind hath in effect been absent from that I have

done; and in absence are many errors which I do willingly acknowledge;

and amongst the rest this great one that led the rest; that knowing

myself by inward calling to be fitter to hold a book than to play a

part, I have led my life in civil causes; for which I was not very fit

by nature, and more unfit by the preoccupation of my mind. Therefore

calling myself home, I have now for a time enjoyed myself; whereof

likewise I desire to make the world partaker. My labours (if I may so

term that which was the comfort of my other labours) I have dedicated

to the King; desirous, if there be any good in them, it may be as the

fat of a sacrifice, incensed to his honour: and the second copy I have

sent unto you, not only in good affection, but in a kind of congruity,

in regard of your great and rare desert of learning. For books are the

shrines where the saint is, or is believed to be; and you having built

an Ark to save learning from deluge, deserve propriety in any new

instrument or engine, whereby learning should be improved or advanced.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

1605-1682

To HIS SON THOMAS

_Fatherly commendations_

[c. 1667.]

I Receaved yours, and would not deferre to send vnto you before you

sayled, which I hope will come vnto you; for in this wind, neither can

Reare-admirall Kempthorne come to you, nor you beginne your voyage.

I am glad you like Lucan so well. I wish more military men could read

him; in this passage you mention, there are noble straynes; and such

as may well affect generous minds. Butt I hope you are more taken with

the verses then the subject, and rather embrace the expression then

the example. And this I the rather hint unto you, because the like,

though in another waye, is sometimes practised in the king's shipps,

when, in desperate cases, they blowe up the same. For though I know

you are sober and considerative, yet knowing you also to be of great

resolution; and having also heard from ocular testimonies with what

vndaunted and persevering courage you have demeaned yourself in great

difficulties; and knowing your captaine to bee a stout and resolute

man; and with all the cordiall friendshippe that is between you; I

cannot omitt my earnest prayers vnto God to deliver you from such a

temptation. Hee that goes to warre must patiently submitt vnto the

various accidents thereof. To bee made prisoner by an vnequall and

overruling power, after a due resistance, is no disparagement; butt

upon a carelesse surprizall or faynt opposition; and you have so good

a memorie that you cannot forgett many examples thereof, even of the

worthiest commanders in your beloved Plutark. God hath given you a

stout, butt a generous and mercifull heart withall; and in all your

life you could never behold any person in miserie butt with compassion

and relief; which hath been notable in you from a child: so have you

layd up a good foundation for God's mercy; and, if such a disaster

should happen, Hee will, without doubt, mercifully remember you. How

euer, let God that brought you in the world in his owne good time,

lead you through it; and in his owne season bring you out of it; and

without such wayes as are displeasing vnto him. When you are at Cales,

see if you can get a box of the Jesuits' powder at easier rate, and

bring it in the bark, not in powder. I am glad you haue receaued the

bill of exchange for Cales; if you should find occasion to make vse

thereof. Enquire farther at Tangier of the minerall water you told

mee, which was neere the towne, and whereof many made use. Take notice

of such plants as you meet with, either upon the Spanish or African

coast; and if you knowe them not, putt some leaves into a booke,

though carelessely, and not with that neatenesse as in your booke at

Norwich. Enquire after any one who hath been at Fez; and learne what

you can of the present state of that place, which hath been so famous

in the description of Leo and others. The mercifull providence of God

go with you. _Impellant animae lintea Thraciae_.

TO HIS SON EDWARD

_Centenarians_

15 _Dec_. [1679.]

DEARE SONNE,

Some thinck that great age superannuates persons from the vse of

physicall meanes, or that at a hundred yeares of age 'tis either a

folly or a shame to vse meanes to liue longer, and yet I haue knowne

many send to mee for their seuerall troubles at a hundred yeares of

age, and this day a poore woeman being a hundred and three yeares

and a weeke old sent to mee to giue her some ease of the colick. The

_macrobii_ and long liuers which I haue knowne heere haue been of

the meaner and poorer sort of people. Tho. Parrot was butt a meane or

rather poore man. Your brother Thomas gaue two pence a weeke to John

More, a scauenger, who dyed in the hundred and second yeare of his

life; and 'twas taken the more notice of that the father of Sir John

Shawe, who marryed my Lady Killmorey, and liueth in London, I say that

his father, who had been a vintner, liued a hundred and two yeares, or

neere it, and dyed about a yeere agoe. God send us to number our dayes

and fitt ourselves for a better world.

JOHN MILTON

1608-1674

TO A CAMBRIDGE FRIEND

_The choice of a profession_

[1631-2.]

SIR,

Besides that in sundry other respects I must acknowledge me to profit

by you whenever we meet, you are often to me, and were yesterday

especially, as a good watchman to admonish that the hours of the night

pass on (for so I call my life, as yet obscure and unserviceable to

mankind), and that the day with me is at hand, wherein Christ commands

all to labour, while there is light. Which because I am persuaded you

do to no other purpose than out of a true desire that God should be

honoured in every one, I therefore think myself bound, though unasked,

to give you account, as oft as occasion is, of this my tardy moving,

according to the precept of my conscience, which I firmly trust is not

without God. Yet now I will not strain for any set apology, but only

refer myself to what my mind shall have at any time to declare herself

at her best ease.

But if you think, as you said, that too much love of learning is in

fault, and that I have given up myself to dream away my years in the

arms of studious retirement, like Endymion with the moon, as the tale

of Latmus goes; yet consider that if it were no more but the mere

love of learning--whether it proceed from a principle bad, good,

or natural--it could not have held out thus long against so strong

opposition on the other side of every kind. For, if it be bad, why

should not all the fond hopes that forward youth and vanity are fledge

with, together with gain, pride, and ambition, call me forward more

powerfully than a poor, regardless, and unprofitable sin of curiosity

should be able to withhold me; whereby a man cuts himself off from all

action, and becomes the most helpless, pusillanimous, and unweaponed

creature in the world, the most unfit and unable to do that which

all mortals most aspire to--either to be useful to his friends or to

offend his enemies? Or, if it be to be thought a natural proneness,

there is against that a much more potent inclination inbred, which

about this time of a man's life solicits most--the desire of house and

family of his own; to which nothing is esteemed more helpful than the

early entering into credible employment, and nothing more hindering

than this affected solitariness. And though this were enough, yet

there is to this another act, if not of pure, yet of refined nature,

no less available to dissuade prolonged obscurity--a desire of honour

and repute and immortal fame, seated in the breast of every true

scholar; which all make haste to by the readiest ways of publishing

and divulging conceived merits--as well those that shall, as those

that never shall, obtain it. Nature, therefore, would presently work

the more prevalent way, if there were nothing but this inferior bent

of herself to restrain her. Lastly, the love of learning, as it is the

pursuit of something good, it would sooner follow the more excellent

and supreme good known and presented, and so be quickly diverted from

the empty and fantastic chase of shadows and notions, to the solid

good flowing from due and timely obedience to that command in the

Gospel set out by the terrible seasing of him that hid the talent.

It is more probable, therefore, that not the endless delight of

speculation, but this very consideration of that great commandment,

does not press forward, as soon as many do, to undergo, but keeps

off, with a sacred reverence and religious advisement how _best_ to

undergo--not taking thought of being _late_, so it give advantage

to be more _fit_; for those that were latest lost nothing, when the

master of the vineyard came to give each one his hire. And here I am

come to a stream-head, copious enough to disburden itself, like Nilus,

at seven mouths into an ocean. But then I should also run into a

reciprocal contradiction of ebbing and flowing at once, and do that

which I excuse myself for not doing--'preach and not preach.' Yet,

that you may see that I am something suspicious of myself, and do take

notice of a certain belatedness in me, I am the bolder to send you

some of my nightward thoughts some while since, because they come in

not altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrarchian stanza, which I told

you of:

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth

That I to manhood am arrived so near;

And inward ripeness doth much less appear

That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.

Yet be it less, or more, or soon, or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven.

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great taskmaster's eye.

By this I believe you may well repent of having made mention at all of

this matter; for, if I have not all this while won you to this, I

have certainly wearied you of it. This, therefore, alone may be a

sufficient reason for me to keep me as I am, lest having thus tired

you singly, I should deal worse with, a whole congregation, and spoil

all the patience of a parish; for I myself do not only see my own

tediousness, but now grow offended with it, that has hindered me thus

long from coming to the last and best _period_ of my letter, and

that which must now chiefly work my pardon, that I am your true and

unfeigned _friend_.

TO LEONARD PHILARAS, THE ATHENIAN

_The blind poet_[1]

Westminster, 28 _Sept_. 1654.

I have always been devotedly attached to the literature of Greece, and

particularly to that of your Athens; and have never ceased to cherish

the persuasion that that city would one day make me ample recompense

for the warmth of my regard. The ancient genius of your renowned

country has favoured the completion of my prophecy in presenting me

with your friendship and esteem. Though I was known to you only by my

writings, and we were removed to such a distance from each other, you

most courteously addressed me by letter; and when you unexpectedly

came to London, and saw me who could no longer see, my affliction,

which causes none to regard me with greater admiration, and perhaps

many even with feelings of contempt, excited your tenderest sympathy

and concern. You would not suffer me to abandon the hope of recovering

my sight; and informed me you had an intimate friend at Paris, Dr.

Thevenot, who was particularly celebrated in disorders of the eyes,

whom you would consult about mine, if I would enable you to lay before

him the causes and the symptoms of the complaint. I will do what you

desire, lest I should seem to reject that aid which perhaps may be

offered me by Heaven. It is now, I think, about ten years since I

perceived my vision to grow weak and dull; and at the same time I

was troubled with pain in my kidneys and bowels, accompanied with

flatulency. In the morning, if I began to read, as was my custom,

my eyes instantly ached intensely, but were refreshed after a little

corporeal exercise. The candle which I looked at, seemed as it were

encircled with a rainbow. Not long after the sight in the left part of

the left eye (which I lost some years before the other) became quite

obscured, and prevented me from discerning any object on that

side. The sight in my other eye has now been gradually and sensibly

vanishing away for about three years; some months before it had

entirely perished, though I stood motionless, everything which I

looked at seemed in motion to and fro. A stiff cloudy vapour seemed

to have settled on my forehead and temples, which usually occasions a

sort of somnolent pressure upon my eyes, and particularly from dinner

till the evening. So that I often recollect what is said of the poet

Phineas in the _Argonautics_:

A stupor deep his cloudy temples bound,

And when he walked he seemed as whirling round,

Or in a feeble trance he speechless lay.

I ought not to omit that while I had any sight left, as soon as I lay

down on my bed and turned on either side, a flood of light used to

gush from my closed eyelids. Then, as my sight became daily more

impaired, the colours became more faint and were emitted with a

certain inward crackling sound; but at present, every species of

illumination being, as it were, extinguished, there is diffused around

me nothing but darkness, or darkness mingled and streaked with an

ashy brown. Yet the darkness in which I am perpetually immersed seems

always, both by night and day, to approach nearer to white than black;

and when the eye is rolling in its socket, it admits a little particle

of light, as through a chink. And though your physician may kindle

a small ray of hope, yet I make up my mind to the malady as quite

incurable; and I often reflect, that as the wise man admonishes,

days of darkness are destined to each of us, the darkness which I

experience, less oppressive than that of the tomb, is, owing to the

singular goodness of the Deity, passed amid the pursuits of literature

and the cheering salutations of friendship. But if, as is written,

'Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth

from the mouth of God,' why may not any one acquiesce in the privation

of his sight, when God has so amply furnished his mind and his

conscience with eyes? While He so tenderly provides for me, while

He so graciously leads me by the hand, and conducts me on the way, I

will, since it is His pleasure, rather rejoice than repine at being

blind. And, my dear Philaras, whatever may be the event, I wish you

adieu with no less courage and composure than if I had the eyes of a

lynx.

[Footnote 1: From the Latin.]

JOHN EVELYN

1620-1706

To SAMUEL PEPYS

_In retirement at Wotton_

Wotton, 2 _Aug_. 1692.

I have been philosophizing and world-despising in the solitudes of

this place, whither I am retired to pass and mourn the absence of my

worthiest friend. Here is wood and water, meadows and mountains, the

Dryads and Hamadryads; but here's no Mr. Pepys, no Dr. Gale. Nothing

of all the cheer in the parlour that I taste; all's insipid, and all

will be so to me, till I see and enjoy you again. I long to know what

you do, and what you think, because I am certain you do both what

is worthy the knowing and imitation. On Monday next will Mr. Bentley

resume his lecture, I think, at Bow Church: I fear I shall hardly

get through this wilderness by that time. Pray give him your wonted

confidence if you can, and tell him how unhappily I am entangled. I

hope, however, to get home within this fortnight, and about the end of

October to my hyemation in Dover Street. My son is gone with the Lord

Lieutenant, and our new relation, Sir Cyril Wych, into Ireland: I look

they should return wondrous statesmen, or else they had as well have

stayed at home. I am here with Boccalini, and Erasmus's _Praise of

Folly_, and look down upon the world with wondrous contempt, when

I consider for what we keep such a mighty bustle. _O fortunate_ Mr.

Pepys! who knows, possesses, and enjoys all that's worth the seeking

after. Let me live among your inclinations, and I shall be happy.

To THE SAME

_An old man's occupations_

Wotton, 22 _July_, 1700.

I could no longer suffer this old servant of mine to pass and repass

so near Clapham without a particular account of your health and all

your happy family. You will now inquire what I do here? Why, as the

patriarchs of old, I pass the days in the fields, among horses and

oxen, sheep, cows, bulls, and sows, _et cetera pecora campi_. We have,

thank God! finished our hay harvest prosperously. I am looking after

my hinds, providing carriage and tackle against reaping time and

sowing. What shall I say more? _Venio ad voluptates agricolarum_,

which Cicero, you know, reckons amongst the most becoming diversions

of old age; and so I render it. This without: now within doors, never

was any matron more busy than my wife, disposing of our plain

country furniture for a naked old extravagant house, suitable to

our employments. She has a dairy, and distaffs, for _lac, linum, et

lanam_, and is become a very Sabine. But can you thus hold out? Will

my friend say; is philosophy, Gresham College, and the example of Mr.

Pepys, and agreeable conversation of York Buildings, quite forgotten

and abandoned? No, no! _Naturam expellas furca tamen usque recurret_.

Know I have been ranging of no fewer than thirty large cases of books,

destined for a competent standing library, during four or five days

wholly destitute of my young coadjutor, who, upon some pretence of

being much engaged in the mathematics, and desiring he may continue

his course at Oxford till the beginning of August, I have wholly left

it to him. You will now suspect something by this disordered hand;

truly I was too happy in these little domestic affairs, when, on the

sudden, as I was about my books in the library, I found myself sorely

attacked with a shivering, followed by a feverish indisposition, and

a strangury, so as to have kept, not my chamber only, but my bed, till

very lately, and with just so much strength as to scribble these lines

to you. For the rest, I give God thanks for this gracious warning, my

great age calling upon me _sarcinam componere_ every day expecting it,

who have still enjoyed a wonderful course of bodily health for forty

years....

DAME DOROTHY BROWNE

1621-1685

TO HER DAUGHTER IN LONDON

_Three interesting postscripts_

[Norfolk, 28 _June, c_. 1679.]

DEARE DAUGHTER,

I have received all the things, to the great content of the owners,

who returne you many thankes. Thay ar indeed very well chose things of

all sorts: and I give you many thanks for the troble you have had with

them: I sent you Tomey's scurt and long slevs of his ould cott; I hope

you have them. On Mr. Felden it seemes took it last Wadinsday, and

sayd hee would deliver it him selfe. Wee dayly wish for the new

cloths; all our linen being worne out but shefts, and Tomey would give

all his stock to see his briches. I bless God wee ar all well as

I hope you ar. Tomey presents his dutty, your sisters all love and

services.

[4 _July_.]

GOOD DAUGHTER,

I must troble you once more abought my cosen Tenoson. She would

macke a manto gown of the grene and whight silke you sent down for a

peticot, but she wants two yards, and as much slit grene sarsinat as

will line it in sight. I pray send nurs to gett it and lett mee

know what it com to, and I will send you the mony. I sayes my Cossen

Cradock might send it me by the choch for she would have it as sonne

as possible. I bless God wee ar all in helth, and Tomey much longing

for his briches.

[5 _July_.]

Tomey have received his cloues, and is much delighted, and sends you

and his mother and grandmother dutty and thanckes, and meanes to war

them carfully.

GEORGE, LORD BERKELEY

1628-1698

To SAMUEL PEPYS[1]

_Honourable Acquittal_

Berkeley House, 23 _Feb_. 1677-8.

GOOD MR. PEPYS,

Though I thank you for the favour of your letter, yet I confess myself

both much surprised and troubled to receive a letter from you upon

such an occasion: so is my wife, who professes herself wholly innocent

of any crime of charging you in thought, word, or deed, and hopes you

will do her that right to believe so of her. My daughter Berkeley says

she expressed some trouble that the friend she recommended had not

success, and that she was told the Commissioners of the Navy did

report they had given the same recommendations of the person she

proposed, as they did of him that was accepted, for the lieutenant's

place; which my daughter, supposing to be true, wondered the more he

lost the preferment: but, by the copies enclosed in your's, it appears

her Ladyship was very much misinformed. As for Mrs. Henrietta, she

is extremely troubled in saying any thing that gave you offence; and

though she did not in the least intend it, yet she begs your pardon.

And now, my good friend, though I am not under any accusation, and

therefore need not say any thing to vindicate myself, yet give me

leave, upon this occasion, to assure you, that there is no person

has a better opinion of you than myself, nor is more sensible of your

particular civilities to me; which I should be very glad to make a

return of when in my power to serve you: and give me leave to add

further, without flattery to you, and with great sincerity, that I

believe our gracious master, His Majesty, is so fortunate in employing

you in his service, that, if he should lose you, it would be very

difficult for His Majesty to find a successor so well qualified in

all respects for his service, if we consider both your integrity, vast

abilities, industry, and zealous affections for his service; and,

if His Majesty were asked the question, I will hold ten to one His

Majesty declares himself of my opinion; so will I believe all that

know you, more especially our fellow-traders that are so conversant

with you and obliged by you.

This is asserted as a great truth by, Sir, your very affectionate and

hearty friend and Servant.

[Footnote 1: Cf. Letter on p. 45.]

DOROTHY OSBORNE

1628-1698

To SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE

_Passing the time_

[No date; c. 1653.]

I have been reckoning up how many faults you lay to my charge in your

last letter, and I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and unkind!

O me! how should one do to mend all those! 'Tis work for an age, and

I fear that I shall be so old before I am good, that 'twill not be

considerable to any body but myself whether I am so or not.... You ask

me how I pass my time here. I can give you a perfect account, not only

of what I do for the present, but what I am likely to do this seven

years if I stay here so long. I rise in the morning reasonably early,

and before I am ready I go round the house till I am weary of that,

and then into the garden till it grows too hot for me. I then think of

making me ready; and when that's done I go into my father's chamber;

from thence to dinner, where my cousin Molle and I sit in great state

in a room and at a table that would hold a great many more. After

dinner we sit and talk till Mr. P. comes in question, and then I am

gone. The heat of the day is spent in reading or working; and about

six or seven o'clock I walk out into a common that lies hard by the

house, where a great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, and

sit in the shade singing of ballads; I go to them, and compare their

voices and beauty to some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of,

and find a vast difference there; but, trust me, I think these are

as innocent as those could be. I talk to them, and find _they

want nothing to make them the happiest people in the world but the

knowledge that they are so_. Most commonly, while we are in the middle

of our discourse, one looks about her, and spies her cows going into

the corn, and then away they all run as if they had wings at their

heels. I that am not so nimble stay behind, and when I see them

driving home their cattle think it is time for me to return too. When

I have supped I go into the garden, and so to the side of a small

river that runs by it, where I sit down and wish you with me (you

had best say this is not kind, neither). In earnest, it is a pleasant

place, and would be more so to me if I had your company, as I sit

there sometimes till I am lost with thinking; and were it not for some

cruel thoughts of the crossness of my fortune, that will not let me

sleep there, I should forget there were such a thing to be done as

going to bed. Since I writ this, my company is increased by two, my

brother Harry, and a fair niece, my brother Peyton's daughter. She is

so much a woman that I am almost ashamed to say I am her aunt, and so

pretty, that if I had any design to gain a servant I should not like

her company; but I have none, and therefore I shall endeavour to keep

her here as long as I can persuade her father to spare her, for she

will easily consent to it, having so much of my humour (though it

be the worst thing in her) as to like a melancholy place, and little

company.... My father is reasonably well, but keeps his chamber still;

but will hardly, I am afraid, ever be so perfectly recovered as to

come abroad again.

TO THE SAME

_Another pretender_

[No date; c. 1653.]

I could tell you such a story (it is too long to be written), as would

make you see what I never discovered in my life before, that I am

a valiant lady. In earnest, we have had such a skirmish and upon so

foolish an occasion, as I cannot tell which is strangest. The Emperor

and his proposals began it; I talked merrily on it till I saw my

brother put on his sober face, and could hardly then believe he was

in earnest. It seems he was; for when I had spoke freely my meaning it

wrought so with him, as to fetch up all that lay upon his stomach: all

the people that I had ever in my life refused were brought again upon

the stage, like Richard the Third's ghosts, to reproach me withal, and

all the kindness his discoveries could make I had for you was laid to

my charge; my best qualities, if I have any that are good, served

but for aggravations of my fault, and I was allowed to have wit, and

understanding, and discretion, in all other things, that it might

appear I had none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty lecture, and I grew

warm with it after a while. In short, we came so near to an absolute

falling out that 'twas time to give over, and we said so much then

that we have hardly spoken a word together since. But 'tis wonderful

to see what courtesies and legs pass between us, and as before we were

thought the kindest brother and sister, we are certainly now the most

complimental couple in England: it is a strange change, and I am very

sorry for it, but I'll swear I know not how to help it....

TO THE SAME

_A disappointing preacher_

[No date; c. 1653.]

... God forgive me, I was as near laughing yesterday where I should

not: would you believe that I had the grace to go to hear a sermon

upon a week-day? In earnest, 'tis true, and Mr. Marshall was the man

that preached, but never any body was so defeated. He is so famed that

I expected rare things from him, and seriously I listened to him at

first with as much reverence and attention as if he had been St. Paul.

And what do you think he told us? why, that if there were no kings, no

queens, no lords, no ladies, no gentlemen or gentlewomen in the world,

it would be no loss at all to God Almighty: this he said over some

forty times, which made me remember it, whether I would or not.

The rest was much at this rate, entertained with the prettiest odd

phrases, that I had the most ado to look soberly enough for the place

I was in that ever I had in my life. He does not preach so always,

sure; if he does, I cannot believe his sermons will do much towards

the bringing anybody to heaven more than by exercising their patience;

yet I'll say that for him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though in

my opinion few deserve them less than he, and it may be he would be

better without them. Yet you say you are not convinced that to be

miserable is the way to be good; to some natures I think it is not;

but there are many of so careless and vain a temper that the least

breath of good fortune swells them with so much pride, that if they

were not put in mind sometimes by a sound cross or two that they are

mortal, they would hardly think it possible; and though it is a sign

of a servile nature, when fear produces more of reverence in us

than love, yet there is more danger of forgetting one's self in a

prosperous fortune than in the contrary; and affliction may be the

surest though not the pleasantest guide to heaven. What think you,

might I not preach with Mr. Marshall for a wager?...

TO THE SAME

_The ideal husband_

[No date; _c_. 1653.]

There are a great many ingredients must go to the making me happy in

a husband. My cousin F. says our humours must agree, and to do that he

must have that kind of breeding that I have had, and used to that kind

of company; that is, he must not be so much a country gentleman as to

understand nothing but hawks and dogs, and be fonder of either than of

his wife; nor of the next sort of them, whose time reaches no farther

than to be justice of peace, and once in his life high sheriff, who

reads no book but statutes, and studies nothing but how to make a

speech interlarded with Latin, that may amaze his disagreeing poor

neighbours, and fright them rather than persuade them into quietness.

He must not be a thing that began the world in a free school, was sent

from thence to the university, and is at his farthest when he reaches

the inns of court; has no acquaintance but those of his form in those

places; speaks the French he has picked out of old laws, and admires

nothing but the stories he has heard of the revels that were kept

there before his time. He must not be a town gallant neither, that

lives in a tavern and an ordinary; that cannot imagine how an hour

should be spent without company unless it be in sleeping; that makes

court to all the women he sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs

and is laughed at equally. Nor a travelled Monsieur, whose head is

feathered inside and outside, that can talk of nothing but of dances

and duels, and has courage enough to wear slashes, when every body

else dies with cold to see him. He must not be a fool of no sort, nor

peevish, nor ill-natured, nor proud, nor courteous; and to all this

must be added, that he must love me, and I him, as much as we are

capable of loving. Without all this his fortune, though never so

great, would not satisfy me, and with it a very moderate one would

keep me from ever repenting my disposal....

TO THE SAME

_The growth of friendship_

[No date; c. 1653.]

... I must find you pleased and in good humour; merry as you were

wont to be, when we first met, if you will not have me show that I am

nothing akin to my cousin Osborne's lady. But what an age it is since

we first met, and how great a change it has wrought in both of us!

if there had been as great a one on my face, it would be either very

handsome or very ugly. For God's sake, when we meet, let us design one

day to remember old stories in, to ask one another by what degrees

our friendship grew to this height 'tis at. In earnest, I am lost

sometimes in thinking of it, and though I can never repent of the

share you have in my heart, I know not whether I gave it you willingly

or not at first. No; to speak ingenuously, I think you got an interest

there a good while before I thought you had any, and it grew so

insensibly and yet so fast, that all the traverses it has met with

since have served rather to discover it to me than at all to hinder

it.

TO THE SAME.

_Wilful woman_

[No date; c. 1653.]

I was carried yesterday abroad to a dinner that was designed for

mirth, but it seems one ill-humoured person in the company is enough

to put all the rest out of tune, for I never saw people perform what

they intended worse, and could not forbear telling them so; but to

excuse themselves and silence my reproaches they all agreed to say

that I spoiled their jollity by wearing the most unseasonable looks

that could be put on for such an occasion. I told them I knew no

remedy but leaving me behind them; that my looks were suitable to

my fortune though not to a feast. Fie, I am got into my complaining

humour that tires myself as well as every body else, and which (as you

observe) helps not at all; would it would leave me and that I should

not always have occasion for it, but that's in nobody's power, and my

Lady Talmash, that says she can do whatever she will, cannot believe

whatsoever she pleases. 'Tis not unpleasant, methinks, to hear her

talk how at such a time she was sick, and the physicians told her she

would have the small-pox and showed her where they were coming out

upon her, but she bethought herself that it was not at all convenient

for her to have them at that time; some business she had that required

her going abroad, and so she resolved she would not be sick nor was

not. Twenty such stories as these she tells, and then falls into

discourses of the strength of reason and power of philosophy till she

confounds herself and all that hear her. You have no such ladies in

Ireland.... My poor Lady Vavasor is carried to the Tower, and her

situation could not excuse her, because she was acquainted by somebody

that there was a plot against the Protector, and did not discover it.

She has told now all that was told her, but vows she will never say

from whence she had it; we shall see whether her resolutions are as

unalterable as those of my Lady Talmash. I wonder how she behaved

herself when she was married; I never yet saw anybody that did not

look simply and out of countenance, nor ever knew a wedding well

designed but one, and that was of two persons who had time enough I

confess to contrive it, and nobody to please in it but themselves. He

came down into the country where she was upon a visit, and one morning

married her; as soon as they came out of the church, they took coach

and came for the town, dined at an Inn by the way, and at night came

into lodgings that were provided for them, where nobody knew them,

and where they passed for married people of seven years' standing. The

truth is I could not endure to be Mrs. Bride in a public wedding, to

be made the happiest person on earth; do not take it ill, for I would

endure it if I could, rather than fail, but in earnest I do not think

it were possible for me; you cannot apprehend the formalities of a

treaty more than I do, nor so much the success of it. Yet in earnest

your father will not find my brother Peyton wanting in civility

(though he is not a man of much compliment unless it be in his letters

to me), nor an unreasonable person in any thing so he will allow him,

out of his kindness to his wife, to set a higher value upon his

sister than she deserves. I know not how he may be prejudiced upon the

business, but he is not deaf to reason when it is civilly delivered,

and is as easily gained with compliance and good usage as any body

I know, but no other way; when he is roughly used he is like me ten

times the worse for it. I make it a case of conscience to discover my

faults to you as fast as I know them, that you may consider what you

have to do: my aunt told me no longer ago than yesterday, that I was

the most wilful woman that ever she knew, and had an obstinacy of

spirit nothing could overcome. Take heed, you see I give you fair

warning. I have missed a letter this Monday, what is the reason?

By the next I shall be gone into Kent, and my other journey is laid

aside, which I am not displeased at, because it would have broken our

intercourse very much. Here are some verses of Cowley's; pray tell me

how you like them. It is only a piece taken out of a new thing of

his. The whole is very long, and is a description of, or rather a

paraphrase upon, the friendships of David and Jonathan. 'Tis I think

the best I have seen of his, and I like the subject because it is that

I would be perfect in. Adieu!

KATHARINE PHILIPS

1631-1664

ORINDA TO THE HONOURABLE BERENICE

_Yielding to opinion_

Priory of Cardigan, _25 June_

Your Ladyship's last favour from Coll. P----'s was truly obliging,

and carried so much of the same great soul of yours, which loves to

diffuse itself in expressions of friendship to me, that it merits

a great deal more acknowledgement than I am able to pay at my best

condition, and am less now when my head aches, and will give me no

leave to enlarge, though I have so much subject and reason; but really

if my heart ached too, I could be sensible of a very great kindness

and condescension in thinking me worthy of your concern, though

I visibly perceive most of my letters have lost their way to your

Ladyship. I beseech you be pleased first to believe I have written

every post; but, secondly, since I came, and then to enquire for them,

that they may be commended into your hands, where alone they can hope

for a favourable residence; I am very much a sharer by sympathy, in

your Ladyship's satisfaction in the converse you had in the country,

and find that to that ingenious company Fortune hath been just, there

being no person fitter to receive all the admiration of persons best

capable to pay them, than the great _Berenice_....

And now (madam) why was that a cruel question, When will you come to

_Wales_? 'Tis cruel to me, I confess, that it is yet in question, but

I humbly beg your Ladyship to unriddle that part of your letter, for

I cannot understand why you, madam, who have no persons alive to whom

your birth hath submitted you, and have already by your life secured

to yourself the best opinion the world can give you, should create an

awe upon your own actions, from imaginary inconveniences: Happiness,

I confess, is two-faced, and one is opinion; but that opinion is

certainly _our own_; for it were equally ridiculous and impossible

to shape our _actions_ by others' _opinions_. I have had so much (and

some sad) reason to discuss this principle, that I can speak with some

confidence, That _none will ever be happy, who make their happiness to

consist in, or be governed by the votes of other persons._ I deny

not but the approbation of wise and good persons is a very necessary

satisfaction; but to forbear innocent contentments, only because it's

possible some fancies may be so capricious as to dispute whether I

should have taken them, is, in my belief, neither better nor worse

than to fast always, because there are some so superstitious in the

world, that will abstain from meat, upon some score or other, upon

every day in the year, that is, some upon some days, and others

upon others, and some upon all. You know, madam, there is nothing so

various as _vulgar opinion_, nothing so untrue to itself. Who shall

then please since none can fix it? 'Tis heresy (this of submitting to

every blast of popular extravagancy) which I have combated in persons

very dear to me; _Dear madam_, let them not have your authority for a

relapse, when I had almost committed them; but consider it without a

bias, and give sentence as you see cause; and in that interim put me

not off (_Dear madam_) with those chimeras, but tell me plainly what

inconvenience is it to come? If it be one in earnest, I will submit,

but otherwise, I am so much my own friend, and my friend's friend,

as not to be satisfied with your Ladyship's taking measure of your

actions by others' opinion, when I know too that the severest could

find nothing in this journey that they could condemn, but your excess

of charity to me, and that censure you have already supported with

patience, and (notwithstanding my own consciousness of no ways

deserving your sufferance upon that score) I cannot beg you to recover

the reputation of your judgement in that particular, since it must be

my ruin. I should now say very much for your most obliging commands to

me, to write, and should beg frequent letters from your Ladyship with

all possible importunity, and should by command from my _Lucasia_

excuse her last rudeness (as she calls it) in giving you account of

her honour for you under her own hand, but I must beg your pardon now,

and out-believing all, I can say upon every one of these accounts, for

really, madam, you cannot tell how to imagine any person more to any

one, than I am,

_Madam,

Your Ladyship's

most faithful servant,

and passionate friend_,

ORINDA

JOHN LOCKE

1632-1704

TO WILLIAM MOLYNEUX

_A philosopher's confidences_

Oates, 26 _April_, 1695.

SIR,

You look with the eyes, and speak the language of friendship, when you

make my life of much more concern to the world than your own. I take

it, as it is, for an effect of your kindness, and so shall not accuse

you of compliment; the mistakes and over-valuings of good-will being

always sincere, even when they exceed what common truth allows. This

on my side I must beg you to believe, that my life would be much more

pleasant and useful to me, if you were within my reach, that I might

sometimes enjoy your conversation, and, upon twenty occasions, lay

my thoughts before you, and have the advantage of your judgement. I

cannot complain that I have not my share of friends of all ranks, and

such, whose interest, assistance, affection, and opinions too, in fit

cases, I can rely on. But methinks, for all this, there is one place

vacant, that I know nobody that would so well fill as yourself; I want

one near me to talk freely with, _de quolibet ente_; to propose to

the extravagancies that rise in my mind; one with whom I would debate

several doubts and questions, to see what was in them. Meditating by

one's self, is like digging in the mine; it often, perhaps, brings up

maiden earth, which never came near the light before; but whether it

contains any metal in it, is never so well tried as in conversation

with a knowing judicious friend who carries about with him the true

touchstone, which is love of truth in a clear-thinking head. Men of

parts and judgement the world usually gets hold of, and by a great

mistake (that their abilities of mind are lost, if not employed in the

pursuit of wealth or power) engages them in the ways of fortune and

interest, which usually leave but little freedom or leisure of thought

for pure disinterested truth. And such who give themselves up frankly,

and in earnest to the full latitude of real knowledge, are not

everywhere to be met with. Wonder not, therefore, that I wish so much

for you in my neighbourhood; I should be too happy in a friend of your

make, were you within my reach. But yet I cannot but wish that some

business would once bring you within distance; and it is a pain to me

to think of leaving the world without the happiness of seeing you.

I do not wonder that a kinsman of yours should magnify civilities that

scarce deserve the name; I know not wherein they consisted, but in

being glad to see one that was in any way related to you, and was

himself a very ingenious man; either of those was a title to more than

I did, or could show him. I am sorry I have not yet had an opportunity

to wait on him in London; and I fear he should be gone before I am

able to get thither. This long winter, and cold spring, has hung very

heavy upon my lungs, and they are not yet in a case to be ventured in

London air, which must be my excuse for not waiting upon him and Dr.

Ashe yet.

The third edition of my essay has already, or will be speedily, in the

press. But what perhaps will seem stranger, and possibly please you

better, an abridgement is now making (if it be not already done) by

one of the university of Oxford, for the use of young scholars, in the

place of the ordinary system of logic. From the acquaintance I had of

the temper of that place I did not expect to have it get much footing

there. But so it is, I some time since received a very civil letter

from one, wholly a stranger to me there, concerning such a design; and

by another from him since, I conclude it near done. He seems to be an

ingenious man, and he writes sensibly about it, but I can say nothing

of it till I see it; and he, of his own accord, has offered that it

shall be wholly submitted to my opinion, and disposal of it. And thus,

sir, possibly that which you once proposed may be attained to, and I

was pleased with the gentleman's design for your sake.

You are a strange man, you oblige me very much by the care you take

to have it well translated, and you thank me for complying with your

offer. In my last, as I remember, I told you the reason why it was

so long before I writ, was an expectation of an answer from London,

concerning something I had to communicate to you: it was in short

this; I was willing to know what my bookseller would give for a good

latin copy; he told me, at last, twenty pounds. His delay was, because

he would first have known what the translator demanded. But I forced

him to make his proposal, and so I send it to you, to make what use of

it you please. He since writ me word, that a friend of his at Oxford

would, in some time, be at leisure to do it, and would undertake it. I

bid him excuse himself to him, for that it was in hands I approved of,

and some part of it now actually done. For I hope the essay (he was to

show you the next week after you writ to me last) pleased you. Think

it not a compliment, that I desire you to make what alterations you

think fit. One thing particularly you will oblige me and the world in,

and that is, in paring off some of the superfluous repetitions, which

I left in for the sake of illiterate men, and the softer sex, not used

to abstract notions and reasonings. But much of this reasoning will

be out of doors in a latin translation. I refer all to your judgement,

and so am secure it will be done as is best.

What I shall add concerning enthusiasm, I guess, will very much agree

with your thoughts, since yours jump so right with mine, about the

place where it is to come in, I having designed it for chap. 18, lib.

iv, as a false principle of reasoning often made use of. But, to give

an historical account of the various ravings men have embraced for

religion, would, I fear, be besides my purpose, and be enough to make

an huge volume.

My opinion of P. Malebranche agrees perfectly with yours. What I

have writ concerning 'seeing all things in God', would make a little

treatise of itself. But I have not quite gone through it, for fear

I should by somebody or other be tempted to print it. For I love not

controversies, and have a personal kindness for the author. When I

have the happiness to see you, we will consider it together, and you

shall dispose of it.

I think I shall make some other additions to be put into your latin

translation, and particularly concerning the 'connection of ideas',

which has not, that I know, been hitherto considered, and has, I

guess, a greater influence upon our minds than is usually taken notice

of. Thus, you see, I make you the confident of my reveries; you would

be troubled with a great many more of them, were you nearer.

TO DR. MOLYNEUX

_True friendship_

Oates, 27 _Oct._ 1698.

SIR,

Death has, with a violent hand, hastily snatched from you a dear

brother. I doubt not but, on this occasion, you need all the

consolation can be given to one unexpectedly bereft of so worthy and

near a relation. Whatever inclination I may have to alleviate your

sorrow, I bear too great a share in the loss, and am too sensibly

touched with it myself, to be in a condition to discourse with you on

this subject, or do any thing but mingle my tears with yours. I have

lost, in your brother, not only an ingenious and learned acquaintance,

all that the world esteemed; but an intimate and sincere friend, whom

I truly loved, and by whom I was truly loved: and what a loss that is,

those only can be sensible who know how valuable, and how scarce,

a true friend is, and how far to be preferred to all other sorts of

treasure. He has left a son, who I know was dear to him, and deserved

to be so as much as was possible, for one of his age. I cannot think

myself wholly incapacitated from paying some of the affection and

service that was due from me to my dear friend, as long as he has a

child, or a brother, in the world. If, therefore, there be any thing,

at this distance, wherein I, in my little sphere, may be able to serve

your nephew or you, I beg you, by the memory of our deceased friend,

to let me know it, that you may see that one who loved him so well,

cannot but be tenderly concerned for his son, nor be otherwise than I

am, Sir, etc.

SAMUEL PEPYS

1633-1703

TO GEORGE, LORD BERKELEY

_An explanation_

Derby House, 22 _Feb._ 1677-8

MY LORD,

I am greatly owing to your Lordship for your last favour at St.

John's, and did, till now, reckon myself under no less a debt to my

Ladies for the honour at the same time done me, in their commands

touching Mr. Bonithan. But, my Lord, I have lately had the misfortune

of being undeceived in the latter, by coming to know the severity with

which some of my Ladies are pleased to discourse of me in relation

thereto. I assure your Lordship, I was so big with the satisfaction of

having an opportunity given me by my Ladies at once of obliging them,

paying a small respect to you, and doing a good office to a deserving

gentleman, that I did not let one day pass before I had bespoke and

obtained His Majesty's and Royal Highness's promise of favour in Mr.

Bonithan's behalf: and was so far afterwards from failing him in my

further assistances with Captain Trevanion and others, that I took

early care to secure him a lieutenancy, by a commission actually

signed for him by the King, in the ship _Stavereene_, relying upon the

character Captain Trevanion had given me of his capacity to abide

the examination, established by the King, upon the promotion of

lieutenants; which was not only the most I should have done in the

case of a brother, but more than ever I did in any man's case before,

or, for his sake, do think I shall ever do again. True it is, my Lord,

that when, upon his examination by the officers of the Navy, he was

found not so fully qualified for the office of lieutenant as was

requisite, I did with all respect, and to his seeming satisfaction,

advise him to pass a little longer time in the condition he was

then in, under a stricter application of himself to the practice of

navigation. And, in pursuance of my duty to the King, I did acquaint

him also with Mr. Bonithan's present unreadiness; and had, therefore,

a command given me for conferring the commission prepared for him upon

another, who, upon examination, at the same time with Mr. Bonithan,

was found better qualified for it. As to what I understand my Ladies

are pleased to entertain themselves and others with, to my reproach,

as if money had been wanting in the case, it is a reproach lost upon

me, my Lord, who am known to be so far from needing any purgation in

the point of selling places, as never to have taken so much as my fee

for a commission or warrant to any one officer in the Navy, within

the whole time, now near twenty years, that I have had the honour of

serving His Majesty therein--a self-denial at this day so little in

fashion, and yet so chargeable to maintain, that I take no pride,

and as little pleasure, in the mentioning it, further than it happily

falls in here to my defence against the mistake the Ladies seem

disposed to arraign me by on this occasion. Besides that, in the

particular case of this gentleman, Lieut. Beele, who enjoys the

commission designed for Mr. Bonithan, he is one whose face I never

saw either before or since the time of his receiving it, nor know one

friend he has in the world to whom he owes this benefit, other than

the King's justice and his own modest merit: which, having said, it

remains only that I assure your Lordship what I have so said, is not

calculated with any regard to, much less any repining at, the usage

the Ladies are pleased to show me in this affair, for 'tis fit I bear

it, but to acquit myself to your Lordship in my demeanour towards

them, as becomes their and, my Lord,

Your Lordship's most obedient Servant.

TO MRS. STEWARD

_A wedding in the city_

20 _Sept._ 1695.

MADAM,

You are very good, and pray continue so, by as many kind messages as

you can, and notices of your health, such as the bearer brings you

back my thanks for, and a thousand services. Here's a sad town, and

God knows when it will be a better, our losses at sea making a very

melancholy exchange at both ends of it; the gentlewomen of this, to

say nothing of the other, sitting with their arms across, without a

yard of muslin in their shops to sell, while the ladies, they tell

me, walk pensively by, without a shilling, I mean a good one, in their

pockets to buy. One thing there is indeed, that comes in my way as a

Governor, to hear of, which carries a little mirth with it, and indeed

is very odd. Two wealthy citizens that are lately dead, and left their

estates, one to a Blue Coat boy, and the other to a Blue Coat girl, in

Christ's Hospital. The extraordinariness of which has led some of

the magistrates to carry it on to a match, which is ended in a public

wedding; he in his habit of blue satin, led by two of the girls, and

she in blue, with an apron green and petticoat yellow, all of sarsnet,

led by two of the boys of the house, through Cheapside to Guildhall

Chapel, where they were married by the Dean of St. Paul's, she given

by my Lord Mayor. The wedding dinner, it seems, was kept in the

Hospital Hall, but the great day will be tomorrow, St Matthew's; when,

so much I am sure of, my Lord Mayor will be there, and myself also

have had a ticket of invitation thither, and if I can, will be there

too, but, for other particulars, I must refer you to my next, and so,

Dear madam, Adieu.

Bow Bells are just now ringing, ding dong, but whether for this, I

cannot presently tell; but it is likely enough, for I have known them

ring upon much foolisher occasions, and lately too.

TO JOHN EVELYN

_Reply to an old friend_

Clapham, 7 _Aug._ 1700.

I have no herds to mind, nor will my Doctor allow me any books here.

What then, will you say, too, are you doing? Why, truly, nothing that

will bear naming, and yet I am not, I think, idle; for who can, that

has so much of past and to come to think on, as I have? And thinking,

I take it, is working, though many forms beneath what my Lady and you

are doing. But pray remember what o'clock it is with you and me; and

be not now, by overstirring, too bold with your present complaint, any

more than I dare be with mine, which, too, has been no less kind in

giving me my warning, than the other to you, and to neither of us,

I hope, and, through God's mercy, dare say, either unlooked for or

unwelcome. I wish, nevertheless, that I were able to administer any

thing towards the lengthening that precious rest of life which God has

thus long blessed you, and, in you, mankind, with; but I have always

been too little regardful of my own health, to be a prescriber to

others. I cannot give myself the scope I otherwise should in talking

now to you at this distance, on account of the care extraordinary I am

now under from Mrs. Skinner's being suddenly fallen very ill; but ere

long I may possibly venture at entertaining you with something from

my young man in exchange--I don't say in payment, for the pleasure you

gratify me with from yours, whom I pray God to bless with continuing

but what he is! and I'll ask no more for him.

JONATHAN SWIFT

1667-1745

TO STELLA

_The Dean at home_

London, 16 _Jan._ 1710-11.

O faith, young women, I have sent my letter N. 13, without one crumb

of an answer to any of MD's; there is for you now; and yet Presto

ben't angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain next

Irish post, except he sees MD's little handwriting in the glass frame

at the bar of St. James's Coffee-house, where Presto would never go

but for that purpose. Presto's at home, God help him, every night from

six till bed time, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life at

present as anybody in the world, although in full favour with all the

ministry. As hope saved, nothing gives Presto any sort of dream of

happiness, but a letter now and then from his own dearest MD. I love

the expectation of it, and when it does not come, I comfort myself,

that I have it yet to be happy with. Yes faith, and when I write to

MD, I am happy too; it is just as if methinks you were here, and I

prating to you, and telling you where I have been: Well, says you,

Presto, come, where have you been to-day? come, let's hear now. And so

then I answer; Ford and I were visiting Mr. Lewis, and Mr. Prior, and

Prior has given me a fine Plautus, and then Ford would have had me

dine at his lodgings, and so I would not; and so I dined with him at

an eating-house; which I have not done five times since I came here;

and so I came home, after visiting Sir Andrew Fountaine's mother and

sister, and Sir Andrew Fountaine is mending, though slowly.

17. I was making, this morning, some general visits, and at twelve I

called at the coffee-house for a letter from MD; so the man said he

had given it to Patrick; then I went to the Court of requests and

treasury to find Mr. Harley, and after some time spent in mutual

reproaches, I promised to dine with him; I stayed there till seven,

then called at Sterne's and Leigh's to talk about your box, and to

have it sent by Smyth; Sterne says he has been making inquiries,

and will set things right as soon as possible. I suppose it lies at

Chester, at least I hope so, and only wants a lift over to you....

Well, so I came home to read my letter from Stella, but the dog

Patrick was abroad; at last he came, and I got my letter; I found

another hand had superscribed it; when I opened it, I found it written

all in French, and subscribed Bernage: faith, I was ready to fling

it at Patrick's head. Bernage tells me, he had been to desire your

recommendation to me to make him a captain; and your cautious answer,

'That he had as much power with me as you,' was a notable one; if you

were here, I would present you to the ministry as a person of ability.

Bernage should let me know where to write to him; this is the second

letter I have had without any direction; however, I beg I may not have

a third, but that you will ask him, and send me how I shall direct

to him. In the meantime, tell him, that if regiments are to be raised

here, as he says, I will speak to George Granville, secretary at war,

to make him a captain; and use what other interest I conveniently can.

I think that is enough, and so tell him, and do not trouble me with

his letters when I expect them from MD; do you hear, young women,

write to Presto.

18. I was this morning with Mr. Secretary St. John, and we were to

dine at Mr. Harley's alone, about some business of importance; but

there were two or three gentlemen there. Mr. Secretary and I went

together from his office to Mr. Harley's, and thought to have been

very wise; but the deuce a bit: the company stayed, and more came,

and Harley went away at seven, and the secretary and I stayed with the

rest of the company till eleven; I would then have had him come away,

but he was in for it; and though he swore he would come away at that

flask, there I left him. I wonder at the civility of these people;

when he saw I would drink no more, he would always pass the bottle by

me, and yet I could not keep the toad from drinking himself, nor he

would not let me go neither, nor Masham, who was with us. When I

got home, I found a parcel directed to me, and opening it, I found

a pamphlet written entirely against myself, not by name, but against

something I writ: it is pretty civil, and affects to be so, and I

think I will take no notice of it; it is against something written

very lately; and indeed I know not what to say, nor do I care; and so

you are a saucy rogue for losing your money to-day at Stoyte's; to let

that bungler beat you, my Stella, are not you ashamed? well, I forgive

you this once, never do so again; no, noooo. Kiss and be friends,

sirrah.--Come, let me go sleep, I go earlier to bed than formerly; and

have not been out so late these two months; but the secretary was in a

drinking humour. So good night, myownlittledearsaucyinsolentrogues.

19. Then you read that long word in the last line, no faith have not

you. Well, when will this letter come from our MD? to-morrow or next

day without fail; yes faith, and so it is coming. This was an insipid

snowy day, and I dined gravely with Mrs. Vanhomrigh, and came home,

and am now got to bed a little after ten; I remember old Culpepper's

maxim:

Would you have a settled head,

You must early go to bed:

I tell you, and I tell it again,

You must be in bed at ten.

20. And so I went to-day with my new wig, o hoao, to visit Lady

Worsley, whom I had not seen before, although she was near a month in

town. Then I walked in the Park to find Mr. Ford, whom I had promised

to meet, and coming down the Mall, who should come towards me but

Patrick, and gives me five letters out of his pocket. I read the

superscription of the first, Pshoh, said I; of the second, pshoh

again; of the third, pshah, pshah, pshah; of the fourth, a gad, a gad,

a gad, I am in a rage; of the fifth and last, O hoooa; ay marry

this is something, this is our MD, so truly we opened it, I think

immediately, and it began the most impudently in the world, thus; Dear

Presto, we are even thus far. Now we are even, quoth Stephen, when he

gave his wife six blows for one. I received your ninth four days after

I had sent my thirteenth. But I'll reckon with you anon about that,

young women. Why did not you recant at the end of your letter when you

got your eleventh? tell me that, huzzies base, were we even then, were

we, sirrah? but I will not answer your letter now, I will keep it for

another time. We had a great deal of snow to-day, and it is terrible

cold....

21. _Morning_. It has snowed terribly all night, and is vengeance

cold. I am not yet up, but cannot write long; my hands will freeze. Is

there a good fire, Patrick? Yes, sir, then I will rise; come take away

the candle. You must know I write on the dark side of my bedchamber,

and am forced to have a candle till I rise, for the bed stands between

me and the window, and I keep the curtains shut this cold weather.

So pray let me rise, and, Patrick, here, take away the candle.--_At

night._ We are now here in high frost and snow, the largest fire can

hardly keep us warm. It is very ugly walking, a baker's boy broke his

thigh yesterday. I walk slow, make short steps, and never tread on my

heel. It is a good proverb the Devonshire people have:

Walk fast in snow,

In frost walk slow,

And still as you go,

Tread on your toe:

When frost and snow are both together,

Sit by the fire and spare shoe leather.

22. _Morning_. Starving, starving, uth, uth, uth, uth, uth.--Do not

you remember I used to come into your chamber, and turn Stella out of

her chair, and rake up the fire in a cold morning, and cry uth, uth,

uth? O faith, I must rise, my hand is so cold I can write no more....

26, 27, 28, 29, 30. I have been so lazy and negligent these last four

days, that I could not write to MD. My head is not in order, and yet

it is not absolutely ill, but giddyish, and makes me listless; I walk

every day, and hope I shall grow better. I wish I were with MD; I long

for spring and good weather, and then I will come over. My riding in

Ireland keeps me well. I am very temperate, and eat of the easiest

meats as I am directed, and hope the malignity will go off; but

one fit shakes me a long time. I dined to-day with Lord Mountjoy,

yesterday at Mr. Stone's in the city, on Sunday at Vanhomrigh's,

Saturday with Ford, and Friday I think at Vanhomrigh's, and that's all

the journal I can send MD; for I was so lazy while I was well that I

could not write. I thought to have sent this to-night, but it is ten,

and I'll go to bed, and write on the other side to Parsivol to-morrow,

and send it on Thursday; and so good night my dears, and love Presto,

and be healthy, and Presto will be so too.

To LORD TREASURER OXFORD

_The Dean makes his bow_

1 _July_, 1714.

MY LORD,

When I was with you, I have said more than once, that I would never

allow quality or station made any real difference between men. Being

now absent and forgotten, I have changed my mind: you have a thousand

people who can pretend they love you, with as much appearance of

sincerity as I, so that, according to common justice, I can have but

a thousandth part in return of what I give. And this difference is

wholly owing to your station. And the misfortune is still the greater,

because I always loved you just so much the worse for your station:

for, in your public capacity, you have often angered me to the heart,

but, as a private man, never once. So that, if I only look toward

myself, I could wish you a private man to-morrow: for I have nothing

to ask; at least nothing that you will give, which is the same thing:

and then you would see whether I should not with much more willingness

attend you in a retirement, whenever you please to give me leave, than

ever I did at London or Windsor. From these sentiments I will never

write to you, if I can help it, otherwise than as to a private person,

or allow myself to have been obliged to you in any other capacity.

The memory of one great instance of your candour and justice, I will

carry to my grave; that having been in a manner domestic with you

for almost four years, it was never in the power of any public or

concealed enemy to make you think ill of me, though malice and envy

were often employed to that end. If I live, posterity shall know that,

and more; which, though you, and somebody that shall be nameless, seem

to value less than I could wish, is all the return I can make you.

Will you give me leave to say how I would desire to stand in your

memory? As one, who was truly sensible of the honour you did him,

though he was too proud to be vain upon it; as one, who was neither

assuming, officious, nor teasing; who never wilfully misrepresented

persons or facts to you, nor consulted his passions when he gave

a character; and lastly, as one, whose indiscretions proceeded

altogether from a weak head, and not an ill heart. I will add one

thing more, which is the highest compliment I can make, that I never

was afraid of offending you, nor am now in any pain for the manner

I write to you in. I have said enough; and, like one at your levee,

having made my bow, I shrink back into the crowd.

TO DR. SHERIDAN

_News from the country_

25 _Jan._ 1724-5.

I have a packet of letters, which I intended to send by Molly, who has

been stopped three days by the bad weather; but now I will send them

by the post to-morrow to Kells, and enclosed to Mr. Tickell there is

one to you, and one to James Stopford.

I can do no work this terrible weather; which has put us all seventy

times out of patience. I have been deaf nine days, and am now pretty

well recovered again.

Pray desire Mr. Stanton and Worral to continue giving themselves some

trouble with Mr. Pratt; but let it succeed or not, I hope I shall be

easy.

Mrs. Johnson swears it will rain till Michaelmas. She is so pleased

with her pick-axe, that she wears it fastened to her girdle on her

left side, in balance with her watch. The lake is strangely overflown,

and we are desperate about turf, being forced to buy it three miles

off: and Mrs. Johnson (God help her!) gives you many a curse. Your

mason is come, but cannot yet work upon your garden. Neither can I

agree with him about the great wall. For the rest, _vide_ the letter

you will have on Monday, if Mr. Tickell uses you well.

The news of this country is, that the maid you sent down, John

Farelly's sister, is married; but the portion and settlement are yet a

secret. The cows here never give milk on midsummer eve.

You would wonder what carking and caring there is among us for small

beer and lean mutton, and starved lamb, and stopping gaps, and driving

cattle from the corn. In that we are all-to-be-Dingleyed.

The ladies' room smokes; the rain drops from the skies into the

kitchen; our servants eat and drink like the devil, and pray for rain,

which entertains them at cards and sleep; which are much lighter than

spades, sledges, and crows. Their maxim is,

Eat like a Turk,

Sleep like a dormouse;

Be last at work,

At victuals foremost.

Which is all at present; hoping you and your good family are well, as

we are all at this present writing &c.

Robin has just carried out a load of bread and cold meat for

breakfast; this is their way; but now a cloud hangs over them, for

fear it should hold up, and the clouds blow off.

I write on till Molly comes in for the letter. O, what a draggletail

will she be before she gets to Dublin! I wish she may not happen to

fall upon her back by the way.

I affirm against Aristotle, that cold and rain congregate homogenes,

for they gather together you and your crew, at whist, punch, and

claret. Happy weather for Mrs. Maul, Betty, and Stopford, and all true

lovers of cards and laziness.

THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

Far from our debtors,

No Dublin letters,

Not seen by our betters.

THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

A companion with news,

A great want of shoes;

Eat lean meat, or choose;

A church without pews.

Our horses astray,

No straw, oats, or hay;

December in May,

Our boys run away,

All servants at play.

Molly sends for the letter.

TO ALEXANDER POPE

_Mostly about Gulliver_

Dublin, 17 _Nov._ 1726.

I am just come from answering a letter of Mrs. Howard's, writ in such

mystical terms, that I should never have found out the meaning, if a

book had not been sent me called _Gulliver's Travels_, of which you

say so much in yours. I read the book over, and in the second volume

observed several passages which appear to be patched and altered, and

the style of a different sort, unless I am mistaken. Dr. Arbuthnot

likes the projectors least; others, you tell me, the flying island;

some think it wrong to be so hard upon whole bodies or corporations,

yet the general opinion is, that reflections on particular persons are

most to be blamed; so that in these cases, I think the best method is

to let censure and opinion take their course. A bishop here said, that

book was full of improbable lies, and for his part, he hardly believed

a word of it; and so much for Gulliver.

Going to England is a very good thing, if it were not attended with

an ugly circumstance of returning to Ireland. It is a shame you do not

persuade your ministers to keep me on that side, if it were but by a

court expedient of keeping me in prison for a plotter; but at the same

time I must tell you, that such journeys very much shorten my life,

for a month here is very much longer than six at Twickenham.

How comes friend Gay to be so tedious? Another man can publish fifty

thousand lies sooner than he can publish fifty fables.... Let me add,

that if I were Gulliver's friend, I would desire all my acquaintance

to give out that his copy was basely mangled and abused, and added to,

and blotted out by the printer; for so to me it seems in the second

volume particularly.

Adieu.

TO JOHN GAY

_Enquiries into Mr. Gay's pursuits_

Dublin, 4 _May_, 1732.

I am now as lame as when you writ your letter, and almost as lame as

your letter itself, for want of that limb from my lady duchess, which

you promised, and without which I wonder how it could limp hither. I

am not in a condition to make a true step even on Amesbury Downs, and

I declare that a corporeal false step is worse than a political one:

nay, worse than a thousand political ones, for which I appeal to

courts and ministers, who hobble on and prosper without the sense of

feeling. To talk of riding and walking is insulting me, for I can

as soon fly as do either. It is your pride or laziness, more than

chair-hire, that makes the town expensive. No honour is lost by

walking in the dark; and in the day you may beckon a blackguard

boy under a gate, near your visiting place, (experto crede,) save

elevenpence, and get half-a-crown's worth of health. The worst of my

present misfortune is, that I eat and drink, and can digest neither

for want of exercise; and, to increase my misery, the knaves are

sure to find me at home, and make huge void spaces in my cellars. I

congratulate with you for losing your great acquaintance; in such a

case, philosophy teaches that we must submit, and be content with good

ones. I like Lord Cornbury's refusing his pension, but I demur at his

being elected for Oxford; which, I conceive, is wholly changed; and

entirely devoted to new principles; so it appeared to me the two last

times I was there. I find by the whole cast of your letter, that you

are as giddy and as volatile as ever: just the reverse of Mr. Pope,

who has always loved a domestic life from his youth. I was going to

wish you had some little place that you could call your own, but, I

profess I do not know you well enough to contrive any one system

of life that would please you. You pretend to preach up riding and

walking to the duchess, yet from my knowledge of you after twenty

years, you always joined a violent desire of perpetually shifting

places and company, with a rooted laziness, and an utter impatience of

fatigue. A coach and six horses is the utmost exercise you can bear;

and this only when you can fill it with such company as is best suited

to your taste, and how glad would you be if it could waft you in the

air to avoid jolting; while I, who am so much later in life, can,

or at least could, ride five hundred miles on a trotting horse. You

mortally hate writing, only because it is the thing you chiefly ought

to do; as well to keep up the vogue you have in the world, as to make

you easy in your fortune. You are merciful to everything but money,

your best friend, whom you treat with inhumanity. Be assured I will

hire people to watch all your motions, and to return me a faithful

account. Tell me, have you cured your absence of mind? can you attend

to trifles? can you at Amesbury write domestic libels to divert the

family and neighbouring squires for five miles round? or venture so

far on horseback, without apprehending a stumble at every step? can

you set the footmen a-laughing as they wait at dinner? and do the

duchess's women admire your wit? in what esteem are you with the vicar

of the parish? can you play with him at backgammon? have the farmers

found out that you cannot distinguish rye from barley, or an oak from

a crab-tree? You are sensible that I know the full extent of your

country skill is in fishing for roaches or gudgeons at the highest.

I love to do you good offices with your friends, and therefore desire

you will show this letter to the duchess, to improve her grace's good

opinion of your qualifications, and convince her how useful you are

likely to be in the family. Her grace shall have the honour of my

correspondence again when she goes to Amesbury. Hear a piece of Irish

news; I buried the famous General Meredyth's father last night in my

cathedral, he was ninety-six years old; so that Mrs. Pope may live

seven years longer. You saw Mr. Pope in health, pray is he generally

more healthy than when I was among you? I would know how your own

health is, and how much wine you drink in a day? My stint in company

is a pint at noon, and half as much at night; but I often dine at home

like a hermit, and then I drink little or none at all. Yet I differ

from you, for I would have society, if I could get what I like, people

of middle understanding, and middle rank.

Adieu.

JOSEPH ADDISON

1672-1719

TO ALEXANDER POPE

_Translation of Homer_

26 _Oct._ 1713.

I was extremely glad to receive a letter from you, but more so upon

reading the contents of it. The work you mention will, I dare say,

very sufficiently recommend itself when your name appears with the

proposals: and if you think I can any way contribute to the forwarding

of them, you cannot lay a greater obligation upon me, than by

employing me in such an office. As I have an ambition of having it

known that you are my friend, I shall be very proud of showing it by

this or any other instance. I question not but your translation will

enrich our tongue, and do honour to our country; for I conclude of

it already from those performances with which you have obliged the

public. I would only have you consider how it may most turn to your

advantage. Excuse my impertinence in this particular, which proceeds

from my zeal for your ease and happiness. The work would cost you a

great deal of time, and, unless you undertake it, will, I am afraid,

never be executed by any other; at least I know none of this age that

is equal to it besides yourself.

I am at present wholly immersed in country business, and begin to take

a delight in it. I wish I might hope to see you here some time, and

will not despair of it, when you engage in a work that will require

solitude and retirement.

TO MR. SECRETARY CRAGGS

_A bequest_

_June_ 1719.

DEAR SIR,

I cannot wish that any of my writings should last longer than the

memory of our friendship, and therefore I thus publicly bequeath them

to you, in return for the many valuable instances of your affection.

That they may come to you with as little disadvantage as possible,

I have left the care of them to one, whom, by the experience of some

years, I know well-qualified to answer my intentions. He has already

the honour and happiness of being under your protection; and as he

will very much stand in need of it, I cannot wish him better than

that he may continue to deserve the favour and countenance of such a

patron.

I have no time to lay out in forming such compliments as would but ill

suit that familiarity between us which was once my greatest pleasure,

and will be my greatest honour hereafter. Instead of them, accept of

my hearty wishes that the great reputation you have acquired so early,

may increase more and more, and that you may long serve your country

with those excellent talents and unblemished integrity, which have so

powerfully recommended you to the most gracious and amiable monarch

that ever filled a throne. May the frankness and generosity of your

spirit continue to soften and subdue your enemies, and gain you many

friends, if possible, as sincere as yourself. When you have found

such, they cannot wish you more true happiness than I, who am with the

greatest zeal, dear sir,

Your most entirely affectionate friend

and faithful obedient servant.

SIR RICHARD STEELE

1672-1729

TO MARY SCURLOCK

_An explicit declaration_

11 _Aug._ 1707.

Madam,--I writ you on Saturday, by Mrs. Warren, and give you this

trouble to urge the same request I made then; which was, that I may be

admitted to wait upon you. I should be very far from desiring this if

it were a transgression of the most severe rules to allow it. I know

you are very much above the little arts which are frequent in your

sex, of giving unnecessary torment to their admirers; I therefore hope

you will do so much justice to the generous passion I have for you, as

to let me have an opportunity of acquainting you upon what motives

I pretend to your good opinion. I shall not trouble you with my

sentiments till I know how they will be received; and as I know no

reason why the difference of sex should make our language to each

other differ from the ordinary rules of right reason, I shall affect

plainness and sincerity in my discourse to you, as much as other

lovers do perplexity and rapture. Instead of saying 'I shall die for

you', I profess I should be glad to lead my life with you. You are

as beautiful, as witty, as prudent, and as good-humoured as any woman

breathing; but, I must confess to you, I regard all these excellences

as you will please to direct them for my happiness or misery. With me,

madam, the only lasting motive to love, is the hope of its becoming

mutual. I beg of you to let Mrs. Warren send me word when I may attend

you. I promise you, I will talk of nothing but indifferent things;

though, at the same time, I know not how I shall approach you in the

tender moment of first seeing you after this declaration which has

been made by, madam,

Your most obedient and most faithful

humble servant.

TO THE SAME

_A pleasing transport_

Smith Street, Westminster, 1707.

Madam,--I lay down last night with your image in my thoughts, and

have awakened this morning in the same contemplation. The pleasing

transport with which I am delighted has a sweetness in it attended

with a train of ten thousand soft desires, anxieties, and cares.

The day arises on my hopes with new brightness; youth, beauty, and

innocence are the charming objects that steal me from myself, and give

me joys above the reach of ambition, pride, or glory. Believe me, fair

one, to throw myself at your feet is giving myself the highest bliss

I know on earth. Oh, hasten, ye minutes! bring on the happy morning

wherein to be ever hers will make me look down on thrones! Dear Molly,

I am tenderly, passionately, faithfully thine.

TO THE SAME

_A lover betrays himself_

St. James's Coffee House, 1 _Sept._ 1707

Madam,--It is the hardest thing in the world to be in love, and yet to

attend to business. As for me, all who speak to me find me out, and I

must lock myself up, or other people will do it for me.

A gentleman asked me this morning, 'What news from Lisbon?' and I

answered, 'She's exquisitely handsome.' Another desired to know when I

had been last at Hampton Court. I replied, 'It will be on Tuesday come

se'nnight.' Pr'ythee allow me at least to kiss your hand before that

day, that my mind may be in some composure. O love!

A thousand torments dwell about thee!

Yet who would live to live without thee?

Methinks I could write a volume to you; but all the language on earth

would fail in saying how much, and with what disinterested passion, I

am ever yours.

TO HIS WIFE

_He proposes an outing_

Lord Sunderland's Office, 19 May, 1708.

Eleven o'clock.

Dear Prue,--I desire you to get the coach and yourself ready as soon

as you can conveniently, and call for me here, from whence we will go

and spend some time together in the fresh air in free conference. Let

my best periwig be put in the coach-box, and my new shoes, for it is

a great comfort to be well dressed in agreeable company. You are vital

life to your obliged, affectionate husband, and humble servant.

TO THE SAME

_His greatest affliction_

12 _Aug._ 1708.

Madam,--I have your letter, wherein you let me know that the little

dispute we have had is far from being a trouble to you; nevertheless

I assure you, any disturbance between us is the greatest affliction to

me imaginable. You talk of the judgement of the world; I shall never

govern my actions by it, but by the rules of morality and right

reason. I love you better than the light of my eyes or the life-blood

in my heart; but you are also to understand that neither my sight

shall be so far enchanted, nor my affection so much master of me,

as to make me forget our common interest. To attend my business as

I ought, and improve my fortune, it is necessary that my time and

my will should be under no direction but my own.... I write all this

rather to explain my own thoughts to you, than to answer your letter

distinctly. I enclose it to you, that upon second thoughts, you may

see the disrespectful manner in which you treat

Your affectionate, faithful husband.

TO THE SAME

_Four characteristic notes_

From the Press, one in the morning, 30 _Sept._ 1710.

Dear Prue,--I am very sleepy and tired, but could not think of closing

my eyes till I had told you I am, dearest creature,

Your most affectionate and faithful husband.

Bloomsbury Square, 24 _Dec._ 1713.

Dear Prue,--I dine with Lord Halifax and shall be at home half hour

after six. For thee I die, for thee I languish.

III

16 _Feb._ 1716-17.

Dear Prue,--Sober or not, I am ever yours.

Thursday, 3 in the afternoon, 2 _May_, 1717.

I had a very painful night last night; but, after a little chocolate

an hour or two ago, and a chicken for dinner, am much more at ease.

TO THE SAME

_The natural slave of beauty_.

20 _June_, 1717.

Dear Prue,--I have yours of the 14th, and am infinitely obliged to you

for the length of it. I do not know another whom I could commend for

that circumstance; but where we entirely love, the continuance of

anything they do to please us is a pleasure. As for your relations,

once for all, pray take it for granted, that my regard and conduct

towards all and singular of them shall be as you direct.

I hope, by the grace of God, to continue what you wish me, every

way, an honest man. My wife and my children are the objects that have

wholly taken up my heart; and as I am not invited or encouraged in

anything which regards the public, I am easy under that neglect or

envy of my past actions, and cheerfully contract that diffusive spirit

within the interests of my own family. You are the head of us; and I

stoop to a female reign as being naturally made the slave of beauty.

But to prepare for our manner of living when we are again together,

give me leave to say, while I am here at leisure, and come to lie at

Chelsea, what I think may contribute to our better way of living.

I very much approve Mrs. Evans and her husband; and if you take my

advice, I would have them a being in our house, and Mrs. Clark the

care and inspection of the nursery. I would have you entirely

at leisure to pass your time with me in diversions, in books, in

entertainments, and no manner of business intrude upon us but at

stated times. For, though you are made to be the delight of my eyes,

and food of all my senses and faculties, yet a turn of care

and housewifery, and I know not what prepossession against

conversation-pleasures, robs me of the witty and the handsome woman

to a degree not to be expressed. I will work my brains and fingers to

procure us plenty of all things, and demand nothing of you but to take

delight in agreeable dresses, cheerful discourses, and gay sights,

attended by me. This may be done by putting the kitchen and the

nursery in the hands I propose; and I shall have nothing to do but to

pass as much time at home as I possibly can, in the best company in

the world. We cannot tell here what to think of the trial of my Lord

Oxford; if the ministry are in earnest in that, and I should see it

will be extended to a length of time, I will leave them to themselves,

and wait upon you. Miss Moll grows a mighty beauty, and she shall be

very prettily dressed, as likewise shall Betty and Eugene: and if

I throw away a little money in adorning my brats, I hope you will

forgive me: they are, I thank God, all very well; and the charming

form of their mother has tempered the likeness they bear to their

rough sire, who is, with the greatest fondness,

Your most obliged and obedient husband.

JOHN GAY

1685-1732

TO JONATHAN SWIFT

_Concerning Gulliver_

17 _Nov._ 1726.

About ten days ago a book was published here of the travels of one

Gulliver, which has been the conversation of the whole town ever

since: the whole impression sold in a week: and nothing is more

diverting than to hear the different opinions people give of it,

though all agree in liking it extremely. It is generally said that you

are the author; but I am told the bookseller declares, he knows

not from what hand it came. From the highest to the lowest it is

universally read, from the cabinet-council to the nursery. The

politicians to a man agree, that it is free from particular

reflections, but that the satire on general societies of men is

too severe. Not but we now and then meet with people of greater

perspicuity, who are in search for particular applications in every

leaf; and it is highly probable we shall have keys published to

give light into Gulliver's design. Lord ---- is the person who least

approves it, blaming it as a design of evil consequence to depreciate

human nature, at which it cannot be wondered that he takes most

offence, being himself the most accomplished of his species, and so

losing more than any other of that praise which is due both to the

dignity and virtue of a man. Your friend, my Lord Harcourt, commends

it very much, though he thinks in some places the matter too far

carried. The Duchess Dowager of Marlborough is in raptures at it; she

says she can dream of nothing else since she read it: she declares

that she has now found out that her whole life has been lost in

caressing the worst part of mankind, and treating the best as her

foes: and that if she knew Gulliver, though he had been the worst

enemy she ever had, she should give up her present acquaintance for

his friendship. You may see by this, that you are not much injured

by being supposed the author of this piece. If you are, you have

disobliged us, and two or three of your best friends, in not giving

us the least hint of it while you were with us; and in particular Dr.

Arbuthnot, who says it is ten thousand pities he had not known it, he

could have added such abundance of things upon every subject. Among

lady critics, some have found out that Mr. Gulliver had a particular

malice to maids of honour. Those of them who frequent the church, say

his design is impious, and that it is depreciating the works of the

Creator.

Notwithstanding, I am told the princess has read it with great

pleasure. As to other critics, they think the flying island is the

least entertaining; and so great an opinion the town have of the

impossibility of Gulliver's writing at all below himself, it is agreed

that part was not writ by the same hand, though this has its defenders

too. It has passed lords and commons, _nemine contradicente_; and the

whole town, men, women, and children, are quite full of it.

Perhaps I may all this time be talking to you of a book you have never

seen, and which has not yet reached Ireland; if it has not, I believe

what we have said will be sufficient to recommend it to your reading,

and that you will order me to send it to you.

But it will be much better to come over yourself, and read it here,

where you will have the pleasure of variety of commentators, to

explain the difficult passages to you.

We all rejoice that you have fixed the precise time of your coming to

be _cum hirundine prima_; which we modern naturalists pronounce,

ought to be reckoned, contrary to Pliny, in this northern latitude of

fifty-two degrees, from the end of February, Styl. Greg., at furthest.

But to us, your friends, the coming of such a black swallow as you

will make a summer in the worst of seasons. We are no less glad at

your mention of Twickenham and Dawley; and in town you know, you have

a lodging at court.

The princess is clothed in Irish silk; pray give our service to the

weavers. We are strangely surprised to hear that the bells in Ireland

ring without your money. I hope you do not write the thing that is

not. We are afraid that B---- hath been guilty of that crime, that you

(like a houyhnhnm) have treated him as a yahoo, and discarded him your

service. I fear you do not understand these modish terms, which every

creature now understands but yourself.

You tell us your wine is bad, and that the clergy do not frequent your

house, which we look upon to be tautology. The best advice we can give

you is, to make them a present of your wine, and come away to better.

You fancy we envy you, but you are mistaken; we envy those you are

with, for we cannot envy the man we love. Adieu.

ALEXANDER POPE

1688-1744

TO WILLIAM WYCHERLEY

_Dryden and his critics_

Binfield in Windsor Forest, 26 _Dec_. 1704.

It was certainly a great satisfaction to me to see and converse with

a man, whom in his writings I had so long known with pleasure; but

it was a high addition to it, to hear you, at our very first meeting,

doing justice to your dead friend Mr. Dryden. I was not so happy as to

know him: _Virgilium tantum vidi_. Had I been born early enough I

must have known and loved him: for I have been assured, not only

by yourself, but by Mr. Congreve and Sir William Trumbul, that his

personal qualities were as amiable as his poetical, notwithstanding

the many libellous misrepresentations of them, against which the

former of these gentlemen has told me he will one day vindicate him. I

suppose those injuries were begun by the violence of party, but it

is no doubt they were continued by envy at his success and fame. And

those scribblers who attacked him in his latter times, were only like

gnats in a summer's evening, which are never very troublesome but in

the finest and most glorious season; for his fire, like the sun's,

shined clearest towards its setting.

You must not therefore imagine, that when you told me my own

performances were above those critics, I was so vain as to believe it;

and yet I may not be so humble as to think myself quite below their

notice. For critics, as they are birds of prey, have ever a natural

inclination to carrion: and though such poor writers as I are but

beggars, no beggar is so poor but he can keep a cur, and no author

is so beggarly but he can keep a critic. I am far from thinking the

attacks of such people any honour or dishonour even to me, much less

to Mr. Dryden. I agree with you that whatever lesser wits have arisen

since his death are but like stars appearing when the sun is set, that

twinkle only in his absence, and with the rays they have borrowed

from him. Our wit (as you call it) is but reflection or imitation,

therefore scarce to be called ours. True wit, I believe, may be

defined a justness of thought, and a facility of expression....

However, this is far from a complete definition; pray help me to a

better, as I doubt not you can.

TO JOSEPH ADDISON

_A few thoughts from a rambling head_

14 _Dec_. 1713.

I have been lying in wait for my own imagination, this week and more,

and watching what thoughts came up in the whirl of the fancy, that

were worth communicating to you in a letter. But I am at length

convinced that my rambling head can produce nothing of that sort; so

I must e'en be content with telling you the old story, that I love

you heartily. I have often found by experience, that nature and

truth, though never so low or vulgar, are yet pleasing when openly and

artlessly represented: it would be diverting to me to read the very

letters of an infant, could it write its innocent inconsistencies and

tautologies just as it thought them. This makes me hope a letter from

me will not be unwelcome to you, when I am conscious I write with more

unreservedness than ever man wrote, or perhaps talked, to another. I

trust your good nature with the whole range of my follies, and really

love you so well, that I would rather you should pardon me than esteem

me; since one is an act of goodness and benevolence, the other a kind

of constrained deference.

You cannot wonder my thoughts are scarce consistent, when I tell you

how they are distracted. Every hour of my life my mind is strangely

divided; this minute perhaps I am above the stars, with a thousand

systems round about me, looking forward into a vast abyss, and

losing my whole comprehension in the boundless space of creation, in

dialogues with Whiston and the astronomers; the next moment I am below

all trifles, grovelling with T---- in the very centre of nonsense: now

I am recreated with the brisk sallies and quick turns of wit, which

Mr. Steele, in his liveliest and freest humours, darts about him; and

now levelling my application to the insignificant observations and

quirks of grammar of C---- and D----.

Good God! what an incongruous animal is man! how unsettled in his best

part, his soul; and how changing and variable in his frame of body!

the constancy of the one shook by every notion, the temperament of the

other affected by every blast of wind! What is he, altogether, but a

mighty inconsistency; sickness and pain is the lot of one half of him,

doubt and fear the portion of the other! What a bustle we make about

passing our time when all our space is but a point! what aims and

ambitions are crowded into this little instant of our life, which

(as Shakespeare finely worded it) is rounded with a sleep! Our whole

extent of being is no more, in the eye of Him who gave it, than a

scarce perceptible moment of duration. Those animals whose circle of

living is limited to three or four hours, as the naturalists tell us,

are yet as long-lived, and possess as wide a field of action as man,

if we consider him with a view to all space and all eternity. Who

knows what plots, what achievements a mite may perform in his kingdom

of a grain of dust, within his life of some minutes; and of how much

less consideration than even this, is the life of man in the sight of

God, who is for ever and ever?

Who that thinks in this train, but must see the world, and its

contemptible grandeurs, lessen before him at every thought? It is

enough to make one remain stupefied in a poise of inaction, void of

all desires, of all designs, of all friendships.

But we must return (through our very condition of being) to our narrow

selves, and those things that affect ourselves: our passions, our

interests flow in upon us and unphilosophize us into mere mortals. For

my part, I never return so much into myself, as when I think of

you, whose friendship is one of the best comforts I have for the

insignificancy of myself.

TO JONATHAN SWIFT

_Friends to posterity_

23 _March_, 1727-8.

I send you a very odd thing, a paper printed in Boston, in New

England, wherein you will find a real person, a member of their

parliament, of the name of Jonathan Gulliver. If the fame of that

traveller has travelled thither, it has travelled very quick, to have

folks christened already by the name of the supposed author. But if

you object that no child so lately christened could be arrived at

years of maturity to be elected into parliament, I reply (to solve the

riddle) that the person is an Anabaptist, and not christened till

full age, which sets all right. However it be, the accident is very

singular that these two names should be united.

Mr. Gay's opera has been acted near forty days running, and will

certainly continue the whole season. So he has more than a fence about

his thousand pounds; he will soon be thinking of a fence about his two

thousand. Shall no one of us live as we would wish each other to live?

Shall he have no annuity, you no settlement on this side, and I

no prospect of getting to you on the other? This world is made for

Caesar,--as Cato said, for ambitious, false, or flattering people to

domineer in; nay, they would not, by their good will, leave us our

very books, thoughts, or words in quiet. I despise the world yet, I

assure you, more than either Gay or you, and the court more than all

the rest of the world. As for those scribblers for whom you apprehend

I would suppress my _Dulness_ (which, by the way, for the future you

are to call by a more pompous name, the _Dunciad_), how much that nest

of hornets are my regard will easily appear to you when you read the

_Treatise of the Bathos_.

At all adventures, yours and mine shall stand linked as friends

to posterity, both in verse and prose, and (as Tully calls it) _in

consuetudine studiorum_. Would to God our persons could but as well

and as surely be inseparable! I find my other ties dropping from me;

some worn off, some torn off, some relaxing daily: my greatest, both

by duty, gratitude, and humanity, time is shaking every moment, and

it now hangs but by a thread! I am many years the older for living so

much with one so old; much the more helpless for having been so long

helped and tendered by her; much the more considerate and tender, for

a daily commerce with one who required me justly to be both to her;

and consequently the more melancholy and thoughtful; and the less fit

for others, who want only in a companion or a friend to be amused or

entertained. My constitution too has had its share of decay as well as

my spirits, and I am as much in the decline at forty as you at sixty.

I believe we should be fit to live together could I get a little more

health, which might make me not quite insupportable. Your deafness

would agree with my dulness; you would not want me to speak when

you could not hear. But God forbid you should be as destitute of the

social comforts of life as I must when I lose my mother; or that ever

you should lose your more useful acquaintance so utterly, as to turn

your thoughts to such a broken reed as I am, who could so ill supply

your wants. I am extremely troubled at the return of your deafness;

you cannot be too particular in the accounts of your health to me;

everything you do or say in this kind obliges me, nay, delights me,

to see the justice you do me in thinking me concerned in all your

concerns; so that though the pleasantest thing you can tell me be that

you are better or easier; next to that it pleases me that you make me

the person you would complain to.

As the obtaining the love of valuable men is the happiest end I

know of this life, so the next felicity is to get rid of fools and

scoundrels; which I cannot but own to you was one part of my design in

falling upon these authors, whose incapacity is not greater than their

insincerity, and of whom I have always found (if I may quote myself),

That each bad author is as bad a friend.

This poem will rid me of these insects.

Cedite, Romani scriptores, cedite, Graii;

_Nescio quid_ maius nascitur Iliade.

I mean than _my Iliad_; and I call it _Nescio quid_, which is a degree

of modesty; but however, if it silence these fellows, it must be

something greater than any _Iliad_ in Christendom. Adieu.

TO THE SAME

_A farming friend, and the Dunciad_

Dawley, 28 _June_, 1728.

I now hold the pen for my Lord Bolingbroke, who is reading your

letter between two haycocks, but his attention is somewhat diverted by

casting his eyes on the clouds, not in admiration of what you say,

but for fear of a shower. He is pleased with your placing him in the

triumvirate between yourself and me: though he says, that he doubts he

shall fare like Lepidus, while one of us runs away with all the power,

like Augustus, and another with all the pleasures, like Anthony. It is

upon a foresight of this that he has fitted up his farm, and you will

agree that his scheme of retreat at least is not founded upon weak

appearances. Upon his return from the Bath, all peccant humours, he

finds, are purged out of him; and his great temperance and economy are

so signal, that the first is fit for my constitution, and the latter

would enable you to lay up so much money as to buy a bishopric in

England. As to the return of his health and vigour, were you here, you

might inquire of his haymakers; but as to his temperance, I can answer

that (for one whole day) we have had nothing for dinner but mutton

broth, beans, and bacon, and a barn-door fowl.

Now his lordship is run after his cart, I have a moment left to myself

to tell you, that I overheard him yesterday agree with a painter

for L200, to paint his country hall with trophies of rakes, spades,

prongs, &c., and other ornaments, merely to countenance his calling

this place a farm--now turn over a new leaf.

He bids me assure you, he should be sorry not to have more schemes of

kindness for his friends than of ambition for himself; there, though

his schemes may be weak, the motives at least are strong; and he

says farther, if you could bear as great a fall and decrease of your

revenues, as he knows by experience he can, you would not live in

Ireland an hour.

The _Dunciad_ is going to be printed in all pomp, with the

inscription, which makes me proudest. It will be attended with

_proeme, prolegomena, testimonia scriptorum, index authorum_, and

notes _variorum_. As to the latter, I desire you to read over the

text, and make a few in any way you like best; whether dry raillery,

upon the style and way of commenting of trivial critics; or humourous,

upon the authors in the poem; or historical, of persons, places,

times; or explanatory, or collecting the parallel passages of the

ancients. Adieu. I am pretty well, my mother not ill, Dr. Arbuthnot

vexed with his fever by intervals; I am afraid he declines, and we

shall lose a worthy man: I am troubled about him very much.

TO THE SAME

_An invitation to England_

23 _March_, 1736-7.

Though you were never to write to me, yet what you desired in your

last, that I would write often to you, would be a very easy task: for

every day I talk with you, and of you, in my heart; and I need only

set down what that is thinking of. The nearer I find myself verging to

that period of life which is to be labour and sorrow, the more I prop

myself upon those few supports that are left me. People in this state

are like props indeed; they cannot stand alone, but two or more of

them can stand, leaning and bearing upon one another. I wish you and I

might pass this part of life together. My only necessary care is at

an end. I am now my own master too much; my house is too large; my

gardens furnish too much wood and provision for my use. My servants

are sensible and tender of me; they have intermarried, and are become

rather low friends than servants; and to all those that I see here

with pleasure, they take a pleasure in being useful. I conclude this

is your case too in your domestic life, and I sometimes think of your

old housekeeper as my nurse, though I tremble at the sea, which only

divides us. As your fears are not so great as mine, and I firmly hope

your strength still much greater, is it utterly impossible it might

once more be some pleasure to you to see England? My sole motive in

proposing France to meet in, was the narrowness of the passage by sea

from hence, the physicians having told me the weakness of my breast,

&c., is such, as a sea-sickness might endanger my life. Though one or

two of our friends are gone since you saw your native country, there

remain a few more who will last so till death; and who I cannot but

hope have an attractive power to draw you back to a country which

cannot quite be sunk or enslaved, while such spirits remain. And let

me tell you, there are a few more of the same spirit, who would awaken

all your old ideas, and revive your hopes of her future recovery and

virtue. These look up to you with reverence, and would be animated by

the sight of him at whose soul they have taken fire in his writings,

and derived from thence as much love of their species as is consistent

with a contempt for the knaves in it.

I could never be weary, except at the eyes, of writing to you; but my

real reason (and a strong one it is) for doing it so seldom, is fear;

fear of a very great and experienced evil, that of my letters being

kept by the partiality of friends, and passing into the hands and

malice of enemies, who publish them with all their imperfections on

their head, so that I write not on the common terms of honest men.

Would to God you would come over with Lord Orrery, whose care of you

in the voyage I could so certainly depend on; and bring with you your

old housekeeper and two or three servants. I have room for all, a

heart for all, and (think what you will) a fortune for all. We could,

were we together, contrive to make our last days easy, and leave some

sort of monument, what friends two wits could be in spite of all the

fools in the world. Adieu.

SAMUEL RICHARDSON

1689-1761

TO MISS MULSO

_A discussion on love_

3 _Sept_. 1751.

In another place, you are offended with the word gratitude; as if your

idea of love excluded gratitude.

And further on, you are offended that I call this same passion 'a

little selfish passion'.

And you say that you have known few girls, and still fewer men, whom

you have thought 'capable of being in love'.

'By this', proceed you, 'you will see that my ideas of the word love

are different from yours, when you call it a little selfish passion.'

Now, madam, if that passion is not little and selfish that makes two

vehement souls prefer the gratification of each other, often to a

sense of duty, and always to the whole world without them, be pleased

to tell me what is? And pray be so good as to define to me what the

noble passion is, of which so few people of either sex are capable.

Give me your ideas of it.

I put not this question as a puzzler, a bamboozler, but purely for

information; and that I may make my Sir Charles susceptible of the

generous (may I say generous?) flame, and yet know what he is about,

yet be a reasonable man.

Harriet's passion is founded in gratitude for relief given her in a

great exigence. But the man who rescued her is not, it seems, to have

such a word as gratitude in his head, in return for her love.

I repeat, that I will please you if I can; please you, Miss Mulso,

I here mean (before I meant not you particularly, my dear, but your

sex), in Sir Charles's character; and I sincerely declare, that I

would rather form his character to your liking, than to the liking of

three parts out of four of the persons I am acquainted with.

You are one of my best girls, and best judges. Of whom have I the

opinion that I have of Miss Mulso on these nice subjects?--I ask

therefore repeatedly for your definition of the passion which you

dignify by the word noble; and from which you exclude everything mean,

little, or selfish.

And you really think it marvellous that a young woman should find a

man of exalted merit to be in love with? Why, truly, I am half of your

mind; for how should people find what, in general, they do not seek?

Yet what good creatures are many girls! They will be in love for all

that.

Why, yes, to be sure, they would be glad of a Sir Charles Grandison,

and prefer him even to a Lovelace, were he capable of being terribly

in love. And yet, I know one excellent girl who is afraid 'that ladies

in general will think him too wise'.--Dear, dear girls, help me to a

few monkey-tricks to throw into his character, in order to shield him

from contempt for his wisdom.

'It is one of my maxims,' you say, 'that people even of bad hearts

will admire and love people of good ones.' Very true!--and yet

admiration and love, in the sense before us, do not always shake

hands, except at parting, and with an intention never to meet again. I

have known women who professed to admire good men, but have chosen

to marry men--not so good, when lovers of both sorts have tendered

themselves to their acceptance. There is something very pretty in the

sound of the word wild, added to the word fellow; and good sense is

a very grateful victim to be sacrificed on the altar of love. Fervour

and extravagance in expressions will please. How shall a woman,

who, moreover, loves to be admired, know a man's heart, but from

his lips?--Let him find flattery, and she will find credulity. Sweet

souls! can they be always contradicting?

You believe it is not in human nature, however depraved, to prefer

evil to good in another, whatever people may do in themselves. Why, no

one would really think so, did not experience convince us that many,

very many young women, in the article of marriage, though not before

thought to be very depraved, are taken by this green sickness of the

soul, and prefer dirt and rubbish to wholesome diet. The result of the

matter is this, with very many young women: they will admire a good

man, but they will marry a bad one. Are not rakes pretty fellows?

But one thing let me add, to comfort you in relation to Harriet's

difficulties: I intend to make her shine by her cordial approbation,

as she goes along, of every good action of her beloved. She is

humbled by her love (suspense in love is a mortifier) to think herself

inferior to his sisters; but I intend to raise her above them, even

in her own just opinion; and when she shines out the girl worthy of

a man, not exalt, but reward her, and at the same time make him think

himself highly rewarded by the love of so frank and so right an heart.

There now!--Will that do, my Miss Mulso?

I laid indeed a heavy hand on the good Clarissa. But I had begun with

her, with a view to the future saint in her character; and could she,

but by sufferings, shine as she does?

Do you, my dear child, look upon me as your paternal friend.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

1689-1762

TO THE COUNTESS OF MAR

_The Viennese court_

Vienna, 14 _Sept_. o.s. [1716].

Though I have so lately troubled you, my dear sister, with a long

letter, yet I will keep my promise in giving you an account of my

first going to court.

In order to that ceremony, I was squeezed up in a gown, and adorned

with a gorget and the other implements thereunto belonging: a dress

very inconvenient, but which certainly shews the neck and shape

to great advantage. I cannot forbear in this place giving you some

description of the fashions here, which are more monstrous and

contrary to all common sense and reason, than 'tis possible for you

to imagine. They build certain fabrics of gauze on their heads about

a yard high, consisting of three or four stories, fortified with

numberless yards of heavy ribbon. The foundation of this structure is

a thing they call a _Bourle_, which is exactly of the same shape

and kind, but about four times as big, as those rolls our prudent

milk-maids make use of to fix their pails upon. This machine they

cover with their own hair, which they mix with a great deal of false,

it being a particular beauty to have their heads too large to go into

a moderate tub. Their hair is prodigiously powdered, to conceal the

mixture, and set out with three or four rows of bodkins (wonderfully

large, that stick two or three inches from their hair), made of

diamonds, pearls, red, green, and yellow stones, that it certainly

requires as much art and experience to carry the load upright, as to

dance upon May-day with the garland. Their whalebone petticoats outdo

ours by several yards circumference, and cover some acres of ground.

You may easily suppose how much this extraordinary dress sets off and

improves the natural ugliness with which God Almighty has been pleased

to endow them all generally. Even the lovely empress herself is

obliged to comply, in some degree, with these absurd fashions, which

they would not quit for all the world. I had a private audience

(according to ceremony) of half an hour, and then all the other ladies

were permitted to come make their court. I was perfectly charmed

with the empress: I cannot, however, tell you that her features are

regular; her eyes are not large, but have a lively look, full of

sweetness; her complexion the finest I ever saw; her nose and forehead

well-made, but her mouth has ten thousand charms that touch the

soul. When she smiles, 'tis with a beauty and sweetness that force

adoration. She has a vast quantity of fine fair hair; but then her

person!--one must speak of it poetically to do it rigid justice; all

that the poets have said of the mien of Juno, the air of Venus, comes

not up to the truth. The Graces move with her; the famous statue of

Medicis was not formed with more delicate proportion; nothing can be

added to the beauty of her neck and hands. Till I saw them, I did not

believe there were any in nature so perfect, and I was almost sorry

that my rank here did not permit me to kiss them; but they are kissed

sufficiently; for every body that waits on her pays that homage at

their entrance, and when they take leave.

When the ladies were come in, she sat down to Quinze. I could not play

at a game I had never seen before, and she ordered me a seat at her

right hand, and had the goodness to talk to me very much, with that

grace so natural to her. I expected every moment when the men were to

come in to pay their court; but this drawing-room is very different

from that of England; no man enters it but the old grand-master, who

comes in to advertize the empress of the approach of the emperor.

His imperial majesty did me the honour of speaking to me in a very

obliging manner; but he never speaks to any of the other ladies; and

the whole passes with a gravity and air of ceremony that has something

very formal in it.

The empress Amelia, dowager of the late emperor Joseph, came

this evening to wait on the reigning empress, followed by the two

archduchesses her daughters, who are very agreeable young princesses.

Their imperial majesties rise and go to meet her at the door of the

room, after which she is seated in an armed chair, next the empress,

and in the same manner at supper, and there the men had the permission

of paying their Court. The archduchesses sit on chairs with backs

without arms. The table is entirely served, and all the dishes set on

by the empress's maids of honour, which are twelve young ladies of the

first quality. They have no salary, but their chambers at court, where

they live in a sort of confinement, not being suffered to go to the

assemblies or public places in town, except in compliment to the

wedding of a sister maid, whom the empress always presents with her

picture set in diamonds. The three first of them are called _Ladies

of the Key_, and wear gold keys by their sides; but what I find most

pleasant, is the custom which obliges them, as long as they live,

after they have left the empress's service, to make her some present

every year on the day of her feast. Her majesty is served by no

married women but the _grande maitresse_, who is generally a widow of

the first quality, always very old, and is at the same time groom of

the stole, and mother of the maids. The dresses are not at all in the

figure they pretend to in England, being looked upon no otherwise than

as downright chambermaids.

I had audience next day of the empress mother, a princess of great

virtue and goodness, but who piques herself so much on a violent

devotion; she is perpetually performing extraordinary acts of penance,

without having ever done anything to deserve them. She has the same

number of maids of honour, whom she suffers to go in colours; but she

herself never quits her mourning; and sure nothing can be more dismal

than the mourning here, even for a brother. There is not the least bit

of linen to be seen; all black crape instead of it. The neck, ears,

and side of the face covered with a plaited piece of the same stuff,

and the face that peeps out in the midst of it, looks as if it were

pilloried. The widows wear, over and above, a crape forehead cloth;

and in this solemn weed go to all the public places of diversion

without scruple. The next day I was to wait on the empress Amelia, who

is now at her palace of retirement half a mile from the town. I had

there the pleasure of seeing a diversion wholly new to me, but which

is the common amusement of this court. The empress herself was seated

on a little throne at the end of a fine alley in the garden, and on

each side of her were ranged two parties of her ladies of honour with

other young ladies of quality, headed by the two young archduchesses,

all dressed in their hair full of jewels, with fine light guns in

their hands; and at proper distances were placed three oval pictures,

which were the marks to be shot at. The first was that of a CUPID,

filling a bumper of Burgundy, and this motto, '_Tis easy to be valiant

here_. The second a FORTUNE, holding a garland in her hand, the motto,

_For her whom Fortune favours_. The third was a SWORD, with a laurel

wreath on the point, the motto, _Here is no shame to the vanquished_.

Near the empress was a gilded trophy wreathed with flowers, and made

of little crooks, on which were hung rich Turkish handkerchiefs,

tippets, ribbons, laces, etc., for the small prizes. The empress gave

the first with her own hand, which was a fine ruby ring set round

with diamonds, in a gold snuff-box. There was for the second, a little

Cupid set with brilliants; and besides these, a set of fine china for

a tea-table enchased in gold, japan trunks, fans, and many gallantries

of the same nature. All the men of quality at Vienna were spectators;

but only the ladies had permission to shoot, and the Archduchess

Amelia carried off the first prize. I was very well pleased with

having seen this entertainment, and I do not know but it might make as

good a figure as the prize-shooting in the _Eneid_, if I could write

as well as Virgil. This is the favourite pleasure of the emperor, and

there is rarely a week without some feast of this kind, which makes

the young ladies skilful enough to defend a fort, and they laughed

very much to see me afraid to handle a gun.

My dear sister, you will easily pardon an abrupt conclusion. I

believe, by this time, you are ready to fear I would never conclude at

all.

To MRS. SARAH CHISWELL

_Ingrafting for small-pox_

Adrianople, 1 _April_, O.S. [1717].

In my opinion, dear S., I ought rather to quarrel with you for not

answering my Nimeguen letter of August till December, than to excuse

my not writing again till now. I am sure there is on my side a very

good excuse for silence, having gone such tiresome land-journeys,

though I don't find the conclusion of them so bad as you seem to

imagine. I am very easy here, and not in the solitude you fancy me.

The great number of Greek, French, English, and Italians, that are

under our protection, make their court to me from morning till night;

and, I'll assure you, are many of them very fine ladies; for there is

no possibility for a Christian to live easily under this government

but by the protection of an embassador--and the richer they are, the

greater their danger.

Those dreadful stories you have heard of the plague have very little

foundation in truth. I own I have much ado to reconcile myself to the

sound of a word which has always given me such terrible ideas, though

I am convinced there is little more in it than a fever. As a proof we

passed through two or three towns most violently infected. In the

very next house where we lay (in one of them) two persons died of it.

Luckily for me, I knew nothing of the matter; and I was made believe,

that our second cook who fell ill here, had only a great cold.

However, we left our doctor to take care of him, and yesterday they

both arrived here in good health; and now I am let into the secret

that he has had the _plague_. There are many that escape it; neither

is the air ever infected. I am persuaded that it would be as easy to

root it out here as out of Italy and France; but it does so little

mischief, they are not very solicitous about it, and are content to

suffer this distemper instead of our variety, which they are utterly

unacquainted with.

_A propos_ of distempers: I am going to tell you a thing that I am

sure will make you wish yourself here. The small-pox, so fatal and

so general among us, is here entirely harmless by the invention of

_ingrafting_, which is the term they give it. There is a set of

old women who make it their business to perform the operation every

autumn, in the month of September, when the great heat is abated.

People send to one another to know if any of their family has a mind

to have the small-pox: they make parties for this purpose, and when

they are met (commonly fifteen or sixteen together) the old woman

comes with a nut-shell full of the matter of the best sort of

small-pox, and asks what veins you please to have opened. She

immediately rips open that you offer to her with a large needle (which

gives you no more pain than a common scratch), and puts into the vein

as much venom as can lie upon the head of her needle, and after that

binds up the little wound with a hollow bit of shell; and in this

manner opens four or five veins. The Grecians have commonly the

superstition of opening one in the middle of the forehead, in each

arm, and on the breast, to mark the sign of the cross; but this has

a very ill effect, all these wounds leaving little scars, and is not

done by those that are not superstitious, who choose to have them in

the legs, or that part of the arm that is concealed. The children

or young patients play together all the rest of the day, and are in

perfect health to the eighth. Then the fever begins to seize them,

and they keep their beds two days, very seldom three. They have very

rarely above twenty or thirty in their faces, which never mark; and in

eight days' time they are as well as before their illness. Where they

are wounded, there remain running sores during the distemper, which I

don't doubt is a great relief to it. Every year thousands undergo this

operation; and the French embassador says pleasantly, that they take

the small-pox here by way of diversion, as they take the waters in

other countries. There is no example of any one that has died in it;

and you may believe I am very well satisfied of the safety of the

experiment, since I intend to try it on my dear little son.

I am patriot enough to take pains to bring this useful invention into

fashion in England; and I should not fail to write to some of our

doctors very particularly about it, if I knew any one of them that

I thought had virtue enough to destroy such a considerable branch

of their revenue for the good of mankind. But that distemper is too

beneficial to them not to expose to all their resentment the hardy

wight that should undertake to put an end to it. Perhaps, if I live

to return, I may, however, have courage to war with them. Upon this

occasion admire the heroism in the heart of your friend.

TO THE COUNTESS OF BRISTOL

_The Grand Signior a slave_

Adrianople, 1 _April_, o.s. 1717.

As I never can forget the smallest of your ladyship's commands, my

first business here has been to inquire after the stuffs you ordered

me to look for, without being able to find what you would like. The

difference of the dress here and at London is so great, the same sort

of things are not proper for _caftans_ and _manteaus_. However, I will

not give over my search, but renew it again at Constantinople, though

I have reason to believe there is nothing finer than what is to

be found here, being the present residence of the court. The Grand

Signior's eldest daughter was married some few days before I came; and

upon that occasion the Turkish ladies display all their magnificence.

The bride was conducted to her husband's house in very great

splendour. She is widow of the late Vizier, who was killed at

Peterwaradin, though that ought rather to be called a contract than a

marriage, not having ever lived with him: however, the greatest part

of his wealth is hers. He had the permission of visiting her in the

seraglio; and, being one of the handsomest men in the empire, had very

much engaged her affections.--When she saw this second husband, who is

at least fifty, she could not forbear bursting into tears. He is a man

of merit, and the declared favourite of the Sultan (which they call

_mosayp_); but that is not enough to make him pleasing in the eyes of

a girl of thirteen.

The government here is entirely in the hands of the army: and the

Grand Signior, with all his absolute power, as much a slave as any of

his subjects, and trembles at a janissary's frown. Here is, indeed,

a much greater appearance of subjection than among us: a minister of

state is not spoken to, but upon the knee; should a reflection on his

conduct be dropped in a coffee-house (for they have spies everywhere),

the house would be razed to the ground, and perhaps the whole company

put to the torture. No huzzaing mobs, senseless pamphlets, and tavern

disputes about politics:

A consequential ill that freedom draws;

A bad effect,--but from a noble cause.

None of our harmless calling names! but when a minister here

displeases the people, in three hours' time he is dragged even from

his master's arms. They cut off his hands, head, and feet, and throw

them before the palace gate, with all the respect in the world; while

that Sultan (to whom they all profess an unlimited adoration) sits

trembling in his apartment, and dare neither defend nor revenge his

favourite. This is the blessed condition of the most absolute monarch

upon earth, who owns no _law_ but his _will_. I cannot help wishing,

in the loyalty of my heart, that the parliament would send hither a

ship-load of your passive-obedient men, that they might see arbitrary

government in its clearest strongest light, where it is hard to judge

whether the prince, people, or ministers, are most miserable. I could

make many reflections on this subject; but I know, madam, your own

good sense has already furnished you with better than I am capable of.

I went yesterday with the French embassadors to see the Grand Signior

in his passage to the mosque. He was preceded by a numerous guard of

janissaries, with vast white feathers on their heads, _spahis_

and _bostangees_ (these are foot and horse guards), and the royal

gardeners, which are a very considerable body of men, dressed in

different habits of fine lively colours, that, at a distance,

they appeared like a parterre of tulips. After them the aga of the

janissaries, in a robe of purple velvet, lined with silver tissue,

his horse led by two slaves richly dressed. Next him the _Kyzlar-aga_

(your ladyship knows this is the chief guardian of the seraglio

ladies) in a deep yellow cloth (which suited very well to his black

face) lined with sables, and last his Sublimity himself, in green

lined with the fur of a black Muscovite fox, which is supposed worth

a thousand pounds sterling, mounted on a fine horse, with furniture

embroidered with jewels. Six more horses richly furnished were led

after him; and two of his principal courtiers bore, one his gold, and

the other his silver coffee-pot, on a staff; another carried a silver

stool on his head for him to sit on.

It would be too tedious to tell your ladyship the various dresses

and turbans by which their rank is distinguished; but they were

all extremely rich and gay, to the number of some thousands; that,

perhaps, there cannot be seen a more beautiful procession. The Sultan

appeared to us a handsome man of about forty, with a very graceful

air, but something severe in his countenance, his eyes very full and

black. He happened to stop under the window where we stood, and (I

suppose being told who we were) looked upon us very attentively,

that we had full leisure to consider him, and the French embassadress

agreed with me as to his good mien: I see that lady very often; she is

young, and her conversation would be a great relief to me, if I could

persuade her to live without those forms and ceremonies that make

life formal and tiresome. But she is so delighted with her guards, her

four-and-twenty footmen, gentlemen ushers, etc., that she would rather

die than make me a visit without them: not to reckon a coachful of

attending damsels yclep'd maids of honour. What vexes me is, that as

long as she will visit with a troublesome equipage, I am obliged to do

the same: however, our mutual interest makes us much together.

I went with her the other day all round the town, in an open gilt

chariot, with our joint train of attendants, preceded by our guards,

who might have summoned the people to see what they had never seen,

nor ever would see again--two young Christian embassadresses never yet

having been in this country at the same time, nor I believe ever will

again. Your ladyship may easily imagine that we drew a vast crowd

of spectators, but all silent as death. If any of them had taken the

liberties of our mob upon any strange sight, our janissaries had made

no scruple of falling on them with their scimitars, without danger for

so doing, being above law.

Yet these people have some good qualities; they are very zealous and

faithful where they serve, and look upon it as their business to fight

for you upon all occasions. Of this I had a very pleasant instance in

a village on this side Philipopolis, where we were met by our domestic

guard. I happened to bespeak pigeons for my supper, upon which one of

my janissaries went immediately to the Cadi (the chief civil officer

of the town), and ordered him to send in some dozens. The poor man

answered that he had already sent about, but could get none. My

janissary, in the height of his zeal for my service, immediately

locked him up prisoner in his room, telling him he deserved death for

his impudence, in offering to excuse his not obeying my command; but,

out of respect to me, he would not punish him but by my order, and

accordingly, came very gravely to me, to ask what should be done to

him; adding, by way of compliment, that if I pleased he would bring me

his head. This may give you some idea of the unlimited power of these

fellows, who are all sworn brothers, and bound to revenge the injuries

done to one another, whether at Cairo, Aleppo, or any part of the

world; and this inviolable league makes them so powerful, that the

greatest man at court never speaks to them but in a flattering

tone; and in Asia, any man that is rich is forced to enrol himself a

janissary, to secure his estate.

But I have already said enough; and I dare swear, dear madam, that, by

this time, 'tis a very comfortable reflection to you that there is no

possibility of your receiving such a tedious letter but once in

six months; 'tis that consideration has given me the assurance to

entertain you so long, and will, I hope, plead the excuse of, dear

madam, &c.

To THE COUNTESS OF MAR

_The Grand Vizier's lady_

Adrianople, 18 _April_, O.S. [1717].

I wrote to you, dear sister, and to all my other English

correspondents, by the last ship, and only Heaven can tell when I

shall have another opportunity of sending to you; but I cannot forbear

writing, though perhaps my letter may lie upon my hands this two

months. To confess the truth, my head is so full of my entertainment

yesterday, that 'tis absolutely necessary for my own repose to give it

some vent. Without farther preface, I will then begin my story. I was

invited to dine with the Grand Vizier's lady, and it was with a great

deal of pleasure I prepared myself for an entertainment which was

never given before to any Christian. I thought I should very little

satisfy her curiosity (which I did not doubt was a considerable

motive to the invitation) by going in a dress she was used to see, and

therefore dressed myself in the court habit of Vienna, which is much

more magnificent than ours. However, I chose to go _incognita_, to

avoid any disputes about ceremony, and went in a Turkish coach, only

attended by my woman that held up my train, and the Greek lady who was

my interpretress. I was met at the court door by her black eunuch,

who helped me out of the coach with great respect, and conducted me

through several rooms, where her she-slaves, finely dressed, were

ranged on each side. In the innermost I found the lady sitting on her

sofa, in a sable vest. She advanced to meet me, and presented me half

a dozen of her friends with great civility. She seemed a very good

woman, near fifty years old. I was surprised to observe so little

magnificence in her house, the furniture being all very moderate; and

except the habits and number of her slaves, nothing about her that

appeared expensive. She guessed at my thoughts, and told me that

she was no longer of an age to spend either her time or money in

superfluities; that her whole expense was in charity, and her whole

employment praying to God. There was no affectation in this speech;

both she and her husband are entirely given up to devotion. He never

looks upon any other woman; and, what is much more extraordinary,

touches no bribes, notwithstanding the example of all his

predecessors. He is so scrupulous on this point, he would not accept

Mr. Wortley's present, till he had been assured over and over that

it was a settled perquisite of his place at the entrance of every

ambassador.

She entertained me with all kind of civility till dinner came in,

which was served, one dish at a time, to a vast number, all finely

dressed after their manner, which I do not think so bad as you have

perhaps heard it represented. I am a very good judge of their eating,

having lived three weeks in the house of an _effendi_ at Belgrade, who

gave us very magnificent dinners, dressed by his own cooks, which the

first week pleased me extremely; but I own I then began to grow weary

of it, and desired our own cook might add a dish or two after our

manner. But I attribute this to custom. I am very much inclined to

believe an Indian, that had never tasted of either, would prefer their

cookery to ours. Their sauces are very high, all the roast very much

done. They use a great deal of rich spice. The soup is served for the

last dish; and they have at least as great variety of ragouts as we

have. I was very sorry I could not eat of as many as the good lady

would have had me, who was very earnest in serving me of everything.

The treat concluded with coffee and perfumes, which is a high mark

of respect; two slaves kneeling censed my hair, clothes, and

handkerchief. After this ceremony, she commanded her slaves to play

and dance, which they did with their guitars in their hands; and

she excused to me their want of skill, saying she took no care to

accomplish them in that art.

I returned her thanks, and soon after took my leave. I was conducted

back in the same manner I entered; and would have gone straight to my

own house; but the Greek lady with me earnestly solicited me to visit

the _Kiyaya's_ lady, saying, he was the second officer in the empire,

and ought indeed to be looked upon as the first, the Grand Vizier

having only the name, while he exercised the authority. I had found so

little diversion in this harem, that I had no mind to go into another.

But her importunity prevailed with me, and I am extreme glad that I

was so complaisant.

All things here were with quite another air than at the Grand

Vizier's; and the very house confessed the difference between an old

devotee and a young beauty. It was nicely clean and magnificent. I

was met at the door by two black eunuchs, who led me through a long

gallery between two ranks of beautiful young girls, with their hair

finely plaited, almost hanging to their feet, all dressed in fine

light damasks, brocaded with silver. I was sorry that decency did not

permit me to stop to consider them nearer. But that thought was lost

upon my entrance into a large room, or rather pavilion, built round

with gilded sashes, which were most of them thrown up, and the trees

planted near them gave an agreeable shade, which hindered the sun from

being troublesome. The jessamines and honeysuckles that twisted round

their trunks, shedding a soft perfume, increased by a white marble

fountain playing sweet water in the lower part of the room, which fell

into three or four basins with a pleasing sound. The roof was painted

with all sort of flowers, falling out of gilded baskets, that seemed

tumbling down. On a sofa, raised three steps, and covered with fine

Persian carpets, sat the _Kiyaya's_ lady, leaning on cushions of white

satin, embroidered; and at her feet sat two young girls, the eldest

about twelve years old, lovely as angels, dressed perfectly rich, and

almost covered with jewels. But they were hardly seen near the fair

Fatima (for that is her name), so much her beauty effaced every thing

I have seen, all that has been called lovely either in England

or Germany, and must own that I never saw any thing so gloriously

beautiful, nor can I recollect a face that would have been taken

notice of near hers. She stood up to receive me, saluting me after

their fashion, putting her hand upon her heart with a sweetness

full of majesty, that no court breeding could ever give. She ordered

cushions to be given to me, and took care to place me in the corner,

which is the place of honour. I confess, though the Greek lady had

before given me a great opinion of her beauty, I was so struck with

admiration, that I could not for some time speak to her, being wholly

taken up in gazing. That surprising harmony of features! that charming

result of the whole! that exact proportion of body! that lovely bloom

of complexion unsullied by art! the unutterable enchantment of her

smile!--But her eyes!--large and black, with all the soft languishment

of the blue! every turn of her face discovering some new charm.

After my first surprise was over, I endeavoured, by nicely examining

her face, to find out some imperfection, without any fruit of my

search, but being clearly convinced of the error of that vulgar

notion, that a face perfectly regular would not be agreeable: nature

having done for her with more success, what Apelles is said to have

essayed, by a collection of the most exact features, to form a perfect

face, and to that, a behaviour, so full of grace and sweetness, such

easy motions, with an air so majestic, yet free from stiffness or

affectation, that I am persuaded, could she be suddenly transported

upon the most polite throne of Europe, nobody would think her other

than born and bred to be a queen, though educated in a country we call

barbarous. To say all in a word, our most celebrated English beauties

would vanish near her.

She was dressed in a _caftan_ of gold brocade, flowered with silver,

very well fitted to her shape, and shewing to advantage the beauty

of her bosom, only shaded by the thin guaze of her shift. Her

drawers were pale pink, green and silver, her slippers white, finely

embroidered; her lovely arms adorned with bracelets of diamonds, and

her broad girdle set round with diamonds; upon her head a rich Turkish

handkerchief of pink and silver, her own fine black hair hanging a

great length in various tresses, and on one side of her head some

bodkins of jewels. I am afraid you will accuse me of extravagance

in this description. I think I have read somewhere that women always

speak in rapture when they speak of beauty, but I cannot imagine why

they should not be allowed to do so. I rather think it virtue to be

able to admire without any mixture of desire or envy. The gravest

writers have spoken with great warmth of some celebrated pictures

and statues. The workmanship of Heaven certainly excels all our weak

imitations, and, I think, has a much better claim to our praise. For

me, I am not ashamed to own I took more pleasure in looking on the

beauteous Fatima, than the finest piece of sculpture could have given

me.

She told me the two girls at her feet were her daughters, though she

appeared too young to be their mother. Her fair maids were ranged

below the sofa, to the number of twenty, and put me in mind of the

pictures of the ancient nymphs. I did not think all nature could have

furnished such a scene of beauty. She made them a sign to play and

dance. Four of them immediately began to play some soft airs on

instruments between a lute and a guitar, which they accompanied

with their voices, while the others danced by turns. This dance

was very different from what I had seen before. Nothing could

be more artful.... The tunes so soft!--the motions so

languishing!--accompanied with pauses and dying eyes! half-falling

back, and then recovering themselves in so artful a manner.... I

suppose you may have read that the Turks have no music but what is

shocking to the ears; but this account is from those who never heard

any, but what is played in the streets, and is just as reasonable as

if a foreigner should take his ideas of the English music from the

bladder and string, and marrowbone and cleavers. I can assure you that

the music is extremely pathetic; 'tis true I am inclined to prefer the

Italian, but perhaps I am partial. I am acquainted with a Greek lady

who sings better than Mrs. Robinson, and is very well skilled in both,

who gives the preference to the Turkish. 'Tis certain they have very

fine natural voices; these were very agreeable. When the dance was

over, four fair slaves came into the room with silver censers in their

hands, and perfumed the room with amber, aloes-wood, and other scents.

After this they served me coffee upon their knees in the finest japan

china, with _soucoupes_ of silver, gilt. The lovely Fatima entertained

me all this while in the most polite agreeable manner, calling me

often _Guzel sultanum_, or the beautiful sultana, and desiring my

friendship with the best grace in the world, lamenting that she could

not entertain me in my own language.

When I took my leave, two maids brought in a fine silver basket of

embroidered handkerchiefs; she begged I would wear the richest for her

sake, and gave the others to my woman and interpretress. I returned

through the same ceremonies as before, and could not help fancying I

had been some time in Mahomet's paradise, so much I was charmed with

what I had seen. I know not how the relation of it appears to you.

I wish it may give you part of my pleasure; for I would have my dear

sister share in all the diversions of, &c.

To THE COUNTESS OF BUTE

_Her grand-daughter's education_

28 _Jan_. N.S. [1753].

Dear child,

You have given me a great deal of satisfaction by your account of

your eldest daughter. I am particularly pleased to hear she is a good

arithmetician; it is the best proof of understanding: the knowledge of

numbers is one of the chief distinctions between us and the brutes.

If there is anything in blood, you may reasonably expect your children

should be endowed with an uncommon share of good sense. Mr. Wortley's

family and mine have both produced some of the greatest men that have

been born in England: I mean Admiral Sandwich, and my grandfather,

who was distinguished by the name of Wise William. I have heard Lord

Bute's father mentioned as an extraordinary genius, though he had not

many opportunities of showing it; and his uncle, the present Duke of

Argyll, has one of the best heads I ever knew. I will therefore

speak to you as supposing Lady Mary not only capable, but desirous

of learning: in that case by all means let her be indulged in it. You

will tell me I did not make it a part of your education: your prospect

was very different from hers. As you had no defect either in mind

or person to hinder, and much in your circumstances to attract the

highest offers, it seemed your business to learn how to live in the

world, as it is hers to know how to be easy out of it. It is the

common error of builders and parents to follow some plan they think

beautiful (and perhaps is so), without considering that nothing is

beautiful that is displaced. Hence we see so many edifices raised that

the raisers can never inhabit, being too large for their fortunes.

Vistas are laid open over barren heaths, and apartments contrived

for a coolness very agreeable in Italy, but killing in the north of

Britain: thus every woman endeavours to breed her daughter a fine

lady, qualifying her for a station in which she will never appear, and

at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which she

is destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not only

make her contented, but happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap as

reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not want new fashions,

nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or variety of company,

if she can be amused with an author in her closet. To render this

amusement extensive, she should be permitted to learn the languages.

I have heard it lamented that boys lose so many years in mere learning

of words: this is no objection to a girl, whose time is not so

precious: she cannot advance herself in any profession, and has

therefore more hours to spare; and as you say her memory is good, she

will be very agreeably employed this way. There are two cautions to

be given on this subject: first, not to think herself learned when

she can read Latin, or even Greek. Languages are more properly to be

called vehicles of learning than learning itself, as may be observed

in many schoolmasters, who, though perhaps critics in grammar, are the

most ignorant fellows upon earth. True knowledge consists in knowing

things, not words. I would wish her no further a linguist than to

enable her to read books in their originals, that are often corrupted,

and always injured, by translations. Two hours' application every

morning will bring this about much sooner than you can imagine, and

she will have leisure enough besides to run over the English poetry,

which is a more important part of a woman's education than it is

generally supposed. Many a young damsel has been ruined by a fine copy

of verses, which she would have laughed at if she had known it had

been stolen from Mr. Waller. I remember, when I was a girl, I saved

one of my companions from destruction, who communicated to me an

epistle she was quite charmed with. As she had a natural good taste,

she observed the lines were not so smooth as Prior's or Pope's, but

had more thought and spirit than any of theirs. She was wonderfully

delighted with such a demonstration of her lover's sense and passion,

and not a little pleased with her own charms, that had force enough

to inspire such elegancies. In the midst of this triumph I showed

her that they were taken from Randolph's poems, and the unfortunate

transcriber was dismissed with the scorn he deserved. To say truth,

the poor plagiary was very unlucky to fall into my hands; that

author being no longer in fashion, would have escaped any one of less

universal reading than myself. You should encourage your daughter to

talk over with you what she reads; and, as you are very capable of

distinguishing, take care she does not mistake pert folly for wit

and humour, or rhyme for poetry, which are the common errors of young

people, and have a train of ill consequences. The second caution to

be given her (and which is most absolutely necessary) is to conceal

whatever learning she attains, with as much solicitude as she would

hide crookedness or lameness; the parade of it can only serve to draw

on her the envy, and consequently the most inveterate hatred, of all

he and she fools, which will certainly be at least three parts in four

of all her acquaintance. The use of knowledge in our sex, besides the

amusement of solitude, is to moderate the passions, and learn to be

contented with a small expense, which are the certain effects of a

studious life; and it may be preferable even to that fame which men

have engrossed to themselves, and will not suffer us to share.

You will tell me I have not observed this rule myself; but you

are mistaken: it is only inevitable accident that has given me any

reputation that way. I have always carefully avoided it, and ever

thought it a misfortune. The explanation of this paragraph would

occasion a long digression, which I will not trouble you with, it

being my present design only to say what I think useful for the

instruction of my granddaughter, which I have much at heart. If she

has the same inclination (I should say passion) for learning that I

was born with, history, geography, and philosophy will furnish her

with materials to pass away cheerfully a longer life than is allotted

to mortals. I believe there are few heads capable of making Sir I.

Newton's calculations, but the result of them is not difficult to be

understood by a moderate capacity. Do not fear this should make her

affect the character of Lady----, or Lady----, or Mrs.----: those

women are ridiculous, not because they have learning, but because they

have it not. One thinks herself a complete historian, after reading

Echard's Roman History; another a profound philosopher, having got

by heart some of Pope's unintelligible essays; and a third an able

divine, on the strength of Whitefield's sermons: thus you hear them

screaming politics and controversy.

It is a saying of Thucydides, ignorance is bold, and knowledge

reserved. Indeed, it is impossible to be far advanced in it without

being more humbled by a conviction of human ignorance than elated by

learning. At the same time I recommend books, I neither exclude work

nor drawing. I think it as scandalous for a woman not to know how to

use a needle, as for a man not to know how to use a sword. I was once

extremely fond of my pencil, and it was a great mortification to

me when my father turned off my master, having made a considerable

progress for a short time I learnt. My over-eagerness in the pursuit

of it had brought a weakness on my eyes, that made it necessary to

leave it off; and all the advantage I got was the improvement of my

hand. I see, by hers, that practice will make her a ready writer:

she may attain it by serving you for a secretary, when your health or

affairs make it troublesome to you to write yourself; and custom will

make it an agreeable amusement to her. She cannot have too many for

that station of life which will probably be her fate. The ultimate end

of your education was to make you a good wife (and I have the comfort

to hear that you are one): hers ought to be, to make her happy in

a virgin state. I will not say it is happier; but it is undoubtedly

safer than any marriage. In a lottery, where there are (at the lowest

computation) ten thousand blanks to a prize, it is the most prudent

choice not to venture. I have always been so thoroughly persuaded of

this truth, that, notwithstanding the flattering views I had for you

(as I never intended you a sacrifice to my vanity), I thought I owed

you the justice to lay before you all the hazards attending matrimony:

you may recollect I did so in the strongest manner. Perhaps you may

have more success in the instructing your daughter: she has so much

company at home, she will not need seeking it abroad, and will more

readily take the notions you think fit to give her. As you were alone

in my family, it would have been thought a great cruelty to suffer

you no companions of your own age, especially having so many near

relations, and I do not wonder their opinions influenced yours. I was

not sorry to see you not determined on a single life, knowing it was

not your father's intention, and contented myself with endeavouring to

make your home so easy that you might not be in haste to leave it.

I am afraid you will think this a very long and insignificant letter.

I hope the kindness of the design will excuse it, being willing to

give you every proof in my power that I am,

Your most affectionate mother.

TO THE SAME

_Fielding and other authors_

Lovere, 22 _Sept_. [1755].

MY DEAR CHILD,

I received, two days ago, the box of books you were so kind to

send; but I can scarce say whether my pleasure or disappointment was

greatest. I was much pleased to see before me a fund of amusement, but

heartily vexed to find your letter consisting only of three lines

and a half. Why will you not employ Lady Mary as secretary, if it is

troublesome to you to write? I have told you over and over, you may at

the same time oblige your mother and improve your daughter, both

which I should think very agreeable to yourself. You can never want

something to say. The history of your nursery, if you had no other

subject to write on, would be very acceptable to me. I am such a

stranger to everything in England, I should be glad to hear more

particulars relating to the families I am acquainted with: if

Miss Liddel marries the Lord Euston I knew, or his nephew, who has

succeeded him; if Lord Berkeley has left children; and several trifles

of that sort, that would be a satisfaction to my curiosity. I am

sorry for H. Fielding's death, not only as I shall read no more of his

writings, but I believe he lost more than others, as no man enjoyed

life more than he did, though few had less reason to do so, the

highest of his preferment being raking in the lowest sinks of vice and

misery. I should think it a nobler and less nauseous employment to

be one of the staff officers that conduct the nocturnal weddings.

His happy constitution (even when he had, with great pains, half

demolished it) made him forget everything when he was before a venison

pasty, or over a flask of champagne; and I am persuaded he has known

more happy moments than any prince upon earth. His natural spirits

gave him rapture with his cook-maid, and cheerfulness when he was

starving in a garret. There was a great similitude between his

character and that of Sir Richard Steele. He had the advantage both

in learning, and, in my opinion, genius: they both agreed in wanting

money in spite of all their friends, and would have wanted it, if

their hereditary lands had been as extensive as their imagination;

yet each one of them so formed for happiness, it is a pity he was not

immortal.... This Richardson is a strange fellow. I heartily

despise him, and eagerly read him, nay, sob over his works in a most

scandalous manner. The first two tomes of _Clarissa_ touched me, as

being very resembling to my maiden days; and I find in the pictures of

Sir Thomas Grandison and his lady, what I have heard of my mother, and

seen of my father....

PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EARL

OF CHESTERFIELD

1694-1773

TO HIS SON

_Dancing_

Dublin Castle, 29 _Nov_. 1745.

DEAR BOY,

I have received your last Saturday's performance, with which I am very

well satisfied. I know or have heard of no Mr. St. Maurice here; and

young Pain, whom I have made an ensign, was here upon the spot, as

were every one of those I have named in these new levies.

Now that the Christmas breaking-up draws near, I have ordered Mr.

Desnoyers to go to you, during that time, to teach you to dance. I

desire that you will particularly attend to the graceful motion of

your arms; which with the manner of putting on your hat, and giving

your hand, is all that a gentleman need attend to. Dancing is

in itself a very trifling, silly thing; but it is one of those

established follies to which people of sense are sometimes obliged

to conform; and then they should be able to do it well. And though I

would not have you a dancer, yet when you do dance, I would have you

dance well; as I would have you do everything you do, well. There is

no one thing so trifling, but which (if it is to be done at all) ought

to be done well; and I have often told you that I wish you even

played at pitch, and cricket, better than any boy at Westminster. For

instance, dress is a very foolish thing; and yet it is a very foolish

thing for a man not to be well dressed, according to his rank and

way of life; and it is so far from being a disparagement to any man's

understanding, that it is rather a proof of it, to be as well dressed

as those whom he lives with: the difference in this case between a man

of sense and a fop is, that the fop values himself upon his dress; and

the man of sense laughs at it, at the same time that he knows he must

not neglect it. There are a thousand foolish customs of this kind,

which not being criminal, must be complied with, and even cheerfully,

by men of sense. Diogenes the cynic was a wise man for despising them;

but a fool for showing it. Be wiser than other people if you can; but

do not tell them so.

It is a very fortunate thing for Sir Charles Hotham, to have fallen

into the hands of one of your age, experience, and knowledge of the

world: I am persuaded you will take infinite care of him. Goodnight.

TO THE SAME

_A good enunciation_

London, 21 _June_, O.S. 1748.

DEAR BOY,

Your very bad enunciation runs so much in my head, and gives me such

real concern, that it will be the object of this, and I believe of

many more letters. I congratulate both you and myself that I was

informed of it (as I hope) in time to prevent it; and shall ever think

myself, as hereafter you will, I am sure, think yourself, infinitely

obliged to Sir Charles Williams, for informing me of it. Good God!

if this ungraceful and disagreeable manner of speaking had, either

by your negligence or mine, become habitual to you, as in a couple of

years more it would have been, what a figure would you have made in

company, or in a public assembly! Who would have liked you in the one,

or have attended to you in the other? Read what Cicero and Quintilian

say of enunciation, and see what a stress they lay on the gracefulness

of it; nay, Cicero goes farther, and even maintains that a good figure

is necessary for an orator, and particularly that he must not be

_vastus_; that is, overgrown and clumsy. He shows by it that he

knew mankind well, and knew the powers of an agreeable figure and a

graceful manner. Men, as well as women, are much oftener led by their

hearts, than by their understandings. The way to the heart is through

the senses; please their eyes and their ears, and the work is half

done. I have frequently known a man's fortune decided for ever by his

first address. If it is pleasing, people are hurried involuntarily

into persuasion that he has a merit, which possibly he has not; as, on

the other hand, if it is ungraceful, they are immediately prejudiced

against him, and unwilling to allow him the merit which it may be

he has. Nor is this sentiment so unjust and unreasonable as at first

sight it may seem; for if a man has parts, he must know of what

infinite consequence it is to him to have a graceful manner of

speaking, and a genteel and pleasing address: he will cultivate and

improve them to the utmost. Your figure is a good one; you have no

natural defects in the organs of speech; your address may be engaging,

and your manner of speaking graceful, if you will; so that, if they

are not so, neither I nor the world can ascribe it to anything but

your want of parts. What is the constant and just observation as to

all the actors upon the stage? Is it not, that those who have the best

sense always speak the best, though they may not happen to have the

best voices? They will speak plainly, distinctly, and with the proper

emphasis, be their voices ever so bad. Had Roscius spoken quick,

thick, and ungracefully, I will answer for it, that Cicero would not

have thought him worth the oration which he made in his favour. Words

were given us to communicate our ideas by, and there must be something

inconceivably absurd in uttering them in such a manner, as that either

people cannot understand them, or will not desire to understand them.

I tell you truly and sincerely, that I shall judge of your parts by

your speaking gracefully or ungracefully. If you have parts, you will

never be at rest till you have brought yourself to a habit of speaking

most gracefully: for I aver, that it is in your power. You will desire

Mr. Harte, that you may read aloud to him every day, and that he will

interrupt and correct you every time that you read too fast, do not

observe the proper stops, or lay a wrong emphasis. You will take care

to open your teeth when you speak; to articulate very distinctly; and

to beg of Mr. Harte, Mr. Eliot, or whomever you speak to, to remind

and stop you, if ever you fall into the rapid and unintelligible

mutter. You will even read aloud to yourself, and tune your utterance

to your own ear, and read at first much slower than you need to do,

in order to correct yourself of that shameful trick of speaking faster

than you ought. In short, if you think right, you will make it your

business, your study, and your pleasure to speak well. Therefore, what

I have said in this and in my last, is more than sufficient, if you

have sense; and ten times more would not be sufficient if you have

not: so here I rest it.

TO THE SAME

_Keeping accounts_

London, 10 _Jan._ O.S. 1749.

DEAR BOY,

I have received your letter of the 31st December, N.S. Your thanks for

my present, as you call it, exceed the value of the present; but the

use which you assure me that you will make of it, is the thanks which

I desire to receive. Due attention to the inside of books, and due

contempt for the outside, is the proper relation between a man of

sense and his books.

Now that you are going a little more into the world, I will take this

occasion to explain my intentions as to your future expenses, that

you may know what you have to expect from me, and make your plan

accordingly. I shall neither deny nor grudge you any money that may

be necessary for either your improvement or pleasures; I mean the

pleasures of a rational being. Under the head of improvement I mean

the best books, and the best masters, cost what they will; I also

mean all the expense of lodgings, coach, dress, servants, &c.,

which, according to the several places where you may be, shall be

respectively necessary to enable you to keep the best company. Under

the head of rational pleasures I comprehend, first, proper charities

to real and compassionate objects of it; secondly, proper presents to

those to whom you are obliged, or whom you desire to oblige; thirdly,

a conformity of expense to that of the company which you keep; as in

public spectacles, your share of little entertainments, a few pistoles

at games of mere commerce, and other incidental calls of good company.

The only two articles which I will never supply are, the profusion of

low riot, and the idle lavishness of negligence and laziness. A fool

squanders away, without credit or advantage to himself, more than a

man of sense spends with both. The latter employs his money as he does

his time, and never spends a shilling of the one, nor a minute of the

other, but in something that is either useful or rationally pleasing

to himself or others. The former buys whatever he does not want, and

does not pay for what he does want. He cannot withstand the charms

of a toy-shop; snuff-boxes, watches, heads of canes, etc., are

his destruction. His servants and tradesmen conspire with his own

indolence to cheat him, and in a very little time he is astonished, in

the midst of all the ridiculous superfluities, to find himself in want

of all the real comforts and necessaries of life. Without care and

method the largest fortune will not, and with them almost the smallest

will, supply all necessary expenses. As far as you can possibly, pay

ready money for everything you buy, and avoid bills. Pay that money

too yourself, and not through the hands of any servant, who always

either stipulates poundage, or requires a present for his good word,

as they call it. Where you must have bills, (as for meat and drink,

clothes, etc.) pay them regularly every month, and with your own hand.

Never, from a mistaken economy, buy a thing you do not want, because

it is cheap; or from a silly pride, because it is dear. Keep an

account in a book, of all that you receive, and of all that you pay;

for no man, who knows what he receives and what he pays, ever runs

out. I do not mean that you should keep an account of the shillings

and half-crowns which you may spend in chair-hire, operas, etc. They

are unworthy of the time, and of the ink that they would consume;

leave such _minutiae_ to dull, penny-wise fellows; but remember in

economy, as well as in every other part of life, to have the proper

attention to proper objects, and the proper contempt for little ones.

A strong mind sees things in their true proportion; a weak one views

them through a magnifying medium, which, like the microscope, makes an

elephant of a flea; magnifies all little objects, but cannot receive

great ones. I have known many a man pass for a miser, by saving a

penny, and wrangling for two-pence, who was undoing himself at the

same time, by living above his income, and not attending to essential

articles, which were above his _portee_. The sure characteristic of a

sound and strong mind is, to find in everything those certain bounds,

_quos ultra citrave nequit consistere rectum_. These boundaries are

marked out by a very fine line, which only good sense and attention

can discover; it is much too fine for vulgar eyes. In manners, this

line is good-breeding; beyond it, is troublesome ceremony; short of

it, is unbecoming negligence and inattention. In morals, it divides

ostentatious puritanism from criminal relaxation; in religion,

superstition from impiety; and, in short, every virtue from its

kindred vice or weakness. I think you have sense enough to discover

the line; keep it always in your eye, and learn to walk upon it; rest

upon Mr. Harte, and he will poise you, till you are able to go alone.

By the way, there are fewer people who walk well upon that line, than

upon the slack-rope; and, therefore, a good performer shines so much

the more....

Remember to take the best dancing-master at Berlin, more to teach you

to sit, stand, and walk gracefully, than to dance finely. The graces,

the graces; remember the graces! Adieu.

TO THE SAME

_A father's example_

London, 7 _Feb_. o.s. 1749.

DEAR BOY,

You are now come to an age capable of reflection; and I hope you will

do, what however few people at your age do, exert it, for your own

sake, in the search of truth and sound knowledge. I will confess (for

I am not unwilling to discover my secrets to you) that it is not many

years since I have presumed to reflect for myself. Till sixteen or

seventeen I had no reflection, and for many years after that I made no

use of what I had. I adopted the notions of the books I read, or the

company I kept, without examining whether they were just or not; and I

rather chose to run the risk of easy error, than to take the time and

trouble of investigating truth. Thus, partly from laziness, partly

from dissipation, and partly from the _mauvaise honte_ of rejecting

fashionable notions, I was (as I since found) hurried away by

prejudices, instead of being guided by reason; and quietly cherished

error, instead of seeking for truth. But since I have taken the

trouble of reasoning for myself, and have had the courage to own that

I do so, you cannot imagine how much my notions of things are altered,

and in how different a light I now see them, from that in which I

formerly viewed them through the deceitful medium of prejudice or

authority. Nay, I may possibly still retain many errors, which, from

long habit, have perhaps grown into real opinions; for it is very

difficult to distinguish habits, early acquired and long entertained,

from the result of our reason and reflection.

My first prejudice (for I do not mention the prejudices of boys and

women, such as hobgoblins, ghosts, dreams, spilling salt, &c.) was my

classical enthusiasm, which I received from the books I read, and the

masters who explained them to me. I was convinced there had been no

common sense nor common honesty in the world for these last fifteen

hundred years; but that they were totally extinguished with the

ancient Greek and Roman governments. Homer and Virgil could have no

faults, because they were ancient; Milton and Tasso could have no

merit, because they were modern. And I could almost have said, with

regard to the ancients, what Cicero, very absurdly and unbecomingly

for a philosopher, says with regard to Plato, _Cum quo errare malim

quam cum aliis recte sentire_. Whereas now, without any extraordinary

effort of genius, I have discovered that nature was the same three

thousand years ago as it is at present; that men were but men then as

well as now; that modes and customs vary often, but that human nature

is always the same. And I can no more suppose, that men were better,

braver, or wiser, fifteen hundred or three thousand years ago, than I

can suppose that the animals or vegetables were better then than

they are now. I dare assert too, in defiance of the favourers of the

ancients, that Homer's hero Achilles was both a brute and a scoundrel,

and consequently an improper character for the hero of an epic poem;

he had so little regard for his country, that he would not act in

defence of it, because he had quarrelled with Agamemnon about a--; and

then afterwards, animated by private resentment only, he went about

killing people basely, I will call it, because he knew himself

invulnerable; and yet, invulnerable as he was, he wore the strongest

armour in the world; which I humbly apprehend to be a blunder; for a

horseshoe clapped to his vulnerable heel would have been sufficient.

On the other hand, with submission to the favourers of the moderns,

I assert with Mr. Dryden, that the Devil is in truth the hero of

Milton's poem: his plan, which he lays, pursues, and at last executes,

being the subject of the poem. From all which considerations I

impartially conclude that the ancients had their excellencies and

their defects, their virtues and their vices, just like the moderns:

pedantry and affectation of learning clearly decide in favour of

the former; vanity and ignorance, as peremptorily, in favour of the

latter. Religious prejudices kept pace with my classical ones; and

there was a time when I thought it impossible for the honestest man in

the world to be saved, out of the pale of the Church of England: not

considering that matters of opinion do not depend upon the will;

and that it is as natural, and as allowable, that another man should

differ in opinion from me, as that I should differ from him; and that,

if we are both sincere, we are both blameless, and should consequently

have mutual indulgences for each other.

The next prejudices I adopted were those of the _beau monde_, in

which, as I was determined to shine, I took what are commonly called

the genteel vices to be necessary. I had heard them reckoned so, and

without further inquiry, I believed it; or at least should have been

ashamed to have denied it, for fear of exposing myself to the ridicule

of those whom I considered as the models of fine gentlemen. But now I

am neither ashamed nor afraid to assert, that those genteel vices, as

they are falsely called, are only so many blemishes in the character

of even a man of the world, and what is called a fine gentleman, and

degrade him in the opinion of those very people, to whom he hopes to

recommend himself by them. Nay, this prejudice often extends so far,

that I have known people pretend to vices they had not, instead of

carefully concealing those they had.

Use and assert your own reason; reflect, examine, and analyze

everything, in order to form a sound and mature judgement; let no

[Greek: outos epha] impose upon your understanding, mislead your

actions, or dictate your conversation. Be early what, if you are not,

you will when too late wish you had been. Consult your reason betimes:

I do not say, that it will always prove an unerring guide; for human

reason is not infallible; but it will prove the least erring guide

that you can follow. Books and conversation may assist it; but adopt

neither, blindly and implicitly: try both by that best rule which God

has given to direct us, reason. Of all the troubles, do not decline,

as many people do, that of thinking.

TO THE SAME

_Public speaking_

London, 9 _Dec_. o.s. 1749.

DEAR BOY,

It is now above forty years since I have never spoken nor written

one single word, without giving myself at least one moment's time to

consider, whether it was a good one or a bad one, and whether I could

not find out a better in its place. An unharmonious and rugged period,

at this time, shocks my ears; and I, like all the rest of the world,

will willingly exchange and give up some degree of rough sense, for

a good degree of pleasing sound. I will freely and truly own to you,

without either vanity or false modesty, that whatever reputation I

have acquired as a speaker, is more owing to my constant attention to

my diction than to my matter, which was necessarily just the same as

other people's. When you come into parliament, your reputation as a

speaker will depend much more upon your words, and your periods than

upon the subject. The same matter occurs equally to everybody of

common sense, upon the same question: the dressing it well, is what

excites the attention and admiration of the audience.

It is in parliament that I have set my heart upon your making a

figure; it is there that I want to have you justly proud of yourself,

and to make me justly proud of you. This means that you must be a good

speaker there; I use the word _must_, because I know you may if you

will. The vulgar, who are always mistaken, look upon a speaker and a

comet with the same astonishment and admiration, taking them both for

preternatural phenomena. This error discourages many young men from

attempting that character; and good speakers are willing to have their

talent considered as something very extraordinary, if not a peculiar

gift of God to his elect. But, let you and I analyze and simplify this

good speaker; let us strip him of those adventitious plumes with which

his own pride and the ignorance of others have decked him; and we

shall find the true definition of him to be no more than this: a

man of good common sense, who reasons justly, and expresses himself

elegantly, on that subject upon which he speaks. There is, surely, no

witchcraft in this. A man of sense, without a superior and astonishing

degree of parts, will not talk nonsense upon any subject; nor will he,

if he has the least taste or application, talk inelegantly. What then

does all this mighty art and mystery of speaking in parliament amount

to? Why, no more than this, that the man who speaks in the House

of Commons, speaks in that house, and to four hundred people, that

opinion upon a given subject which he would make no difficulty of

speaking in any house in England, round the fire, or at table, to

any fourteen people whatsoever; better judges, perhaps, and severer

critics of what he says, than any fourteen gentlemen of the House of

Commons.

I have spoken frequently in parliament, and not always without some

applause; and therefore I can assure you, from my experience, that

there is very little in it. The elegancy of the style and the turn of

the periods make the chief impression upon the hearers. Give them but

one or two round and harmonious periods in a speech, which they will

retain and repeat, and they will go home as well satisfied as people

do from an opera, humming all the way one or two favourite tunes that

have struck their ears, and were easily caught. Most people have ears,

but few have judgement; tickle those ears, and, depend upon it, you

will catch their judgements, such as they are.

Cicero, conscious that he was at the top of his profession (for in

his time eloquence was a profession), in order to set himself off,

defines, in his treatise _de Oratore_, an orator to be such a man as

never was, or never will be; and, by this fallacious argument, says

that he must know every art and science whatsoever, or how shall he

speak upon them? But with submission to so great an authority, my

definition of an orator is extremely different from, and I believe

much truer than, his. I call that man an orator who reasons justly,

and expresses himself elegantly, upon whatever subjects he treats.

Problems in geometry, equations in algebra, processes in chemistry,

and experiments in anatomy, are never, that I have heard of, the

objects of eloquence; and therefore I humbly conceive that a man may

be a very fine speaker, and yet know nothing of geometry, algebra,

chemistry, or anatomy. The subjects of all parliamentary debates are

subjects of common sense singly.

Thus I write whatever occurs to me, that I think may contribute either

to form or inform you. May my labour not be in vain! and it will not,

if you will but have half the concern for yourself that I have for

you. Adieu.

TO THE SAME

_The new Earl of Chatham_

Blackheath, 1 _Aug._ 1766.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

The curtain was at last drawn up, the day before yesterday, and

discovered the new actors together with some of the old ones. I do not

name them to you, because to-morrow's Gazette will do it full as well

as I could. Mr. Pitt, who had _carte blanche_ given him, named every

one of them: but what would you think he named himself for? Lord Privy

Seal; and (what will astonish you, as it does every mortal here) Earl

of Chatham. The joke here is, that he has had _a fall upstairs_, and

has done himself so much hurt, that he will never be able to stand

upon his legs again. Everybody is puzzled how to account for this

step; though it would not be the first time that great abilities have

been duped by low cunning. But be it what it will, he is now certainly

only Earl of Chatham; and no longer Mr. Pitt, in any respect whatever.

Such an event, I believe, was never read nor heard of. To withdraw,

in the fullness of his power, and in the utmost gratification of his

ambition, from the House of Commons, (which procured him his power,

and which could alone ensure it to him) and to go into that hospital

of incurables, the House of Lords, is a measure so unaccountable, that

nothing but proof positive could have made me believe it: but true it

is. Hans Stanley is to go ambassador to Russia; and my nephew, Ellis,

to Spain, decorated with the red ribband. Lord Shelburne is your

secretary of state, which I suppose he has notified to you this post

by a circular letter. Charles Townshend has now the sole management of

the House of Commons; but how long he will be content to be only Lord

Chatham's viceregent there, is a question which I will not pretend

to decide. There is one very bad sign for Lord Chatham in his new

dignity; which is, that all his enemies, without exception, rejoice at

it; and all his friends are stupefied and dumb-founded. If I mistake

not much, he will in the course of a year enjoy perfect _otium cum

dignitate_. Enough of politics.

Is the fair, or at least the fat Miss C---- with you still? It must

be confessed that she knows the art of courts, to be so received at

Dresden and so connived at in Leicester-fields.

There never was so wet a summer as this has been, in the memory of

man; we have not had one single day, since March, without some rain;

but most days a great deal. I hope that does not affect your health,

as great cold does; for with all these inundations it has not been

cold. God bless you!

SAMUEL JOHNSON

1709-1784

To BENNET LANGTON

_Postponement of a visit_

6 _May_, 1755.

SIR,

It has been long observed, that men do not suspect faults which

they do not commit; your own elegance of manners, and punctuality of

complaisance, did not suffer you to impute to me that negligence

of which I was guilty, and [for] which I have not since atoned.

I received both your letters, and received them with pleasure

proportioned to the esteem which so short an acquaintance strongly

impressed, and which I hope to confirm by nearer knowledge, though I

am afraid that gratification will be for a time withheld.

I have, indeed, published my book, of which I beg to know your

father's judgment, and yours; and I have now stayed long enough to

watch its progress in the world. It has, you see, no patrons, and

I think has yet had no opponents, except the critics of the

coffee-house, whose outcries are soon dispersed into the air, and are

thought on no more. From this, therefore, I am at liberty, and think

of taking the opportunity of this interval to make an excursion, and

why not then into Lincolnshire? or, to mention a stronger attraction,

why not to dear Mr. Langton? I will give the true reason, which I know

you will approve:--I have a mother more than eighty years old, who has

counted the days to the publication of my book, in hopes of seeing me;

and to her, if I can disengage myself here, I resolve to go.

As I know, dear sir, that to delay my visit for a reason like this

will not deprive me of your esteem, I beg it may not lessen your

kindness. I have very seldom received an offer of friendship which I

so earnestly desire to cultivate and mature. I shall rejoice to hear

from you, till I can see you, and will see you as soon as I can; for

when the duty that calls me to Lichfield is discharged, my inclination

will carry me to Langton. I shall delight to hear the ocean roar, or

see the stars twinkle, in the company of men to whom Nature does not

spread her volumes or utter her voice in vain.

Do not, dear sir, make the slowness of this letter a precedent

for delay, or imagine that I approved the incivility that I have

committed; for I have known you enough to love you, and sincerely to

wish a further knowledge; and I assure you once more, that to live in

a house that contains such a father and such a son, will be accounted

a very uncommon degree of pleasure by, dear sir, your most obliged and

most humble servant.

TO MISS PORTER

_A mother's death_

23 _Jan._ 1759.

You will conceive my sorrow for the loss of my mother, of the best

mother. If she were to live again, surely I should behave better to

her. But she is happy, and what is past is nothing to her; and for me,

since I cannot repair my faults to her, I hope repentance will

efface them. I return you and all those that have been good to her

my sincerest thanks, and pray God to repay you all with infinite

advantage. Write to me and comfort me, dear child. I shall be glad

likewise, if Kitty will write to me. I shall send a bill of twenty

pounds in a few days, which I thought to have brought to my mother;

but God suffered it not. I have not power or composure to say much

more. God bless you, and bless us all.

To JOSEPH BARETTI

_A letter of counsel_

21 _Dec._ 1762.

SIR,

You are not to suppose, with all your conviction of my idleness, that

I have passed all this time without writing to my Baretti. I gave

a letter to Mr. Beauclerk, who, in my opinion, and in his own, was

hastening to Naples for the recovery of his health; but he has stopped

at Paris, and I know not when he will proceed. Langton is with him.

I will not trouble you with speculations about peace and war. The good

or ill success of battles and embassies extends itself to a very small

part of domestic life: we all have good and evil, which we feel more

sensibly than our petty part of public miscarriage or prosperity. I am

sorry for your disappointment, with which you seem more touched than

I should expect a man of your resolution and experience to have been,

did I not know that general truths are seldom applied to particular

occasions; so that the fallacy of our self-love extends itself as wide

as our interest and affections. Every man believes that mistresses are

unfaithful, and patrons capricious; but he excepts his own mistress

and his own patron. We have all learned that greatness is negligent

and contemptuous, and that in courts, life is often languished away in

ungratified expectation; but he that approaches greatness, or glitters

in a court, imagines that destiny has at last exempted him from the

common lot.

Do not let such evils overwhelm you as thousands have suffered and

thousands have surmounted; but turn your thoughts with vigour to

some other plan of life, and keep always in your mind that, with due

submission to Providence, a man of genius has been seldom ruined but

by himself. Your patron's weakness or insensibility will finally do

you little hurt, if he is not assisted by your own passions. Of your

love I know not the propriety, nor can estimate the power; but in

love, as in every other passion, of which hope is the essence, we

ought always to remember the uncertainty of events. There is indeed

nothing that so much seduces reason from her vigilance, as the thought

of passing life with an amiable woman; and if all would happen that

a lover fancies, I know not what other terrestrial happiness would

deserve pursuit. But love and marriage are different states. Those who

are to suffer the evils together, and to suffer often for the sakes of

one another, soon lose that tenderness of look and that benevolence

of mind which arose from the participation of unmingled pleasure and

successive amusement. A woman we are sure will not be always fair,

we are not sure she will always be virtuous; and man cannot retain

through life that respect and assiduity by which he pleases for a day

or for a month. I do not however pretend to have discovered that life

has anything more to be desired than a prudent and virtuous marriage;

therefore know not what counsel to give you.

If you can quit your imagination of love and greatness, and leave your

hopes of preferment and bridal raptures to try once more the fortune

of literature and industry, the way through France is now open. We

flatter ourselves that we shall cultivate with great diligence the

arts of peace; and every man will be welcome among us who can teach

us anything we do not know. For your part, you will find all your old

friends willing to receive you....

To MRS. THRALE

_Travel in Scotland_

Skye, 21 _Sept._ 1773.

DEAREST MADAM,

I am so vexed at the necessity of sending yesterday so short a letter,

that I purpose to get a long letter beforehand by writing something

every day, which I may the more easily do, as a cold makes me now too

deaf to take the usual pleasure in conversation. Lady Macleod is very

good to me, and the place at which we now are, is equal in strength of

situation, in the wildness of the adjacent country, and in the plenty

and elegance of the domestic entertainment, to a castle in Gothic

romances. The sea with a little island is before us; cascades play

within view. Close to the house is the formidable skeleton of an old

castle probably Danish, and the whole mass of building stands upon

a protuberance of rock, inaccessible till of late but by a pair of

stairs on the sea side, and secure in ancient times against any enemy

that was likely to invade the kingdom of Skye.

Macleod has offered me an island; if it were not too far off I should

hardly refuse it: my island would be pleasanter than Brighthelmstone,

if you and my master could come to it; but I cannot think it pleasant

to live quite alone.

Oblitusque meorum, obliviscendus et illis.

That I should be elated by the dominion of an island to forgetfulness

of my friends at Streatham I cannot believe, and I hope never to

deserve that they should be willing to forget me.

It has happened that I have been often recognised in my journey

where I did not expect it. At Aberdeen I found one of my acquaintance

professor of physic; turning aside to dine with a country gentleman, I

was owned at table by one who had seen me at a philosophical lecture;

at Macdonald's I was claimed by a naturalist, who wanders about the

islands to pick up curiosities; and I had once in London attracted the

notice of Lady Macleod. I will now go on with my account.

The Highland girl made tea, and looked and talked not inelegantly; her

father was by no means an ignorant or a weak man; there were books in

the cottage, among which were some volumes of Prideaux's _Connection_:

this man's conversation we were glad of while we stayed. He had been

_out_, as they call it, in forty-five, and still retained his old

opinions. He was going to America, because his rent was raised beyond

what he thought himself able to pay.

At night our beds were made, but we had some difficulty in persuading

ourselves to lie down in them, though we had put on our own sheets;

at last we ventured, and I slept very soundly in the vale of Glen

Morrison, amidst the rocks and mountains. Next morning our landlord

liked us so well, that he walked some miles with us for our company,

through a country so wild and barren that the proprietor does not,

with all his pressure upon his tenants, raise more than four hundred

pounds a year for near one hundred square miles or sixty thousand

acres. He let us know that he had forty head of black cattle, an

hundred goats, and an hundred sheep, upon a farm that he remembered

let at five pounds a year, but for which he now paid twenty. He told

us some stories of their march into England. At last he left us,

and we went forward, winding among mountains, sometimes green and

sometimes naked, commonly so steep as not easily to be climbed by

the greatest vigour and activity: our way was often crossed by little

rivulets, and we were entertained with small streams trickling from

the rocks, which after heavy rains must be tremendous torrents.

About noon we came to a small glen, so they call a valley, which

compared with other places appeared rich and fertile; here our guides

desired us to stop, that the horses might graze, for the journey

was very laborious, and no more grass would be found. We made no

difficulty of compliance, and I sat down to take notes on a green

bank, with a small stream running at my feet, in the midst of savage

solitude, with mountains before me, and on either hand covered with

heath. I looked around me, and wondered that I was not more affected,

but the mind is not at all times equally ready to be put in motion;

if my mistress and master and Queeny had been there we should have

produced some reflections among us, either poetical or philosophical,

for though _solitude be the nurse of woe_, conversation is often the

parent of remarks and discoveries.

In about an hour we remounted, and pursued our journey. The lake by

which we had travelled for some time ended in a river, which we passed

by a bridge, and came to another glen, with a collection of huts,

called Auknashealds; the huts were generally built of clods of earth,

held together by the intertexture of vegetable fibres, of which earth

there are great levels in Scotland which they call mosses. Moss in

Scotland is bog in Ireland, and moss-trooper is bog-trotter: there

was, however, one hut built of loose stones, piled up with great

thickness into a strong though not solid wall. From this house we

obtained some great pails of milk, and having brought bread with us,

were very liberally regaled. The inhabitants, a very coarse tribe,

ignorant of any language but Erse, gathered so fast about us, that if

we had not had Highlanders with us, they might have caused more alarm

than pleasure; they are called the Clan of Macrae.

We had been told that nothing gratified the Highlanders so much as

snuff and tobacco, and had accordingly stored ourselves with both at

Fort Augustus. Boswell opened his treasure, and gave them each a piece

of tobacco roll. We had more bread than we could eat for the present,

and were more liberal than provident. Boswell cut it in slices, and

gave them an opportunity of tasting wheaten bread for the first time.

I then got some halfpence for a shilling, and made up the deficiencies

of Boswell's distribution, who had given some money among the

children. We then directed that the mistress of the stone house should

be asked what we must pay her: she, who perhaps had never before

sold anything but cattle, knew not, I believe, well what to ask, and

referred herself to us: we obliged her to make some demand, and one of

the Highlanders settled the account with her at a shilling. One of the

men advised her, with the cunning that clowns never can be without, to

ask more; but she said that a shilling was enough. We gave her half

a crown, and she offered part of it again. The Macraes were so well

pleased with our behaviour, that they declared it the best day they

had seen since the time of the old Laird of Macleod, who, I suppose,

like us, stopped in their valley, as he was travelling to Skye....

I cannot forbear to interrupt my narrative. Boswell, with some of his

troublesome kindness, has informed this family and reminded me that

the 18th of September is my birthday. The return of my birthday, if I

remember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the general

care of humanity to escape. I can now look back upon three score

and four years, in which little has been done, and little has been

enjoyed; a life diversified by misery, spent part in the sluggishness

of penury, and part under the violence of pain, in gloomy discontent

or importunate distress. But perhaps I am better than I should have

been if I had been less afflicted. With this I will try to be content.

In proportion as there is less pleasure in retrospective

considerations, the mind is more disposed to wander forward into

futurity; but at sixty-four what promises, however liberal, of

imaginary good can futurity venture to make? Yet something will be

always promised and some promises will always be credited. I am hoping

and I am praying that I may live better in the time to come, whether

long or short, than I have yet lived, and in the solace of that

hope endeavour to repose. Dear Queeny's day is next, I hope she at

sixty-four will have less to regret....

You will now expect that I should give you some account of the Isle of

Skye, of which, though I have been twelve days upon it, I have little

to say. It is an island perhaps fifty miles long, so much indented by

inlets of the sea that there is no part of it removed from the water

more than six miles. No part that I have seen is plain; you are always

climbing or descending, and every step is upon rock or mire. A walk

upon ploughed ground in England is a dance upon carpets compared to

the toilsome drudgery of wandering in Skye. There is neither town nor

village in the island, nor have I seen any house but Macleod's, that

is not much below your habitation at Brighthelmstone. In the mountains

there are stags and roebucks, but no hares, and few rabbits; nor have

I seen anything that interested me as a zoologist, except an otter,

bigger than I thought an otter could have been.

You perhaps are imagining that I am withdrawn from the gay and

the busy world into regions of peace and pastoral felicity, and am

enjoying the relics of the golden age; that I am surveying nature's

magnificence from a mountain, or remarking her minuter beauties on the

flowery bank of a winding rivulet; that I am invigorating myself in

the sunshine, or delighting my imagination with being hidden from

the invasion of human evils and human passions in the darkness of a

thicket; that I am busy in gathering shells and pebbles on the shore,

or contemplative on a rock, from which I look upon the water, and

consider how many waves are rolling between me and Streatham.

The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and

instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are. Here

are mountains which I should once have climbed, but to climb steps

is now very laborious, and to descend them dangerous; and I am now

content with knowing, that by scrambling up a rock, I shall only see

other rocks, and a wider circuit of barren desolation. Of streams, we

have here a sufficient number, but they murmur not upon pebbles, but

upon rocks. Of flowers, if Chloris herself were here, I could present

her only with the bloom of heath. Of lawns and thickets, he must read

that would know them, for here is little sun and no shade. On the sea

I look from my window, but am not much tempted to the shore; for since

I came to this island, almost every breath of air has been a storm,

and what is worse, a storm with all its severity, but without its

magnificence, for the sea is here so broken into channels that there

is not a sufficient volume of water either for lofty surges or a loud

roar....

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD

_Patronage_

7 _Feb_. 1775.

MY LORD,

I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of _The World_, that

two papers, in which my _Dictionary_ is recommended to the public, are

by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour, which, being

very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how

to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I

was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your

address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself _le

vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre_;--that I might obtain that regard

for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so

little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to

continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I

had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly

scholar can possess. I had done all I could; and no man is well

pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

Seven years, my lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward

rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been

pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to

complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication,

without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile

of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron

before.

The shepherd in _Virgil_ grew at last acquainted with Love, and found

him a native of the rocks.

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man

struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground,

encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to

take of my labours, had it been early had been kind; but it has

been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am

solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I

hope it is no very cynical asperity, not to confess obligations,

where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public

should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has

enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any

favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I shall

conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long

wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with so

much exultation.

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most humble,

most obedient servant.

To JAMES BOSWELL

_A silent friend_

13 _July_, 1779.

DEAR SIR,

What can possibly have happened that keeps us two such strangers to

each other? I expected to have heard from you when you came home; I

expected afterwards. I went into the country and returned, and yet

there is no letter from Mr. Boswell. No ill, I hope, has happened; and

if ill should happen, why should it be concealed from him who loves

you? Is it a fit of humour, that has disposed you to try who can hold

out longest without writing? If it be, you have the victory. But I am

afraid of something bad; set me free from my suspicions.

My thoughts are at present employed in guessing the reason of your

silence; you must not expect that I should tell you anything, if I had

anything to tell. Write, pray write to me, and let me know what is or

what has been the cause of this long interruption.

To MRS. THRALE

_A great man's fortitude_

19 _June_, 1783.

ON Monday the 16th, I sat for my picture and walked a considerable way

with little inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening I felt myself

light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed,

and in a short time waked and sat up, as has been long my custom,

when I felt a confusion and indistinctness in my head, which lasted,

I suppose, about half a minute. I was alarmed, and prayed God, that

however he might afflict my body, he would spare my understanding.

This prayer, that I might try the integrity of my faculties, I made in

Latin verse. The lines were not very good, but I knew them not to be

very good: I made them easily, and concluded myself to be unimpaired

in my faculties.

Soon after I perceived that I had suffered a paralytic stroke,

and that my speech was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little

dejection in this dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy,

and considered that perhaps death itself, when it should come, would

excite less horror than seems now to attend it.

In order to rouse the vocal organs, I took two drams. Wine has been

celebrated for the production of eloquence. I put myself into violent

motion, and I think repeated it; but all was vain. I then went to bed,

and strange as it may seem, I slept. When I saw light, it was time to

contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, he left me

my hands; I enjoyed a mercy which was not granted to my dear friend

Lawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me as I am writing, and rejoices

that I have what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to my

servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend why

he should read what I put into his hands. I then wrote a card to Mr.

Allen, that I might have a discreet friend at hand, to act as occasion

should require. In penning this note I had some difficulty; my hand,

I knew not how nor why, made wrong letters. I then wrote to Dr. Taylor

to come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden: and I sent to Dr. Brocklesby,

who is my neighbour. My physicians are very friendly, and give me

great hopes; but you may imagine my situation. I have so far recovered

my vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's Prayer with no very imperfect

articulation. My memory, I hope, yet remains as it was! but such an

attack produces solicitude for the safety of every faculty.

LAURENCE STERNE

1713-1768

To Miss LUMLEY

_The disconsolate lover_

[1740-1]

You bid me tell you, my dear L., how I bore your departure for S----,

and whether the valley, where D'Estella stands, retains still its

looks, or if I think the roses or jessamines smell as sweet as when

you left it. Alas! everything has now lost its relish and look! The

hour you left D'Estella I took to my bed. I was worn out with fevers

of all kinds, but most by that fever of the heart with which thou

knowest well I have been wasting these two years--and shall continue

wasting till you quit S----. The good Miss S----, from the forebodings

of the best of hearts, thinking I was ill, insisted upon my going to

her. What can be the cause, my dear L., that I never have been able to

see the face of this mutual friend, but I feel myself rent to pieces?

She made me stay an hour with her, and in that short space I burst

into tears a dozen different times, and in such affectionate gusts of

passion, that she was constrained to leave the room, and sympathize

in her dressing-room. I have been weeping for you both, said she, in

a tone of the sweetest pity--for poor L.'s heart, I have long known

it--her anguish is as sharp as yours--her heart as tender--her

constancy as great--her virtues as heroic--Heaven brought you not

together to be tormented. I could only answer her with a kind look,

and a heavy sigh, and returned home to your lodgings (which I have

hired till your return) to resign myself to misery. Fanny had prepared

me a supper--she is all attention to me--but I sat over it with tears;

a bitter sauce, my L., but I could eat it with no other; for the

moment she began to spread my little table, my heart fainted within

me. One solitary plate, one knife, one fork, one glass! I gave a

thousand pensive, penetrating looks at the chair thou hadst so often

graced, in those quiet and sentimental repasts, then laid down my

knife and fork, and took out my handkerchief, and clapped it across

my face, and wept like a child. I could do so this very moment, my L.;

for, as I take up my pen, my poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows,

and tears are trickling down upon the paper, as I trace the word

L----. O thou! blessed in thyself, and in thy virtues, blessed to all

that know thee--to me most so, because more do I know of thee than all

thy sex. This is the philtre, my L., by which thou hast charmed me,

and by which thou wilt hold me thine, while virtue and faith hold this

world together. This, my friend, is the plain and simple magic, by

which I told Miss ---- I have won a place in that heart of thine, on

which I depend so satisfied, that time, or distance, or change of

everything which might alarm the hearts of little men, create no

uneasy suspense in mine. Wast thou to stay in S---- these seven

years, thy friend, though he would grieve, scorns to doubt, or to be

doubted--'tis the only exception where security is not the parent of

danger.

I told you poor Fanny was all attention to me since your

departure--contrives every day bringing in the name of L. She told

me last night (upon giving me some hartshorn), she had observed my

illness began the very day of your departure for S----; that I had

never held up my head, had seldom, or scarce ever, smiled, had fled

from all society; that she verily believed I was broken-hearted, for

she had never entered the room, or passed by the door, but she heard

me sigh heavily; that I neither eat, or slept, or took pleasure in

anything as before. Judge then, my L., can the valley look so well,

or the roses and jessamines smell so sweet as heretofore? Ah me! but

adieu--the vesper bell calls me from thee to my GOD.

To DAVID GARRICK

_Le chevalier Shandy_

Paris, 19 _March_, 1762.

DEAR GARRICK,

This will be put into your hands by Dr. Shippen, a physician, who has

been here some time with Miss Poyntz, and is at this moment setting

out for your metropolis; so I snatch the opportunity of writing to you

and my kind friend Mrs. Garrick. I see nothing like her here, and yet

I have been introduced to one half of their best Goddesses, and in a

month more shall be admitted to the shrines of the other half; but I

neither worship or fall (much) on my knees before them; but, on the

contrary, have converted many unto Shandeism; for be it known, I

Shandy it away fifty times more than I was ever wont, talk more

nonsense than ever you heard me talk in your days--and to all sorts

of people. _Qui le diable est cet homme-la_--said Choiseul t'other

day--_ce chevalier Shandy_? You'll think me as vain as a devil, was I

to tell you the rest of the dialogue; whether the bearer knows it or

no, I know not. 'Twill serve up after supper, in Southampton-street,

amongst other small dishes, after the fatigues of Richard III. O God!

they have nothing here, which gives the nerves so smart a blow, as

those great characters in the hands of Garrick! but I forgot I

am writing to the man himself. The devil take (as he will) these

transports of enthusiasm! Apropos, the whole city of Paris is

_bewitched_ with the comic opera, and if it was not for the affair

of the Jesuits, which takes up one half of our talk, the comic opera

would have it all. It is a tragical nuisance in all companies as it

is, and was it not for some sudden starts and dashes of Shandeism,

which now and then either break the thread, or entangle it so, that

the devil himself would be puzzled in winding it off, I should die a

martyr--this by the way I never will.

I send you over some of these comic operas by the bearer, with the

_Sallon_, a satire. The French comedy, I seldom visit it--they act

scarce in anything but tragedies--and the Clairon is great, and Mile.

Dumesnil, in some places, still greater than her; yet I cannot bear

preaching--I fancy I got a surfeit of it in my younger days. There

is a tragedy to be damned to-night--peace be with it, and the gentle

brain which made it! I have ten thousand things to tell you I cannot

write, I do a thousand things which cut no figure, _but in the

doing_--and as in London, I have the honour of having done and said a

thousand things I never did or dreamed of--and yet I dream abundantly.

If the devil stood behind me in the shape of a courier, I could not

write faster than I do, having five letters more to dispatch by the

same gentleman; he is going into another section of the globe, and

when he has seen you, will depart in peace.

The Duke of Orleans has suffered my portrait to be added to the number

of some odd men in his collection; and a gentleman who lives with him

has taken it most expressively, at full length: I purpose to obtain an

etching of it, and to send it you. Your prayer for me of _rosy health_

is heard. If I stay here for three or four months, I shall return more

than reinstated. My love to Mrs. Garrick.

To MR. FOLEY AT PARIS

_An adventure on the road_

Toulouse, 14 _Aug_. 1762.

MY DEAR FOLEY,

After many turnings (_alias_ digressions), to say nothing of downright

overthrows, stops, and delays, we have arrived in three weeks at

Toulouse, and are now settled in our houses with servants, &c., about

us, and look as composed as if we had been here seven years. In

our journey we suffered so much from the heats, it gives me pain to

remember it; I never saw a cloud from Paris to Nismes half as broad as

a twenty-four sols piece. Good God! we were toasted, roasted, grilled,

stewed and carbonaded on one side or other all the way; and being all

done enough (_assez cuits_) in the day, we were eat up at night by

bugs, and other unswept-out vermin, the legal inhabitants (if length

of possession gives right) of every inn we lay at. Can you conceive

a worse accident than that in such a journey, in the hottest day and

hour of it, four miles from either tree or shrub which could cast a

shade of the size of one of Eve's fig leaves, that we should break a

hind wheel into ten thousand pieces, and be obliged in consequence

to sit five hours on a gravelly road, without one drop of water, or

possibility of getting any? To mend the matter, my two postillions

were two dough-hearted fools, and fell a-crying. Nothing was to be

done! By heaven, quoth I, pulling off my coat and waistcoat, something

shall be done, for I'll thrash you both within an inch of your lives,

and then make you take each of you a horse, and ride like two devils

to the next post for a cart to carry my baggage, and a wheel to

carry ourselves. Our luggage weighed ten quintals. It was the fair

of Baucaire, all the world was going, or returning; we were asked by

every soul who passed by us, if we were going to the fair of Baucaire.

No wonder, quoth I, we have goods enough! _vous avez raison, mes

amis_....

THOMAS GRAY

1716-1771

To RICHARD WEST

_Scenery at Tivoli_

Tivoli, 20 _May_, 1740.

This day being in the palace of his Highness the Duke of Modena, he

laid his most serene commands upon me to write to Mr. West, and said

he thought it for his glory, that I should draw up an inventory of all

his most serene possessions for the said West's perusal. Imprimis,

a house, being in circumference a quarter of a mile, two feet and an

inch; the said house containing the following particulars, to wit,

a great room. Item, another great room; item, a bigger room; item,

another room; item, a vast room; item, a sixth of the same; a seventh

ditto; an eighth as before; a ninth as above said; a tenth (see No.

1); item, ten more such, besides twenty besides, which, not to be too

particular, we shall pass over. The said rooms contain nine chairs,

two tables, five stools and a cricket. From whence we shall proceed

to the garden, containing two millions of superfine laurel hedges,

a clump of cypress trees, and half the river Teverone.--Finis. Dame

Nature desired me to put in a list of her little goods and chattels,

and, as they were small, to be very minute about them. She has built

here three or four little mountains, and laid them out in an irregular

semi-circle; from certain others behind, at a greater distance, she

has drawn a canal, into which she has put a little river of hers,

called Anio; she has cut a huge cleft between the two innermost of her

four hills, and there she has left it to its own disposal; which she

has no sooner done, but, like a heedless chit, it tumbles headlong

down a declivity fifty feet perpendicular, breaks itself all to

shatters, and is converted into a shower of rain, where the sun forms

many a bow, red, green, blue, and yellow. To get out of our metaphors

without any further trouble, it is the most noble sight in the world.

The weight of that quantity of waters, and the force they fall with,

have worn the rocks they throw themselves among into a thousand

irregular craggs, and to a vast depth. In this channel it goes boiling

along with a mighty noise till it comes to another steep, where you

see it a second time come roaring down (but first you must walk

two miles farther) a greater height than before, but not with that

quantity of waters; for by this time it has divided itself, being

crossed and opposed by the rocks, into four several streams, each of

which, in emulation of the great one, will tumble down too; and it

does tumble down, but not from an equally elevated place; so that you

have at one view all these cascades intermixed with groves of olive

and little woods, the mountains rising behind them, and on the top of

one (that which forms the extremity of one of the half-circle's horns)

is seated the town itself. At the very extremity of that extremity, on

the brink of the precipice, stands the Sybil's temple, the remains

of a little rotunda, surrounded with its portico, above half of whose

beautiful Corinthian pillars are still standing and entire; all this

on one hand. On the other, the open Campagna of Rome, here and there

a little castle on a hillock, and the city itself at the very brink of

the horizon, indistinctly seen (being eighteen miles off) except the

dome of St. Peter's; which, if you look out of your window, wherever

you are, I suppose, you can see. I did not tell you that a little

below the first fall, on the side of the rock, and hanging over that

torrent, are little ruins which they show you for Horace's house, a

curious situation to observe the

Praeceps Anio et Tiburni lucus, et uda

Mobilibus pomaria rivis.

Maecenas did not care for such a noise, it seems, and built him a

house (which they also carry one to see) so situated that it sees

nothing at all of the matter, and for anything he knew there might be

no such river in the world. Horace had another house on the other side

of the Teverone, opposite to Maecenas's; and they told us there was

a bridge of communication, by which _andava il detto Signor per

trastullarsi coll' istesso Orazio_. In coming hither we crossed the

Aquae Albulae, a vile little brook that stinks like a fury, and they

say it has stunk so these thousand years. I forgot the Piscina of

Quintilius Varus, where he used to keep certain little fishes. This

is very entire, and there is a piece of the aqueduct that supplied it

too; in the garden below is old Rome, built in little, just as it was,

they say. There are seven temples in it, and no houses at all; they

say there were none.

TO THE SAME

_A poet's melancholy_

London, 27 _May_, 1742.

Mine, you are to know is a white Melancholy, or rather Leucocholy

for the most part; which, though it seldom laughs or dances, nor ever

amounts to what one called Joy or Pleasure, yet is a good easy sort

of a state, and _ca ne laisse que de s'amuser._ The only fault is its

insipidity; which is apt now and then to give a sort of Ennui, which

makes one form certain little wishes that signify nothing. But there

is another sort, black indeed, which I have now and then felt, that

has somewhat in it like Tertullian's rule of faith, _Credo quia

impossibile est_; for it believes, nay, is sure of everything that is

unlikely, so it be but frightful; and on the other hand excludes and

shuts its eyes to the most possible hopes, and everything that is

pleasurable; from this the Lord deliver us! for none but he and

sunshiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoying this kind of weather

I am going into the country for a few weeks, but shall be never the

nearer any society; so, if you have any charity, you will continue to

write. My life is like Harry the Fourth's supper of Hens, 'Poulets a

la broche, Poulets en Ragout, Poulets en Hachis, Poulets en Fricassees

'. Reading here, Reading there; nothing but books with different

sauces. Do not let me lose my desert then; for though that be Reading

too, yet it has a very different flavour. The May seems to be come

since your invitation; and I propose to bask in her beams and dress me

in her roses.

Et caput in verna semper habere rosa.

I shall see Mr. ---- and his Wife, nay, and his Child, too, for he has

got a Boy. Is it not odd to consider one's Cotemporaries in the grave

light of Husband and Father? There is my lords Sandwich and Halifax,

they are Statesmen: Do not you remember them dirty boys playing at

cricket? As for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor

the wiser than I was then: no, not for having been beyond sea. Pray,

how are you?...

To HORACE WALPOLE

_The fate of Selima_

Cambridge, 1 _March_, 1747.

As one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a

compliment of condolence, it would be a sensible satisfaction to

me (before I testify my sorrow, and the sincere part I take in your

misfortune) to know for certain, who it is that I lament. I knew Zara

and Selima (Selima, was it? or Fatima?) or rather I knew both of them

together; for I cannot justly say which was which. Then as to your

handsome Cat, the name you distinguished her by, I am no less at a

loss, as well knowing one's handsome cat is always the cat one likes

best; or if one be alive and the other dead, it is usually the latter

that is the handsomest. Besides, if the point were never so clear, I

hope you do not think me so ill-bred or so imprudent as to forfeit all

my interest in the survivor; Oh no! I would rather seem to mistake,

and to be sure it must be the tabby one that had met with this sad

accident. Till this affair is a little better determined, you will

excuse me if I do not begin to cry:

Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatiumque doloris.

Which interval is the more convenient, as it gives time to rejoice

with you on your new honours. This is only a beginning; I reckon next

week we shall hear you are a free-Mason, or a Gormorgon at least.

Heigh ho! I feel (as you to be sure have done long since) that I have

very little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be the better for

it; I do not mean you, but your Cat, feue Mademoiselle Selime, whom I

am about to immortalize for one week or fortnight, as follows.

... There's a poem for you, it is rather too long for an Epitaph.

TO THE SAME

_Publication of the Elegy_

Cambridge, 11 _Feb_. 1751.

As you have brought me into a little sort of distress, you must assist

me, I believe, to get out of it as well as I can. Yesterday I had

the misfortune of receiving a letter from certain gentlemen (as their

bookseller expresses it), who have taken the _Magazine of Magazines_

into their hands. They tell me that an _ingenious_ poem, called

_Reflections in a Country Churchyard_, has been communicated to them,

which they are printing forthwith; that they are informed that the

_excellent_ author of it is I by name, and that they beg not only his

_indulgence_, but the _honour_ of his correspondence, &c. As I am not

at all disposed to be either so indulgent, or so correspondent, as

they desire, I have but one bad way left to escape the honour they

would inflict upon me; and, therefore, am obliged to desire you would

make Dodsley print it immediately (which may be done in less than a

week's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form is

most convenient for him, but on his best paper and character; he must

correct the press himself, and print it without any interval between

the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued

beyond them; and the title must be,--_Elegy, written in a Country

Churchyard_. If he would add a line or two to say it came into

his hands by accident, I should like it better. If you behold the

_Magazine of Magazines_ in the light that I do, you will not refuse to

give yourself this trouble on my account, which you have taken of your

own accord before now. If Dodsley do not do this immediately, he may

as well let it alone.

TO THE SAME

_At Burnham_

[Burnham,] _Sept_. 1737.

I was hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the trouble

I would have done. The description of a road, which your coach wheels

have so often honoured, it would be needless to give you; suffice

it that I arrived safe at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in

imagination; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forced

to stand at this present writing; and though the gout forbids him

galloping after them in the field, yet he continues to regale his ears

and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me mighty

cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, and reading when

I should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, that I have at the

distance of half a mile, through a green lane, a forest (the vulgar

call it a common) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no

human thing in it but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and

precipices; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the

clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover Cliff; but

just such hills as people who love their necks as well as I do may

venture to climb, and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as if

they were more dangerous. Both vale and hill are covered with most

venerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like most

other ancient people, are always dreaming out their old stories to the

winds.

_And as they bow their hoary tops relate,

In murm'ring sounds, the dark decrees of fate;

While visions, as poetic eyes avow,

Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough._

At the foot of one of these squats ME I (_ilpenseroso_), and there

grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timorous hare and sportive

squirrel gambol round me like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve;

but I think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there.

In this situation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too, that is

talk to you, but I do not remember that I ever heard you answer me.

I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to myself, but it is

entirely your own fault....

To THE REV. WILLIAM MASON

_The Laureateship_

19 _Dec_. 1757.

DEAR MASON,

Though I very well know the bland emollient saponaceous qualities both

of sack and silver, yet if any great man would say to me, 'I make you

Rat-catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of L300 a-year and two butts

of the best Malaga; and though it has been usual to catch a mouse or

two, for form's sake, in public once a year, yet to you, sir, we shall

not stand on these things,' I cannot say I should jump at it; nay, if

they would drop the very name of the office, and call me Sinecure

to the King's Majesty, I should feel a little awkward, and think

everybody I saw smelt a rat about me; but I do not pretend to blame

any one else that has not the same sensations; for my part, I would

rather be serjeant trumpeter or pinmaker to the palace. Nevertheless

I interest myself a little in the history of it, and rather wish

somebody may accept it who will retrieve the credit of the thing, if

it be retrieveable, or ever had any credit. Rowe was, I think, the

last man of character that had it. As to Settle, whom you mention,

he belonged to my lord mayor, not to the King. Eusden was a person

of great hopes in his youth, though at last he turned out a drunken

person. Dryden was as disgraceful to the office from his character,

as the poorest scribbler could have been from his verses. The office

itself has always humbled the professor hitherto (even in an age when

kings were somebody), if he were a poor writer by making him more

conspicuous, and if he were a good one by setting him at war with the

little fry of his own profession, for there are poets little enough to

envy even a poet laureate.

To DR. WHARTON

_A holiday in Kent_

Pembroke College, 26 _Aug_. 1766.

DEAR DOCTOR,

Whatever my pen may do, I am sure my thoughts expatiate nowhere

oftener, or with more pleasure, than to Old Park. I hope you have made

my peace with Miss Deborah. It is certain, whether her name were in

my letter or not, she was as present to my memory as the rest of the

little family; and I desire you would present her with two kisses

in my name, and one a piece to all the others; for I shall take the

liberty to kiss them all (great and small) as you are to be my proxy.

In spite of the rain, which I think continued with very short

intervals till the beginning of this month, and quite effaced the

summer from the year, I made a shift to pass May and June, not

disagreeably, in Kent. I was surprised at the beauty of the road

to Canterbury, which (I know not why) had not struck me in the same

manner before. The whole country is a rich and well cultivated garden;

orchards, cherry grounds, hop grounds, intermixed with corn and

frequent villages, gentle risings covered with wood, and everywhere

the Thames and Medway breaking in upon the landscape, with all their

navigation. It was indeed owing to the bad weather that the whole

scene was dressed in that tender emerald green, which one usually sees

only for a fortnight in the opening of Spring; and this continued till

I left the country. My residence was eight miles east of Canterbury,

in a little quiet valley on the skirts of Barham Down; in these parts

the whole soil is chalk, and whenever it holds up, in half an hour

it is dry enough to walk out. I took the opportunity of three or four

days fine weather to go into the Isle of Thanet, saw Margate (which

is Bartholomew Fair by the seaside), Ramsgate, and other places there;

and so came by Sandwich, Deal, Dover, Folkestone, and Hythe, back

again. The coast is not like Hartlepool, there are no rocks, but

only chalky cliffs, of no great height, till you come to Dover. There

indeed they are noble and picturesque, and the opposite coasts of

France begin to bound your view, which was left before to range

unlimited by anything but the horizon; yet it is by no means a

_shipless_ sea, but everywhere peopled with white sails and vessels of

all sizes in motion; and take notice (except in the Isle, which is all

corn fields, and has very little enclosure), there are in all places

hedgerows and tall trees, even within a few yards of the beach,

particularly Hythe stands on an eminence covered with wood. I shall

confess we had fires of a night (aye and a day too) several times even

in June: but don't go too far and take advantage of this, for it was

the most untoward year that ever I remember.

Your friend Rousseau (I doubt) grows tired of Mr. Davenport and

Derbyshire; he has picked a quarrel with David Hume, and writes

him letters of fourteen pages folio, upbraiding him with all his

_noirceurs_; take one only as a specimen. He says, that at Calais

they chanced to sleep in the same room together, and that he overheard

David talking in his sleep, and saying, '_Ah! je le tiens, ce

Jean-Jacques la_.' In short (I fear), for want of persecution and

admiration (for these are his real complaints), he will go back to the

Continent.

What shall I say to you about the ministry? I am as angry as a

common council man of London about my Lord Chatham; but a little more

patient, and will hold my tongue till the end of the year. In the

meantime I do mutter in secret, and to you, that to quit the House of

Commons, his natural strength, to sap his own popularity and grandeur

(which no one but himself could have done) by assuming a foolish

title; and to hope that he could win by it, and attach to him a court

that hate him, and will dismiss him as soon as ever they dare, was the

weakest thing that ever was done by so great a man. Had it not been

for this, I should have rejoiced at the breach between him and Lord

Temple, and at the union between him and the Duke of Grafton and

Mr. Conway: but patience! we shall see! Stonehewer perhaps is in the

country (for he hoped for a month's leave of absence), and if you see

him you will learn more than I can tell you.

HORACE WALPOLE

1717-1797

To RICHARD WEST

_Floods in the Arno_

From Florence, _Nov_. 1740.

Child, I am going to let you see your shocking proceedings with us. On

my conscience, I believe 'tis three months since you wrote to either

Gray or me. If you had been ill, Ashton would have said so; and if

you had been dead, the gazettes would have said it. If you had been

angry,--but that's impossible; how can one quarrel with folks three

thousand miles off? We are neither divines nor commentators, and

consequently have not hated you on paper. 'Tis to show that my charity

for you cannot be interrupted at this distance that I write to you,

though I have nothing to say, for 'tis a bad time for small news; and

when emperors and czarinas are dying all up and down Europe, one can't

pretend to tell you of anything that happens within our sphere. Not

but that we have our accidents too. If you have had a great wind in

England, we have had a great water at Florence. We have been trying

to set out every day, and pop upon you[1] ... It is fortunate that

we stayed, for I don't know what had become of us! Yesterday, with

violent rains, there came flouncing down from the mountains such a

flood that it floated the whole city. The jewellers on the Old Bridge

removed their commodities, and in two hours after the bridge was

cracked. The torrent broke down the quays and drowned several

coach-horses, which are kept here in stables under ground. We were

moated into our house all day, which is near the Arno, and had the

miserable spectacles of the ruins that were washed along with the

hurricane. There was a cart with two oxen not quite dead, and four men

in it drowned: but what was ridiculous, there came tiding along a

fat hay-cock, with a hen and her eggs, and a cat. The torrent is

considerably abated; but we expect terrible news from the country,

especially from Pisa, which stands so much lower, and nearer the

sea. There is a stone here, which, when the water overflows, Pisa is

entirely flooded. The water rose two ells yesterday above that stone.

Judge!

For this last month we have passed our time but dully, all diversions

silenced on the Emperor's death, and everybody out of town. I have

seen nothing but cards and dull pairs of cicisbeos. I have literally

seen so much of love and pharaoh since being here, that I believe I

shall never love either again so long as I live. Then I am got into

a horrid lazy way of a morning. I don't believe I should know seven

o'clock in the morning again if I was to see it. But I am returning to

England, and shall grow very solemn and wise! Are you wise? Dear West,

have pity on one who has done nothing of gravity for these two years,

and do laugh sometimes. We do nothing else, and have contracted such

formidable ideas of the good people of England that we are already

nourishing great black eyebrows and great black beards, and teasing

our countenances into wrinkles.

[Footnote 1: MS. torn here.]

To RICHARD BENTLEY

_Pictures and Garrick_

Strawberry Hill, 15 _Aug_. 1755.

MY DEAR SIR,

Though I wrote to you so lately, and have certainly nothing new to

tell you, I can't help scribbling a line to you to-night, as I am

going to Mr. Rigby's for a week or ten days, and must thank you first

for the three pictures. One of them charms me, the Mount Orgueil,

which is absolutely fine; the sea, and shadow upon it, are masterly.

The other two I don't, at least won't, take for finished. If you

please, Elizabeth Castle shall be Mr. Muentz's performance: indeed I

see nothing of you in it. I do reconnoitre you in the Hercules and

Nessus; but in both, your colours are dirty, carelessly dirty: in

your distant hills you are improved, and not hard. The figures are too

large--I don't mean in the Elizabeth Castle, for there they are neat;

but the centaur, though he dies as well as Garrick can, is outrageous.

Hercules and Deianira are by no means so: he is sentimental, and she

most improperly sorrowful. However, I am pleased enough to beg you

would continue. As soon as Mr. Muentz returns from the Vine, you shall

have a good supply of colours. In the meantime why give up the good

old trade of drawing? Have you no Indian ink, no soot-water, no snuff,

no coat of onion, no juice of anything? If you love me, draw: you

would if you knew the real pleasure you can give me. I have been

studying all your drawings; and next to architecture and trees, I

determine that you succeed in nothing better than animals. Now (as

the newspapers say) the late ingenious Mr. Seymour is dead, I would

recommend horses and greyhounds to you. I should think you capable of

a landscape or two with delicious bits of architecture. I have known

you execute the light of a torch or lanthorn so well, that if it

was called Schalken, a housekeeper at Hampton Court or Windsor, or

a Catherine at Strawberry Hill, would show it, and say it cost ten

thousand pounds. Nay, if I could believe that you would ever execute

any more designs I proposed to you, I would give you a hint for a

picture that struck me t'other day in Perefixe's _Life of Henry IV_.

He says, the king was often seen lying upon a common straw-bed among

the soldiers, with a piece of brown bread in one hand, and a bit

of charcoal in t'other, to draw an encampment, or town that he was

besieging. If this is not character and a picture, I don't know what

is.

I dined to-day at Garrick's: there were the Duke of Grafton, Lord and

Lady Rochford, Lady Holderness, the crooked Mostyn, and Dabreu the

Spanish minister; two regents, of which one is lord chamberlain, the

other groom of the stole; and the wife of a secretary of state. This

is being _sur un assez bon ton_ for a player! Don't you want to ask me

how I like him? Do want, and I will tell you.--I like her exceedingly;

her behaviour is all sense, and all sweetness too. I don't know how,

he does not improve so fast upon me: there is a great deal of parts,

and vivacity, and variety, but there is a great deal too of mimicry

and burlesque. I am very ungrateful, for he flatters me abundantly;

but unluckily I know it. I was accustomed to it enough when my father

was first minister: on his fall I lost it all at once: and since that,

I have lived with Mr. Chute, who is all vehemence; with Mr. Fox, who

is all disputation; with Sir Charles Williams, who has no time from

flattering himself; with Gray, who does not hate to find fault with

me; with Mr. Conway, who is all sincerity; and with you and Mr. Rigby,

who have always laughed at me in a good-natured way. I don't know how,

but I think I like all this as well--I beg his pardon, Mr. Raftor does

flatter me; but I should be a cormorant for praise, if I could swallow

it whole as he gives it me.

Sir William Yonge, who has been extinct so long, is at last dead; and

the war, which began with such a flirt of vivacity, is I think gone to

sleep. General Braddock has not yet sent over to claim the surname of

Americanus. But why should I take pains to show you in how many ways I

know nothing?--Why; I can tell it you in one word--why, Mr. Cambridge

knows nothing!--I wish you good-night!

To GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON

_Gray's Odes_

Strawberry Hill, 25 _Aug_. 1757.

MY LORD,

It is a satisfaction one can't often receive, to show a thing of

great merit to a man of great taste. Your Lordship's approbation is

conclusive, and it stamps a disgrace on the age, who have not given

themselves the trouble to see any beauties in these _Odes_ of Mr.

Gray. They have cast their eyes over them, found them obscure, and

looked no further, yet perhaps no compositions ever had more sublime

beauties than are in each. I agree with your Lordship in preferring

the last upon the whole; the three first stanzas and half, down to

_agonizing King_, are in my opinion equal to anything in any language

I understand. Yet the three last of the first Ode please me very near

as much. The description of Shakespeare is worthy Shakespeare: the

account of Milton's blindness, though perhaps not strictly defensible,

is very majestic. The character of Dryden's poetry is as animated as

what it paints. I can even like the epithet _Orient_; as the last is

the empire of fancy and poesy, I would allow its livery to be erected

into a colour. I think _blue-eyed Pleasures_ is allowable: when Homer

gave eyes of what hue he pleased to his Queen-Goddesses, sure Mr. Gray

may tinge those of their handmaids.

In answer to your Lordship's objection to _many-twinkling_, in that

beautiful epode, I will quote authority to which you will yield. As

Greek as the expression is, it struck Mrs. Garrick, and she says, on

that whole picture, that Mr. Gray is the only poet who ever understood

dancing.

These faults I think I can defend, and can excuse others; even the

great obscurity of the latter, for I do not see it in the first; the

subject of it has been taken for music,--it is the Power and Progress

of Harmonious Poetry. I think his objection to prefixing a title to it

was wrong--that Mr. Cooke published an ode with such a title. If the

Louis the Great, whom Voltaire has discovered in Hungary, had not

disappeared from history himself, would not Louis Quatorze have

annihilated him? I was aware that the second would have darknesses,

and prevailed for the insertion of what notes there are, and would

have had more. Mr. Gray said, whatever wanted explanation did not

deserve it, but that sentence was never so far from being an axiom as

in the present case. Not to mention how he had shackled himself with

strophe, antistrophe, and epode (yet acquitting himself nobly),

the nature of prophecy forbade him naming his kings. To me they are

apparent enough--yet I am far from thinking either piece perfect,

though with what faults they have, I hold them in the first rank of

genius and poetry. The second strophe of the first Ode is inexcusable,

nor do I wonder your Lordship blames it; even when one does understand

it, perhaps the last line is too turgid. I am not fond of the

antistrophe that follows. In the second Ode he made some corrections

for the worse. _Brave Urion_ was originally _stern_: brave is insipid

and commonplace. In the third antistrophe, _leave me unblessed,

unpitied_, stood at first, _leave your despairing Caradoc_. But the

capital faults in my opinion are these--what punishment was it to

Edward I to hear that his grandson would conquer France? or is so

common an event as Edward III being deserted on his death-bed, worthy

of being made part of a curse that was to avenge a nation? I can't

cast my eye here, without crying out on those beautiful lines that

follow, _Fair smiles the morn_? Though the images are extremely

complicated, what painting in the whirlwind, likened to a lion lying

in ambush for his evening prey, _in grim repose_. Thirst and hunger

mocking Richard II appear to me too ludicrously like the devils in

_The Tempest_, that whisk away the banquet from the shipwrecked Dukes.

From thence to the conclusion of Queen Elizabeth's portrait, which he

has faithfully copied from Speed, in the passage where she humbled the

Polish Ambassador, I admire. I can even allow that image of Rapture

hovering like an ancient grotesque, though it strictly has little

meaning: but there I take my leave--the last stanza has no beauties

for me. I even think its obscurity fortunate, for the allusions to

Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, are not only weak, but the two last

returning again, after appearing so gloriously in the first Ode, and

with so much fainter colours, enervate the whole conclusion.

Your Lordship sees that I am no enthusiast to Mr. Gray: his great

lustre has not dazzled me, as his obscurity seems to have blinded his

contemporaries. Indeed, I do not think that they ever admired him,

except in his Churchyard, though the Eton Ode was far its superior,

and is certainly not obscure. The Eton Ode is perfect: those of more

masterly execution have defects, yet not to admire them is total want

of taste. I have an aversion to tame poetry; at best, perhaps the art

is the sublimest of the _difficiles nugae_; to measure or rhyme prose

is trifling without being difficult.

To GEORGE MONTAGU

_At Lady Suffolk's_

Arlington Street, 11 _Jan_. 1764.

It is an age, I own, since I wrote to you; but except politics,

what was there to send you? and for politics, the present are too

contemptible to be recorded by anybody but journalists, gazetteers,

and such historians! The ordinary of Newgate, or Mr.----, who write

for their monthly half-crown, and who are indifferent whether Lord

Bute, Lord Melcombe, or Maclean is their hero, may swear they

find diamonds on dunghills; but you will excuse _me_, if I let our

correspondence lie dormant rather than deal in such trash. I am forced

to send Lord Hertford and Sir Horace Mann such garbage, because

they are out of England, and the sea softens and makes palatable any

potion, as it does claret; but unless I can divert _you_, I had rather

wait till we can laugh together; the best employment for friends,

who do not mean to pick one another's pockets, nor make a property of

either's frankness. Instead of politics, therefore, I shall amuse you

to-day with a fairy tale.

I was desired to be at my Lady Suffolk's on New Year's morn, where I

found Lady Temple and others. On the toilet Miss Hotham spied a small

round box. She seized it with all the eagerness and curiosity of

eleven years. In it was wrapped up a heart-diamond ring, and a paper

in which, in a hand as small as Buckinger's, who used to write the

Lord's Prayer in the compass of a silver penny, were the following

lines:

Sent by a sylph, unheard, unseen,

A new-year's gift from Mab our queen:

But tell it not, for if you do,

You will be pinch'd all black and blue.

Consider well, what a disgrace,

To show abroad your mottled face:

Then seal your lips, put on the ring,

And sometimes think of Ob. the King.

You will easily guess that Lady Temple was the poetess, and that we

were delighted with the genteelness of the thought and execution. The

child, you may imagine, was less transported with the poetry than the

present. Her attention, however, was hurried backwards and forwards

from the ring to a new coat, that she had been trying on when sent for

down; impatient to revisit her coat, and to show the ring to her maid,

she whisked upstairs; when she came down again, she found a letter

sealed, and lying on the floor--new exclamations! Lady Suffolk bade

her open it: here it is:

Your tongue, too nimble for your sense,

Is guilty of a high offence;

Hath introduced unkind debate,

And topsy-turvy turn'd our state.

In gallantry I sent the ring,

The token of a love-sick king:

Under fair Mab's auspicious name

From me the trifling present came.

You blabb'd the news in Suffolk's ear;

The tattling zephyrs brought it here,

As Mab was indolently laid

Under a poppy's spreading shade.

The jealous queen started in rage;

She kick'd her crown, and beat her page:

'Bring me my magic wand ', she cries;

'Under that primrose, there it lies;

I'll change the silly, saucy chit,

Into a flea, a louse, a nit,

A worm, a grasshopper, a rat,

An owl, a monkey, hedgehog, bat.

But hold, why not by fairy art

Transform the wretch, into--?

Ixion once a cloud embraced,

By Jove and jealousy well placed;

What sport to see proud Oberon stare

And flirt it with a--!'

Then thrice she stamped the trembling ground,

And thrice she waved her wand around;

When I, endow'd with greater skill,

And less inclined to do you ill,

Mutter'd some words, withheld her arm,

And kindly stopp'd the unfinish'd charm.

But though not changed to owl or bat,

Or something more indelicate;

Yet, as your tongue has run too fast,

Your boasted beauty must not last.

No more shall frolic Cupid lie

In ambuscade in either eye,

From thence to aim his keenest dart

To captivate each youthful heart:

No more shall envious misses pine

At charms now flown, that once were thine:

No more, since you so ill behave,

Shall injured Oberon be your slave.

There is one word which I could wish had not been there, though it is

prettily excused afterwards. The next day my Lady Suffolk desired I

would write her a patent for appointing Lady Temple poet laureate to

the fairies. I was excessively out of order with a pain in my stomach,

which I had had for ten days, and was fitter to write verses like

a poet laureate, than for making one; however, I was going home to

dinner alone, and at six I sent her some lines, which you ought to

have seen how sick I was, to excuse; but first, I must tell you my

tale methodically. The next morning by nine o'clock Miss Hotham (she

must forgive me twenty years hence for saying she was eleven, for I

recollect she is but ten) arrived at Lady Temple's, her face and neck

all spotted with saffron, and limping. 'Oh, madam!' said she, 'I am

undone for ever if you do not assist me!' 'Lord, child,' cried my Lady

Temple, 'what is the matter?' thinking she had hurt herself, or lost

the ring, and that she was stolen out before her aunt was up. 'Oh,

madam,' said the girl, 'nobody but you can assist me!' My Lady Temple

protests the child acted her part so well as to deceive her. 'What can

I do for you?' 'Dear madam, take this load from my back; nobody but

you can.' Lady Temple turned her round, and upon her back was tied a

child's waggon. In it were three tiny purses of blue velvet; in one of

them a silver cup, in another a crown of laurel, and in the third

four new silver pennies, with the patent, signed at top, 'Oberon

Imperator'; and two sheets of warrants strung together with blue silk

according to form; and at top an office seal of wax and a chaplet of

cut paper on it. The warrants were these:

From the Royal Mews:

A waggon with the draught horses, delivered by

command without fee.

From the Lord Chamberlain's Office:

A warrant with the royal sign manual, delivered

by command without fee, being first entered

in the office books.

From the Lord Steward's Office:

A butt of sack, delivered without fee or gratuity,

with an order for returning the cask for the

use of the office, by command.

From the Great Wardrobe:

Three velvet bags, delivered without fee, by

command.

From the Treasurer of the Household's Office:

A year's salary paid free from land-tax, poundage,

or any other deduction whatever, by command.

From the Jewel Office:

A silver butt, a silver cup, a wreath of bays, by

command without fee.

Then came the Patent:

By these presents be it known,

To all who bend before our throne,

Fays and fairies, elves and sprites,

Beauteous dames and gallant knights,

That we, Oberon the grand,

Emperor of fairy-land,

King of moonshine, prince of dreams,

Lord of Aganippe's streams,

Baron of the dimpled isles

That lie in pretty maidens' smiles,

Arch-treasurer of all the graces

Dispersed through fifty lovely faces,

Sovereign of the slipper's order,

With all the rites thereon that border,

Defender of the sylphic faith,

Declare--and thus your monarch saith:

Whereas there is a noble dame,

Whom mortals Countess Temple name,

To whom ourself did erst impart

The choicest secrets of our art,

Taught her to tune the harmonious line

To our own melody divine,

Taught her the graceful negligence,

Which, scorning art and veiling sense,

Achieves that conquest o'er the heart

Sense seldom gains, and never art;

This lady, 'tis our royal will,

Our laureate's vacant seat should fill:

A chaplet of immortal bays

Shall crown her brow and guard her lays;

Of nectar sack an acorn cup

Be at her board each year filled up;

And as each quarter feast comes round

A silver penny shall be found

Within the compass of her shoe--

And so we bid you all adieu!

Given at our palace of Cowslip Castle, the shortest night of the year.

OBERON.

And underneath,

HOTHAMINA.

How shall I tell you the greatest curiosity of the story? The whole

plan and execution of the second act was laid and adjusted by my

Lady Suffolk herself and Will. Chetwynd, Master of the Mint, Lord

Bolingbroke's Oroonoho-Chetwynd; he fourscore, she past seventy-six;

and what is more, much worse than I was, for, added to her deafness,

she has been confined these three weeks with the gout in her eyes, and

was actually then in misery, and had been without sleep. What

spirits, and cleverness, and imagination, at that age, and under those

afflicting circumstances! You reconnoitre her old court knowledge, how

charmingly she has applied it! Do you wonder I pass so many hours and

evenings with her? Alas! I had like to have lost her this morning!

They had poulticed her feet to draw the gout downwards, and began to

succeed yesterday, but to-day it flew up into her head, and she was

almost in convulsions with the agony, and screamed dreadfully; proof

enough how ill she was, for her patience and good breeding make her

for ever sink and conceal what she feels. This evening the gout has

been driven back to her foot, and I trust she is out of danger. Her

loss would be irreparable to me at Twickenham, where she is by far the

most rational and agreeable company I have....

To LADY HERVEY

_A quiet life_

Strawberry Hill, 11 _June_, 1765.

I am almost as much ashamed, Madam, to plead the true cause of my

faults towards your ladyship, as to have been guilty of any neglect.

It is scandalous, at my age, to have been carried backwards and

forwards to balls and suppers and parties by very young people, as

I was all last week. My resolutions of growing old and staid are

admirable: I wake with a sober plan, and intend to pass the day with

my friends--then comes the Duke of Richmond, and hurries me down to

Whitehall to dinner--then the Duchess of Grafton sends for me to too

in Upper Grosvenor Street--before I can get thither, I am begged

to step to Kensington, to give Mrs. Anne Pitt my opinion about

a bow-window--after the loo, I am to march back to Whitehall to

supper--and after that, am to walk with Miss Pelham on the terrace

till two in the morning, because it is moonlight and her chair is not

come. All this does not help my morning laziness; and by the time I

have breakfasted, fed my birds and my squirrels, and dressed, there is

an auction ready. In short, Madam, this was my life last week, and

is I think every week, with the addition of forty episodes.--Yet,

ridiculous as it is, I send it to your ladyship, because I had

rather you should laugh at me than be angry. I cannot offend you in

intention, but I fear my sins of omission are equal to a good many

Christian's. Pray forgive me. I really will begin to be between forty

and fifty by the time I am fourscore: and I truly believe I shall

bring my resolutions within compass; for I have not chalked out any

particular business that will take me above forty years more; so that,

if I do not get acquainted with the grandchildren of all the present

age, I shall lead a quiet sober life yet before I die....

To THE REV. WILLIAM COLE

_Gray's death_

Paris, 12 _Aug_. 1771.

DEAR SIR,

I am excessively shocked at reading in the papers that Mr. Gray is

dead! I wish to God you may be able to tell me it is not true! Yet

in this painful uncertainty I must rest some days! None of my

acquaintance are in London. I do not know to whom to apply but to you.

Alas! I fear in vain! Too many circumstances speak it true! the detail

is exact;--a second paper arrived by the same post, and does not

contradict it--and what is worse, I saw him but four or five

days before I came hither; he had been to Kensington for the air,

complained of gout flying about him, of sensations of it in his

stomach, and indeed, thought him changed, and that he looked

ill--still I had not the least idea of his being in danger.--I started

up from my chair, when I read the paragraph--a cannon-ball could

not have surprised me more! The shock but ceased, to give way to my

concern; and my hopes are too ill founded to mitigate it. If nobody

has the charity to write to me, my anxiety must continue till the end

of the month, for I shall set out on my return on the 26th; and unless

you receive this time enough for your answer to leave London on the

20th, in the evening, I cannot meet it, till I find it in Arlington

Street, whither I beg you to direct it.

If the event is but too true, pray add to this melancholy service,

that of telling me any circumstances you know of his death. Our long,

very long friendship, and his genius, must endear to me everything

that relates to him. What writings has he left? Who are his executors?

I should earnestly wish, if he has destined anything to the public,

to print it at my press--it would do me honour, and would give me an

opportunity of expressing what I feel for him. Methinks, as we grow

old, our only business here is to adorn the graves of our friends, or

to dig our own.

To THE REV. WILLIAM MASON

_The quarrel with Gray_

2 _March_, 1773.

What shall I say? How shall I thank you for the kind manner in which

you submit your papers to my correction? But if you are friendly, I

must be just. I am so far from being dissatisfied, that I must beg to

shorten your pen, and in that respect only would I wish, with regard

to myself, to alter your text. I am conscious that in the beginning of

the differences between Gray and me, the fault was mine. I was

young, too fond of my own diversions; nay, I do not doubt, too much

intoxicated by indulgence, vanity, and the insolence of my situation,

as a prime minister's son, not to have been inattentive to the

feelings of one, I blush to say it, that I knew was obliged to me;

of one, whom presumption and folly made me deem not very superior

in parts, though I have since felt my infinite inferiority to him.

I treated him insolently. He loved me, and I did not think he did. I

reproached him with the difference between us, when he acted from the

conviction of knowing that he was my superior. I often disregarded

his wish of seeing places, which I would not quit my own amusements to

visit, though I offered to send him thither without me. Forgive me,

if I say that his temper was not conciliating, at the same time that I

will confess to you that he acted a most friendly part, had I had the

sense to take advantage of it. He freely told me my faults. I declared

I did not wish to hear them, nor would correct them. You will not

wonder, that with the dignity of his spirit, and the obstinate

carelessness of mine, the breach must have widened till we became

incompatible.

After this confession, I fear you will think I fall short in the

words I wish to have substituted for some of yours. If you think them

inadequate to the state of the case, as I own they are, preserve this

letter, and let some future Sir John Dalrymple produce it to load my

memory; but I own I do not desire that any ambiguity should aid his

invention to forge an account for me. If you have no objection, I

would propose your narrative should run thus ... and contain no more,

till a proper time shall come for publishing the truth, as I have

stated it to you. While I am living, it is not pleasant to see my

private disagreements discussed in magazines and newspapers.

To THE COUNTESS OF UPPER OSSORY

_Fashionable intelligence_

Strawberry Hill, 27 _March_, 1773.

What play makes you laugh very much, and yet is a very wretched

comedy? Dr. Goldsmith's _She Stoops to Conquer_. Stoops indeed!--so

she does, that is the Muse; she is draggled up to the knees, and has

trudged, I believe, from Southwark fair. The whole view of the

piece is low humour, and no humour is in it. All the merit is in the

situations, which are comic; the heroine has no more modesty than Lady

Bridget, and the author's wit is as much _manque_ as the lady's; but

some of the characters are well acted, and Woodward speaks a poor

prologue, written by Garrick, admirably.

You perceive, Madam, that I have boldly sallied to a play; but the

heat of the house and of this sultry March half killed me, yet I limp

about as if I was young and pleased. From the play I travelled

to Upper Grosvenor Street, to Lady Edgecumbe's, supped at Lady

Hertford's. That Maccaroni rake, Lady Powis, who is just come to her

estate and spending it, calling in with news of a fire in the Strand

at past one in the morning, Lady Hertford, Lady Powis, Mrs. Howe, and

I, set out to see it, and were within an inch of seeing the Adelphi

buildings burnt to the ground. I was to have gone to the Oratorio

next night for Miss Linley's sake, but, being engaged to the French

ambassador's ball afterwards, I thought I was not quite Hercules

enough for so many labours, and declined the former.

The house was all arbours and bowers, but rather more approaching to

Calcutta, where so many English were stewed to death; for as the Queen

would not dis-Maid of Honour herself of Miss Vernon till after the

Oratorio, the ball-room was not opened till she arrived, and we were

penned together in the little hall till we could not breathe. The

quadrilles were very pretty: Mrs. Darner, Lady Sefton, Lady Melbourne,

and the Princess Czartoriski in blue satin, with blond and _collets

montes a la reine Elizabeth_; Lord Robert Spencer, Mr. Fitzpatrick,

Lord Carlisle, and I forget whom, in like dresses with red sashes,

_derouge_, black hats with diamond loops and a few feathers before,

began; then the Henri Quatres and Quatresses, who were Lady Craven,

Miss Minching, the two Misses Vernons, Mr. Storer, Mr. Hanger, the Duc

de Lauzun, and George Damer, all in white, the men with black hats and

white feathers napping behind, danced another quadrille, and then both

quadrilles joined; after which Mrs. Hobart, all in gauze and spangles,

like a spangle-pudding, a Miss I forget, Lord Edward Bentinck, and

a Mr. Corbet, danced a _pas-de-quatre_, in which Mrs. Hobart indeed

performed admirably.

The fine Mrs. Matthews in white, trimmed down all the neck and

petticoat with scarlet cock's feathers, appeared like a new macaw

brought from Otaheite; but of all the pretty creatures next to the

Carrara (who was not there) was Mrs. Bunbury; so that with her I was

in love till one o'clock, and then came home to bed. The Duchess of

Queensberry had a round gown of rose-colour, with a man's cape, which,

with the stomacher and sleeves, was all trimmed with mother-of-pearl

earrings. This Pindaric gown was a sudden thought to surprise the

Duke, with whom she had dined in another dress. Did you ever see so

good a joke?...

Lord Chesterfield was dead before my last letter that foretold his

death set out. Alas! I shall have no more of his lively sayings,

Madam, to send you. Oh yes! I have his last: being told of the quarrel

in Spitalfields, and even that Mrs. F[itzroy] struck Miss P[oole], he

said, I always thought Mrs. F. a _striking_ beauty.'

Thus, having given away all his wit to the last farthing, he has left

nothing but some poor witticisms in his will, tying up his heir by

forfeitures and jokes from going to Newmarket.

I wrote this letter at Strawberry, and find nothing new in town to add

but a cold north-east that has brought back all our fires and furs.

Pray tell me a little of your Ladyship's futurity, and whether you

will deign to pass through London.

TO THE REV. WILLIAM COLE

_Antiquaries and authors_

Arlington Street, 27 _April_, 1773.

... Mr. Gough wants to be introduced to me! Indeed! I would see

him;... but he is so dull that he would only be troublesome--and

besides, you know I shun authors, and would never have been one

myself, if it obliged me to keep such bad company. They are always

in earnest, and think their profession serious, and will dwell upon

trifles, and reverence learning. I laugh at all these things, and

write only to laugh at them, and divert myself. None of us are authors

of any consequence; and it is the most ridiculous of all vanities to

be vain of being _mediocre_. A page in a great author humbles me

to the dust; and the conversation of those that are not superior

to myself, reminds me of what will be thought of myself. I blush to

flatter them, or to be flattered by them, and should dread letters

being published some time or other, in which they would relate our

interviews, and we should appear like those puny conceited witlings

in Shenstone's and Hughes's _Correspondence_, who give themselves airs

from being in possession of the soil of Parnassus for the time being;

as peers are proud, because they enjoy the estates of great men who

went before them. Mr. Gough is very welcome to see Strawberry Hill; or

I would help him to any scraps in my possession, that would assist

his publications; though he is one of those industrious who are

only re-burying the dead--but I cannot be acquainted with him. It is

contrary to my system and my humour; and besides, I know nothing

of barrows, and Danish intrenchments, and Saxon barbarisms, and

Phoenician characters--in short, I know nothing of those ages that

knew nothing--how then should I be of use to modern litterati? All the

Scotch metaphysicians have sent me their works. I did not read one of

them, because I do not understand what is not understood by those that

write about it; and I did not get acquainted with one of the writers.

I should like to be acquainted with Mr. Anstey, even though he wrote

Lord Buckhorse, or with the author of the _Heroic Epistle_--I have no

thirst to know the rest of my contemporaries, from the absurd bombast

of Dr. Johnson down to the silly Dr. Goldsmith; though the latter

changeling has had bright gleams of parts, and though the former had

sense, till he changed it for words, and sold it for a pension. Don't

think me scornful. Recollect that I have seen Pope, and lived with

Gray. Adieu!

TO THE MISS BERRYS

_Their first meeting_

Tuesday night, 8 o'clock, 17 _Sept._ 1793.

My beloved spouses,

Whom I love better than Solomon loved his one spouse--or his one

thousand. I lament that the summer is over; not because of its

iniquity, but because you two made it so delightful to me, that six

weeks of gout could not sour it. Pray take care of yourselves--not

for your own sakes, but for mine; for, as I have just had my quota of

gout, I may, possibly, expect to see another summer; and, as you allow

that I do know my own, and when I wish for anything and have it, am

entirely satisfied, you may depend upon it that I shall be as happy

with a third summer, if I reach it, as I have been with the two last.

Consider, that I have been threescore years and ten looking for a

society that I perfectly like; and at last there dropped out of the

clouds into Lady Herries's room two young gentlewomen, who I so little

thought were sent thither on purpose for me, that when I was told they

were the charming Miss Berrys, I would not even go to the side of the

chamber where they sat. But, as Fortune never throws anything at one's

head without hitting one, I soon found out that the charming Berrys

were precisely _ce qu'il me fallait_; and that though young enough to

be my great-grand-daughters, lovely enough to turn the heads of all

our youths, and sensible enough, if said youths have any brains, to

set all their heads to rights again. Yes, sweet damsels, I have found

that you can bear to pass half your time with an antediluvian, without

discovering any _ennui_ or disgust; though his greatest merit towards

you is, that he is not one of those old fools who fancy they are in

love in their dotage. I have no such vagary; though I am not

sorry that some folks think I am so absurd, since it frets their

selfishness.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

1728-1774

TO HIS MOTHER

_At Cork_

[c. 1751.]

My dear mother,

If you will sit down and calmly listen to what I say, you shall be

fully resolved in every one of those many questions you have asked me.

I went to Cork and converted my horse, which you prize so much higher

than Fiddleback, into cash, took my passage in a ship bound for

America, and, at the same time, paid the captain for my freight and

all the other expenses of my voyage. But it so happened that the wind

did not answer for three weeks; and you know, mother, that I could not

command the elements. My misfortune was, that, when the wind served, I

happened to be with a party in the country, and my friend the captain

never inquired after me, but set sail with as much indifference as if

I had been on board. The remainder of my time I employed in the city

and its environs, viewing everything curious; and you know no one can

starve while he has money in his pocket.

Reduced, however, to my last two guineas, I began to think of my

dear mother and friends whom I had left behind me, and so bought

that generous beast Fiddleback, and made adieu to Cork with only five

shillings in my pocket. This, to be sure, was but a scanty allowance

for man and horse towards a journey of above a hundred miles; but I

did not despair, for I knew I must find friends on the road.

I recollected particularly an old and faithful acquaintance I made at

college, who had often and earnestly pressed me to spend a summer

with him, and he lived but eight miles from Cork. This circumstance

of vicinity he would expatiate on to me with peculiar emphasis. 'We

shall,' says he, 'enjoy the delights of both city and country, and you

shall command my stable and my purse.'

However, upon the way, I met a poor woman all in tears, who told me

her husband had been arrested for a debt he was not able to pay, and

that his eight children must now starve, bereaved as they were of his

industry, which had been their only support. I thought myself at home,

being not far from my good friend's house, and therefore parted with

a moiety of all my store; and pray, mother, ought I not to have given

her the other half-crown, for what she got would be of little use to

her? However, I soon arrived at the mansion of my affectionate friend,

guarded by the vigilance of a huge mastiff, who flew at me, and

would have torn me to pieces but for the assistance of a woman, whose

countenance was not less grim than that of the dog; yet she with great

humanity relieved me from the jaws of this Cerberus, and was prevailed

on to carry up my name to her master.

Without suffering me to wait long, my old friend, who was then

recovering from a severe fit of sickness, came down in his nightcap,

nightgown, and slippers, and embraced me with the most cordial

welcome, showed me in, and after giving me a history of his

indisposition, assured me that he considered himself peculiarly

fortunate in having under his roof the man he most loved on earth, and

whose stay with him must, above all things, contribute to his perfect

recovery. I now repented sorely I had not given the poor woman the

other half-crown, as I thought all my bills of humanity would be

punctually answered by this worthy man. I revealed to him my whole

soul; I opened to him all my distresses; and freely owned that I

had but one half-crown in my pocket; but that now, like a ship after

weathering out the storm, I considered myself secure in a safe and

hospitable harbour. He made no answer, but walked about the room,

rubbing his hands as one in deep study. This I imputed to the

sympathetic feelings of a tender heart, which increased my esteem for

him, and as that increased, I gave the most favourable interpretation

to his silence. I construed it into delicacy of sentiment, as if he

dreaded to wound my pride by expressing his commiseration in words,

leaving his generous conduct to speak for itself.

It now approached six o'clock in the evening; and as I had eaten no

breakfast, and as my spirits were raised, my appetite for dinner grew

uncommonly keen. At length the old woman came into the room with two

plates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth which she laid upon the table.

This appearance, without increasing my spirits, did not diminish my

appetite. My protectress soon returned with a small bowl of sago, a

small porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, and

the heel of an old cheese all over crawling with mites. My friend

apologized that his illness obliged him to live on slops, and that

better fare was not in the house; observing, at the same time, that

a milk diet was certainly the most healthful; and at eight o'clock he

again recommended a regular life, declaring that for his part he would

lie down with the lamb and rise with the lark. My hunger was at this

time so exceedingly sharp that I wished for another slice of the loaf,

but was obliged to go to bed without even that refreshment.

This lenten entertainment I had received made me resolve to depart as

soon as possible; accordingly, next morning, when I spoke of going,

he did not oppose my resolution; he rather commended my design, adding

some very sage counsel upon the occasion. 'To be sure,' said he, 'the

longer you stay away from your mother, the more you will grieve her

and your other friends; and possibly they are already afflicted at

hearing of this foolish expedition you have made.' Notwithstanding all

this, and without any hope of softening such a sordid heart, I again

renewed the tale of my distress, and asking 'how he thought I could

travel above a hundred miles upon one half-crown?' I begged to borrow

a single guinea, which I assured him should be repaid with thanks.

'And you know, sir,' said I, 'it is no more than I have often done for

you.' To which he firmly answered, 'Why, look you, Mr. Goldsmith, that

is neither here nor there. I have paid you all you ever lent me, and

this sickness of mine has left me bare of cash. But I have bethought

myself of a conveyance for you; sell your horse, and I will furnish

you with a much better one to ride on.' I readily grasped at his

proposal, and begged to see the nag; on which he led me to his

bedchamber, and from under the bed he pulled out a stout oak stick.

'Here he is,' said he; 'take this in your hand, and it will carry you

to your mother's with more safety than such a horse as you ride.' I

was in doubt, when I got it into my hand, whether I should not in the

first place apply it to his pate; but a rap at the street-door

made the wretch fly to it, and when I returned to the parlour,

he introduced me, as if nothing of the kind had happened, to the

gentleman who entered, as Mr. Goldsmith, his most ingenious and worthy

friend, of whom he had so often heard him speak with rapture. I could

scarcely compose myself; and must have betrayed indignation in my mien

to the stranger, who was a counsellor-at-law in the neighbourhood, a

man of engaging aspect and polite address.

After spending an hour, he asked my friend and me to dine with him at

his house. This I declined at first, as I wished to have no further

communication with my hospitable friend; but at the solicitation of

both I at last consented, determined as I was by two motives; one,

that I was prejudiced in favour of the looks and manner of the

counsellor; and the other, that I stood in need of a comfortable

dinner. And there, indeed, I found everything that I could wish,

abundance without profusion, and elegance without affectation. In the

evening, when my old friend, who had eaten very plentifully at his

neighbour's table, but talked again of lying down with the lamb, made

a motion to me for retiring, our generous host requested I should take

a bed with him, upon which I plainly told my old friend that he might

go home and take care of the horse he had given me, but that I should

never re-enter his doors. He went away with a laugh, leaving me to

add this to the other little things the counsellor already knew of his

plausible neighbour.

And now, my dear mother, I found sufficient to reconcile me to all

my follies; for here I spent three whole days. The counsellor had

two sweet girls to his daughters, who played enchantingly on the

harpsichord; and yet it was but a melancholy pleasure I felt the first

time I heard them: for that being the first time also that either of

them had touched the instrument since their mother's death, I saw

the tears in silence trickle down their father's cheeks. I every day

endeavoured to go away, but every day was pressed and obliged to stay.

On my going, the counsellor offered me his purse, with a horse and

servant to convey me home; but the latter I declined, and only took a

guinea to bear my necessary expenses on the road.

TO ROBERT BRYANTON

_In Scotland_

Edinburgh, 26 _Sept._ 1753

MY DEAR BOB,

How many good excuses (and you know I was ever good at an excuse)

might I call up to vindicate my past shameful silence! I might tell

how I wrote a long letter on my first coming hither, and seem vastly

angry at my not receiving an answer; I might allege that business

(with business you know I was always pestered) had never given me

time to finger a pen--but I suppress those and twenty more equally

plausible, and as easily invented, since they might be attended with

a slight inconvenience of being known to be lies. Let me then speak

truth. An hereditary indolence (I have it from the mother's side) has

hitherto prevented my writing to you, and still prevents my writing

at least twenty-five letters more, due to my friends in Ireland. No

turnspit dog gets up into his wheel with more reluctance than I sit

down to write; yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns better

than I do him I now address. Yet what shall I say now I'm entered?

Shall I tire you with a description of this unfruitful country;

where I must lead you over their hills all brown with heath, or their

valleys scarce able to feed a rabbit? Man alone seems to be the only

creature who has arrived to the natural size in this poor soil. Every

part of the country presents the same dismal landscape. No grove, nor

brook, lend their music to cheer the stranger, or make the inhabitants

forget their poverty. Yet with all these disadvantages, enough to

call him down to humility, the Scotchman is one of the proudest things

alive. The poor have pride ever ready to relieve them. If mankind

should happen to despise them, they are masters of their own

admiration; and _that_ they can plentifully bestow upon themselves.

From their pride and poverty, as I take it, results one advantage this

country enjoys; namely, the gentlemen here are much better bred than

amongst us. No such characters here as our fox-hunters; and they have

expressed great surprise when I informed them that some men in Ireland

of one thousand pounds a-year spend their whole lives in running after

a hare, and drinking to be drunk; and truly, if such a being, equipped

in his hunting dress, came among a circle of Scotch gentry, they would

behold him with the same astonishment that a countryman would King

George on horseback.

The men here have generally high cheek-bones, and are lean and

swarthy, fond of action, dancing in particular. Though now I mention

dancing, let me say something of their balls, which are very frequent

here. When a stranger enters the dancing-hall, he sees one end of

the room taken up with the ladies, who sit dismally in a group by

themselves; on the other end stand their pensive partners that are to

be; but no more intercourse between the sexes than there is between

two countries at war. The ladies indeed may ogle, and the gentlemen

sigh; but an embargo is laid on any closer commerce. At length, to

interrupt hostilities, the lady directress, or intendant, or what you

will, pitches on a gentleman and lady to walk a minuet; which they

perform with a formality that approaches to despondence. After five

or six couple have thus walked the gauntlet, all stand up to country

dances; each gentleman furnished with a partner from the aforesaid

lady directress; so they dance much and say nothing, and thus

concludes our assembly. I told a Scotch gentleman that such profound

silence resembled the ancient procession of the Roman matrons in

honour of Ceres; and the Scotch gentleman told me (and, faith, I

believe he was right) that I was a very great pedant for my pains.

Now I am come to the ladies; and to show that I love Scotland, and

everything that belongs to so charming a country, I insist on it, and

will give him leave to break my head that denies it--that the Scotch

ladies are ten thousand times handsomer and finer than the Irish. To

be sure, now, I see your sisters Betty and Peggy vastly surprised at

my partiality, but tell them flatly, I don't value them, or their fine

skins, or eyes, or good sense, or--, a potato; for I say it, and will

maintain it, and as a convincing proof (I'm in a very great passion)

of what I assert, the Scotch ladies say it themselves. But to be less

serious; where will you find a language so pretty become a pretty

mouth as the broad Scotch? and the women here speak it in its highest

purity; for instance, teach one of their young ladies to pronounce

'Whoar wull I gong?' with a becoming wideness of mouth, and I'll lay

my life they will wound every hearer.

We have no such character here as a coquet, but alas! how many envious

prudes! Some days ago I walked into my Lord Kilcoubry's (don't be

surprised, my lord is but a glover), when the Duchess of Hamilton

(that fair who sacrificed her beauty to ambition, and her inward peace

to a title and gilt equipage) passed by in her chariot; her battered

husband, or more properly the guardian of her charms, sat by her side.

Straight envy began, in the shape of no less than three ladies who sat

with me, to find faults in her faultless form.--'For my part,' says

the first, 'I think what I always thought, that the Duchess has too

much red in her complexion.' 'Madam, I'm of your opinion,' says the

second; 'I think her face has a palish cast too much on the delicate

order.' 'And let me tell you,' adds the third lady, whose mouth was

puckered up to the size of an issue, 'that the Duchess has fine lips,

but she wants a mouth.'--At this every lady drew up her lips as if

going to pronounce the letter P.

But how ill, my Bob, does it become me to ridicule women with whom

I have scarce any correspondence! There are, 'tis certain, handsome

women here; and 'tis as certain there are handsome men to keep them

company. An ugly and a poor man is society for himself; and such

society the world lets me enjoy in great abundance. Fortune has given

you circumstances, and nature a person to look charming in the eyes of

the fair world. Nor do I envy my dear Bob such blessings, while I may

sit down and laugh at the world and at myself, the most ridiculous

object in it. But I begin to grow splenetic, and perhaps the fit may

continue till I receive an answer to this. I know you can't send news

from Ballymahon, but such as it is, send it all; everything you write

will be agreeable and entertaining to me.

Has George Conway put up a sign yet; or John Finecly left off drinking

drams; or Tom Allen got a new wig? But I leave to your own choice what

to write. While Oliver Goldsmith lives, know you have a friend.

PS.--Give my sincere respects (not compliments, do you mind) to your

agreeable family, and give my service to my mother, if you see her;

for, as you express it in Ireland, I have a sneaking kindness for her

still.

Direct to me,--Student in Physic, in Edinburgh.

TO HIS UNCLE CONTARINE

_In Holland_,

Leyden, _April_ or _May, 1754_.

DEAR SIR,

I suppose by this time I am accused of either neglect or ingratitude,

and my silence imputed to my usual slowness of writing. But believe

me, Sir, when I say, that till now I had not an opportunity of sitting

down with that ease of mind which writing required. You may see by the

top of the letter that I am at Leyden; but of my journey hither you

must be informed. Some time after the receipt of your last, I embarked

for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship called the _St. Andrews_, Capt.

John Wall, master. The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as

another inducement, I was let to know that six agreeable passengers

were to be my company. Well, we were but two days at sea when a storm

drove us into a city of England called Newcastle-upon-Tyne. We all

went ashore to refresh us after the fatigue of our voyage. Seven men

and I were one day on shore, and on the following evening as we were

all very merry, the room door bursts open, enters a sergeant and

twelve grenadiers with their bayonets screwed, and puts us all under

the King's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the French

service, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for the French

army. I endeavoured all I could to prove my innocence; however, I

remained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got

off even then. Dear Sir, keep this all a secret, or at least say it

was for debt; for if it were once known at the University, I should

hardly get a degree. But hear how Providence interposed in my favour;

the ship was gone on to Bordeaux before I got from prison, and was

wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew were

drowned. It happened the last great storm. There was a ship at that

time ready for Holland. I embarked, and in nine days, thank my God, I

arrived safe at Rotterdam; whence I travelled by land to Leyden; and

whence I now write.

You may expect some account of this country, and though I am not well

qualified for such an undertaking, yet shall I endeavour to satisfy

some part of your expectations. Nothing surprised me more than the

books every day published, descriptive of the manners of this country.

Any young man who takes it into his head to publish his travels,

visits the countries he intends to describe; passes through them with

as much inattention as his _valet de chambre_; and consequently not

having a fund himself to fill a volume, he applies to those who wrote

before him, and gives us the manners of a country, not as he must have

seen them, but such as they might have been fifty years before. The

modern Dutchman is quite a different creature from him of former

times; he in everything imitates a Frenchman but in his easy

disengaged air, which is the result of keeping polite company.

The Dutchman is vastly ceremonious, and is perhaps exactly what a

Frenchman might have been in the reign of Louis XIV. Such are the

better-bred. But the downright Hollander is one of the oddest figures

in nature. Upon a head of lank hair he wears a half-cocked narrow hat

laced with black ribbon: no coat, but seven waistcoats, and nine pairs

of breeches; so that his hips reach almost up to his armpits. This

well-clothed vegetable is now fit to see company, or make love. But

what a pleasing creature is the object of his appetite? Why, she

wears a large fur cap with a deal of Flanders lace: for every pair of

breeches he carries, she puts on two petticoats.

A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phlegmatic admirer but his

tobacco. You must know, Sir, every woman carries in her hand a

stove with coals in it, which, when she sits, she snugs under her

petticoats; and at this chimney dozing Strephon lights his pipe. I

take it that this continual smoking is what gives the man the ruddy

healthful complexion he generally wears, by draining his superfluous

moisture, while the woman, deprived of this amusement, overflows with

such viscidities as tint the complexion, and give that paleness of

visage which low fenny grounds and moist air conspire to cause. A

Dutch woman and Scotch will well bear an opposition.

The one is pale and fat, the other lean and ruddy: the one walks as if

she were straddling after a go-cart, and the other takes too masculine

a stride. I shall not endeavour to deprive either country of its share

of beauty; but must say, that of all objects on this earth, an English

farmer's daughter is most charming. Every woman there is a complete

beauty, while the higher class of women want many of the requisites to

make them even tolerable. Their pleasures here are very dull, though

very various. You may smoke, you may doze; you may go to the

Italian comedy, as good an amusement as either of the former. This

entertainment always brings in Harlequin, who is generally a magician,

and in consequence of his diabolical art performs a thousand tricks on

the rest of the persons of the drama, who are all fools. I have seen

the pit in a roar of laughter at this humour, when with his sword he

touches the glass from which another was drinking. 'Twas not his face

they laughed at, for that was masked. They must have seen something

vastly queer in the wooden sword, that neither I, nor you, Sir, were

you there, could see.

In winter, when their canals are frozen, every house is forsaken, and

all people are on the ice; sleds, drawn by horses, and skating, are at

that time the reigning amusements. They have boats here that slide

on the ice, and are driven by the winds. When they spread all their

sails, they go more than a mile and a half a minute, and their motion

is so rapid the eye can scarcely accompany them. Their ordinary manner

of travelling is very cheap and very convenient: they sail in covered

boats drawn by horses; and in these you are sure to meet people of all

nations. Here the Dutch slumber, the French chatter, and the English

play at cards. Any man who likes company may have them to his taste.

For my part I generally detached myself from all society, and was

wholly taken up in observing the face of the country. Nothing can

equal its beauty; wherever I turn my eye, fine houses, elegant

gardens, statues, grottos, vistas, presented themselves; but when you

enter their towns you are charmed beyond description. No misery is to

be seen here; every one is usefully employed.

Scotland and this country bear the highest contrast. There hills and

rocks intercept every prospect; here 'tis all a continued plain. There

you might see a well-dressed duchess issuing from a dirty close; and

here a dirty Dutchman inhabiting a palace. The Scotch may be compared

to a tulip planted in dung; but I never see a Dutchman in his own

house, but I think of a magnificent Egyptian temple dedicated to an

ox. Physic is by no means here taught so well as in Edinburgh; and

in all Leyden there are but four British students, owing to all

necessaries being so extremely dear, and the professors so very lazy

(the chemical professor excepted), that we don't much care to come

hither. I am not certain how long my stay here may be; however, I

expect to have the happiness of seeing you at Kilmore, if I can, next

March.

Direct to me, if I am honoured with a letter from you, to Madam

Diallion's at Leyden.

Thou best of men, may Heaven guard and preserve you, and those you

love.

TO HIS BROTHER HENRY

_Family matters_

1759.

... Imagine to yourself a pale, melancholy visage, with two great

wrinkles between the eyebrows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a

big wig; and you may have a perfect picture of my present appearance.

On the other hand, I conceive you as perfectly sleek and healthy,

passing many a happy day among your own children, or those who knew

you a child.

Since I knew what it was to be a man, this is a pleasure I have not

known. I have passed my days among a parcel of cool, designing beings,

and have contracted all their suspicious manner in my own behaviour. I

should actually be as unfit for the society of my friends at home, as

I detest that which I am obliged to partake of here. I can now neither

partake of the pleasure of a revel, nor contribute to raise its

jollity. I can neither laugh nor drink; have contracted a hesitating,

disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-nature

itself; in short, I have thought myself into a settled melancholy, and

an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence this romantic

turn that all our family are possessed with? Whence this love for

every place and every country but that in which we reside--for every

occupation but our own? this desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness

to dissipate? I perceive, my dear sir, that I am at intervals

for indulging this splenetic manner, and following my own taste,

regardless of yours.

The reasons you have given me for breeding up your son as a scholar

are judicious and convincing; I should, however, be glad to know for

what particular profession he is designed. If he be assiduous and

divested of strong passions (for passions in youth always lead to

pleasure), he may do very well in your college; for it must be owned

that the industrious poor have good encouragement there, perhaps

better than in any other in Europe. But if he has ambition, strong

passions, and an exquisite sensibility of contempt, do not send him

there, unless you have no other trade for him except your own. It is

impossible to conceive how much may be done by a proper education

at home. A boy, for instance, who understands perfectly well Latin,

French, Arithmetic, and the principles of the Civil Law, and can

write a fine hand, has an education that may qualify him for any

undertaking; and these parts of learning should be better inculcated,

let him be designed for whatever calling he will.

Above all things let him never touch a romance or novel; these paint

beauty in colours more charming than nature, and describe happiness

that man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive are those

pictures of consummate bliss! They teach the youthful mind to sigh

after beauty and happiness that never existed; to despise the little

good which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting more than she

ever gave; and, in general, take the word of a man who has seen

the world and who has studied human nature more by experience than

precept; take my word for it, that books teach us very little of the

world. The greatest merit in a state of poverty would only serve to

make the possessor ridiculous--may distress, but cannot relieve him.

Frugality, and even avarice, in the lower orders of mankind, are

true ambition. These afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to

preferment. Teach then, my dear sir, to your son thrift and economy.

Let his poor wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I

had learned from books to be disinterested and generous, before I

was taught from experience the necessity of being prudent. I had

contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, while I was

exposing myself to the insidious approaches of cunning: and often by

being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot

the rules of justice, and placed myself in the very situation of the

wretch who thanked me for my bounty. When I am in the remotest part of

the world, tell him this, and perhaps he may improve from my example.

But I find myself again falling into my gloomy habits of thinking.

My mother, I am informed, is almost blind; even though I had the

utmost inclination to return home, under such circumstances I could

not, for to behold her in distress without a capacity of relieving her

from it, would add much too to my splenetic habit. Your last letter

was much too short; it should have answered some queries I had made

in my former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward until you have

filled all your paper. It requires no thought, at least from the ease

with which my own sentiments rise when they are addressed to you. For,

believe me, my head has no share in all I write; my heart dictates the

whole. Pray give my love to Bob Bryanton, and entreat him from me not

to drink. My dear sir, give me some account about poor Jenny. Yet her

husband loves her: if so, she cannot be unhappy.

I know not whether I should tell you--yet why should I conceal those

trifles, or indeed anything from you? There is a book of mine will be

published in a few days: the life of a very extraordinary man; no less

than the great Voltaire. You know already by the title that it is no

more than a catch-penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the whole

performance, for which I received twenty pounds. When published, I

shall take some method of conveying it to you, unless you may think

it dear of the postage, which may amount to four or five shillings.

However, I fear you will not find an equivalent of amusement.

Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short; you should have given me

your opinion of the design of the heroi-comical poem which I sent you.

You remember I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in

a paltry ale-house. You may take the following specimen of the manner,

which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies

may be described somewhat this way:

The window, patched with paper, lent a ray

That feebly show'd the state in which he lay;

The sandy floor that grits beneath the tread,

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;

The game of goose was there exposed to view,

And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;

The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,

And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face.

The morn was cold: he views with keen desire

A rusty grate, unconscious of a fire;

An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored,

And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board.

And now imagine after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his

appearance in order to dun him for the reckoning:

Not with that face, so servile and so gay,

That welcomes every stranger that can pay:

With sulky eye he smoked the patient man,

Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began, &c.

All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of

Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with whom they

do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies

as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeable

species of composition than prose; and, could a man live by it, it

were not unpleasant employment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave no

space, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you very

well know already, I mean that I am

Your most affectionate friend and brother.

WILLIAM COWPER

1731-1800

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON

_Escapade of Puss_

21 Aug. 1780.

The following occurrence ought not to be passed over in silence, in

a place where so few notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednesday

night, while we were at supper, between the hours of eight and nine, I

heard an unusual noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares was

entangled, and endeavouring to disengage herself. I was just going to

rise from table, when it ceased. In about five minutes, a voice on the

outside of the parlour door inquired if one of my hares had got

away. I immediately rushed into the next room, and found that my

poor favourite Puss had made her escape. She had gnawed in sunder the

strings of a lattice work, with which I thought I had sufficiently

secured the window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind,

because it admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened to the

kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me,

that having seen her, just after she had dropped into the street, he

attempted to cover her with his hat, but she screamed out, and leaped

directly over his head. I then desired him to pursue as fast as

possible, and added Richard Coleman to the chase, as being nimbler,

and carrying less weight than Thomas; not expecting to see her again,

but desirous to learn, if possible, what became of her. In something

less than an hour, Richard returned, almost breathless, with the

following account. That soon after he began to run, he left Tom

behind him, and came in sight of a most numerous hunt of men, women,

children, and dogs; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, and

presently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputed

between himself and Puss;--she ran right through the town, and down

the lane that leads to Dropshort; a little before she came to the

house, he got the start and turned her; she pushed for the town

again, and soon after she entered it, sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's

tanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's harvest men were

at supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There she

encountered the tanpits full of water; and while she was struggling

out of one pit, and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one of

the men drew her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then well

washed in a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and brought home

in a sack at ten o'clock.

This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe we did not

grudge a farthing of it. The poor creature received only a little hurt

in one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is now almost as well

as ever.

I do not call this an answer to your letter, but such as it is I send

it, presuming upon that interest which I know you take in my minutest

concerns, which I cannot express better than in the words of Terence a

little varied--_Nihil mei a te alienum putas._

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN

_A laugh that hurts nobody_

_18 Nov. 1782._

MY DEAR WILLIAM,

... I little thought when I was writing the history of John Gilpin,

that he would appear in print--I intended to laugh, and to make two

or three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the world

laughs, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous in

itself, and quaintly told, as we have.--Well--they do not always laugh

so innocently, or at so small an expense--for in a world like this,

abounding with subjects for satire, and with satirical wits to mark

them, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least the grace of novelty to

recommend it. Swift's darling motto was, _Vive la bagatelle_--a good

wish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater part of whose

wisdom, whencesoever it came, most certainly came not from above. _La

bagatelle_ has no enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend,

nor so able a one, as it had in him. If I trifle, and merely trifle,

it is because I am reduced to it by necessity--a melancholy, that

nothing else so effectually disperses, engages me sometimes in the

arduous task of being merry by force. And, strange as it may seem,

the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest

mood, and, but for that saddest mood, perhaps had never been written

at all. To say truth, it would be but a shocking vagary, should

the mariners on board a ship buffeted by a terrible storm, employ

themselves in fiddling and dancing; yet sometimes much such a part act

I....

To THE REV. JOHN NEWTON

_Village politicians_

_26 Jan. 1783._

MY DEAR FRIEND,

It is reported among persons of the best intelligence at Olney--the

barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered at

this place,--that the belligerent powers are at last reconciled, the

articles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door. I saw

this morning, at nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures very

closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon the same subject.

The scene of consultation was a blacksmith's shed, very comfortably

screened from the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. Some

held their hands behind them, some had them folded across their bosom,

and others had thrust them into their breeches pockets. Every man's

posture bespoke a pacific turn of mind; but the distance being too

great for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing,

however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long, and that

you and I, equally interested in the event, though not, perhaps,

equally well-informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice in

the completion of it. The powers of Europe have clashed with each

other to a fine purpose; that the Americans, at length declared

independent, may keep themselves so, if they can; and that what the

parties, who have thought proper to dispute upon that point, have

wrested from each other in the course of the conflict, may be, in the

issue of it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be guilty of

a conduct that would render an individual infamous for ever; and

yet carry their heads high, talk of their glory, and despise their

neighbours. Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are

not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon this subject

than I have always done. England, more, perhaps, through the fault of

her generals, than her councils, has in some instances acted with a

spirit of cruel animosity she was never chargeable with till now. But

this is the worst that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans,

who, if they had contented themselves with a struggle for lawful

liberty, would have deserved applause, seem to me to have incurred

the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by making her ruin

their favourite object, and by associating themselves with her worst

enemy, for the accomplishment of their purpose. France, and of course

Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They have stolen

America from England, and whether they are able to possess themselves

of that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless what they intended.

Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of them. They

quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led them

by the nose, and the English have threshed them for suffering it.

My views of the contest being, and having been always such, I have

consequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some time

since seemed to justify. She is the only injured party. America may,

perhaps, call her the aggressor; but if she were so, America has

not only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, if

perfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition can prove their cause to

have been a rotten one, those proofs are found upon them. I think,

therefore, that whatever scourge may be prepared for England, on some

future day, her ruin is not yet to be expected. Acknowledge, now, that

I am worthy of a place under the shed I described, and that I should

make no small figure among the _quidnuncs_ of Olney....

TO THE SAME

_Village justice_

17 _Nov_. 1783.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

... The country around us is much alarmed with apprehensions of fire.

Two have happened since that of Olney. One at Hitchin, where the

damage is said to amount to eleven thousand pounds, and another, at

a place not far from Hitchin, of which I have not learnt the name.

Letters have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to burn the town;

and the inhabitants have been so intimidated, as to have placed a

guard in many parts of it, several nights past. Some madman or some

devil has broke loose, who it is to be hoped will pay dear for these

effusions of his malignity. Since our conflagration here, we have sent

two women and a boy to the justice, for depredation; Sue Riviss, for

stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intended

to take care of. This lady, whom you will remember, escaped for want

of evidence; not that evidence was indeed wanting, but our men of

Gotham judged it unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman I

mentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of profession,

but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude of conduct rather

inconsistent with it, having filled her apron with wearing apparel,

which she likewise intended to take care of. She would have gone to

the county gaol, had Billy Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted,

insisted on it, but he good-naturedly, though I think weakly,

interposed in her favour, and begged her off. The young gentleman who

accompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. He

had stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs, the butcher. Being

convicted, he was ordered to be whipt, which operation he underwent

at the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back

again. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an imposition

upon the public. The beadle, who performed, had filled his left hand

with red ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lash

of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but in

reality not hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr. Constable

Hinschcomb, who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any

such management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful

executioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The beadle

could by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked the

constable to still harder; and this double flogging continued, till a

lass of Silverend, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under the

hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, and placing

herself immediately behind the latter, seized him by his capillary

club, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapt his face with a

most Amazonian fury. This concatenation of events has taken up more of

my paper than I intended it should, but I could not forbear to inform

you how the beadle thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle,

and the lady the constable, and how the thief was the only one who

suffered nothing. Mr. Teedon has been here, and is gone again. He came

to thank me for an old pair of breeches. In answer to our inquiries

after his health, he replied that he had a slow fever, which made

him take all possible care not to inflame his blood. I admitted

his prudence, but in his particular instance could not very clearly

discern the need of it. Pump water will not heat him much; and, to

speak a little in his own style, more inebriating fluids are to him,

I fancy, not very attainable. He brought us news, the truth of which,

however, I do not vouch for, that the town of Bedford was actually on

fire yesterday, and the flames not extinguished when the bearer of the

tidings left it.

Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why the preacher is

elevated always above his hearers, that let the crowd be as great as

it will below, there is always room enough overhead. If the French

philosophers can carry their art of flying to the perfection they

desire, the observation may be reversed, the crowd will be overhead,

and they will have most room who stay below. I can assure you,

however, upon my own experience, that this way of travelling is

very delightful. I dreamt, a night or two since, that I drove myself

through the upper regions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest

ease and security. Having finished the tour I intended, I made a short

turn, and, with one flourish of my whip, descended; my horses prancing

and curvetting with an infinite share of spirit, but without the least

danger, either to me or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is at

hand, and seems to be prognosticated by my dream, when these airy

excursions will be universal, when judges will fly the circuit,

and bishops their visitations; and when the tour of Europe will be

performed with much greater speed, and with equal advantage, by all

who travel merely for the sake of having it to say that they have made

it.

I beg that you will accept for yourself and yours our unfeigned love,

and remember me affectionately to Mr. Bacon, when you see him.

TO THE SAME

_A candidate's visit_

29 _March_, 1784.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

It being his majesty's pleasure that I should yet have another

opportunity to write before he dissolves the parliament, I avail

myself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your last,

which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary

gazette, at a time when it was not expected.

As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way into

creeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches,

in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even at

Orchard-side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the political

element, as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally deposited

in some hollow beyond the water mark, by the usual dashing of the

waves. We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and

myself, very composedly, and without the least apprehension of any

such intrusion in our snug parlour, one lady knitting, the other

netting, and the gentleman winding worsted, when to our unspeakable

surprise a mob appeared before the window; a smart rap was heard at

the door, the boys halloo'd, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville.

Puss was unfortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, with

all his good friends at his heels, was refused admittance at the grand

entry, and referred to the back door, as the only possible way of

approach. Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts,

and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window, than be absolutely

excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlour, were

filled. Mr. Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with

a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he and

as many more as could find chairs, were seated, he began to open the

intent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily

gave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not

equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, because Mr.

Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself to me at this moment,

informed me that I had a great deal. Supposing that I could not be

possessed of such a treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm

my first assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at a

loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended

the conference. Mr. Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed

the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen,

and seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted

gentlemen. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not

being sufficient as it should seem for the many nice and difficult

purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he wore suspended by

a riband from his buttonhole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked,

Puss scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious followers,

withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the adventure, and in a

short time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to be

thus interrupted more. I thought myself, however, happy in being able

to affirm truly that I had not that influence for which he sued;

and which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of the

dispute between the Crown and the Commons, I must have refused him,

for he is on the side of the former. It is comfortable to be of

no consequence in a world where one cannot exercise any without

disobliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be much at his

service, and if he be equally successful throughout the country, he

will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner perhaps was a little

mortified, because it was evident that I owed the honour of this visit

to his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper

to assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I should not I suppose

have been bound to produce them....

To LADY HESKETH

_An acquaintance reopened_

Olney, 9 _Nov_. 1785.

MY DEAREST COUSIN,

Whose last most affectionate letter has run in my head ever since I

received it, and which I now sit down to answer two days sooner than

the post will serve me; I thank you for it, and with a warmth for

which I am sure you will give me credit, though I do not spend

many words in describing it. I do not seek _new_ friends, not being

altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakable

pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that now our

correspondence has suffered its last interruption, and that we shall

go down together to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily as

such a scene of things as this will permit.

I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My volume has afforded me

no such pleasure at any time, either while I was writing it, or since

its publication, as I have derived from yours and my uncle's opinion

of it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiar

quickness of taste, with which you both relish what you like, and

after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich in

the measure of your approbation that still remains. But above all,

I honour _John Gilpin_, since it was he who first encouraged you to

write. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose

well; but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisition

than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my

intercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and

generous Cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, and given

delicately to understand that the inquirer was ready to supply all

my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively, declined the

favour. I neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such inconveniences

as I had not much rather endure than come under obligations of that

sort to a person comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But to

you I answer otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the liberality of

your disposition, and have that consummate confidence in the

sincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkward

constraint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you,

therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what

manner-soever you please; and add moreover, that my affection for the

giver is such as will increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that I

shall have in receiving. It is necessary, however, that I should let

you a little into the state of my finances, that you may not suppose

them more narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and

I have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse, although during the

whole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine.

Her revenues indeed are now in some measure reduced, and do not much

exceed my own; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to

deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able to

afford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well-being

of life, depend upon. My own income has been better than it is,

but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my

connexions demanded that I should, had it not been combined with a

better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had

full proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon,

in which time by the help of good management, and a clear notion of

economical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth.

Now, my beloved Cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as it

stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for there

is no need of it, but indulge yourself in communicating (no matter

what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you

will be sure to add to the comforts of my life one of the sweetest

that I can enjoy--a token and proof of your affection.

I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwithstanding all that

time may have done: there is not a feature of your face, could I meet

it upon the road, by itself, that I should not instantly recollect.

I should say that is my Cousin's nose, or those are her lips and her

chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, I

am a very smart youth of my years; I am not indeed grown grey so much

as I am grown bald. No matter: there was more hair in the world than

ever had the honour to belong to me; accordingly having found just

enough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little

of my own that still hangs behind, I appear, if you see me in an

afternoon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguished

from my natural growth, which being worn with a small bag, and a black

riband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, even on

the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing too often!

PS. That the view I give you of myself may be complete, I add the two

following items--That I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat.

TO THE SAME

_The kindliness of thanks_

30 _Nov_. 1785.

My dearest cousin,

Your kindness reduces me to a necessity (a pleasant one, indeed), of

writing all my letters in the same terms: always thanks, thanks at

the beginning, and thanks at the end. It is however, I say, a pleasant

employment when those thanks are indeed the language of the heart: and

I can truly add, that there is no person on earth whom I thank with

so much affection as yourself. You insisted that I should give you my

genuine opinion of the wine. By the way, it arrived without the least

damage or fracture, and I finished the first bottle of it this very

day. It is excellent, and though the wine which I had been used to

drink was not bad, far preferable to that. The bottles will be in town

on Saturday. I am enamoured of the desk and its contents before I see

them. They will be most entirely welcome. A few years since I made

Mrs. Unwin a present of a snuff-box--a silver one; the purchase was

made in London by a friend; it is of a size and form that make it

more fit for masculine than feminine use. She therefore with pleasure

accepts the box which you have sent--I should say with the greatest

pleasure. And I, discarding the leathern trunk that I have used so

long, shall succeed to the possession of hers. She says, Tell Lady

Hesketh that I truly love and honour her. Now, my Cousin, you may

depend upon it, as a most certain truth, that these words from her

lips are not an empty sound. I never in my life heard her profess a

regard for any one that she felt not. She is not addicted to the use

of such language upon ordinary occasions; but when she speaks it,

speaks from the heart. She has baited me this many a day, even as a

bear is baited, to send for Dr. Kerr. But, as I hinted to you upon

a former occasion, I am as mulish as most men are, and have hitherto

most ungallantly refused; but what is to be done now?--If it were

uncivil not to comply with the solicitations of one lady, to be

unmoved by the solicitations of two would prove me to be a bear

indeed. I will, therefore, summon him to consideration of said

stomach, and its ailments, without delay, and you shall know the

result.--I have read Goldsmith's _Traveller_ and his _Deserted

Village_, and am highly pleased with them both, as well for the manner

in which they are executed, as for their tendency, and the lessons

that they inculcate.

Mrs. Unwin said to me a few nights since, after supper, 'I have two

fine fowls in feeding, and just fit for use; I wonder whether I should

send them to Lady Hesketh?' I replied, Yes, by all means! and I will

tell you a story that will at once convince you of the propriety of

doing so. My brother was curate on a time to Mr. Fawkes, of Orpington,

in Kent: it was when I lived in the Temple. One morning, as I was

reading by the fireside, I heard a prodigious lumbering at the door. I

opened it, and beheld a most rural figure, with very dirty boots, and

a great coat as dirty. Supposing that my great fame as a barrister had

drawn upon me a client from some remote region, I desired him to walk

in. He did so, and introduced himself to my acquaintance by telling me

that he was the farmer with whom my brother lodged at Orpington.

After this preliminary information he unbuttoned his great coat, and I

observed a quantity of long feathers projected from an inside pocket.

He thrust in his hand, and with great difficulty extricated a great

fat capon. He then proceeded to lighten the other side of him, by

dragging out just such another, and begged my acceptance of both.

I sent them to a tavern, where they were dressed, and I with two or

three friends, whom I invited to the feast, found them incomparably

better than any fowls we had ever tasted from the London co-ops. Now,

said I to Mrs. Unwin, it is likely that the fowls at Olney may be as

good as the fowls at Orpington, therefore send them; for it is not

possible to make so good a use of them in any other way ... Adieu, my

faithful, kind, and consolatory friend!

TO THE SAME

_Arrival of the desk_

7 _Dec_. 1785.

My dear cousin,

At this time last night I was writing to you, and now I am writing to

you again ... My dear, you say not a word about the desk in your last,

which I received this morning. I infer from your silence that you

supposed it either at Olney or on its way thither, and that you

expected nothing so much as that my next would inform you of its safe

arrival;--therefore, where can it possibly be? I am not absolutely in

despair about it, for the reasons that I mentioned last night; but to

say the truth, I stand tottering upon the verge of it. I write, and

have written these many years, upon a book of maps, which I now begin

to find too low and too flat, though till I expected a better desk,

I found no fault with _them_. See and observe how true it is, that

by increasing the number of our conveniences, we multiply our wants

exactly in the same proportion! neither can I at all doubt that if you

were to tell me that all the men in London of any fashion at all, wore

black velvet shoes with white roses, and should also tell me that you

would send me such, I should dance with impatience till they arrived.

Not because I care one farthing of what materials my shoes are made,

but because any shoes of your sending would interest me from head to

foot.

_Thursday Evening_.

Oh that this letter had wings, that it might fly to tell you that my

desk, the most elegant, the compactest, the most commodious desk in

the world, and of all the desks that ever were or ever shall be,

the desk that I love the most, is safe arrived. Nay, my dear, it was

actually at Sherrington, when the wagoner's wife (for the man himself

was not at home) croaked out her abominable _No_! yet she examined the

bill of lading, but either did it so carelessly, or as poor Dick Madan

used to say, with such an _ignorant eye_, that my name escaped her. My

precious Cousin, you have bestowed too much upon me. I have nothing

to render you in return, but the affectionate feelings of a heart most

truly sensible of your kindness. How pleasant it is to write upon such

a green bank! I am sorry that I have so nearly reached the end of

my paper. I have now however only room to say that Mrs. Unwin is

delighted with her box, and bids me do more than thank you for

it. What can I do more at this distance but say that she loves you

heartily, and that so do I? The pocket-book is also the completest

that I ever saw, and the watch-chain the most brilliant.

Adieu for a little while. Now for Homer.

N.B.--I generally write the day before the post sets out, which is

the thing that puzzles you. I do it that I may secure time for the

purpose, and may not be hurried. On this very day twenty-two years ago

I left London.

TO THE SAME

_Anticipations of a visit_

Olney, 9 _Feb_. 1786.

MY DEAREST COUSIN,

I have been impatient to tell you that I am impatient to see you

again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon this

subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the

last post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormenting

specimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a letter

on Monday that should distress and alarm him; I sent him another

yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologized

very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures; and his

friend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison of

me with the original, so that, I doubt not, we shall jog on merrily

together. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that your

kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both! I shall see you

again. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will

show you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its banks,

everything that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of those

days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk

not of an inn! Mention it not for your life! We have never had so many

visitors, but we could easily accommodate them all, though we have

received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son all at once.

My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or beginning

of June, because before that time my greenhouse will not be ready to

receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. When

the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor

with mats; and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at your

side, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will make

you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention the

country will not be in complete beauty.

And I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance.

Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a

look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of

my making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my hares, and

in which lodges Puss at present; but he, poor fellow, is worn out with

age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right

hand stands a cupboard, the work of the same author; it was once a

dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table,

which I also made; but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it

became paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament; and all

my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end

of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour,

into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs.

Unwin, unless we should meet her before, and where we will be as happy

as the day is long. Order yourself, my Cousin, to the Swan at Newport,

and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney.

My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have

asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keeps

his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be

anything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content with

it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too.

Adieu! my dearest, dearest Cousin.

TO THE SAME

_Commissions and thanks_

The Lodge, 24 _Dec_. 1786.

You must by no means, my dearest Coz, pursue the plan that has

suggested itself to you on the supposed loss of your letter. In

the first place I choose that my Sundays, like the Sundays of other

people, shall be distinguished by something that shall make me look

forward to them with agreeable expectation, and for that reason desire

that they may always bring me a letter from you. In the next place,

if I know when to _expect_ a letter, I know likewise when to _inquire

after_ a letter, if it happens not to come; a circumstance of some

importance, considering how excessively careless they are at the Swan,

where letters are sometimes overlooked, and do not arrive at their

destination, if no inquiry be made, till some days have passed since

their arrival at Olney. It has happened frequently to me to receive

a letter long after all the rest have been delivered, and the Padre

assured me that Mr. Throckmorton has sent notes three several times to

Mrs. Marriot, complaining of this neglect. For these reasons, my dear,

thou must write still on Saturdays, and as often on other days as thou

pleasest.

The screens came safe, and one of them is at this moment interposed

between me and the fire, much to the comfort of my peepers. The

other of them being fitted up with a screw that was useless, I have

consigned it to proper hands, that it may be made as serviceable

as its brother. They are very neat, and I account them a great

acquisition. Our carpenter assures me that the lameness of the chairs

was not owing to any injury received in their journey, but that the

maker never properly finished them. They were not high when they came,

and in order to reduce them to a level, we have lowered them an inch.

Thou knowest, child, that the short foot could not be lengthened, for

which reason we shortened the long ones. The box containing the plate

and the brooms reached us yesterday, and nothing had suffered the

least damage by the way. Everything is smart, everything is elegant,

and we admire them all. The short candlesticks are short enough. I am

now writing with those upon the table; Mrs. U. is reading opposite,

and they suit us both exactly. With the money that you have in hand,

you may purchase, my dear, at your most convenient time, a tea-urn;

that which we have at present having never been handsome, and being

now old and patched. A parson once, as he walked across the parlour,

pushed it down with his belly, and it never perfectly recovered

itself. We want likewise a tea-waiter, meaning, if you please, such

a one as you may remember to have seen at the Hall, a wooden one.

To which you may add, from the same fund, three or four yards of

yard-wide muslin, wherewithal to make neckcloths for my worship. If

after all these disbursements anything should be left at the bottom

of the purse, we shall be obliged to you if you will expend it in the

purchase of silk pocket-handkerchiefs. There, my precious--I think I

have charged thee with commissions in plenty.

You neither must nor shall deny us the pleasure of sending to you

such small matters as we do. As to the partridges, you may recollect

possibly, when I remind you of it, that I never eat them; they refuse

to pass my stomach; and Mrs. Unwin rejoiced in receiving them only

because she could pack them away to you--therefore never lay us under

any embargoes of this kind, for I tell you beforehand, that we are

both incorrigible. My beloved Cousin, the first thing that I open my

eyes upon in a morning, is it not the bed in which you have laid me?

Did you not, in our old dismal parlour at Olney, give me the tea on

which I breakfast?--the chocolate that I drank at noon, and the table

at which I dine?--the everything, in short, that I possess in the

shape of convenience, is it not all from you? and is it possible,

think you, that we should either of us overlook an opportunity of

making such a tiny acknowledgement of your kindness? Assure yourself

that never, while my name is Giles Gingerbread, will I dishonour my

glorious ancestry, and my illustrious appellation, by so unworthy a

conduct. I love you at my heart, and so does Mrs. U., and we must say

thank you, and send you a peppercorn when we can. So thank you, my

dear, for the brawn and the chine, and for all the good things that

you announce, and at present I will, for your sake, say no more of

thanksgiving.

TO MRS. BODHAM

_His mother's portrait_

Weston, 27 _Feb._ 1790.

MY DEAREST ROSE,

Whom I thought withered, and fallen from the stalk, but whom I still

find alive: nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it,

and to hear it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a

child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so.

Every creature that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and

you, the daughter of her brother, are but one remove distant from her:

I love you, therefore, and love you much, both for her sake, and for

your own. The world could not have furnished you with a present so

acceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. I

received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation of

nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had the

dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung

it where it is the last object that I see at night, and, of course,

the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I

completed my sixth year; yet I remember her well, and am an ocular

witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, a

multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received from her, and

which have endeared her memory to me beyond expression. There is in

me, I believe, more of the Donne than of the Cowper; and though I love

all of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my own

name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side.

I was thought in the days of my childhood much to resemble my mother;

and in my natural temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must

be supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and my late

uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability; and a little,

I would hope, both of his and of her--I know not what to call it,

without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but

speaking to _you_, I will even speak out, and say _good nature_. Add

to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the

Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne at

all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all.

EDMUND BURKE

1729-1797

TO MATTHEW SMITH

_First impressions of London_

[1750.]

You'll expect some short account of my journey to this great city. To

tell you the truth, I made very few remarks as I rolled along, for my

mind was occupied with many thoughts, and my eyes often filled with

tears, when I reflected on all the dear friends I left behind; yet

the prospects could not fail to attract the attention of the most

indifferent: country seats sprinkled round on every side, some in the

modern taste, some in the style of old De Coverley Hall, all smiling

on the neat but humble cottage; every village as neat and compact as

a bee-hive, resounding with the busy hum of industry; and inns like

palaces.

What a contrast to our poor country, where you'll scarce find a

cottage ornamented with a chimney! But what pleased me most of all

was the progress of agriculture, my favourite study, and my favourite

pursuit, if Providence had blessed me with a few paternal acres.

A description of London and its natives would fill a volume. The

buildings are very fine: it may be called the sink of vice: but its

hospitals and charitable institutions, whose turrets pierce the skies

like so many electrical conductors, avert the wrath of Heaven. The

inhabitants may be divided into two classes, the _undoers_ and the

_undone_; generally so, I say, for I am persuaded there are many men

of honesty and women of virtue in every street. An Englishman is

cold and distant at first; he is very cautious even in forming an

acquaintance; he must know you well before he enters into friendship

with you; but if he does, he is not the first to dissolve that sacred

bond: in short, a real Englishman is one that performs more than he

promises; in company he is rather silent, extremely prudent in his

expressions, even in politics, his favourite topic. The women are not

quite so reserved; they consult their glasses to the best advantage;

and as nature is very liberal in her gifts to their persons, and even

minds, it is not easy for a young man to escape their glances, or to

shut his ears to their softly flowing accents.

As to the state of learning in this city, you know I have not been

long enough in it to form a proper judgement of that subject. I don't

think, however, there is as much respect paid to a man of letters on

this side of the water as you imagine. I don't find that genius, the

'rath primrose, which forsaken dies', is patronized by any of the

nobility, so that writers of the first talents are left to the

capricious patronage of the public. Notwithstanding discouragement,

literature is cultivated in a high degree. Poetry raises her

enchanting voice to Heaven. History arrests the wings of Time in his

flight to the gulf of oblivion. Philosophy, the queen of arts, and the

daughter of Heaven, is daily extending her intellectual empire. Fancy

sports on airy wing like a meteor on the bosom of a summer cloud; and

even Metaphysics spins her cobwebs, and catches some flies.

The House of Commons not unfrequently exhibits explosions of eloquence

that rise superior to those of Greece and Rome, even in their

proudest days. Yet, after all, a man will make more by the figures of

arithmetic than the figures of rhetoric, unless he can get into the

trade wind, and then he may sail secure over Pactolean sands. As to

the stage, it is sunk, in my opinion, into the lowest degree; I

mean with regard to the trash that is exhibited on it; but I don't

attribute this to the taste of the audience, for when Shakespeare

warbles his 'native woodnotes', the boxes, pit, and gallery, are

crowded--and the gods are true to every word, if properly winged to

the heart.

Soon after my arrival in town I visited Westminster Abbey: the

moment I entered I felt a kind of awe pervade my mind which I cannot

describe; the very silence seemed sacred. Henry VII's chapel is a very

fine piece of Gothic architecture, particularly the roof; but I am

told that it is exceeded by a chapel in the University of Cambridge.

Mrs. Nightingale's monument has not been praised beyond its merit. The

attitude and expression of the husband in endeavouring to shield his

wife from the dart of death, is natural and affecting. But I always

thought that the image of death would be much better represented with

an extinguished torch inverted, than with a dart. Some would imagine

that all these monuments were so many monuments of folly;--I don't

think so; what useful lessons of morality and sound philosophy do

they not exhibit! When the high-born beauty surveys her face in the

polished Parian, though dumb the marble, yet it tells her that it was

placed to guard the remains of as fine a form, and as fair a face as

her own. They show besides how anxious we are to extend our loves and

friendships beyond the grave, and to snatch as much as we can from

oblivion--such is our natural love of immortality; but it is here

that letters obtain the noblest triumphs; it is here that the swarthy

daughters of Cadmus may hang their trophies on high; for when all

the pride of the chisel and the pomp of heraldry yield to the silent

touches of time, a single line, a half-worn-out inscription, remain

faithful to their trust. Blest be the man that first introduced these

strangers into our islands, and may they never want protection or

merit! I have not the least doubt that the finest poem in the

English language, I mean Milton's _Il Penseroso_, was composed in the

long-resounding aisle of a mouldering cloister or ivy'd abbey. Yet

after all do you know that I would rather sleep in the southern corner

of a little country churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets. I

should like, however, that my dust should mingle with kindred dust.

The good old expression 'family burying-ground' has something pleasing

in it, at least to me.

To JAMES BARRY

_A friend's infirmities_

Gregories, 16 _Sept_. 1769.

MY DEAR BARRY,

I am most exceedingly obliged to your friendship and partiality,

which attributed a silence very blameable on our parts to a favourable

cause: let me add in some measure to its true cause, a great deal of

occupation of various sorts, and some of them disagreeable enough.

As to any reports concerning your conduct and behaviour, you may be

very sure they could have no kind of influence here; for none of us

are of such a make as to trust to any one's report for the character

of a person whom we ourselves know. Until very lately, I had never

heard anything of your proceedings from others; and when I did, it was

much less than I had known from yourself, that you had been upon ill

terms with the artists and virtuosi in Rome, without much mention of

cause or consequence. If you have improved these unfortunate quarrels

to your advancement in your art, you have turned a very disagreeable

circumstance to a very capital advantage. However you may have

succeeded in this uncommon attempt, permit me to suggest to you, with

that friendly liberty which you have always had the goodness to bear

from me, that you cannot possibly have always the same success, either

with regard to your fortune or your reputation. Depend upon it, that

you will find the same competitions, the same jealousies, the same

arts and cabals, the emulations of interest and of fame, and the same

agitations and passions here that you have experienced in Italy; and

if they have the same effect on your temper, they will have just the

same effects upon your interest; and be your merit what it will, you

will never be employed to paint a picture. It will be the same at

London as at Rome, and the same in Paris as in London, for the world

is pretty nearly alike in all its parts; nay, though it would perhaps

be a little inconvenient to me, I had a thousand times rather you

should fix your residence in Rome than here, as I should not then have

the mortification of seeing with my own eyes a genius of the first

rank lost to the world, himself, and his friends; as I certainly must,

if you do not assume a manner of acting and thinking here, totally

different from what your letters from Rome have described to me.

That you have had just subjects of indignation always, and of anger

often, I do no ways doubt; who can live in the world without some

trial of his patience? But believe me, my dear Barry, that the arms

with which the ill dispositions of the world are to be combated, and

the qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and we reconciled

to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence to others, and

a great deal of mistrust of ourselves; which are not qualities of a

mean spirit, as some may possibly think them; but virtues of a

great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature as much as they

contribute to our repose and fortune; for nothing can be so unworthy

of a well-composed soul, as to pass away life in bickerings and

litigations, in snarling and scuffling with every one about us.

Again and again, my dear Barry, we must be at peace with our species;

if not for their sakes yet very much for our own. Think what my

feelings must be, from my unfeigned regard, and from my wishes

that your talents might be of use, when I see what the inevitable

consequences must be, of your persevering in what has hitherto been

your course, ever since I knew you, and which you will permit me to

trace out for you beforehand.

You will come here; you will observe what the artists are doing;

and you will sometimes speak a disapprobation in plain words, and

sometimes by a no less expressive silence. By degrees you will produce

some of your own works. They will be variously criticized; you

will defend them; you will abuse those that have attacked you;

expostulations, discussions, letters, possibly challenges, will go

forward; you will shun your brethren, they will shun you. In the

meantime, gentlemen will avoid your friendship, for fear of being

engaged in your quarrels; you will fall into distresses which will

only aggravate your disposition for further quarrels; you will be

obliged for maintenance to do anything for anybody; your very talents

will depart for want of hope and encouragement; and you will go out of

the world fretted, disappointed, and ruined.

Nothing but my real regard for you could induce me to set these

considerations in this light before you. Remember, we are born

to serve and to adorn our country, and not to contend with our

fellow-citizens, and that in particular your business is to paint and

not to dispute....

If you think this a proper time to leave Rome (a matter which I

leave entirely to yourself), I am quite of opinion you ought to go

to Venice. Further, I think it right to see Florence and Bologna; and

that you cannot do better than to take that route to Venice. In short,

do everything that may contribute to your improvement, and I shall

rejoice to see you what Providence intended you, a very great man.

This you were, in your _ideas_, before you quitted this; you best know

how far you have studied, that is, practised the mechanic; despised

nothing till you had tried it; practised dissections with your own

hands, painted from nature as well as from the statues, and portrait

as well as history, and this frequently. If you have done all this,

as I trust you have, you want nothing but a little prudence, to fulfil

all our wishes. This, let me tell you, is no small matter; for it is

impossible for you to find any persons anywhere more truly interested

for you; to these dispositions attribute everything which may be a

little harsh in this letter. We are, thank God, all well, and all most

truly and sincerely yours. I seldom write so long a letter. Take this

as a sort of proof how much I am, dear Barry, Your faithful friend.

To LORD AUCKLAND

_An old stag at bay_

Beaconsfield, 30 _Oct_. 1795.

My dear Lord,

I am perfectly sensible of the very flattering honour you have done

me in turning any part of your attention towards a dejected old man,

buried in the anticipated grave of a feeble old age, forgetting and

forgotten in an obscure and melancholy retreat.

In this retreat I have nothing relative to this world to do but to

study all the tranquillity that in the state of my mind I am capable

of. To that end I find it but too necessary to call to my aid an

oblivion of most of the circumstances pleasant and unpleasant of my

life; to think as little, and indeed to know as little as I can of

everything that is doing about me; and, above all, to divert my mind

from all presagings and prognostications of what I must (if I let my

speculations loose) consider as of absolute necessity to happen after

my death, and possibly even before it. Your address to the public

which you have been so good as to send to me, obliges me to break in

upon that plan, and to look a little on what is behind, and very much

on what is before me. It creates in my mind a variety of thoughts, and

all of them unpleasant.

It is true, my Lord, what you say, that through our public life,

we have generally sailed on somewhat different tacks. We have so

undoubtedly, and we should do so still, if I had continued longer

to keep the sea. In that difference you rightly observe that I have

always done justice to your skill and ability as a navigator, and to

your good intentions towards the safety of the cargo and of the ship's

company. I cannot say now that we are on different tacks. There would

be no propriety in the metaphor. I can sail no longer. My vessel

cannot be said to be even in port. She is wholly condemned and broken

up. To have an idea of that vessel you must call to mind what you have

often seen on the Kentish road. Those planks of tough and hardy oak

that used for years to brave the buffets of the Bay of Biscay, are

now turned with their warped grain and empty trunnion holes into very

wretched pales for the enclosure of a wretched farmyard.

The style of your pamphlet, and the eloquence and power of composition

you display in it, are such as do great honour to your talents; and

in conveying any other sentiments would give me very great pleasure.

Perhaps I do not very perfectly comprehend your purpose, and the drift

of your arguments. If I do not--pray do not attribute my mistake to

want of candour, but to want of sagacity. I confess your address to

the public, together with other accompanying circumstances, has filled

me with a degree of grief and dismay which I cannot find words to

express. If the plan of politics there recommended, pray excuse my

freedom, should be adopted by the King's Councils and by the good

people of this kingdom (as so recommended undoubtedly it will)

nothing can be the consequence but utter and irretrievable ruin to the

Ministry, to the Crown, to the succession, to the importance, to the

independence, to the very existence of this country.

This is my feeble perhaps, but clear, positive, decided, long and

maturely reflected, and frequently declared opinion, from which all

the events which have lately come to pass, so far from turning me,

have tended to confirm beyond the power of alteration, even by your

eloquence and authority. I find, my dear Lord, that you think some

persons who are not satisfied with the securities of a Jacobin peace,

to be persons of intemperate minds. I may be, and I fear I am with you

in that description: but pray, my Lord, recollect that very few of

the causes which make men intemperate, can operate upon me. Sanguine

hopes, vehement desires, inordinate ambition, implacable animosity,

party attachments, or party interests; all these with me have no

existence. For myself or for a family (alas! I have none), I have

nothing to hope or to fear in this world. I am attached by principle,

inclination, and gratitude to the King, and to the present Ministry.

Perhaps you may think that my animosity to Opposition is the cause of

my dissent on seeing the politics of Mr. Fox (which while I was in the

world I combated by every instrument which God had put into my hands,

and in every situation in which I had taken part), so completely

adopted in your Lordship's book: but it was with pain I broke with

that great man for ever in that cause--and I assure you, it is not

without pain that I differ with your Lordship on the same principles.

But it is of no concern. I am far below the region of those great and

tempestuous passions. I feel nothing of the intemperance of mind. It

is rather sorrow and dejection than anger.

Once more my best thanks for your very polite attention, and do me the

favour to believe me with the most perfect sentiments of respect

and regard, my dear Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient and humble

servant.

To MARY LEADBEATER

_His last letter[1]_

Bath, 23 _May_, 1797.

My dear Mrs. Leadbeater,

I feel as I ought to do your constant hereditary kindness to me and

mine. What you have heard of my illness is far from exaggerated. I am,

thank God, alive, and that is all. Hastening to my dissolution, I have

to bless Providence that I do not suffer a great deal of pain.... Mrs.

Burke has a tolerable share of health--in every respect except much

use of her limbs. She remembers your mother's most good-natured

attentions, as I am sure I do with much gratitude. I have ever been

an admirer of your talents and virtues, and shall ever wish

most cordially for everything which can tend to your credit and

satisfaction. I therefore congratulate you very heartily on the

birth of your son; and pray remember me to the representative of your

family, who I hope still keeps up the school of which I have so tender

a remembrance; though after so long an absence, and so many unpleasant

events of every kind that have distracted my thoughts, I hardly dare

ask for any one, not knowing whether they are living or dead, lest I

should be the means of awakening unpleasant recollections. Believe me

to be, with the most respectful and affectionate regards, my dear Mrs.

Leadbeater,

Your faithful friend, and very humble servant.

PS. Pray remember me to Mr. Leadbeater. I have been at Bath these four

months to no purpose, and am therefore to be removed to my own

house at Beaconsfield to-morrow, to be nearer to a habitation more

permanent, humbly and fearfully hoping that my better part may find a

better mansion.

[Footnote 1: Cp. p. 281.]

EDWARD GIBBON

1737-1794

To MRS. PORTEN

_His daily life_

Lausanne, 27 _Dec._ 1783.

... In speaking of the happiness which I enjoy, you will agree with me

in giving the preference to a sincere and sensible friend; and though

you cannot discern the full extent of his merit, you will easily

believe that Deyverdun is the man. Perhaps two persons so perfectly

fitted to live together were never formed by nature and education.

We have both read and seen a great variety of objects; the lights

and shades of our different characters are happily blended, and

a friendship of thirty years has taught us to enjoy our mutual

advantages, and to support our unavoidable imperfections. In love and

marriage, some harsh sounds will sometimes interrupt the harmony,

and in the course of time, like our neighbours, we must expect some

disagreeable moments; but confidence and freedom are the two pillars

of our union, and I am much mistaken, if the building be not solid and

comfortable....

In this season I rise (not at four in the morning) but a little before

eight; at nine I am called from my study to breakfast, which I always

perform alone, in the English style; and, with the aid of Caplin,

I perceive no difference between Lausanne and Bentinck Street. Our

mornings are usually passed in separate studies; we never approach

each other's door without a previous message, or thrice knocking; and

my apartment is already sacred and formidable to strangers. I dress at

half-past one, and at two (an early hour, to which I am not perfectly

reconciled) we sit down to dinner.... After dinner, and the departure

of our company, one, two, or three friends, we read together some

amusing book, or play at chess, or retire to our rooms, or make

visits, or go to the coffee-house. Between six and seven the

assemblies begin, and I am oppressed only with their number and

variety. Whist, at shillings or half-crowns, is the game I generally

play, and I play three rubbers with pleasure. Between nine and ten we

withdraw to our bread and cheese, and friendly converse, which sends

us to bed at eleven; but these sober hours are too often interrupted

by private or numerous suppers, which I have not the courage to

resist, though I practise a laudable abstinence at the best furnished

tables. Such is the skeleton of my life....

TO LORD SHEFFIELD

_A great work_

Lausanne, 20 _Jan._ 1787.

... As long as I do not inform you of my death, you have good grounds

to believe me alive and well. You have a general, and will soon have a

more particular idea of my system and arrangement here. One day glides

away after another in tranquil uniformity. Every object must have

sides and moments less luminous than others; but, upon the whole, the

life and the place which I have chosen are most happily adapted to my

character and circumstances: and I can now repeat, at the end of three

years, what I soon and sincerely affirmed, that never in a single

instant have I repented of my scheme of retirement to Lausanne.... And

though I truly rejoice in my approaching visit to England, Mr. Pitt,

were he your friend and mine, would not find it an easy task to

prevent my return....

I am building a great book, which, besides the three stories already

exposed to the public eye, will have three stories more before we

reach the roof and battlements. You too have built or altered a great

Gothic castle with baronial battlements. Did you finish it within the

time you intended? As that time drew near, did you not find a thousand

nameless and unexpected works that must be performed; each of them

calling for a portion of time and labour? and had you not despised,

nobly despised, the minute diligence of finishing, fitting up, and

furnishing the apartments, you would have discovered a new train of

indispensable business. Such, at least, has been my case. A long while

ago when I contemplated the distant prospect of my work, I gave you

and myself some hopes of landing in England last autumn; but, alas!

when autumn grew near, hills began to rise on hills, Alps on Alps, and

I found my journey far more tedious and toilsome than I had imagined.

When I look back on the length of the undertaking, and the variety

of materials, I cannot accuse, or suffer myself to be accused of

idleness; yet it appeared that unless I doubled my diligence, another

year, and perhaps more, would elapse before I could embark with my

complete manuscript. Under these circumstances I took, and am still

executing, a bold and meritorious resolution. The mornings in winter,

and in a country of early dinners, are very concise; to them, my usual

period of study, I now frequently add the evenings, renounce cards

and society, refuse the most agreeable evenings, or perhaps make my

appearance at a late supper. By this extraordinary industry, which I

never practised before, and to which I hope never to be again reduced,

I see the last part of my _History_ growing apace under my hands; all

my materials are collected and arranged; I can exactly compute, by

the square foot, or the square page, all that remains to be done; and

after concluding text and notes, after a general review of my time

and my ground, I now can decisively ascertain the final period of the

_Decline and Fall_, and can boldly promise that I will dine with you

at Sheffield Place in the month of August, or perhaps of July, in the

present year; within less than a twelvemonth of the term which I had

loosely and originally fixed; and perhaps it would not be easy to

find a work of that size and importance in which the workman has

so tolerably kept his word with himself and the public. But in this

situation, oppressed with this particular object, and stealing every

hour from my amusement, to the fatigue of the pen, and the eyes, you

will conceive, or you might conceive, how little stomach I have for

the epistolary style; and that instead of idle, though friendly,

correspondence, I think it far more agreeable to employ my time in

the effectual measures that may hasten and exhilarate our personal

interview....

FRANCES D'ARBLAY

1752-1840

TO SUSAN BURNEY

_An excited Unknown_

Chessington, 5 _July_, 1778.

MY DEAREST SUSY,

Don't you think there must be some wager depending among the little

curled imps who hover over us mortals, of how much flummery goes to

turn the head of an authoress? Your last communication very near did

my business; for, meeting Mr. Crisp ere I had composed myself, I 'tipt

him such a touch of the heroics' as he has not seen since the time

when I was so much celebrated for dancing _Nancy Dawson_. I absolutely

longed to treat him with one of Captain Mirvan's frolics, and to fling

his wig out of the window. I restrained myself, however, from the

apprehension that they would imagine I had a universal spite to that

harmless piece of goods, which I have already been known to treat with

no little indignity. He would fain have discovered the reason of my

skittishness; but as I could not tell it him, I was obliged to assure

him it would be lost time to inquire further into my flights, since

'true no meaning puzzles more than wit', and therefore, begging the

favour of him to 'set me down an _ass_', I suddenly retreated.

My dear, dear Dr. Johnson! what a charming man you are! Mrs.

Cholmondeley, too, I am not merely prepared but determined to admire;

for really she has shown so much penetration and sound sense of late,

that I think she will bring about a union between Wit and Judgement,

though their separation has been so long, and though their meetings

have been so few.

But, Mrs. Thrale! she--she is the goddess of my idolatry! What an

_eloge_ is hers!--an _eloge_ that not only delights at first, but

proves more and more flattering every time it is considered!

I often think, when I am counting my laurels, what a pity it would

have been had I popped off in my last illness, without knowing what a

person of consequence I was!--and I sometimes think that, were I now

to have a relapse, I could never go off with so much _eclat_! I am

now at the summit of a high hill; my prospects on one side are bright,

glowing, and invitingly beautiful; but when I turn round, I perceive,

on the other side, sundry caverns, gulfs, pits, and precipices, that,

to look at, make my head giddy and my heart sick. I see about me,

indeed, many hills of far greater height and sublimity; but I have

not the strength to attempt climbing them; if I move, it must

be downwards. I have already, I fear, reached the pinnacle of my

abilities, and therefore to stand still will be my best policy.

But there is nothing under heaven so difficult to do. Creatures who

are formed for motion _must_ move, however great their inducements to

forbear. The wisest course I could take, would be to bid an eternal

adieu to writing; then would the cry be, 'Tis pity she does not go

on!--she might do something better by and by', &c, &c. _Evelina_, as

a first and a youthful publication, has been received with the utmost

favour and lenity; but would a future attempt be treated with the same

mercy?--no, my dear Susy, quite the contrary; there would not, indeed,

be the same plea to save it; it would no longer be a young lady's

_first_ appearance in public; those who have met with less indulgence

would all peck at any second work; and even those who most encouraged

the first offspring might prove enemies to the second, by receiving

it with expectations which it could not answer: and so, between either

the friends or the foes of the eldest, the second would stand an

equally bad chance, and a million of flaws which were overlooked in

the former would be ridiculed as villainous and intolerable blunders

in the latter.

But, though my eyes ache as I strain them to look forward, the

temptations before me are almost irresistible; and what you have

transcribed from Mrs. Thrale may, perhaps, prove my destruction.

So you wish to have some of the sayings of the folks here about _the

book_? I am sure I owe you all the communications I can possibly give

you; but I have nothing new to offer, for the same strain prevails

here as in town; and no one will be so obliging to me as to put in a

little abuse: so that I fear you will be satiated with the sameness

of people's remarks. Yet, what can I do? if they _will_ be so

disagreeable and tiresome as to be all of one mind, how is it to

be helped? I can only advise you to follow my example, which is, to

accommodate my philosophy to their insipidity; and in this I have so

wonderfully succeeded, that I hear their commendations not merely with

patience but even with a degree of pleasure! Such, my dear Susy, is

the effect of true philosophy.

You desire Kitty Cooke's remarks in particular. I have none to give

you, for none can I get. To the serious part she indeed listens, and

seems to think it may possibly be very fine; but she is quite lost

when the Branghtons and Madame Duval are mentioned;--she hears their

speeches very composedly, and as words of course; but when she hears

them followed by loud bursts of laughter from Hetty, Mr. Crisp, Mrs.

Gast, and Mr. Burney, she stares with the gravest amazement, and looks

so aghast, and so distressed to know where the joke can be, that I

never dare trust myself to look at her for more than an instant. Were

she to speak her thoughts, I am sure she would ask why such common

things, that pass every day, should be printed? And all the derision

with which the party in general treat the Branghtons, I can see she

feels herself, with a plentiful addition of astonishment, for the

_author_!

By the way, not a human being here has the most remote suspicion of

the fact; I could not be more secure, were I literally unknown to

them. And there is no end to the ridiculous speeches perpetually made

to me, by all of them in turn, though quite by accident.

'An't you sorry this sweet book is done?' said Mrs. Gast.

A silly little laugh was the answer.

'Ah,' said Patty, ''tis the sweetest book!--don't you think so, Miss

Burney?'

N.B.--Answer as above.

'Pray, Miss Fan,' says Mrs. Hamilton, 'who wrote it?'

'Really I never heard.'

'Cute enough that, Miss Sukey!'

I desired Hetty to miss the verses; for I can't sit them: and I

have been obliged to hide the first volume ever since, for fear of

a discovery. But I don't know how it will end; for Mrs. Gast has

declared she shall buy it, to take it to Burford with her.

TO SAMUEL CRISP

_Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson_

Streatham, _March_ 1779.

The kindness and honours I meet with from this charming family are

greater than I can mention; sweet Mrs. Thrale hardly suffers me to

leave her a moment; and Dr. Johnson is another Daddy Crisp to me, for

he has a partial goodness to your Fannikin, that has made him sink the

comparative shortness of our acquaintance, and treat and think of me

as one who had long laid claim to him.

If you knew these two you would love them, or I don't know you so well

as I think I do. Dr. Johnson has more fun, and comical humour, and

love of nonsense about him, than almost anybody I ever saw: I mean

when with those he likes; for otherwise, he can be as severe and

as bitter as report relates him. Mrs. Thrale has all that gaiety of

disposition and lightness of heart, which commonly belong to fifteen.

We are, therefore, merry enough, and I am frequently seized with the

same tittering and ridiculous fits as those with which I have so often

amazed and amused poor Kitty Cooke.

One thing let me not omit of this charming woman, which I believe will

weigh with you in her favour; her political doctrine is so exactly

like yours, that it is never started but I exclaim, 'Dear ma'am, if my

Daddy Crisp was here, I believe between you, you would croak me mad!'

And this sympathy of horrible foresight not a little contributes to

incline her to believe the other parts of speech with which I regale

her concerning you. She wishes very much to know you, and I am sure

you would hit it off comfortably; but I told her what a vile taste you

had for shunning all new acquaintance, and shirking almost all your

old ones. That I may never be among the latter, heartily hopes my dear

daddy's ever affectionate and obliged, F.B.

TO MRS. LOCK

_A royal commission_

Kew, _April_ 1789.

MY DEAREST FRIENDS,

I have her Majesty's commands to inquire--whether you have any of a

certain breed of poultry?

N.B.--_What_ breed I do not remember.

And to say she has just received a small group of the same herself.

N.B.--The quantity I have forgotten.

And to add, she is assured they are something very rare and scarce,

and extraordinary and curious.

N.B.--By _whom_ she was assured I have not heard.

And to subjoin, that you must send word if you have any of the same

sort.

N.B.--How you are to find that out, I cannot tell.

And to mention, as a corollary, that, if you have none of them, and

should like to have some, she has a cock and a hen she can spare, and

will appropriate them to Mr. Lock and my dearest Fredy.

This conclusive stroke so pleased and exhilarated me, that forthwith

I said you would both be enchanted, and so forgot all the preceding

particulars.

And I said, moreover, that I knew you would rear them, and cheer them,

and fondle them like your children.

So now--pray write a very _fair answer_ fairly, in fair hand, and to

fair purpose.

My Susanna is just now come--so all is fair with my dearest Mr. and

Mrs. Lock's F.B.

GEORGE CRABBE

1754-1832

TO MARY LEADBEATER[1]

_The only survivors_

Trowbridge, 1st of 12th month, 1816.

MARY LEADBEATER!

Yes, indeed, I do well remember you! Not Leadbeater then, but a pretty

demure lass, standing a timid auditor while her own verses were read

by a kind friend, but a keen judge. And I have in my memory your

father's person and countenance, and you may be sure that my vanity

retained the compliment which he paid me in the moment when he

permitted his judgement to slip behind his good humour and desire of

giving pleasure. Yes, I remember all who were present, and, of

all, are not you and I the only survivors? It was the day--was it

not?--when I introduced my wife to my friend. And now both are gone!

and your father, and Richard Burke, who was present (yet again I must

ask,--was he not?)--and Mrs. Burke! All departed, and so, by and by,

they will speak of us. But, in the meantime, it was good of you to

write, oh, very, very good!

But are you not your father's own daughter? Do you not flatter after

his manner? How do you know the mischief that you may do in the mind

of a vain man, who is but too susceptible of praise, even while he is

conscious of so much to be placed against it? I am glad that you like

my verses: it would have mortified me much if you had not, for you can

judge as well as write.... Yours are really very admirable things; and

the morality is as pure as the literary merit is conspicuous. I am not

sure that I have read all that you have given us; but what I have read

has really that rare and almost undefinable quality, genius; that

is to say, it seizes on the mind and commands attention, and on the

heart, and compels its feelings.

How could you imagine that I could be otherwise than

pleased--delighted rather--with your letter? And let me not omit the

fact that I reply the instant I am at liberty, for I was enrobing

myself for church. You are a child of simplicity, I know, and do not

love robing; but you are a pupil of liberality, and look upon such

things with a large mind, smiling in charity. Well! I was putting on

the great black gown when my servant--(you see I can be pompous, to

write of gowns and servants with such familiarity)--when he brought me

a letter first directed, the words yet legible, to 'George Crabbe,

at Belvoir Castle', and then by Lord Mendip to the 'Reverend' at

Trowbridge; and at Trowbridge I hope again to receive these welcome

evidences of your remembrance, directed in all their simplicity, and

written, I trust, in all sincerity....

There was a Suffolk family of Alexanders, one of whom you probably

mean; and as he knew very little of me, I see no reason why he should

not give me a good character ... If it means, as it generally does,

that I paid my debts, and was guilty of no glaring world-defying

immorality--why yes!--I was so far a good character....

But your motive for writing to me was your desire of knowing whether

my men and women were really existing creatures, or beings of my own

imagination? Nay, Mary Leadbeater, yours was a better motive; you

thought that you should give pleasure by writing, and--yet you will

think me very vain--you felt some pleasure yourself in renewing the

acquaintance that commenced under such auspices! Am I not right?

My heart tells me that I am, and hopes that you will confirm it.

Be assured that I feel a very cordial esteem for the friend of my

friend,--the virtuous, the worthy character whom I am addressing.

Yes, I will tell you readily about my creatures, whom I endeavoured to

paint as nearly as I could, and dared; for in some cases I dared not.

This you will readily admit; besides, charity bade me be cautious.

Thus far you are correct; there is not one of whom I had not in my

mind the original; but I was obliged in some cases to take them from

their real situations, in one or two instances to change even the sex,

and in many the circumstances. The nearest to real life was the proud

ostentatious man in _The Borough_, who disguises an ordinary mind by

doing great things; but the others approach to reality at greater or

less distances. Indeed, I do not know that I could paint merely

from my own fancy, and there is no cause why we should. Is there not

diversity sufficient in society? And who can go, even but a little,

into the assemblies of our fellow-wanderers from the way of perfect

rectitude, and not find characters so varied and so pointed that he

need not call upon his imagination?

Will _you_ not write again? 'Write _to_ thee, or _for_ the public',

wilt thou not ask? _To_ me and _for_ as many as love and can discern

the union of strength and simplicity, purity and good sense. _Our_

feeling and _our_ hearts is the language you can adopt. Alas, _I_

cannot with propriety use it--_our_ I too could once say; but I am

alone now; and since my removing into a busy town among the multitude,

the loneliness is but more apparent and more melancholy. But this

is only at certain times; and then I have, though at considerable

distances, six female friends, unknown to each other, but all dear,

very dear, to me. With men I do not much associate; not as deserting,

and much less disliking, the male part of society, but as being unfit

for it; not hardy nor grave, not knowing enough, nor sufficiently

acquainted with the every-day concerns of men. But my beloved

creatures have minds with which I can better assimilate ... Think of

you I must; and of me, I must entreat that you would not be unmindful.

[Footnote 1: Cp. letter, p. 283.]

TO THE SAME

_Comparisons_

Trowbridge, 7 _Sept._ 1818.

A description of your village society would be very gratifying to

me--how the manners differ from those in larger societies, or in

those under different circumstances. I have observed an extraordinary

difference in village manners in England, especially between those

places otherwise nearly alike, when there was and when there was not

a leading man, or a squire's family, or a manufactory near, or a

populous, vitiated town, all these, and many other circumstances have

great influence. _Your_ quiet village, with such influencing minds,

I am disposed to think highly of. No one, perhaps, very rich--none

miserably poor. No girls, from six years to sixteen, sent to a

factory, where men, women, and children of all ages are continually

with them breathing contagion. Not all, however: we are not so

evil--there is a resisting power, and it is strong; but the thing

itself, the congregation of so many minds, and the intercourse it

occasions, will have its powerful and visible effect. But these you

have not; yet, as you mention your schools of both kinds, you must

be more populous and perhaps not so happy as I was giving myself to

believe....

The world has not spoiled you, Mary, I do believe: now it has me. I

have been absorbed in its mighty vortex, and gone into the midst of

its greatness, and joined in its festivities and frivolities, and been

intimate with its children. You may like me very well, my kind friend,

while the purifying water, and your more effectual imagination, is

between us; but come you to England, or let me be in Ireland, and

place us where mind becomes acquainted with mind--and then! Ah, Mary

Leadbeater! you would have done with your friendship with me! Child of

simplicity and virtue, how can you let yourself be so deceived? Am

I not a great fat rector, living upon a mighty income, while my poor

curate starves with six hungry children upon the scraps that fall from

the luxurious table? Do I not visit that horrible London, and enter

into its abominable dissipations? Am not I this day going to dine on

venison and drink claret? Have I not been at election dinners, and

joined the Babel-confusion of a town hall? Child of simplicity! am I

fit to be a friend to you, and to the peaceful, mild, pure, and gentle

people about you? One thing is true--I wish I had the qualification.

But I am of the world, Mary....

I return all your good wishes, think of you, and with much regard,

more than, indeed, belongs to _a man of the world_! Still, let me

be permitted to address thee.--O my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, this is

so humble that I am afraid it is vain. Well! write soon, then, and

believe me to be

Most sincerely and affectionately yours.

WILLIAM BLAKE

1757-1827

TO JOHN FLAXMAN

_Friends 'from eternity'_

Felpham, 21 _Sept._ 1800.

Sunday morning.

DEAR SCULPTOR OF ETERNITY,

We are safe arrived at our cottage, which is more beautiful than I

thought it, and more convenient. It is a perfect model for cottages,

and I think for palaces of magnificence, only enlarging not altering

its proportions, and adding ornaments and not principles. Nothing

can be more grand than its simplicity and usefulness. Simple without

intricacy, it seems to be the spontaneous expression of humanity,

congenial to the wants of man. No other formed house can ever please

me so well, nor shall I ever be persuaded, I believe, that it can be

improved either in beauty or use.

Mr. Hayley received us with his usual brotherly affection. I have

begun to work. Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is

more spiritual than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her golden

gates: her windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestial

inhabitants are more distinctly heard, and their forms more distinctly

seen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their houses. My wife and

sister are both well, courting Neptune for an embrace.

Our journey was very pleasant; and though we had a great deal of

luggage, no grumbling. All was cheerfulness and good humour on the

road, and yet we could not arrive at our cottage before half-past

eleven at night, owing to the necessary shifting of our luggage from

one chaise to another; for we had seven different chaises and as many

different drivers. We set out between six and seven in the morning of

Thursday, with sixteen heavy boxes and portfolios full of prints.

And now begins a new life, because another covering of earth is

shaken off. I am more famed in heaven for my works than I could well

conceive. In my brain are studies and chambers filled with books and

pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of eternity

before my mortal life; and those works are the delight and study of

archangels. Why then should I be anxious about the riches or fame of

mortality? The Lord our Father will do for us and with us according to

His divine will, for our good.

You, O dear Flaxman! are a sublime archangel,--my friend and companion

from eternity. In the divine bosom is our dwelling-place. I look back

into the regions of reminiscence, and behold our ancient days before

this earth appeared in its vegetated mortality to my mortal vegetated

eyes. I see our houses of eternity which can never be separated,

though our mortal vehicles should stand at the remotest corners of

heaven from each other.

Farewell, my best friend! Remember me and my wife in love and

friendship to our dear Mrs. Flaxman, whom we ardently desire to

entertain beneath our thatched roof of rusted gold.

TO THOMAS BUTTS

_Trouble in the path_

Felpham, 10 _Jan._ 1802.

Dear Sir,

Your very kind and affectionate letter, and the many kind things you

have said in it, called upon me for an immediate answer. But it found

my wife and myself so ill, and my wife so very ill, that till now I

have not been able to do this duty. The ague and rheumatism have been

almost her constant enemies, which she has combated in vain almost

ever since we have been here, and her sickness is always my sorrow,

of course. But what you tell me about your sight afflicted me not a

little, and that about your health, in another part of your letter,

makes me entreat you to take due care of both. It is a part of our

duty to God and man to take due care of His gifts; and though we ought

not to think _more_ highly of ourselves, yet we ought to think _as_

highly of ourselves as immortals ought to think.

When I came down here, I was more sanguine than I am at present;

but it was because I was ignorant of many things which have since

occurred, and chiefly the unhealthiness of the place. Yet I do not

repent of coming on a thousand accounts; and Mr. Hayley, I doubt not,

will do ultimately all that both he and I wish--that is, to lift me

out of difficulty. But this is no easy matter to a man who, having

spiritual enemies of such formidable magnitude, cannot expect to want

natural hidden ones.

Your approbation of my pictures is a multitude to me, and I doubt not

that all your kind wishes in my behalf shall in due time be fulfilled.

Your kind offer of pecuniary assistance I can only thank you for at

present, because I have enough to serve my present purpose here. Our

expenses are small, and our income, from our incessant labour, fully

adequate to these at present. I am now engaged in engraving six small

plates for a new edition of Mr. Hayley's _Triumphs of Temper_, from

drawings by Maria Flaxman, sister to my friend the sculptor. And it

seems that other things will follow in course, if I do but copy these

well. But patience! If great things do not turn out, it is because

such things depend on the spiritual and not on the natural world; and

if it was fit for me, I doubt not that I should be employed in greater

things; and when it is proper, my talents shall be properly exercised

in public, as I hope they are now in private. For till then I leave no

stone unturned, and no path unexplored that leads to improvement in

my beloved arts. One thing of real consequence I have accomplished by

coming into the country, which is to me consolation enough: namely,

I have re-collected all my scattered thoughts on art, and resumed

my primitive and original ways of execution in both painting and

engraving, which in the confusion of London I had very much lost and

obliterated from my mind. But whatever becomes of my labours, I would

rather that they should be preserved in your greenhouse (not, as you

mistakenly call it, dunghill) than in the cold gallery of fashion. The

sun may yet shine, and then they will be brought into open air.

But you have so generously and openly desired that I will divide my

griefs with you that I cannot hide what it has now become my duty to

explain. My unhappiness has arisen from a source which, if explored

too narrowly, might hurt my pecuniary circumstances; as my dependence

is on engraving at present, and particularly on the engravings I have

in hand for Mr. Hayley, and I find on all hands great objections to

my doing anything but the mere drudgery of business, and intimations

that, if I do not confine myself to this, I shall not live. This has

always pursued me. You will understand by this the source of all my

uneasiness. This from Johnson and Fuseli brought me down here, and

this from Mr. Hayley will bring me back again. For that I cannot live

without doing my duty to lay up treasures in heaven is certain and

determined, and to this I have long made up my mind. And why this

should be made an objection to me, while drunkenness, lewdness,

gluttony, and even idleness itself, does not hurt other men, let Satan

himself explain. The thing I have most at heart--more than life, or

all that seems to make life comfortable without--is the interest of

true religion and science. And whenever anything appears to affect

that interest (especially if I myself omit any duty to my station as

a soldier of Christ), it gives me the greatest of torments. I am not

ashamed, afraid, or averse to tell you what ought to be told--that I

am under the direction of messengers from heaven, daily and nightly.

But the nature of such things is not, as some suppose, without trouble

or care. Temptations are on the right hand and on the left. Behind,

the sea of time and space roars and follows swiftly. He who keeps not

right onwards is lost; and if our footsteps slide in clay, how can we

do otherwise than fear and tremble? But I should not have troubled you

with this account of my spiritual state, unless it had been necessary

in explaining the actual cause of my uneasiness, into which you are so

kind as to inquire: for I never obtrude such things on others unless

questioned, and then I never disguise the truth. But if we fear to do

the dictates of our angels, and tremble at the tasks set before us;

if we refuse to do spiritual acts because of natural fears or natural

desires; who can describe the dismal torments of such a state!--I

too well remember the threats I heard!--'If you, who are organized

by Divine Providence for spiritual communion, refuse, and bury

your talent in the earth, even though you should want natural

bread,--sorrow and desperation pursue you through life, and after

death shame and confusion of face to eternity. Every one in eternity

will leave you, aghast at the man who was crowned with glory and

honour by his brethren, and betrayed their cause to their enemies. You

will be called the base Judas who betrayed his friend!'--Such words

would make any stout man tremble, and how then could I be at ease? But

I am now no longer in that state, and now go on again with my task,

fearless though my path is difficult. I have no fear of stumbling

while I keep it.

My wife desires her kindest love to Mrs. Butts, and I have permitted

her to send it to you also. We often wish that we could unite again

in society, and hope that the time is not distant when we shall do so,

being determined not to remain another winter here, but to return to

London.

I hear a Voice you cannot hear, that says

I must not stay,

I see a Hand you cannot see, that beckons

me away.

Naked we came here--naked of natural things--and naked we shall

return: but while clothed with the Divine mercy, we are richly clothed

in spiritual, and suffer all the rest gladly. Pray, give my love to

Mrs. Butts and your family.

PS. Your obliging proposal of exhibiting my two pictures likewise

calls for my thanks; I will finish the others, and then we shall judge

of the matter with certainty.

To THE SAME

_The wonderful poem_

(Felpham), 25 _April_, 1803.

MY DEAR SIR,

I write in haste, having received a pressing letter from my Brother.

I intended to have sent the Picture of the _Riposo_, which is nearly

finished much to my satisfaction, but not quite. You shall have it

soon. I now send the four numbers for Mr. Birch with best respects to

him. The reason the _Ballads_ have been suspended is the pressure of

other business, but they will go on again soon.

Accept of my thanks for your kind and heartening letter. You have

faith in the endeavours of me, your weak brother and fellow-disciple;

how great must be your faith in our Divine Master! You are to me

a lesson of humility, while you exalt me by such distinguishing

commendations. I know that you see certain merits in me, which, by

God's grace, shall be made fully apparent and perfect in Eternity.

In the meantime I must not bury the talents in the earth, but do my

endeavour to live to the glory of our Lord and Saviour; and I am

also grateful to the kind hand that endeavours to lift me out of

despondency, even if it lifts me too high.

And now, my dear Sir, congratulate me on my return to London with the

full approbation of Mr. Hayley and with promise. But alas! now I may

say to you--what perhaps I should not dare to say to anyone else--that

I can alone carry on my visionary studies in London unannoyed, and

that I may converse with my friends in Eternity, see visions, dream

dreams, and prophesy and speak parables, unobserved, and at liberty

from the doubts of other mortals: perhaps doubts proceeding from

kindness; but doubts are always pernicious, especially when we doubt

our friends. Christ is very decided on this point: 'He who is not with

me is against me.' There is no medium or middle state; and if a man is

the enemy of my spiritual life while he pretends to be the friend of

my corporeal, he is a real enemy; but the man may be the friend of my

spiritual life while he seems the enemy of my corporeal, though not

vice versa.

What is very pleasant, every one who hears of my going to London again

applauds it as the only course for the interest of all concerned in

my works; observing that I ought not to be away from the opportunities

London affords of seeing fine pictures, and the various improvements

in works of art going on in London.

But none can know the spiritual acts of my three years' slumber on the

banks of Ocean, unless he has seen them in the spirit, or unless he

should read my long Poem descriptive of those acts; for I have in

these years composed an immense number of verses on one grand theme,

similar to Homer's _Iliad_ or Milton's _Paradise Lost_; the persons

and machinery entirely new to the inhabitants of earth (some of the

persons excepted). I have written this Poem from immediate dictation,

twelve or sometimes twenty or thirty lines at a time, without

premeditation, and even against my will. The time it has taken in

writing was thus rendered nonexistent, and an immense Poem exists

which seems to be the labour of a long life, all produced without

labour or study. I mention this to show you what I think the grand

reason of my being brought down here.

I have a thousand and ten thousand things to say to you. My heart

is full of futurity. I perceive that the sore travail which has been

given me these three years leads to glory and honour. I rejoice and

tremble: 'I am fearfully and wonderfully made.' I had been reading the

CXXXIX Psalm a little before your letter arrived. I take your advice.

I see the face of my Heavenly Father; He lays His hand upon my head,

and gives a blessing to all my work. Why should I be troubled? Why

should my heart and flesh cry out? I will go on in the strength of the

Lord; through Hell will I sing forth His praises: that the dragons of

the deep may praise Him, and that those who dwell in darkness, and in

the sea coasts may be gathered into His Kingdom. Excuse my perhaps too

great enthusiasm. Please to accept of and give our loves to Mrs. Butts

and your amiable family, and believe me ever yours affectionately.

TO THE SAME

_The poet and William Hayley_

Felpham, 6 _July_, 1803.

... We look forward every day with pleasure toward our meeting again

in London with those whom we have learned to value by absence no less

perhaps than we did by presence; for recollection often surpasses

everything. Indeed, the prospect of returning to our friends is

supremely delightful. Then, I am determined that Mrs. Butts shall have

a good likeness of you, if I have hands and eyes left; for I am become

a likeness-taker, and succeed admirably well. But this is not to be

achieved without the original sitting before you for every touch, all

likenesses from memory being necessarily very, very defective; but

Nature and Fancy are two things, and can never be joined, neither

ought any one to attempt it, for it is idolatry, and destroys the

Soul.

I ought to tell you that Mr. H. is quite agreeable to our return,

and that there is all the appearance in the world of our being fully

employed in engraving for his projected works, particularly Cowper's

_Milton_--a work now on foot by subscription, and I understand that

the subscription goes on briskly. This work is to be a very elegant

one, and to consist of all Milton's Poems with Cowper's Notes, and

translations by Cowper from Milton's Latin and Italian poems. These

works will be ornamented with engravings from designs by Romney,

Flaxman, and your humble servant, and to be engraved also by

the last-mentioned. The profits of the work are intended to be

appropriated to erect a monument to the memory of Cowper in St. Paul's

or Westminster Abbey. Such is the project; and Mr. Addington and Mr.

Pitt are both among the subscribers, which are already numerous and of

the first rank. The price of the work is six guineas. Thus I hope that

all our three years' trouble ends in good-luck at last, and shall be

forgot by my affections, and only remembered by my understanding, to

be a memento in time to come, and to speak to future generations by a

sublime allegory, which is now perfectly completed into a grand Poem.

I may praise it, since I dare not pretend to be any other than the

secretary; the authors are in Eternity. I consider it as the grandest

Poem that this world contains. Allegory addressed to the

intellectual powers, while it is altogether hidden from the corporeal

understanding, is my definition of the most sublime Poetry. It is

also somewhat in the same manner defined by Plato. This Poem shall,

by Divine assistance, be progressively printed and ornamented with

prints, and given to the public. But of this work I take care to say

little to Mr. H., since he is as much averse to my Poetry as he is to

a chapter in the Bible. He knows that I have writ it, for I have shown

it to him, and he has read part by his own desire, and has looked with

sufficient contempt to enhance my opinion of it. But I do not wish to

imitate by seeming too obstinate in poetic pursuits. But if all the

world should set their faces against this, I have orders to set my

face like a flint (Ezek. iii. 8) against their faces, and my forehead

against their foreheads.

As to Mr. H., I feel myself at liberty to say as follows upon this

ticklish subject. I regard fashion in Poetry as little as I do in

Painting: so, if both Poets and Painters should alternately dislike

(but I know the majority of them will not), I am not to regard it

at all. But Mr. H. approves of my Designs as little as he does of my

Poems, and I have been forced to insist on his leaving me, in both,

to my own self-will; for I am determined to be no longer pestered with

his genteel ignorance and polite disapprobation. I know myself both

Poet and Painter, and it is not his affected contempt that can move to

anything but a more assiduous pursuit of both arts. Indeed, by my late

firmness, I have brought down his affected loftiness, and he begins

to think I have some genius: as if genius and assurance were the same

thing! But his imbecile attempts to depress me only deserve laughter.

I say thus much to you, knowing that you will not make a bad use of

it. But it is a fact too true that, if I had only depended on mortal

things, both myself and my wife must have been lost. I shall leave

every one in this country astonished at my patience and forbearance

of injuries upon injuries; and I do assure you that, if I could have

returned to London a month after my arrival here, I should have done

so. But I was commanded by my spiritual friends to bear all and be

silent, and to go through all without murmuring, and, in fine, to hope

till my three years should be almost accomplished; at which time I was

set at liberty to remonstrate against former conduct, and to demand

justice and truth; which I have done in so effectual a manner that my

antagonist is silenced completely, and I have compelled what should

have been of freedom--my just right as an artist and as a man. And

if any attempt should be made to refuse me this, I am inflexible, and

will relinquish any engagement of designing at all, unless altogether

left to my own judgement, as you, my dear friend, have always left me;

for which I shall never cease to honour and respect you.

When we meet, I will perfectly describe to you my conduct and the

conduct of others towards me, and you will see that I have laboured

hard indeed, and have been borne on angels' wings. Till we meet I beg

of God our Saviour to be with you and me, and yours and mine. Pray

give my and my wife's love to Mrs. Butts and family, and believe me to

remain

Yours in truth and sincerity.

MARY LEADBEATER

1758-1826

TO EDMUND BURKE

_Reply to his last letter_

28 _May_, 1797.

With a heart melted to overflowing, I cannot restrain the attempt to

express my grateful sensations on receiving the greatest, and, alas!

I fear, the last proof of that unvarying friendship with which our

ever-loved, our ever-honoured friend has favoured us! I may transgress

the bounds by intruding at this awful period; but I cannot help it. My

affection and my sorrow will be excused, I believe, for thou hast ever

looked kindly and partially upon me, and so has thy beloved wife, with

whose feelings I sympathize, could that avail. This day's post brought

me thy letter of the 23rd instant, dictated and signed by thee. Such

attention, at such a time, and in such a situation! It was like Edmund

Burke! It was like few others, but it is not bestowed upon hearts who

do not feel it.--I look back on that friendship formed in the precious

days of innocent childhood, between thee and my lamented parent.--I

trace its progress, which is so imprinted on my mind, that I almost

seem to myself to have been a witness to it.--I see it continue

unabated, notwithstanding the different sphere of life in which you

moved, to the period of it;--and may we not hope that there is an

union of souls beyond the grave? The composure and fortitude displayed

in thy letter, is the greatest consolation we could receive with the

tidings it conveyed of thy health. Since thou dost not allow us to

hope for its restoration, we will hope better things than is in the

power of this world to bestow.--My mother appears to decline, and

looks to the end of her race as near. All the other branches of

this family, I believe, are well in health. My brother continues

the school, which, I believe, was never in higher estimation than at

present. My husband regrets very much that he never shared with us

the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with thee. We all unite in

cordial, unaffected love to thee. I thought I would say how we were,

believing thou would be pleased to hear of our welfare, though how

long that may be continued, seems doubtful.--The general fermentation

throughout this nation, forebodes some sudden and dreadful eruption,

and, however obscure or retired our situations may be, there is little

prospect of escaping the calamity. This may cause us to admire, nay,

adore the mercy, as well as wisdom of Him, who gives and takes life,

in removing those so dear to us from the evil to come. My mother

desires thou may accept as much love as she is capable of sending

thee; her heart is full of it towards thee; and she bids me say, she

hopes thou hast lived such a life, that thy end will be crowned with

peace! So be it, with my whole heart! Thy affectionate and obliged

friend.

Our best wishes, and dear love to thy wife.

Abraham Shackleton has the melancholy satisfaction of perusing dear

Edmund Burke's account of his poor state of health. He hopes (trusts)

that a quiet resting place is prepared for him. The memory of E.

Burke's philanthropic virtues will out-live the period when his

shining political talents will cease to act. New fashions of political

sentiment will exist; but philanthropy,--_immortale manet!_

TO GEORGE CRABBE

_She writes to remind him_

Ballitore, 7th of Eleventh-month, 1816.

I believe it will surprise George Crabbe to receive a letter from an

entire stranger, whom most probably he does not remember to have ever

seen or heard of, but who cannot forget having met him at the house of

Edmund Burke, Charles Street, James's Square, in the year 1784. I

was brought thither by my father, Richard Shackleton, the friend

from their childhood of Edmund Burke. My dear father told thee that

Goldsmith's would now be the _deserted village_; perhaps thou dost not

remember this compliment, but I remember the ingenuous modesty which

disclaimed it. He admired '_The Village', 'The Library_,' and '_The

Newspaper_' exceedingly, and the delight with which he read them to

his family could not but be acceptable to the author, had he known

the sound judgement and the exquisite taste which that excellent

man possessed. But he saw no more of the productions of the Muse he

admired; whose originality was not the least charm. He is dead--the

friend whom he loved and honoured, and to whose character thou dost so

much justice in the preface to '_The Parish_ _Register_', is also gone

to the house appointed for all living. A splendid constellation of

poets arose in the literary horizon; I looked around for Crabbe. Why

does not he, who shines as brightly as any of these, add his lustre?

I had not long thought thus when, in an Edinburgh Review, I met

with reflections similar to my own, which introduced '_The Parish

Register_'. Oh, it was like the voice of a long-lost friend, and glad

was I to hear that voice again in '_The Borough_'!--still more in

'_The Tales_,' which appear to me excelling all that preceded them!

Every work is so much in unison with our own feelings, that a wish for

information concerning them and their author is strongly excited.

One of our friends, Dykes Alexander, who was in Ballitore in 1810, I

think, said he was personally acquainted with thee, and spoke highly

of thy character. I regretted I had not an opportunity of conversing

with him on this subject, as perhaps he would have been able to decide

arguments which have arisen; namely, whether we owe to truth or to

fiction that 'ever new delight' which thy poetry affords us. The

characters, however singular some of them may be, are never unnatural,

and thy sentiments so true to domestic and social feelings, as well as

to those of a higher nature, have the convincing power of reality

over the mind, and _I_ maintain that all thy pictures _are drawn from

life_. To inquire whether this be the case is the excuse which I make

to myself for writing this letter. I wish the excuse may be accepted

by thee, for I greatly fear I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in

making the inquiry. Though advanced in life, yet from an education of

peculiar simplicity, and from never having been long absent from my

retired native village, I am too little acquainted with decorum. If I

have now transgressed the rules it prescribes, I appeal to the candour

and liberality of thy mind to forgive a fault caused by a strong

enthusiasm.

PS. Ballitore is the village in which Edmund Burke was educated by

Abraham Shackleton, whose pupil he became in 1741, and from whose

school he entered the college of Dublin in 1744. The school is still

flourishing.

ROBERT BURNS

1759-1796

TO MISS CHALMERS

_Marriage with Jean_

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 16 _Sept_. 1788.

Where are you? and how are you? and is Lady M'Kenzie recovering her

health? for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not

think you have forgot me, Madam; and for my part--

When thee, Jerusalem, I forget,

Skill part from my right hand!

'My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea.' I

do not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its

fellows--rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark or

impression, except where they hit in hostile collision.

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and as you

and your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves

much _a l'egard de moi_, I sit down to beg the continuation of your

goodness.--I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart,

I never saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my

soul--I will not say, more, but so much as Lady M'Kenzie and Miss

Chalmers. When I think of you--hearts the best, minds the noblest, of

human kind--unfortunate, even in the shades of life--when I think I

have met with you, and have lived more of real life with you in

eight days, than I can do with almost any body I meet with in eight

years--when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this world

again--I could sit down and cry like a child!--If ever you honoured me

with a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert.--I

am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas!

is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the

noblest souls; and a late, important step in my life has kindly taken

me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, however

overlooked in fashionable license, or varnished in fashionable phrase,

are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of VILLAINY.

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married 'my Jean'. This

was not in consequence of the attachment of romance perhaps; but I

had a long and much-loved fellow creature's happiness or misery in my

determination, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor

have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish

manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with

the multiform curse of boarding-school affectation; and I have got the

handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and

the kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her

creed, that I am _le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnete homme_ in

the universe; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the

Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David in

metre, spent five minutes together on either prose or verse.

I must except also from this last, a certain late publication of Scots

poems, which she has perused very devoutly; and all the ballads in

the country, as she has (O the partial lover! you will cry) the finest

'wood-note wild' I ever heard.--I am the more particular in this

lady's character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a

share in your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building

my house; for this hovel that I shelter in, while occasionally here,

is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls;

and I am only preserved from being chilled to death, by being

suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that pennyworth I was

taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bargain.

You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle _eclat_, and

bind every day after my reapers.

To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down, in

a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my excise

instructions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency

of fortune. If I could set _all_ before your view, whatever disrespect

you in common with the world, have for this business, I know you would

approve of my idea.

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail: I know

you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it.

What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery

of greatness! When fellow partakers of the same nature fear the same

God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul,

the same detestation at every thing dishonest, and the same scorn at

every thing unworthy--if they are not in the dependance of absolute

beggary, in the name of common sense are they not EQUALS? And if the

bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why may

they not be FRIENDS?...

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE

_A gauger_

Ellisland, 1 _Nov_. 1789.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I had written you long ere now, could I have guessed where to find

you, for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the precious

days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. Wherever

you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but deliver

you from evil!

I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an

excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this

I was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as they

call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all

intents and purposes an officer of excise; there to flourish and bring

forth fruits--worthy of repentance.

I know not how the word exciseman, or still more opprobrious, gauger,

will sound in your ears. I too have seen the day when my auditory

nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject; but a wife

and children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting these

kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision for

widows and orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a _poet_.

For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encouragement which

I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to a numerous, if not a

respectable audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock.--'Gentlemen,

for your further and better encouragement, I can assure you that

our regiment is the most blackguard corps under the crown, and

consequently with us an honest fellow has the surest chance for

preferment.'

You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and

disagreeable circumstances in my business; but I am tired with and

disgusted at the language of complaint against the evils of life.

Human existence in the most favourable situations does not abound with

pleasures, and has its inconveniences and ills; capricious foolish man

mistakes these inconveniences and ills as if they were the peculiar

property of his particular situation; and hence that eternal

fickleness, that love of change, which has ruined, and daily does

ruin many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead; and is, almost

without exception, a constant source of disappointment and misery....

TO FRANCIS GROSE

_Witch tales_

Dumfries, 1792.

Among the many witch stories I have heard relating to Alloway Kirk, I

distinctly remember only two or three.

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind and bitter blasts

of hail--in short, on such a night as the devil would choose to take

the air in--a farmer, or farmer's servant, was plodding and plashing

homeward, with his plough irons on his shoulder, having been getting

some repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the Kirk

of Alloway, and being rather on the anxious look-out in approaching

a place so well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the

devil's friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering

through the horrors of the storm and stormy night a light, which, on

his nearer approach, plainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted

edifice. Whether he had been fortified from above, on his devout

supplication, as is customary with people when they suspect the

immediate presence of Satan; or whether, according to another custom,

he had got courageously drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to

determine; but so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay, into, the

very kirk. As luck would have it, his temerity came off unpunished.

The members of the infernal junto were all out on some midnight

business or other, and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or

cauldron, depending from the roof over the fire, simmering some heads

of unchristened children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c., for the

business of the night. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, with the

honest ploughman; so, without ceremony, he unhooked the cauldron from

off the fire, and pouring out the damnable ingredients, inverted it

on his head, and carried it fairly home, where it remained long in the

family, a living evidence of the truth of the story.

Another story, which I can prove to be equally authentic, was as

follows: On a market day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick,

and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway Kirkyard,

in order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which is about

two or three hundred yards further on than the said gate, had been

detained by his business, till by the time he reached Alloway it was

the wizard hour between night and morning.

Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet

as it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions is

running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advanced

on his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirkyard he was

surprised and entertained through the ribs and arches of an old Gothic

window which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches,

merrily footing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who was

keeping them all alive with the power of his bagpipe. The farmer,

stopping his horse to observe them a little, could plainly descry the

faces of many old women of his acquaintance and neighbourhood. How the

gentleman was dressed tradition does not say, but that the ladies were

all in their smocks; and one of them, happening unluckily to have a

smock which was considerably too short to answer all the purposes of

that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involuntarily

burst out with a loud laugh: 'Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short sark!'

and recollecting himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of

his speed. I need not mention the universally known fact, that no

diabolical power can pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream.

Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near, for,

notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which was a good one, against

he reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the

middle of the stream, the pursuing vengeful hags were so close at his

heels, that one of them actually sprang to seize him; but it was too

late, nothing was on her side of the stream but the horse's tail,

which immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a

stroke of lightning; but the farmer was beyond her reach. However, the

unsightly tailless condition of the vigorous steed was, to the last

hour of the noble creature's life, an awful warning to the Carrick

farmer not to stay too late in Ayr markets.

The last relation I shall give you, though equally true, is not so

well identified as the two former, with regard to the scene; but as

the best authorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it.

On a summer's evening, about the time that nature puts on her sables

to mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belonging

to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of Alloway Kirk, had just

folded his charge and was returning home. As he passed the kirk, in

the adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men and women, who

were busy pulling stems of the plant ragwort. He observed that as each

person pulled a ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and called out,

'Up, horsie', on which the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, through the

air, with its rider. The foolish boy likewise pulled his ragwort and

cried with the rest, 'Up, horsie', and, strange to tell, away he flew

with the company. The first stage at which the cavalcade stopped was

a merchant's wine-cellar in Bordeaux, where, without saying by your

leave, they quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford, until

the morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness, threatened to

throw light on the matter, and frightened them from their carousals.

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger to the scene and the

liquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and when the rest took horse he

fell asleep, and was found so next day by some of the people belonging

to the merchant. Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him what he

was, he said he was such-a-one's herd in Alloway, and by some means or

other getting home again, he lived long to tell the world the wondrous

tale.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

1770-1850

TO SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT

_A brother's character_

Grasmere, 20 _Feb_. 1805.

Having spoken of worldly affairs, let me again mention my beloved

brother. It is now just five years since, after a separation of

fourteen years (I may call it a separation, for we only saw him four

or five times, and by glimpses), he came to visit his sister and me

in this cottage, and passed eight blessed months with us. He was then

waiting for the command of the ship to which he was appointed when he

quitted us. As you will have seen, we had little to live upon, and he

as little (Lord Lonsdale being then alive). But he encouraged me to

persist, and to keep my eye steady on its object. He would work for me

(that was his language), for me and his sister; and I was to endeavour

to do something for the world. He went to sea, as commander, with

this hope; his voyage was very unsuccessful, he having lost by it

considerably. When he came home, we chanced to be in London, and saw

him. 'Oh!' said he, 'I have thought of you, and nothing but you; if

ever of myself, and my bad success, it was only on your account.' He

went again to sea a second time, and also was unsuccessful; still

with the same hopes on our account, though then not so necessary,

Lord Lowther having paid the money. Lastly came the lamentable voyage,

which he entered upon, full of expectation, and love to his sister

and myself, and my wife, whom, indeed, he loved with all a brother's

tenderness. This is the end of his part of the agreement--of his

efforts for my welfare! God grant me life and strength to fulfil mine!

I shall never forget him--never lose sight of him: there is a bond

between us yet, the same as if he were living, nay, far more sacred,

calling upon me to do my utmost, as he to the last did his utmost

to live in honour and worthiness. Some of the newspapers carelessly

asserted that he did not wish to survive his ship. This is false. He

was heard by one of the surviving officers giving orders, with all

possible calmness, a very little before the ship went down; and when

he could remain at his post no longer, then, and not till then,

he attempted to save himself. I knew this would be so, but it was

satisfactory for me to have it confirmed by external evidence. Do not

think our grief unreasonable. Of all human beings whom I ever knew, he

was the man of the most rational desires, the most sedate habits, and

the most perfect self-command. He was modest and gentle, and shy even

to disease; but this was wearing off. In everything his judgements

were sound and original; his taste in all the arts, music and poetry

in particular (for these he, of course, had had the best opportunities

of being familiar with), was exquisite; and his eye for the beauties

of nature was as fine and delicate as ever poet or painter was gifted

with, in some discriminations, owing to his education and way of life,

far superior to any person's I ever knew. But, alas! what avails it?

It was the will of God that he should be taken away....

I trust in God that I shall not want fortitude; but my loss is great

and irreparable....

TO WALTER SCOTT

_Dryden_

Patterdale, 7 _Nov_. 1805.

MY DEAR SCOTT,

I was much pleased to hear of your engagement with Dryden: not that he

is, as a poet, any great favourite of mine: I admire his talents and

genius highly, but his is not a poetical genius. The only qualities

I can find in Dryden that are _essentially_ poetical, are a certain

ardour and impetuosity of mind, with an excellent ear. It may seem

strange that I do not add to this, great command of language: _that_

he certainly has, and of such language too, as it is most desirable

that a poet should possess, or rather that he should not be without.

But it is not language that is, in the highest sense of the word,

poetical, being neither of the imagination nor of the passions; I mean

the amiable, the ennobling, or the intense passions. I do not mean to

say that there is nothing of this in Dryden, but as little, I think,

as is possible, considering how much he has written. You will easily

understand my meaning, when I refer to his versification of _Palamon

and Arcite_, as contrasted with the language of Chaucer. Dryden had

neither a tender heart nor a lofty sense of moral dignity. Whenever

his language is poetically impassioned, it is mostly upon unpleasing

subjects, such as the follies, vices, and crimes of classes of men or

of individuals, That his cannot be the language of imagination, must

have necessarily followed from this,--that there is not a single image

from nature in the whole body of his works; and in his translation

from Virgil, wherever Virgil can be fairly said to have had his _eye_

upon his object, Dryden always spoils the passage.

But too much of this; I am glad that you are to be his editor.

His political and satirical pieces may be greatly benefited by

illustration, and even absolutely require it. A correct text is the

first object of an editor, then such notes as explain difficult or

obscure passages; and lastly, which is much less important, notes

pointing out authors to whom the poet has been indebted, not in the

fiddling way of phrase here and phrase there, (which is detestable as

a general practice), but where he has had essential obligations either

as to matter or manner.

If I can be of any use to you, do not fail to apply to me. One thing

I may take the liberty to suggest, which is, when you come to the

fables, might it not be advisable to print the whole of the Tales of

Boccace in a smaller type in the original language? If this should

look too much like swelling a book, I should certainly make such

extracts as would show where Dryden has most strikingly improved upon,

or fallen below, his original. I think his translations from Boccace

are the best, at least the most poetical, of his poems. It is many

years since I saw Boccace, but I remember that Sigismunda is not

married by him to Guiscard (the names are different in Boccace in both

tales, I believe--certainly in Theodore, &c.). I think Dryden has much

injured the story by the marriage, and degraded Sigismunda's character

by it. He has also, to the best of my remembrance, degraded her still

more, by making her love absolute sensuality and appetite; Dryden had

no other notion of the passion. With all these defects, and they are

very gross ones, it is a noble poem. Guiscard's answer, when first

reproached by Tancred, is noble in Boccace--nothing but this: _Amor

puo molto piu che ne voi ne io possiamo_. This, Dryden has spoiled. He

says first very well, 'the faults of love by love are justified,' and

then come four lines of miserable rant, quite _a la Maximin_.

TO LADY BEAUMONT

_The destiny of his poems_

Coleorton, 21 _May_, 1807.

MY DEAR LADY BEAUMONT,

Though I am to see you so soon, I cannot but write a word or two, to

thank you for the interest you take in my poems, as evinced by your

solicitude about their immediate reception. I write partly to thank

you for this, and to express the pleasure it has given me, and partly

to remove any uneasiness from your mind which the disappointments you

sometimes meet with, in this labour of love, may occasion. I see that

you have many battles to fight for me--more than, in the ardour and

confidence of your pure and elevated mind, you had ever thought of

being summoned to; but be assured that this opposition is nothing more

than what I distinctly foresaw that you and my other friends would

have to encounter. I say this, not to give myself credit for an eye of

prophecy, but to allay any vexatious thoughts on my account which this

opposition may have produced in you.

It is impossible that any expectations can be lower than mine

concerning the immediate effect of this little work upon what is

called the public. I do not here take into consideration the envy and

malevolence, and all the bad passions which always stand in the way of

a work of any merit from a living poet; but merely think of the pure,

absolute, honest ignorance in which all worldlings of every rank and

situation must be enveloped, with respect to the thoughts, feelings

and images on which the life of my poems depends. The things which I

have taken, whether from within or without, what have they to do with

routs, dinners, morning calls, hurry from door to door, from street to

street, on foot or in carriage; with Mr. Pitt or Mr. Fox, Mr. Paul

or Sir Francis Burdett, the Westminster election or the borough of

Honiton? In a word--for I cannot stop to make my way through the hurry

of images that present themselves to me--what have they to do with the

endless talking about things nobody cares anything for except as far

as their own vanity is concerned, and this with persons they care

nothing for but as their vanity or _selfishness_ is concerned?--what

have they to do (to say all at once) with a life without love? In such

a life there can be no thought; for we have no thought (save thoughts

of pain) but as far as we have love and admiration.

It is an awful truth, that there neither is, nor can be, any genuine

enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who

live, or wish to live, in the broad light of the world--among

those who either are, or are striving to make themselves, people of

consideration in society. This is a truth, and an awful one, because

to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to

be without love of human nature and reverence for God.

Upon this I shall insist elsewhere; at present let me confine myself

to my object; which is to make you, my dear friend, as easy-hearted

as myself with respect to these poems. Trouble not yourself upon their

present reception; of what moment is that compared with what I trust

is their destiny?--to console the afflicted; to add sunshine to

daylight, by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the

gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and therefore, to

become more actively and securely virtuous; this is their office,

which I trust they will faithfully perform, long after we (that is,

all that is mortal of us) are mouldered in our graves. I am well aware

how far it would seem to many I overrate my own exertions, when I

speak in this way, in direct connexion with the volume I have just

made public.

I am not, however, afraid of such censure, insignificant as probably

the majority of those poems would appear to very respectable persons.

I do not mean London wits and witlings, for these have too many foul

passions about them to be respectable, even if they had more intellect

than the benign laws of Providence will allow to such a heartless

existence as theirs is; but grave, kindly-natured, worthy persons,

who would be pleased if they could. I hope that these volumes are

not without some recommendations, even for readers of this class: but

their imagination has slept; and the voice which is the voice of my

poetry, without imagination, cannot be heard....

My letter (as this second sheet, which I am obliged to take,

admonishes me) is growing to an enormous length; and yet, saving that

I have expressed my calm confidence that these poems will live, I have

said nothing which has a particular application to the object of it,

which was to remove all disquiet from your mind on account of the

condemnation they may at present incur from that portion of my

contemporaries who are called the public. I am sure, my dear Lady

Beaumont, if you attach any importance to it, it can only be from an

apprehension that it may affect me, upon which I have already set you

at ease; or from a fear that this present blame is ominous of their

future or final destiny. If this be the case, your tenderness for me

betrays you. Be assured that the decision of these persons has nothing

to do with the question; they are altogether incompetent judges. These

people, in the senseless hurry of their idle lives, do not _read_

books, they merely snatch a glance at them, that they may talk about

them. And even if this were not so, never forget what, I believe, was

observed to you by Coleridge, that every great and original writer, in

proportion as he is great or original, must himself create the taste

by which he is to be relished; he must teach the art by which he is to

be seen; this, in a certain degree, even to all persons, however wise

and pure may be their lives, and however unvitiated their taste. But

for those who dip into books in order to give an opinion of them, or

talk about them to take up an opinion--for this multitude of unhappy

and misguided, and misguiding beings, an entire regeneration must

be produced; and if this be possible, it must be a work of time. To

conclude, my ears are stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as

insensible as iron to these petty stings; and after what I have said,

I am sure yours will be the same. I doubt not that you will share with

me an invincible confidence that my writings (and among them these

little poems) will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human

nature and society, wherever found; and that they will in their degree

be efficacious in making men wiser, better, and happier. Farewell.

I will not apologize for this letter, though its length demands an

apology....

TO SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT

_The language of poetry_

[c. 1807.]

MY DEAR SIR GEORGE,

I am quite delighted to hear of your picture for _Peter Bell_; I was

much pleased with the sketch, and I have no doubt that the picture

will surpass it as far as a picture ought to do. I long much to see

it. I should approve of any engraver approved by you. But remember

that no poem of mine will ever be popular; and I am afraid that the

sale of _Peter_ would not carry the expense of the engraving, and that

the poem, in the estimation of the public, would be a weight upon

the print. I say not this in modest disparagement of the poem, but in

sorrow for the sickly taste of the public in verse. The _people_ would

love the poem of _Peter Bell_, but the _public_ (a very different

being) will never love it. Thanks for dear Lady B.'s transcript from

your friend's letter; it is written with candour, but I must say a

word or two not in praise of it. 'Instances of what I mean,' says your

friend, 'are to be found in a poem on a Daisy' (by the by, it is on

_the_ Daisy, a mighty difference!) 'and on _Daffodils reflected in the

Water_'. Is this accurately transcribed by Lady Beaumont? If it

be, what shall we think of criticism or judgement founded upon, and

exemplified by, a poem which must have been so inattentively perused?

My language is precise; and, therefore, it would be false modesty to

charge myself with blame.

Beneath the trees,

Ten thousand dancing in the _breeze_.

The _waves beside_ them danced, but they

Outdid the _sparkling waves_ in glee.

Can expression be more distinct? And let me ask your friend how it

is possible for flowers to be _reflected_ in water when there are

_waves_? They may, indeed, in _still_ water; but the very object of my

poem is the trouble or agitation, both of the flowers and the water.

I must needs respect the understanding of every one honoured by your

friendship; but sincerity compels me to say that my poems must be more

nearly looked at, before they can give rise to any remarks of much

value, even from the strongest minds. With respect to this individual

poem, Lady B. will recollect how Mrs. Fermor expressed herself upon

it. A letter also was sent to me, addressed to a friend of mine, and

by him communicated to me, in which this identical poem was singled

out for fervent approbation. What then shall we say? Why, let the poet

first consult his own heart, as I have done, and leave the rest

to posterity--to, I hope, an improving posterity. The fact is, the

English _public_ are at this moment in the same state of mind with

respect to my poems, if small things may be compared with great, as

the French are in respect to Shakespeare, and not the French alone,

but almost the whole Continent. In short, in your friend's letter,

I am condemned for the very thing for which I ought to have

been praised, viz., that I have not written down to the level of

superficial observers and unthinking minds. Every great poet is

a teacher: I wish either to be considered as a teacher, or as

nothing....

SIR WALTER SCOTT

1771-1832

TO HIS MOTHER

_Marriage with Miss Carpenter_

[1797.]

MY DEAR MOTHER,

I should very ill deserve the care and affection with which you

have ever regarded me, were I to neglect my duty so far as to omit

consulting my father and you in the most important step which I

can possibly take in life, and upon the success of which my future

happiness must depend. It is with pleasure I think that I can avail

myself of your advice and instructions in an affair of so great

importance as that which I have at present on my hands. You will

probably guess from this preamble, that I am engaged in a matrimonial

plan, which is really the case. Though my acquaintance with the young

lady has not been of long standing, this circumstance is in some

degree counterbalanced by the intimacy in which we have lived, and by

the opportunities which that intimacy has afforded me of remarking her

conduct and sentiments on many different occasions, some of which were

rather of a delicate nature, so that in fact I have seen more of her

during the few weeks we have been together, than I could have done

after a much longer acquaintance, shackled by the common forms of

ordinary life. You will not expect from me a description of her

person,--for which I refer you to my brother, as also for a fuller

account of all the circumstances attending the business than can be

comprised in the compass of a letter. Without flying into raptures,

for I must assure you that my judgement as well as my affections are

consulted upon this occasion; without flying into raptures then, I

may safely assure you, that her temper is sweet and cheerful, her

understanding good, and what I know will give you pleasure, her

principles of religion very serious. I have been very explicit

with her upon the nature of my expectations, and she thinks she can

accommodate herself to the situation which I should wish her to hold

in society as my wife, which, you will easily comprehend, I mean

should neither be extravagant nor degrading. Her fortune, though

partly dependent upon her brother, who is high in office at Madras, is

very considerable--at present L500 a-year. This, however, we must,

in some degree, regard as precarious,--I mean to the full extent; and

indeed when you know her you will not be surprised that I regard

this circumstance chiefly because it removes those prudential

considerations which would otherwise render our union impossible for

the present. Betwixt her income and my own professional exertions, I

have little doubt we will be enabled to hold the rank in society which

my family and situation entitle me to fill.

My dear Mother, I cannot express to you the anxiety I have that you

will not think me flighty nor inconsiderate in this business. Believe

me, that experience, in one instance--you cannot fail to know to what

I allude--is too recent to permit my being so hasty in my conclusions

as the warmth of my temper might have otherwise prompted. I am also

most anxious that you should be prepared to show her kindness, which I

know the goodness of your own heart will prompt, more especially

when I tell you that she is an orphan, without relations, and almost

without friends. Her guardian is, I should say _was_, for she is of

age, Lord Downshire, to whom I must write for his consent, a piece

of respect to which he is entitled for his care of her--and there the

matter rests at present. I think I need not tell you that if I assume

the new character which I threaten, I shall be happy to find that

in that capacity, I may make myself more useful to my brothers, and

especially to Anne, than I could in any other. On the other hand, I

shall certainly expect that my friends will endeavour to show every

attention in their power to a woman who forsakes for me, prospects

much more splendid than what I can offer, and who comes into Scotland

without a single friend but myself. I find I could write a great deal

more upon this subject, but as it is late, and as I must write to my

father, I shall restrain myself. I think (but you are the best judge)

that in the circumstances in which I stand, you should write to her,

Miss Carpenter, under cover to me at Carlisle.

Write to me very fully upon this important subject--send me your

opinion, your advice, and above all, your blessing; you will see the

necessity of not delaying a minute in doing so, and in keeping this

business _strictly private_, till you hear farther from me, since you

are not ignorant that even at this advanced period, an objection on

the part of Lord Downshire, or many other accidents, may intervene; in

which case, I should little wish my disappointment to be public.

TO MISS SEWARD

_The Lay of the Last Minstrel_

Edinburgh, 21 _March_, 1805.

MY DEAR MISS SEWARD,

I am truly happy that you found any amusement in the _Lay of the Last

Minstrel_. It has great faults, of which no one can be more sensible

than I am myself. Above all, it is deficient in that sort of

continuity which a story ought to have, and which, were it to write

again, I would endeavour to give it. But I began and wandered forward,

like one in a pleasant country, getting to the top of one hill to see

a prospect, and to the bottom of another to enjoy a shade, and what

wonder if my course has been devious and desultory, and many of my

excursions altogether unprofitable to the advance of my journey.

The Dwarf Page is also an excrescence, and I plead guilty to all the

censures concerning him. The truth is, he has a history, and it is

this: The story of Gilpin Horner was told by an old gentleman to

Lady Dalkeith, and she, much diverted with his actually believing so

grotesque a tale, insisted that I should make it into a Border ballad.

I don't know if you ever saw my lovely chieftainess--if you have,

you must be aware that it is _impossible_ for any one to refuse her

request, as she has more of the angel in face and temper than any one

alive; so that if she had asked me to write a ballad on a broomstick I

must have attempted it. I began a few verses, to be called the Goblin

Page; and they lay long by me, till the applause of some friends

whose judgement I valued induced me to resume the poem; so on I wrote,

knowing no more than the man in the moon how I was to end. At length

the story appeared so uncouth, that I was fain to put it into

the mouth of my old minstrel--lest the nature of it should be

misunderstood, and I should be suspected of setting up a new school of

poetry, instead of a feeble attempt to imitate the old. In the process

of romance the page, intended to be a principal person in the work,

contrived (from the baseness of his natural propensities, I suppose)

to slink downstairs into the kitchen, and now he must e'en abide

there.

I mention these circumstances to you, and to any one whose applause I

value, because I am unwilling you should suspect me of trifling with

the public in _malice prepense_. As to the herd of critics, it is

impossible for me to pay much attention to them; for, as they do not

understand what I call poetry, we talk in a foreign language to each

other. Indeed, many of these gentlemen appear to me to be a sort of

tinkers, who, unable to _make_ pots and pans, set up for _menders_ of

them, and, God knows, often make two holes in patching one. The sixth

canto is altogether redundant; for the poem should certainly have

closed with the union of the lovers, when the interest, if any, was

at an end. But what could I do? I had my book and my page still on my

hands, and must get rid of them at all events. Manage them as I would,

their catastrophe must have been insufficient to occupy an entire

canto; so I was fain to eke it out with the songs of the minstrels. I

will now descend from the confessional, which I think I have occupied

long enough for the patience of my fair confessor. I am happy you are

disposed to give me absolution, notwithstanding all my sins. We have a

new poet come forth amongst us--James Graham, author of a poem called

_The Sabbath_, which I admire very much. If I can find an opportunity

I will send you a copy.

TO LADY LOUISA STUART

_An amiable blue-stocking_

Edinburgh, 16 _June_, 1808.

MY DEAR LADY LOUISA,

Nothing will give us more pleasure than to have the honour of showing

every attention in our power to Mr. and Mrs. Morritt, and I am

particularly happy in a circumstance that at once promises me a great

deal of pleasure in the acquaintance of your Ladyship's friends, and

affords me the satisfaction of hearing from you again. Pray don't

triumph over me too much in the case of Lydia. I stood a very

respectable siege; but she caressed my wife, coaxed my children,

and made, by dint of cake and pudding, some impression even upon

the affections of my favourite dog: so, when all the outworks

were carried, the mere fortress had no choice but to surrender on

honourable terms. To the best of my thinking, notwithstanding the

cerulean hue of her stockings, and a most plentiful stock of eccentric

affectation, she is really at bottom a good-natured woman, with much

liveliness and some talent. She is now set out to the Highlands, where

she is likely to encounter many adventures. Mrs. Scott and I went as

far as Loch Catrine with her, from which jaunt I have just returned.

We had most heavenly weather, which was peculiarly favourable to my

fair companions' zeal for sketching every object that fell in their

way, from a castle to a pigeon-house. Did your Ladyship ever travel

with a _drawing_ companion? Mine drew like cart-horses, as well in

laborious zeal as in effect; for, after all, I could not help hinting

that the cataracts delineated bore a singular resemblance to haycocks,

and the rocks much correspondence to large old-fashioned cabinets

with their folding-doors open. So much for Lydia, whom I left on her

journey through the Highlands, but by what route she had not resolved.

I gave her three plans, and think it likely she will adopt none

of them: moreover, when the executive government of postilions,

landlords, and Highland boatmen devolves upon her English servant

instead of me, I am afraid the distresses of the errant damsels will

fall a little beneath the dignity of romances. All this nonsense is

_entre nous_, for Miss White has been actively zealous in getting me

some Irish correspondence about Swift, and otherwise very obliging.

It is not with my inclination that I fag for the booksellers; but what

can I do? My poverty and not my will consents. The income of my office

is only reversionary, and my private fortune much limited. My poetical

success fairly destroyed my prospects of professional success, and

obliged me to retire from the bar; for though I had a competent share

of information and industry, who would trust their cause to the author

of the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_? Now, although I do allow that an

author should take care of his literary character, yet I think the

least thing that his literary character can do in return is to take

some care of the author, who is unfortunately, like Jeremy in _Love

for Love_, furnished with a set of tastes and appetites which would

do honour to the income of a Duke if he had it. Besides, I go to work

with Swift _con amore_; for, like Dryden, he is an early favourite

of mine. The _Marmion_ is nearly out, and I have made one or two

alterations on the third edition, with which the press is now

groaning. So soon as it is, it will make the number of copies

published within the space of six months amount to eight thousand,--an

immense number, surely, and enough to comfort the author's wounded

feelings, had the claws of the reviewers been able to reach him

through the _steel jack_ of true Border indifference.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY

_Congratulations_

Edinburgh, 13 _Nov._ 1813.

I do not delay, my dear Southey, to say my _gratulor_. Long may you

live, as Paddy says, to rule over us, and to redeem the crown of

Spenser and of Dryden to its pristine dignity. I am only discontented

with the extent of your royal revenue, which I thought had been L400,

or L300 at the very least. Is there no getting rid of that iniquitous

modus, and requiring the _butt_ in kind? I would have you think of it:

I know no man so well entitled to Xeres sack as yourself, though many

bards would make a better figure at drinking it. I should think that

in due time a memorial might get some relief in this part of the

appointment--it should be at least L100 wet and L100 dry. When you

have carried your point of discarding the ode, and my point of getting

the sack, you will be exactly in the situation of Davy in the

farce, who stipulates for more wages, less work, and the key of the

ale-cellar. I was greatly delighted with the circumstances of

your investiture. It reminded me of the porters at Calais with Dr.

Smollett's baggage, six of them seizing upon one small portmanteau,

and bearing it in triumph to his lodgings. You see what it is to

laugh at the superstitions of a gentleman-usher, as I think you do

somewhere. 'The whirligig of Time brings about his revenges.'

Adieu, my dear Southey; my best wishes attend all that you do, and my

best congratulations every good that attends you--yea even this, the

very least of Providence's mercies, as a poor clergyman said when

pronouncing grace over a herring. I should like to know how the prince

received you; his address is said to be excellent, and his knowledge

of literature far from despicable. What a change of fortune even

since the short time when we met! The great work of retribution is now

rolling onward to consummation, yet am I not fully satisfied--_pereat

iste_--there will be no permanent peace in Europe till Buonaparte

sleeps with the tyrants of old.

TO J.B.S. MORRITT

_A small anonymous sort of a novel_

Edinburgh, 9 _July_, 1814.

MY DEAR MORRITT,

I owe you many apologies for not sooner answering your very

entertaining letter upon your Parisian journey. I heartily wish I had

been of your party, for you have seen what I trust will not be seen

again in a hurry; since, to enjoy the delight of a restoration, there

is a necessity for a previous _bouleversement_ of everything that is

valuable in morals and policy which seems to have been the case in

France since 1790. The Duke of Buccleugh told me yesterday of a very

good reply of Louis to some of his attendants, who proposed shutting

the doors of his apartments to keep out the throng of people. 'Open

the door,' he said, 'to John Bull; he has suffered a great deal in

keeping the door open for me.'

Now, to go from one important subject to another, I must account for

my own laziness, which I do by referring you to a small anonymous sort

of a novel, in three volumes, _Waverley_, which you will receive by

the mail of this day. It was a very old attempt of mine to embody some

traits of those characters and manners peculiar to Scotland, the last

remnants of which vanished during my own youth, so that few or no

traces now remain. I had written great part of the first volume, and

sketched other passages, when I mislaid the MS., and only found it by

the merest accident as I was rummaging the drawers of an old cabinet;

and I took the fancy of finishing it, which I did so fast, that the

last two volumes were written in three weeks. I had a great deal of

fun in the accomplishment of this task, though I do not expect that it

will be popular in the south, as much of the humour, if there be any,

is local, and some of it even professional. You, however, who are an

adopted Scotchman, will find some amusement in it. It has made a very

strong impression here, and the good people of Edinburgh are busied in

tracing the author, and in finding out originals for the portraits it

contains. In the first case, they will probably find it difficult to

convict the guilty author, although he is far from escaping suspicion.

Jeffrey has offered to make oath that it is mine, and another great

critic has tendered his affidavit _ex contrario_; so that these

authorities have divided the Gude Town. However, the thing has

succeeded very well, and is thought highly of. I don't know if it has

got to London yet. I intend to maintain my _incognito_. Let me know

your opinion about it....

24 _July_.

... I had just proceeded thus far when your kind favour of the

21st reached Abbotsford. I am heartily glad you continued to like

_Waverley_ to the end. The hero is a sneaking piece of imbecility;

and if he had married Flora, she would have set him up upon the

chimney-piece, as Count Borowlaski's wife used to do with him. I am

a bad hand at depicting a hero properly so called, and have an

unfortunate propensity for the dubious characters of borderers,

buccaneers, Highland robbers, and all others of a Robin-Hood

description. I do not know why it should be, as I am myself, like

Hamlet, indifferent honest; but I suppose the blood of the old

cattle-drivers of Teviotdale continues to stir in my veins.

TO THE SAME

_Acceptance of a baronetcy_

Edinburgh, 7 _Dec._, 1818.

MY DEAR MORRITT,

... There is another thing I have to whisper in your faithful ear. Our

fat friend being desirous to honour Literature in my unworthy person,

has intimated to me, by his organ the Doctor, that, with consent ample

and unanimous of all the potential voices of all his ministers,

each more happy than another of course on so joyful an occasion, he

proposes to dub me Baronet. It would be easy saying a parcel of fine

things about my contempt of rank, and so forth; but although I would

not have gone a step out of my way to have asked, or bought, or

begged, or borrowed a distinction, which to me personally will rather

be inconvenient than otherwise, yet, coming as it does directly from

the source of feudal honours, and as an honour, I am really gratified

with it;--especially as it is intimated, that it is his Royal

Highness's pleasure to heat the oven for me expressly, without waiting

till he has some new _batch_ of Baronets ready in dough. In plain

English, I am to be gazetted _per se_. My poor friend Carpenter's

bequest to my family has taken away a certain degree of

_impecuniosity_, a necessity of saving cheese-parings and candle-ends,

which always looks inconsistent with any little pretension to rank.

But as things now stand, Advance banners in the name of God and St.

Andrew. Remember, I anticipate the jest, 'I like not such grinning

honours, as Sir Walter hath.' After all, if one must speak for

themselves, I have my quarters and emblazonments, free of all stain

but Border theft and High Treason, which I hope are gentleman-like

crimes; and I hope Sir Walter Scott will not sound worse than Sir

Humphry Davy, though my merits are as much under his, in point of

utility, as can well be imagined. But a name is something, and mine

is the better of the two. Set down this flourish to the account

of national and provincial pride, for you must know we have more

Messieurs de Sotenville in our Border counties than anywhere else in

the Lowlands--I cannot say for the Highlands.

TO LORD MONTAGU

_Prince Leopold's visit_

Abbotsford, 3 _Oct._ 1819.

MY DEAR LORD,

I am honoured with your Buxton letter.... _Anent_ Prince Leopold, I

only heard of his approach at eight o'clock in the morning, and he

was to be at Selkirk by eleven. The magistrates sent to ask me to help

them to receive him. It occurred to me he might be coming to Melrose

to see the Abbey, in which case I could not avoid asking him to

Abbotsford, as he must pass my very door. I mentioned this to Mrs.

Scott, who was lying quietly in bed, and I wish you had heard the

scream she gave on the occasion. 'What have we to offer him?'--'Wine

and cake,' said I, thinking to make all things easy; but she

ejaculated, in a tone of utter despair, 'Cake!! where am I to get

cake?' However, being partly consoled with the recollection that his

visit was a very improbable incident, and curiosity, as usual, proving

too strong for alarm, she set out with me in order not to miss a peep

of the great man. James Skene and his lady were with us, and we gave

our carriages such additional dignity as a pair of leaders could add,

and went to meet him in full puff. The Prince very civilly told me,

that, though he could not see Melrose on this occasion, he wished to

come to Abbotsford for an hour. New despair on the part of Mrs. Scott,

who began to institute a domiciliary search for cold meat through the

whole city of Selkirk, which produced _one shoulder of cold lamb_. In

the meanwhile, his Royal Highness received the civic honours of the

BIRSE[1] very graciously. I had hinted to Bailie Lang, that it ought

only to be licked _symbolically_ on the present occasion; so he

flourished it three times before his mouth, but without touching it

with his lips, and the Prince followed his example as directed. Lang

made an excellent speech, sensible, and feeling, and well delivered.

The Prince seemed much surprised at this great propriety of expression

and behaviour in a magistrate, whose people seemed such a rabble, and

whose whole band of music consisted in a drum and fife. He noticed to

Bailie Anderson, that Selkirk seemed very populous in proportion

to its extent. 'On an occasion like this it seems so,' answered the

Bailie, neatly enough I thought. I question if any magistrates in the

kingdom, lord mayors and aldermen not excepted, could have behaved

with more decent and quiet good-breeding. Prince Leopold repeatedly

alluded to this during the time he was at Abbotsford. I do not know

how Mrs. Scott ultimately managed; but with broiled salmon, and

black-cock, and partridges, she gave him a very decent lunch; and I

chanced to have some very fine old hock, which was mighty germain to

the matter.

The Prince seems melancholy, whether naturally or from habit, I do not

pretend to say; but I do not remember thinking him so at Paris, where

I saw him frequently, then a much poorer man than myself; yet he

showed some humour, for alluding to the crowds that followed him

everywhere, he mentioned some place where he had gone out to shoot,

but was afraid to proceed for fear of 'bagging a boy'. He said

he really thought of getting some shooting-place in Scotland, and

promised me a longer visit on his return. If I had had a day's

notice to have _warned the waters_, we could have met him with a very

respectable number of the gentry; but there was no time for this, and

probably he liked it better as it was. There was only young Clifton

who could have come, and he was shy and cubbish, and would not, though

requested by the Selkirk people. He was perhaps ashamed to march

through Coventry with them. It hung often and sadly on my mind that

_he_ was wanting who could and would have received him like a Prince

indeed; and yet the meeting betwixt them, had they been fated to meet,

would have been a very sad one. I think I have now given your

lordship a very full, true, and particular account of our royal visit,

unmatched even by that of King Charles at the Castle of Tillietudlem.

That we did not speak of it for more than a week after it happened,

and that that emphatic monosyllable, _The Prince_, is not heard

amongst us more than ten times a-day, is, on the whole, to the credit

of my family's understanding. The piper is the only one whose brain he

seems to have endangered; for, as the Prince said he preferred him to

any he had heard in the Highlands--(which, by the way, shows his

Royal Highness knows nothing of the matter),--the fellow seems to have

become incapable of his ordinary occupation as a forester, and has cut

stick and stem without remorse to the tune of _Phail Phranse_, i.e.

the Prince's welcome.

[Footnote 1: Bundle of hog's bristles; symbol of the soutars.]

To DANIEL TERRY

_Progress at Abbotsford_

Abbotsford, 10 _Nov_. 1822.

My dear Terry,

I got all the plans safe, and they are delightful. The library

ceiling will be superb, and we have plenty of ornaments for it without

repeating one of those in the eating-room. The plan of shelves is also

excellent, and will, I think, for a long time suffice my collection.

The brasses for the shelves I like--but not the price: the notched

ones, after all, do very well. I have had three grand hawls since I

last wrote to you. The pulpit, repentance-stool, King's seat, and

God knows how much of carved wainscot, from the kirk of Dunfermline,

enough to coat the hall to the height of seven feet:--supposing

it boarded above, for hanging guns, old portraits, intermixed with

armour, &c.--it will be a superb entrance-gallery: this is hawl the

first. Hawl second is twenty-four pieces of the most splendid Chinese

paper, twelve feet high by four wide, a present from my cousin Hugh

Scott, enough to finish the drawing-room and two bedrooms. Hawl third

is a quantity of what is called Jamaica cedar-wood, enough for fitting

up both the drawing-room and the library, including the presses,

shelves, &c.: the wood is finely pencilled and most beautiful,

something like the colour of gingerbread; it costs very little more

than oak, works much easier, and is never touched by vermin of any

kind. I sent Mr. Atkinson a specimen, but it was from the plain end of

the plank; the interior is finely waved and variegated. Your kind

and unremitting exertions in our favour will soon plenish the

drawing-room. Thus we at present stand. We have a fine old English

cabinet, with china, &c.-and two superb elbow-chairs, the gift of

Constable, carved most magnificently, with groups of children, fruit,

and flowers, in the Italian taste: they came from Rome, and are much

admired. It seems to me that the mirror you mention, being framed in

carved box, would answer admirably well with the chairs, which are of

the same material. The mirror should, I presume, be placed over

the drawing-room chimney-piece; and opposite to it I mean to put an

antique table of mosaic marbles, to support Chantrey's bust. A good

sofa would be desirable, and so would the tapestry screen, if really

fresh and beautiful; but as much of our furniture will be a little

antiquated, one would not run too much into that taste in so small an

apartment. For the library I have the old oak chairs now in the little

armoury, eight in number, and we might add one or two pair of the

ebony chairs you mention. I should think this enough, for many seats

in such a room must impede access to the books; and I don't mean

the library to be on ordinary occasions a public room. Perhaps the

tapestry-screen would suit better here than in the drawing-room. I

have one library table here, and shall have another made for atlases

and prints. For the hall I have four chairs of black oak. In other

matters we can make it out well enough. In fact, it is my object

rather to keep under my new accommodations at first, both to avoid

immediate outlay, and that I may leave room for pretty things which

may occur hereafter. I would to Heaven I could take a cruise with you

through the brokers, which would be the pleasantest affair possible,

only I am afraid I should make a losing voyage of it. Mr. Atkinson has

missed a little my idea of the oratory, fitting it up entirely as

a bookcase, whereas I should like to have had recesses for

curiosities--for the Bruce's skull--for a crucifix, &c., &c.-in short,

a little cabinet instead of a book-closet. Four sides of books would

be perfectly sufficient; the other four, so far as not occupied by

door or window, should be arranged tastefully for antiquities, &c.,

like the inside of an antique cabinet, with drawers, and shottles, and

funny little arches. The oak screen dropped as from the clouds: it is

most acceptable; I might have guessed there was only one kind friend

so ready to supply hay to my hobby-horse. You have my views in these

matters and your own taste; and I will send the _needful_ when

you apprise me of the amount total. Where things are not quite

satisfactory, it is better to wait a while on every account, for the

amusement is over when one has room for nothing more. The house is

completely roofed, &c., and looks worthy of Mrs. Terry's painting. I

never saw anything handsomer than the grouping of towers, chimneys,

&c. upon the roof, when seen at a proper distance.

Once more, let me wish you joy of your professional success. I can

judge, by a thousand minute items, of the advance you make with the

public, just as I can of the gradual progress of my trees, because I

am interested in both events. You may say, like Burke, you were not

'coaxed and dandled into eminence' but have fought your way gallantly,

shown your passport at every barrier, and been always a step in

advance, without a single retrograde movement. Every one wishes to

advance rapidly, but when the desired position is gained, it is far

more easily maintained by him whose ascent has been gradual, and whose

favour is founded not on the unreasonable expectations entertained

from one or two seasons, but from an habitual experience of the power

of pleasing during several years. You say not a word of poor Wattles.

I hope little Miss has not put his nose out of joint entirely.

I have not been very well--a whoreson thickness of blood, and a

depression of spirits arising from the loss of friends (to whom I

am now to add poor Wedderburne), have annoyed me much; and _Peveril_

will, I fear, smell of the apoplexy. I propose a good rally, however,

and hope it will be a powerful effect. My idea is, _entre nous_, a

Scotch archer in the French King's guard, _tempore_ Louis XI, the most

picturesque of all times.

TO J.B.S. MORRITT

_A brave face to the world_

Edinburgh, 6 _Feb._ 1826.

MY DEAR MORRITT,

It is very true I have been, and am in danger, of a pecuniary loss,

and probably a very large one, which in the uncertainty I look at as

to the full extent, being the manly way of calculating such matters,

since one may be better, but can hardly be worse. I can't say I

feel overjoyed at losing a large sum of hard-earned money in a most

unexpected manner, for all men considered Constable's people secure as

the Bank; yet, as I have obtained an arrangement of payment convenient

for every body concerned, and easy for myself, I cannot say that I

care much about the matter. Some economical restrictions I will make;

and it happened oddly that they were such as Lady Scott and myself

had almost determined upon without this compulsion. Abbotsford will

henceforth be our only establishment; and during the time I must be

in town, I will take my bed at the Albyn Club. We shall also break

off the rather excessive hospitality to which we were exposed, and no

longer stand host and hostess to all that do pilgrimage to Melrose.

Then I give up an expensive farm, which I always hated, and turn

all my odds and ends into cash. I do not reckon much on my literary

exertions--I mean in proportion to former success--because popular

taste may fluctuate. But with a moderate degree of the favour which

I have always had, my time my own, and my mind unplagued about other

things, I may boldly promise myself soon to get the better of this

blow. In these circumstances, I should be unjust and ungrateful to ask

or accept the pity of my friends. I for one, do not see there is much

occasion for making moan about it. My womankind will be the greater

sufferers,--yet even they look cheerily forward; and, for myself, the

blowing off my hat in a stormy day has given me more uneasiness.

I envy your Brighton party, and your fine weather. When I was at

Abbotsford the mercury was down at six or seven in the morning more

than once. I am hammering away at a bit of a story from the old affair

of the _diablerie_ at Woodstock in the Long Parliament times. I don't

like it much. I am obliged to hamper my fanatics greatly too much

to make them effective; but I make the sacrifice on principle; so,

perhaps, I shall deserve good success in other parts of the work.

You will be surprised when I tell you that I have written a volume in

exactly fifteen days. To be sure, I permitted no interruptions. But

then I took exercise, and for ten days of the fifteen attended the

Court of Session from two to four hours every day. This is nothing,

however, to writing _Ivanhoe_ when I had the actual cramp in my

stomach; but I have no idea of these things preventing a man

from doing what he has a mind. My love to all the party at

Brighton--fireside party I had almost said, but you scorn my

words--seaside party then be it. Lady Scott and Anne join in kindest

love. I must close my letter, for one of the consequences of our

misfortunes is, that we dine every day at half-past four o'clock;

which premature hour arises, I suppose, from sorrow being hungry as

well as thirsty. One most laughable part of our tragic comedy was,

that every friend in the world came formally, just as they do here

when a relation dies, thinking that the eclipse of _les beaux yeux de

ma cassette_ was perhaps a loss as deserving of consolation.

TO MARIA EDGEWORTH

_Time's revenges_

Edinburgh, 23 _June_, 1830.

MY DEAR MISS EDGEWORTH,

Nothing would be so valuable to me as the mark of kindness which you

offer, and yet my kennel is so much changed since I had the pleasure

of seeing you, that I must not accept of what I wished so sincerely

to possess. I am the happy owner of two of the noble breed, each of

gigantic size, and the gift of that sort of Highlander whom we call a

High Chief, so I would hardly be justified in parting with them even

to make room for your kind present, and I should have great doubts

whether the mountaineers would receive the Irish stranger with due

hospitality. One of them I had from poor Glengarry, who, with all the

wild and fierce points of his character, had a kind, honest, and

warm heart. The other from a young friend, whom Highlanders call

MacVourigh, and Lowlanders MacPherson of Cluny. He is a fine spirited

boy, fond of his people and kind to them, and the best dancer of a

Highland reel now living. I fear I must not add a third to Nimrod and

Bran, having little use for them except being pleasant companions. As

to labouring in their vocation, we have only one wolf which I know

of, kept in a friend's menagerie near me, and no wild deer. Walter

has some roebucks indeed, but Lochore is far off, and I begin to

feel myself distressed at running down these innocent and beautiful

creatures, perhaps because I cannot gallop so fast after them as to

drown sense of the pain we are inflicting. And yet I suspect I am like

the sick fox; and if my strength and twenty years could come back, I

would become again a copy of my namesake, remembered by the sobriquet

of Walter _ill tae hauld_ (to hold, that is). 'But age has clawed

me in its clutch,' and there is no remedy for increasing disability

except dying, which is an awkward score.

There is some chance of my retiring from my official situation upon

the changes in the Court of Session. They cannot reduce my office,

though they do not wish to fill it up with a new occupant. I shall be

therefore _de trop_; and in these days of economy they will be better

pleased to let me retire on three parts of my salary than to keep me a

Clerk of Session on the whole; and small grief at our parting, as the

old horse said to the broken cart. And yet, though I thought such a

proposal when first made was like a Pisgah peep at Paradise, I cannot

help being a little afraid of changing the habits of a long life all

of a sudden and for ever. You ladies have always your work-basket and

stocking-knitting to wreak an hour of tediousness upon. The routine of

business serves, I suspect, for the same purpose to us male wretches;

it is seldom a burden to the mind, but a something which must be done,

and is done almost mechanically; and though dull judges and duller

clerks, the routine of law proceedings, and law forms, are very unlike

the plumed troops and the tug of war, yet the result is the same.

The occupation's gone. The morning, that the day's news must all be

gathered from other sources--that the jokes which the principal Clerks

of Session have laughed at weekly for a century, and which would not

move a muscle of any other person's face, must be laid up to perish

like those of Sancho in the Sierra Morena--I don't above half like

forgetting all these moderate habits, and yet

Ah, freedom is a noble thing!

as says the old Scottish poet. So I will cease my regrets, or lay them

by to be taken up and used as arguments of comfort, in case I do not

slip my cable after all, which is highly possible. Lockhart and Sophia

have taken up their old residence at Chiefswood. They are very fond of

the place; and I am glad also my grandchildren will be bred near the

heather, for certain qualities which I think are best taught there.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

1772-1834

TO CHARLES LAMB

_A sympathetic reply_[1]

28 _Sept._ 1796.

Your letter, my friend, struck me with a mighty horror. It rushed upon

me and stupefied my feelings. You bid me write you a religious letter;

I am not a man who would attempt to insult the greatness of your

anguish by any other consolation. Heaven knows that in the easiest

fortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit:

much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation; but

in storms, like these, that shake the dwelling and make the heart

tremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up of

the whole spirit unto the guidance of faith. And surely it is a matter

of joy, that your faith in Jesus has been preserved; the Comforter

that should relieve you is not far from you. But as you are a

Christian, in the name of that Saviour, who was filled with bitterness

and made drunken with wormwood, I conjure you to have recourse in

frequent prayer to 'his God and your God'; the God of mercies, and

father of all comfort. Your poor father is, I hope, almost senseless

of the calamity; the unconscious instrument of Divine Providence knows

it not, and your mother is in heaven. It is sweet to be roused from

a frightful dream by the song of birds, and the gladsome rays of

the morning. Ah, how infinitely more sweet to be awakened from the

blackness and amazement of a sudden horror by the glories of God

manifest and the hallelujahs of angels.

As to what regards yourself, I approve altogether of your abandoning

what you justly call vanities. I look upon you as a man called by

sorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness,

and a soul set apart and made peculiar to God. We cannot arrive at any

portion of heavenly bliss without in some measure imitating Christ;

and they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the most

difficult parts of His character, and, bowed down and crushed under

foot, cry in fullness of faith, 'Father, Thy will be done.'

I wish above measure to have you for a little while here--no visitants

shall blow on the nakedness of your feelings--you shall be quiet, and

your spirit may be healed. I see no possible objection, unless your

father's helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary to

him. If this be not the case, I charge you write me that you will

come.

I charge you, my dearest friend, not to dare to encourage gloom or

despair--you are a temporary sharer in human miseries, that you may

be an eternal partaker of the Divine nature. I charge you, if by any

means it be possible, come to me.

[Footnote 1: See Letter, p. 355.]

TO JOSEPH COTTLE

_Literary adventurers_

[1798.]

MY DEAR COTTLE,

Neither Wordsworth nor myself could have been otherwise than

uncomfortable, if any but yourself had received from us the first

offer of our tragedies, and of the volume of Wordsworth's poems. At

the same time, we did not expect that you could with prudence and

propriety, advance such a sum as we should want at the time we

specified. In short, we both regard the publication of our tragedies

as an evil. It is not impossible but that in happier times they may be

brought on the stage: and to throw away this chance for a mere trifle,

would be to make the present moment act fraudulently and usuriously

towards the future time.

My tragedy employed and strained all my thoughts and faculties for

six or seven months; Wordsworth consumed far more time, and far more

thought, and far more genius. We consider the publication of them

an evil on any terms; but our thoughts were bent on a plan for the

accomplishment of which a certain sum of money was necessary, (the

whole) at that particular time, and in order to do this we resolved,

although reluctantly, to part with our tragedies: that is, if we

could obtain thirty guineas for each, and at less than thirty guineas

Wordsworth will not part with the copyright of his volume of poems. We

shall offer the tragedies to no one, for we have determined to procure

the money some other way. If you choose the volume of poems, at

the price mentioned, to be paid at the time specified, i.e. thirty

guineas, to be paid sometime in the last fortnight of July, you may

have them; but remember, my dear fellow! I write to you now merely as

a bookseller, and entreat you, in your answer, to consider yourself

only; as to us, although money is necessary to our plan [that of

visiting Germany], yet the plan is not necessary to our happiness; and

if it were, W. would sell his poems for that sum to some one else,

or we could procure the money without selling the poems. So I entreat

you, again and again, in your answer, which must be immediate,

consider yourself only.

Wordsworth has been caballed against _so long and so loudly_, that

he has found it impossible to prevail on the tenant of the Allfoxden

estate to let him the house, after their first agreement is expired,

so he must quit it at midsummer; whether we shall be able to procure

him a house and furniture near Stowey, we know not, and yet we must:

for the hills, and the woods, and the streams, and the sea, and the

shores would break forth into reproaches against us, if we did not

strain every nerve to keep their poet among them. Without joking, and

in serious sadness, Poole and I cannot endure to think of losing him.

At all events, come down, Cottle, as soon as you can, but before

midsummer, and we will procure a horse easy as thy own soul, and we

will go on a roam to Lynton and Lynmouth, which, if thou comest in

May, will be in all their pride of woods and waterfalls, not to speak

of its august cliffs, and the green ocean, and the vast valley of

stones, all which live disdainful of the seasons, or accept new

honours only from the winter's snow. At all events come down, and

cease not to believe me much and affectionately your friend.

TO JOSIAH WADE

_A public example_

Bristol, 26 _June_, 1814.

DEAR SIR,

For I am unworthy to call any good man friend--much less you, whose

hospitality and love I have abused; accept, however, my entreaties for

your forgiveness, and for your prayers.

Conceive a poor miserable wretch, who for many years has been

attempting to beat off pain, by a constant recurrence to the vice that

reproduces it. Conceive a spirit in hell, employed in tracing out for

others the road to that heaven, from which his crimes exclude him! In

short, conceive whatever is most wretched, helpless, and hopeless, and

you will form as tolerable a notion of my state, as it is possible for

a good man to have.

I used to think the text in St. James that 'he who offendeth in one

point, offends in all,' very harsh; but I now feel the awful, the

tremendous truth of it. In the one crime of OPIUM, what crime have

I not made myself guilty of! Ingratitude to my Maker! and to my

benefactors--injustice! _and unnatural cruelty to my poor children!

_--self-contempt for my repeated promise-breach, nay, too often,

actual falsehood!

After my death, I earnestly entreat that a full and unqualified

narration of my wretchedness, and of its guilty cause, may be made

public, that, at least, some little good may be effected by the

direful example!

May God Almighty bless you, and have mercy on your still affectionate,

and, in his heart, grateful

S.T.C.

TO THOMAS ALLSOP

_Himself and his detractors_

2 _Dec._ 1818.

MY DEAR SIR,

I cannot express how kind I felt your letter. Would to Heaven I had

had many with feelings like yours, 'accustomed to express themselves

warmly and (as far as the word is applicable to you), even

enthusiastically'. But alas! during the prime manhood of my intellect

I had nothing but cold water thrown on my efforts. I speak not now of

my systematic and most unprovoked maligners. On _them_ I have retorted

only by pity and by prayer. These may have, and doubtless have, joined

with the frivolity of 'the reading public' in checking and almost in

preventing the sale of my works; and so far have done injury to

my _purse_. _Me_ they have not injured. But I have loved with

enthusiastic self-oblivion those who have been so well pleased that

I should, year after year, flow with a hundred nameless rills into

_their_ main stream, that they could find nothing but cold praise and

effective discouragement of every attempt of mine to roll onward in a

distinct current of my own; who _admitted_ that the _Ancient Mariner_,

the _Christabel_, the _Remorse_, and some pages of the _Friend_

were not without merit, but were abundantly anxious to acquit their

judgements of any blindness to the very numerous defects. Yet they

_knew_ that to _praise_, as mere praise, I was characteristically,

almost constitutionally, indifferent. In sympathy alone I found at

once nourishment and stimulus; and for sympathy _alone_ did my heart

crave. They knew, too, how long and faithfully I have acted on the

maxim, never to admit the _faults_ of a work of genius to those who

denied or were incapable of feeling and understanding the _beauties_;

not from wilful partiality, but as well knowing that in _saying_ truth

I should, to such critics, convey falsehood. If, in one instance, in

my literary life I have appeared to deviate from this rule, first,

it was not till the fame of the writer (which I had been for fourteen

years successfully toiling like a second Ali to build up) had been

established; and secondly and chiefly, with the purpose and, I may

safely add, with the _effect_ of rescuing the necessary task from

Malignant Defamers, and in order to set forth the excellences and the

trifling proportion which the defects bore to the excellences. But

this, my dear sir, is a mistake to which affectionate natures are too

liable, though I do not remember to have ever seen it noticed--the

mistaking those who are desirous and well pleased to be loved _by_

you, for those who love you. Add, as a more general cause, the fact

that I neither am nor ever have been of any party. What wonder, then,

if I am left to decide which has been my worst enemy, the broad,

pre-determined abuse of the _Edinburgh Review_, &c., or the cold and

brief compliments, with the warm _regrets_, of the _Quarterly_? After

all, however, I have now but one sorrow relative to the ill success of

my literary toils (and toils they have been, _though not undelightful

toils_), and this arises wholly from the almost insurmountable

difficulties which the anxieties of to-day oppose to my completion

of the great work, the form and materials of which it has been the

employment of the best and most genial hours of the last twenty years

to mature and collect.

If I could but have a tolerably numerous audience to my first, or

first and second Lectures on the _History of Philosophy_, I should

entertain a strong hope of success, because I know that these lectures

will be found by far the most interesting and _entertaining_ of any

that I have yet delivered, independent of the more permanent interest

of rememberable instruction. Few and unimportant would the errors of

men be, if they did but know, first, _what they themselves meant_;

and, secondly, what the _words_ mean by which they attempt to convey

their meaning, and I can conceive no subject so well fitted to

exemplify the mode and the importance of these two points as the

History of Philosophy, treated as in the scheme of these lectures.

TO THE SAME

_The Great Work described_

_Jan._ 1821.

... I have already the _written_ materials and contents, requiring

only to be put together from the loose papers and commonplace or

memorandum books, and needing no other change, whether of omission,

addition, or correction, than the mere act of arranging, and the

opportunity of seeing the whole collectively bring with them of course

(1) Characteristics of Shakespeare's dramatic works, with a critical

review of each play; together with a relative and comparative critique

on the kind and degree of the merits and demerits of the dramatic

works of Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger. The

History of the English Drama; the accidental advantages it afforded

to Shakespeare, without in the least detracting from the perfect

originality or proper creation of the Shakespearian Drama; the

contradistinction of the latter from the Greek Drama, and its still

remaining _uniqueness_, with the causes of this, from the combined

influences of Shakespeare himself, as man, poet, philosopher, and

finally, by conjunction of all these, dramatic poet; and of the age,

events, manners, and state of the English language. This work, with

every art of compression, amounts to three volumes of about five

hundred pages each. (2) Philosophical Analysis of the Genius and Works

of Dante, Spenser, Milton, Cervantes, and Calderon, with similar, but

more compressed criticisms on Chaucer, Ariosto, Donne, Rabelais, and

others, during the predominance of the Romantic Poetry. In one large

volume. These two works will, I flatter myself, form a complete code

of the principles of judgement and feeling applied to works of Taste;

and not of Poetry only, but of Poesy in all its forms, Painting,

Statuary, Music, &c., &c. (3) The History of Philosophy considered

as a Tendency of the Human Mind to exhibit the Powers of the Human

Reason, to discover by its own Strength the Origin and Laws of Man and

the World, from Pythagoras to Locke and Condillac. Two volumes.

(4) Letters on the Old and New Testament, and on the Doctrine

and Principles held in common by the Fathers and Founders of the

Reformation, addressed to a candidate for Holy Orders, including

advice on the Plan and Subjects of Preaching, proper to a Minister of

the Established Church.

To the completion of these four works, I have literally nothing more

to do than to _transcribe_; but, as I before hinted, from so many

scraps and _sibylline_ leaves, including margins of books and blank

pages, that, unfortunately, I must be my own scribe, and not done by

myself, they will be all but lost; or perhaps (as has been too often

the case already) furnish feathers for the caps of others; some for

this purpose, and some to plume the arrows of detraction, to be let

fly against the luckless bird from whom they had been plucked or

moulted.

In addition to these--of my GREAT WORK, to the preparation of which

more than twenty years of my life have been devoted, and on which

my hopes of extensive and permanent utility, of fame, in the noblest

sense of the word, mainly rest--that, by which I might,

As now by thee, by all the good be known,

When this weak frame lies moulder'd in the grave,

Which self-surviving I might call my own,

Which folly cannot mar, nor hate deprave--

The incense of those powers, which, risen in flame,

Might make me dear to Him from whom they came.

Of this work, to which all my other writings (unless I except my

Poems, and these I can exclude in part only) are introductory and

preparative; and the result of which (if the premises be, as I, with

the most tranquil assurance, am convinced they are--insubvertible,

the deductions legitimate, and the conclusions commensurate, and only

commensurate, with both) must finally be a revolution of all that has

been called _philosophy_ or metaphysics in England and France, since

the era of the commencing predominance of the mechanical system at

the restoration of our second Charles, and with this the present

fashionable views, not only of religion, morals, and politics but

even of the modern physics and physiology. You will not blame the

earnestness of my expressions, nor the high importance which I attach

to this work: for how, with less noble objects, and less faith in

their attainment, could I stand acquitted of folly, and abuse of time,

talents, and learning in a labour of three-fourths of my intellectual

life? Of this work, something more than a volume has been dictated

by me, so as to exist fit for the press, to my friend and enlightened

pupil, Mr. Green; and more than as much again would have been evolved

and delivered to paper, but that, for the last six or eight months,

I have been compelled to break off our weekly meeting, from the

necessity of writing (alas! alas! of attempting to write) for

purposes, and on the subjects, of the passing day. Of my poetic works

I would fain finish the _Christabel_! Alas! for the proud time when I

planned, when I had present to my mind, the materials, as well as

the scheme, of the Hymns entitled _Spirit_, _Sun_, _Earth_, _Air_,

_Water_, _Fire_ and _Man_; and the Epic Poem on what still appears

to me the one only fit subject remaining for an epic poem--Jerusalem

besieged and destroyed by Titus.

TO THE SAME

_Reminiscences_

4 March, 1822.

My Dearest Friend,

I have been much more than ordinarily unwell for more than a week

past--my sleeps worse than my vigils, my nights than my days;

--The night's dismay

Sadden'd and stunned the intervening day;

but last night I had not only a calmer night, without roaming in my

dreams through any of Swedenborg's Hells _moderes_; but arose this

morning lighter and with a sense of _relief_....

I shall make you smile, as I did dear Mary Lamb, when I say that you

sometimes mistake my position. As individual to individual, from

my childhood, I do not remember feeling myself either superior or

inferior to any human being; except by an act of my own will in cases

of real or imagined moral or intellectual superiority. In regard to

worldly rank, from eight years old to nineteen, I was habituated,

nay, naturalised, to look up to men circumstanced as you are, as my

superiors--a large number of our governors, and almost _all_ of those

whom we regarded as greater men still, and whom we saw most of, _viz._

our committee governors, were such--and as neither awake nor asleep

have I any other feelings than what I had at Christ's Hospital,

I distinctly remember that I felt a little flush of pride and

consequence--just like what we used to feel at school when the boys

came running to us--'Coleridge! here's your friends want you--they are

quite _grand_,' or 'It is quite a _lady_'--when I first heard who you

were, and laughed at myself for it with that pleasurable sensation

that, spite of my sufferings at that school, still accompanies any

sudden reawakening of our school-boy feelings and notions. And oh,

from sixteen to nineteen what hours of Paradise had Allen and I in

escorting the Miss Evanses home on a Saturday, who were then at a

milliner's whom we used to think, and who I believe really was, such

a nice lady;--and we used to carry thither, of a summer morning, the

pillage of the flower gardens within six miles of town, with Sonnet

or Love Rhyme wrapped round the nose-gay. To be feminine, kind, and

genteelly (what I should now call neatly) dressed, these were the only

things to which my head, heart, or imagination had any polarity, and

what I was then, I still am.

God bless you and yours.

ROBERT SOUTHEY

1774-1843

TO JOSEPH COTTLE

_Question of copyrights_

Greta Hall, 20 _April_, 1808.

My dear Cottle,...

What you say of my copyrights affected me very much. Dear Cottle, set

your heart at rest on that subject. It ought to be at rest. These were

yours, fairly bought, and fairly sold. You bought them on the chance

of their success, which no London bookseller would have done; and had

they not been bought, they could not have been published at all. Nay,

if you had not purchased _Joan of Arc_, the poem never would have

existed, nor should I, in all probability, ever have obtained that

reputation which is the capital on which I subsist, nor that power

which enables me to support it.

But this is not all. Do you suppose, Cottle, that I have forgotten

those true and most essential acts of friendship which you showed me

when I stood most in need of them? Your house was my house when I had

no other. The very money with which I bought my wedding-ring, and paid

my marriage fees, was supplied by you. It was with your sisters I left

Edith during my six months' absence, and for the six months after my

return it was from you that I received, week by week, the little on

which we lived, till I was enabled to live by other means. It is not

the settling of a cash account that can cancel obligations like these.

You are in the habit of preserving your letters, and if you were

not, I would entreat you to preserve _this_, that it might be seen

hereafter. Sure I am, there never was a more generous or a kinder

heart than yours; and you will believe me when I add, that there does

not live that man upon earth, whom I remember with more gratitude

and more affection. My heart throbs and my eyes burn with these

recollections. Good night! my dear old friend and benefactor.

TO JOHN MAY

_Waterloo_

Liege, 6 _Oct._ 1815. Six p.m.

My dear friend,

I have a happy habit of making the best of all things; and being just

at this time as uncomfortable as the dust and bustle, and all the

disagreeables of an inn in a large filthy manufacturing city can make

me, I have called for pen, ink, and paper, and am actually writing in

the bar, the door open to the yard opposite to this unwiped table, the

doors open to the public room, where two men are dining, and talking

French, and a woman servant at my elbow is lighting a fire for our

party. Presently the folding-doors are to be shut, the ladies are to

descend from their chambers, the bar will be kept appropriated to our

house, the male part of the company will get into good humour, dinner

will be ready, and then I must lay aside the grey goose-quill. As a

preliminary to these promised comforts, the servant is mopping the

hearth, which is composed (like a tesselated pavement) of little

bricks about two inches long by half an inch wide, set within a broad

black stone frame. The fuel is of fire-balls, a mixture of pulverized

coal and clay. I have seen a great deal and heard a great deal,--more,

indeed, than I can keep pace with in my journal, though I strive hard

to do it; but I minute down short notes in my pencil-book with all

possible care, and hope, in the end, to lose nothing....

Flanders is a most interesting country. Bruges, the most striking city

I have ever seen, an old city in perfect preservation. It seems as if

not a house had been built during the last two centuries, and not a

house suffered to pass to decay. The poorest people seem to be well

lodged, and there is a general air of sufficiency, cleanliness,

industry, and comfort, which I have never seen in any other place. The

cities have grown worse as we advanced. At Namur we reached a dirty

city, situated in a romantic country; the Meuse there reminded me of

the Thames from your delightful house, an island in size and shape

resembling that upon which I have often wished for a grove of poplars,

coming just in the same position. From thence along the river to this

abominable place, the country is, for the greater part, as lovely as

can be imagined....

Our weather hitherto has been delightful. This was especially

fortunate at Waterloo and at Ligny, where we had much ground to walk

over. It would surprise you to see how soon nature has recovered from

the injuries of war. The ground is ploughed and sown, and grain and

flowers and seeds already growing over the field of battle, which is

still strewn with vestiges of the slaughter, caps, cartridges, boxes,

hats, &c. We picked up some French cards and some bullets, and we

purchased a French pistol and two of the eagles which the infantry

wear upon their caps. What I felt upon this ground, it would be

difficult to say; what I saw, and still more what I heard, there is no

time at present for saying. In prose and in verse you shall some day

hear the whole. At Les Quatre Bras, I saw two graves, which probably

the dogs or the swine had opened. In the one were the ribs of a human

body, projecting through the mould; in the other, the whole skeleton

exposed. Some of our party told me of a third, in which the worms were

at work, but I shrunk from the sight. You will rejoice to hear that

the English are as well spoken of for their deportment in peace as in

war. It is far otherwise with the Prussians. Concerning them there is

but one opinion; their brutality is said to exceed that of the French,

and of their intolerable insolence I have heard but too many proofs.

That abominable old Frederic made them a military nation, and this is

the inevitable consequence. This very day we passed a party on their

way towards France--some hundred or two. Two gentlemen and two ladies

of the country, in a carriage, had come up with them; and these

ruffians would not allow them to pass, but compelled them to wait and

follow the slow pace of foot soldiers! This we ourselves saw. Next to

the English, the Belgians have the best character for discipline....

I bought at Bruges a French History of Brazil, just published by M.

Alphonse de Beauchamp, in 3 vols. 8vo. He says, in his Preface, that

having finished the first two volumes, he thought it advisable to see

if any new light had been thrown upon the subject by modern authors.

Meantime, a compilation upon this history had appeared in England,

but the English author, Mr. Southey, had brought no new lights; he had

promised much for his second volume, but the hope of literary Europe

had been again deceived, for this second volume, so emphatically

promised, had not appeared. I dare say no person regrets this delay

so much as M. Beauchamp, he having stolen the whole of his two first

volumes, and about the third part of the other, from the very Mr.

Southey whom he abuses. He has copied my references as the list of his

own authorities (MSS. and all), and he has committed blunders which

prove, beyond all doubt, that he does not understand Portuguese. I

have been much diverted by this fellow's impudence.

The table is laid, and the knives and forks rattling a pleasant note

of preparation, as the woman waiter arranges them.

God bless you! I have hurried through the sheet, and thus pleasantly

beguiled what would have been a very unpleasant hour. We are all well,

and your god-daughter has seen a live emperor at Brussels. I feel the

disadvantage of speaking French ill, and understanding it by the ear

worse. Nevertheless, I speak it without remorse, make myself somehow

or other understood, and get at what I want to know. Once more, God

bless you, my dear friend.

To HENRY TAYLOR

_Anastasius Hope_

Keswick, 15 _July_, 1831.

... Have you seen the strange book which Anastasius Hope left

for publication, and which his representatives, in spite of all

dissuasion, have published? His notion of immortality and heaven is,

that at the consummation of all things he, and you, and I, and John

Murray, and Nebuchadnezzar, and Lambert the fat man, and the living

skeleton, and Queen Elizabeth, and the Hottentot Venus, and Thurtell,

and Probert, and the twelve Apostles, and the noble army of martyrs,

and Genghis Khan, and all his armies, and Noah with all his ancestors

and all his posterity--yea, all men and all women, and all children

that have ever been or ever shall be, saints and sinners alike--are

all to be put together, and made into one great celestial eternal

human being. He does not seem to have known how nearly this approaches

to Swedenborg's fancy. I do not like the scheme. I don't like the

notion of being mixed up with Hume, and Hunt, and Whittle Harvey, and

Philpotts, and Lord Althorpe, and the Huns, and the Hottentots, and

the Jews, and the Philistines, and the Scotch, and the Irish. God

forbid! I hope to be I myself; I, in an English heaven, with you

yourself--you, and some others, without whom heaven would be no heaven

to me. God bless you!

TO EDWARD MOXON

_Recollections of the Lambs_

Keswick, 2 _Feb._ 1836.

My dear sir,

I have been too closely engaged in clearing off the second volume of

Cowper to reply to your inquiries concerning poor Lamb sooner. His

acquaintance with Coleridge began at Christ's Hospital; Lamb was

some two years, I think, his junior. Whether he was ever one of the

_Grecians_ there, might be ascertained, I suppose, by inquiring. My

own impression is, that he was not. Coleridge introduced me to him

in the winter of 1794-5, and to George Dyer also, from whom, if his

memory has not failed, you might probably learn more of Lamb's early

history than from any other person. Lloyd, Wordsworth, and Hazlitt

became known to him through their connexion with Coleridge.

When I saw the family (one evening only, and at that time), they were

lodging somewhere near Lincoln's Inn, on the western side (I forget

the street), and were evidently in uncomfortable circumstances. The

father and mother were both living; and I have some dim recollection

of the latter's invalid appearance. The father's senses had failed him

before that time. He published some poems in quarto. Lamb showed me

once an imperfect copy: the _Sparrow's Wedding_ was the title of the

longest piece, and this was the author's favourite; he liked, in his

dotage, to hear Charles read it.

His most familiar friend, when I first saw him, was White, who held

some office at Christ's Hospital, and continued intimate with him as

long as he lived. You know what Elia says of him. He and Lamb were

joint authors of the _Original Letters of Falstaff_. Lamb, I believe,

first appeared as an author in the second edition of Coleridge's

_Poems_ (Bristol, 1797), and, secondly, in the little volume of blank

verse with Lloyd (1798). Lamb, Lloyd, and White were inseparable in

1798; the two latter at one time lodged together, though no two men

could be imagined more unlike each other. Lloyd had no drollery in his

nature; White seemed to have nothing else. You will easily understand

how Lamb could sympathize with both.

Lloyd, who used to form sudden friendships, was all but a stranger

to me, when unexpectedly he brought Lamb down to visit me at a little

village (Burton) near Christchurch, in Hampshire, where I was lodging

in a very humble cottage. This was in the summer of 1797, and then, or

in the following year, my correspondence with Lamb began. I saw more

of him in 1802 than at any other time, for I was then six months

resident in London. His visit to this county was before I came to it;

it must have been either in that or in the following year: it was to

Lloyd and to Coleridge.

I had forgotten one of his schoolfellows, who is still living--C.V.

Le Grice, a clergyman at or near Penzance. From him you might learn

something of his boyhood.

Cottle has a good likeness of Lamb, in chalk, taken by an artist named

Robert Hancock, about the year 1798. It looks older than Lamb was at

that time; but he was old-looking.

Coleridge introduced him to Godwin, shortly after the first number

of the _Anti-Jacobin Magazine and Review_ was published, with a

caricature of Gillray's, in which Coleridge and I were introduced with

asses' heads, and Lloyd and Lamb as toad and frog. Lamb got warmed

with whatever was on the table, became disputatious, and said things

to Godwin which made him quietly say, 'Pray, Mr. Lamb, are you toad

or frog?' Mrs. Coleridge will remember the scene, which was to her

sufficiently uncomfortable. But the next morning S.T.C. called on

Lamb, and found Godwin breakfasting with him, from which time their

intimacy began.

His angry letter to me in the _Magazine_ arose out of a notion that

an expression of mine in the _Quarterly Review_ would hurt the sale of

_Elia_; some one, no doubt, had said that it would. I meant to serve

the book, and very well remember how the offence happened. I had

written that it wanted nothing to render it altogether delightful but

a _saner_ religious feeling. _This_ would have been the proper word if

any other person had written the book. Feeling its extreme unfitness

as soon as it was written, I altered it immediately for the first word

which came into my head, intending to remodel the sentence when it

should come to me in the proof; and that proof never came. There can

be no objection to your printing all that passed upon the occasion,

beginning with the passage in the _Quarterly Review_, and giving his

letter.

I have heard Coleridge say that, in a fit of derangement, Lamb fancied

himself to be young Norval. He told me this in relation to one of his

poems.

If you will print my lines to him upon his _Album Verses_, I will

send you a corrected copy. You received his letters, I trust, which

Cuthbert took with him to town in October. I wish they had been more,

and wish, also, that I had more to tell you concerning him, and what

I have told were of more value. But it is from such fragments of

recollection, and such imperfect notices, that the materials for

biography must, for the most part, be collected.

=CHARLES LAMB=

1775-1834

TO SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

_Temporary frenzy_

27 _May_, 1796.

... Coleridge! I know not what suffering scenes you have gone through

at Bristol. My life has been somewhat diversified of late. The six

weeks that finished last year and began this, your very humble servant

spent very agreeably in a madhouse, at Hoxton. I am got somewhat

rational now, and don't bite anyone. But mad I was! And many a vagary

my imagination played with me, enough to make a volume, if all were

told. My sonnets I have extended to the number of nine since I saw

you, and will some day communicate to you. I am beginning a poem

in blank verse, which, if I finish, I publish.... Coleridge! it may

convince you of my regards for you when I tell you my head ran on you

in my madness, as much almost as on another person, who I am inclined

to think was the more immediate cause of my temporary frenzy.

TO THE SAME

_A friend in need_

_Thursday, 11 June_, 1796.

... After all, you cannot, nor ever will, write anything with which I

shall be so delighted as what I have heard yourself repeat. You came

to town, and I saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleeding

with recent wounds. Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed

hope. You had

--many an holy lay

That, mourning, soothed the mourner on his way;

I had ears of sympathy to drink them in, and they yet vibrate pleasant

on the sense. When I read in your little volume your nineteenth

effusion, or the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth, or what you call the

_Sigh_, I think I hear _you_ again. I image to myself the little smoky

room at the _Salutation and Cat_, where we have sat together through

the winter nights, beguiling the cares of life with Poesy. When you

left London, I felt a dismal void in my heart. I found myself cut off,

at one and the same time, from two most dear to me. 'How blest with

ye the path could I have trod of quiet life!' In your conversation you

had blended so many pleasant fancies that they cheated me of my grief.

But in your absence the tide of melancholy rushed in again, and did

its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason. I have recovered, but

feel a stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears of

this life. I sometimes wish to introduce a religious turn of mind,

but habits are strong things, and my religious fervours are confined,

alas! to some fleeting moments of occasional solitary devotion. A

correspondence, opening with you, has roused me a little from my

lethargy, and made me conscious of existence. Indulge me in it: I will

not be very troublesome! At some future time I will amuse you with

an account, as full as my memory will permit, of the strange turn my

frenzy took. I look back upon it at times with a gloomy kind of envy:

for, while it lasted, I had many, many hours of pure happiness. Dream

not, Coleridge, of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of

fancy till you have gone mad! All now seems to me vapid, comparatively

so.

TO THE SAME

_The tragedy_

27 _Sept_. 1796.

MY DEAREST FRIEND,

White, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may

have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on

our family. I will only give you the outlines: My poor dear, dearest

sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of our own mother. I

was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She

is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be moved to

an hospital. God has preserved to me my senses; I eat, and drink, and

sleep, and have my judgement, I believe, very sound. My poor father

was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt.

Mr. Norris, of the Bluecoat School, has been very kind to us, and we

have no other friend; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, and

able to do the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter as

possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. With me 'the

former things are passed away', and I have something more to do than

to feel.

God Almighty have us in His keeping!

Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of past

vanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publish

mine (I give free leave) without name or initial, and never send me a

book, I charge you.

Your own judgement will convince you not to take any notice of this

yet to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have reason

and strength left to take care of mine. I charge you, don't think of

coming to see me. Write. I will not see you if you come. God Almighty

love you and all of us!

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

_The delights of London_

30 _Jan_. 1801.

I ought before this to have replied to your very kind invitation into

Cumberland. With you and your sister I could gang anywhere; but I am

afraid whether I shall ever be able to afford so desperate a journey.

Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I

never see a mountain in my life. I have passed all my days in London,

until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of

you mountaineers can have done with dead Nature. The lighted shops of

the Strand and Fleet Street; the innumerable trades, tradesmen, and

customers, coaches, waggons, playhouses; all the bustle and wickedness

round about Covent Garden; the very women of the Town; the watchmen,

drunken scenes, rattles;--life awake, if you awake, at all hours of

the night; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon

houses and pavements, the printshops, the old book-stalls, parsons

cheapening books, coffee-houses, steams of soups from kitchens, the

pantomimes--London itself a pantomime and a masquerade--all these

things work themselves into my mind, and feed me, without a power

of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me often into

night-walks about her crowded streets, and I often shed tears in the

motley Strand from fullness of joy at so much life. All these

emotions must be strange to you; so are your rural emotions to me. But

consider, what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lent

great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes?

My attachments are all local, purely local. I have no passion (or have

had none since I was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering

of poetry and books) to groves and valleys. The rooms where I was

born, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a

book-case which has followed me about like a faithful dog, (only

exceeding him in knowledge,) wherever I have moved, old chairs,

old tables, streets, squares, where I have sunned myself, my old

school,--these are my mistresses,--have I not enough, without your

mountains? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know that

the mind will make friends of anything. Your sun, and moon, and skies,

and hills, and lakes, affect me no more, or scarcely come to me in

more venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry and

tapers, where I might live with handsome visible objects. I consider

the clouds above me but as a roof beautifully painted, but unable to

satisfy the mind: and at last, like the pictures of the apartment of

a connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a pleasure. So fading

upon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of Nature, as they have

been confinedly called; so ever fresh, and green, and warm are all the

inventions of men, and assemblies of men in this great city. I should

certainly have laughed with dear Joanna.

Give my kindest love, and my sister's, to D. and yourself; and a kiss

from me to little Barbara Lewthwaite. Thank you for liking my play!

TO THOMAS MANNING

_At the Lakes_

London, 24 _Sept_. 1802.

My dear Manning,

Since the date of my last letter I have been a traveller. A strong

desire seized me of visiting remote regions. My first impulse was to

go and see Paris. It was a trivial objection to my aspiring mind, that

I did not understand a word of the language, since I certainly intend

some time in my life to see Paris, and equally certainly intend never

to learn the language; therefore that could be no objection. However,

I am very glad I did not go, because you had left Paris (I see) before

I could have set out. I believe Stoddart promising to go with me

another year prevented that plan. My next scheme (for to my restless,

ambitious mind London was become a bed of thorns) was to visit the

far-famed peak in Derbyshire, where the Devil sits, they say, without

breeches. _This_ my purer mind rejected as indelicate. And my final

resolve was a tour to the Lakes. I set out with Mary to Keswick,

without giving Coleridge any notice, for my time, being precious, did

not admit of it. He received us with all the hospitality in the world,

and gave up his time to show us all the wonders of the country. He

dwells upon a small hill by the side of Keswick, in a comfortable

house, quite enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains: great

floundering bears and monsters they seemed, all couchant and asleep.

We got in in the evening, travelling in a post-chaise from Penrith, in

the midst of a gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountains

into colours, purple, &c., &c. We thought we had got into fairy-land.

But that went off (as it never came again; while we stayed we had no

more fine sunsets); and we entered Coleridge's comfortable study just

in the dusk, when the mountains were all dark with clouds upon their

heads. Such an impression I never received from objects of sight

before, nor do I suppose I can ever again. Glorious creatures, fine

old fellows, Skiddaw, &c. I shall never forget ye, how ye lay about

that night, like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed for the

night, but promising that ye were to be seen in the morning. Coleridge

had got a blazing fire in his study; which is a large, antique,

ill-shaped room, with an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, big

enough for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an Aeolian harp, and

an old sofa, half bed, &c. And all looking out upon the last fading

view of Skiddaw, and his broad-breasted brethren: what a night! Here

we stayed three full weeks, in which time I visited Wordsworth's

cottage, where we stayed a day or two with the Clarksons (good people,

and most hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day and night), and

saw Lloyd. The Wordsworths were gone to Calais. They have since been

in London, and passed much time with us: he is now gone into Yorkshire

to be married. So we have seen Keswick, Grasmere, Ambleside, Ulswater

(where the Clarksons live), and a place at the other end of Ulswater;

I forget the name; to which we travelled on a very sultry day, over

the middle of Helvellyn. We have clambered up to the top of Skiddaw,

and I have waded up the bed of Lodore. In fine, I have satisfied

myself that there is such a thing as that which tourists call

_romantic_, which I very much suspected before: they make such a

spluttering about it, and toss their splendid epithets around them,

till they give as dim a light as at four o'clock next morning the

lamps do after an illumination. Mary was excessively tired when she

got about half-way up Skiddaw, but we came to a cold rill (than which

nothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold stones), and with

the reinforcement of a draught of cold water, she surmounted it most

manfully. Oh, its fine black head, and the bleak air atop of it, with

a prospect of mountains all about and about, making you giddy; and

then Scotland afar off, and the border countries so famous in song and

ballad! It was a day that will stand out, like a mountain, I am sure,

in my life. But I am returned (I have now been come home near three

weeks; I was a month out), and you cannot conceive the degradation

I felt at first, from being accustomed to wander free as air among

mountains, and bathe in rivers without being controlled by any one, to

come home and _work_. I felt very _little_. I had been dreaming I was

a very great man. But that is going off, and I find I shall conform

in time to that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me.

Besides, after all, Fleet Street and the Strand are better places to

live in for good and all than amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to

those great places where I wandered about, participating in their

greatness. After all, I could not _live_ in Skiddaw. I could spend

a year, two, three years among them, but I must have a prospect of

seeing Fleet Street at the end of that time, or I should mope and pine

away, I know. Still, Skiddaw is a fine creature.

My habits are changing, I think, i.e. from drunk to sober. Whether

I shall be happier or not remains to be proved. I shall certainly be

more happy in a morning; but whether I shall not sacrifice the

fat, and the marrow, and the kidneys, i.e. the night, glorious,

care-drowning night, that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into our

mortifications, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to bright

and brilliant!--O Manning, if I should have formed a diabolical

resolution, by the time you come to England, of not admitting any

spirituous liquors into my house, will you be my guest on such

shame-worthy terms? Is life, with such limitations, worth trying? The

truth is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly harpies about

my house, who consume me. This is a pitiful tale to be read at St.

Gothard, but it is just now nearest my heart. Fenwick is a ruined man.

He is hiding himself from his creditors, and has sent his wife and

children into the country. Fell, my other drunken companion (that has

been: _nam hic caestus artemque repono_), is turned editor of a Naval

Chronicle. Godwin continues a steady friend, though the same facility

does not remain of visiting him often. X. has detached Marshall from

his house; Marshall, the man who went to sleep when the _Ancient

Mariner_ was reading; the old, steady, unalterable friend of the

Professor. Holcraft is not yet come to town. I expect to see him, and

will deliver your message. Things come crowding in to say, and no

room for 'em. Some things are too little to be told, i.e. to have a

preference; some are too big and circumstantial. Thanks for yours,

which was most delicious. Would I had been with you, benighted, &c.!

I fear my head is turned with wandering. I shall never be the same

acquiescent being. Farewell. Write again quickly, for I shall not

like to hazard a letter, not knowing where the fates have carried you.

Farewell, my dear fellow.

TO THE SAME

_Dissuasion from Tartary_

19 _Feb_. 1803.

MY DEAR MANNING,

The general scope of your letter afforded no indications of insanity,

but some particular points raised a scruple. For God's sake don't

think any more of 'Independent Tartary'. What are you to do among such

Ethiopians? Is there no _lineal descendant_ of Prester John? Is the

chair empty? Is the sword unswayed?--depend upon it they'll never

make you their king, as long as any branch of that great stock

is remaining. I tremble for your Christianity.... Read Sir John

Mandeville's Travels to cure you, or come over to England. There is

a Tartar-man now exhibiting at Exeter Change. Come and talk with him,

and hear what he says first. Indeed, he is no very favourable specimen

of his countrymen! But perhaps the best thing you can do, is to _try_

to get the idea out of your head. For this purpose repeat to yourself

every night, after you have said your prayers, the words, Independent

Tartary, Independent Tartary, two or three times, and associate with

them the _idea_ of _oblivion_ ('tis Hartley's method with obstinate

memories), or say, Independent, Independent, have I not already got

an _independence_? That was a clever way of the old Puritans,

pun-divinity. My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to

bury such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable,

horse-belching, Tartar-people! Some say they are Cannibals; and then,

conceive a Tartar-fellow _eating_ my friend, and adding the _cool

malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! I am afraid 'tis the reading of

Chaucer has misled you; his foolish stories about Cambuscan, and the

ring, and the horse of brass. Believe me, there are no such things,

'tis all the poet's _invention_; but if there were such darling things

as old Chaucer sings, I would _up_ behind you on the horse of brass,

and frisk off for Prester John's country. But these are all tales;

a horse of brass never flew, and a king's daughter never talked with

birds! The Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchy set. You'll

be sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Pray _try_ and cure

yourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas none of my

thought _originally_). Shave yourself oftener. Eat no saffron, for

saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like yellow. Pray, to avoid

the fiend. Eat nothing that gives the heart-burn. _Shave the upper_

_lip_. Go about like an European. Read no books of voyages (they are

nothing but lies), only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy

_under_. Above all, don't go to any sights of _wild beasts. That

has been your ruin_. Accustom yourself to write familiar letters, on

common subjects, to your friends in England, such as are of a moderate

understanding. And think about common things more.... I supped last

night with Rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who pleases

himself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite in the O.

language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakespeare he liked, because

he was so _much of the gentleman_. Rickman is a man 'absolute in all

numbers'. I think I may one day bring you acquainted, if you do not

go to Tartary first; for you'll never come back. Have a care, my dear

friend, of Anthropophagi! their stomachs are always craving. 'Tis

terrible to be weighed out at five pence a-pound. To sit at table (the

reverse of fishes in Holland), not as a guest, but as a meat.

God bless you: do come to England. Air and exercise may do great

things. Talk with some minister. Why not your father?

God dispose all for the best. I have discharged my duty.

To MRS. WORDSWORTH

_Friends' importunities_

East India House, 18 _Feb_. 1818.

MY DEAR MRS. WORDSWORTH,

I have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. My

sister should more properly have done it, but she having failed, I

consider myself answerable for her debts. I am now trying to do it

in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more

ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia,

cardemoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses and

friendly recollections. The reason why I cannot write letters at home,

is, that I am never alone. Plato's--(I write to W.W. now)--Plato's

double-animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in

the system of its first creation, than I sometimes do to be but for

a moment single and separate. Except my morning's walk to the office,

which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, I am never

so. I cannot walk home from office but some officious friend offers

his unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. All the morning I am

pestered. I could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or

compare sum with sum, and write 'paid' against this, and 'unpaid'

against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind 'some

darling thoughts all my own',--faint memory of some passage in a book,

or the tone of an absent friend's voice--a snatch of Miss Burrell's

singing, or a gleam of Fanny Kelly's divine plain face. The two

operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as

the sun's two motions (earth's, I mean), or, as I sometimes turn

round till I am giddy, in my back parlour, while my sister is walking

longitudinally in the front; or, as the shoulder of veal twists round

with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. But there are

a set of amateurs of the Belles Lettres--the gay science--who come to

me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of British

Institutions, Lalla Rookhs, &c.--what Coleridge said at the lecture

last night--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible

use reading can be to them, but to talk of, might as well have been

Ante-Cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an Egyptian

hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they should

find it. These pests worrit me at business, and in all its intervals,

perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at

the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if I take a newspaper, cramming in

between my own free thoughts and a column of figures, which had come

to an amicable compromise but for them. Their noise ended, one of

them, as I said, accompanies me home, lest I should be solitary for

a moment; he at length takes his welcome leave at the door; up I go,

mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares, and bury

them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication; knock at the door,

in comes Mr. ----, or Mr. ----, or Demi-gorgon, or my brother, or

somebody, to prevent my eating alone--a process absolutely

necessary to my poor wretched digestion. O, the pleasure of eating

alone!--eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. But in they

come, and make it absolutely necessary that I should open a bottle of

orange--for my meat turns into stone when anyone dines with me, if I

have not wine. Wine can mollify stones; then _that_ wine turns into

acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters--(God

bless 'em! I love some of 'em dearly), and with the hatred, a still

greater aversion to their going away. Bad is the dead sea they bring

upon me, choking and deadening, but worse is the deader dry sand they

leave me on, if they go before bed-time. Come never, I would say to

these spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go! The fact is,

this interruption does not happen very often; but every time it comes

by surprise, that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all its

dreary stifling consequences, follows. Evening company I should always

like had I any mornings, but I am saturated with human faces (_divine_

forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in a

week would be as much as I should covet to be in company, but I

assure you that is a wonderful week in which I can get two, or one, to

myself. I am never C.L., but always C.L. & Co. He who thought it

not good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigious

monstrosity of being never by myself! I forget bed-time, but even

there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. Once a week,

generally some singular evening that, being alone, I go to bed at the

hour I ought always to be a-bed; just close to my bed-room window is

the club-room of a public-house, where a set of singers, I take them

to be chorus singers of the two theatres (it must be _both of them_),

begin their orgies. They are a set of fellows (as I conceive) who,

being limited by their talents to the burthen of the song at the

play-houses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by Bishop, or

some cheap composer, arranged for choruses, that is, to be sung all in

chorus. At least, I never can catch any of the text of the plain song,

nothing but the Babylonish choral howl at the tail on't. 'That fury

being quench'd'--the howl I mean--a burden succeeds of shouts and

clapping, and knocking of the table. At length overtasked nature drops

under it, and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweet

silent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows at

cockcrow. And then I think of the words Christabel's father used

(bless me, I have dipt in the wrong ink!) to say every morning by way

of variety when he awoke:

Every knell, the Baron saith,

Wakes us up to a world of death--

or something like it. All I mean by this senseless interrupted tale,

is, that by my central situation I am a little over-companied. Not

that I have any animosity against the good creatures that are so

anxious to drive away the harpy solitude from me. I like 'em, and

cards, and a cheerful glass; but I mean merely to give you an idea

between office confinement and after-office society, how little time

I can call my own. I mean only to draw a picture, not to make an

inference. I would not that I know of have it otherwise. I only wish

sometimes I could exchange some of my faces and voices for the faces

and voices which a late visitation brought most welcome, and carried

away, leaving regret, but more pleasure, even a kind of gratitude, at

being so often favoured with that kind northern visitation. My London

faces and noises don't hear me--I mean no disrespect, or I should

explain myself, that instead of their return 220 times a year, and

the return of W.W., &c., seven times in 104 weeks, some more equal

distribution might be found. I have scarce room to put in Mary's kind

love, and my poor name ...--goes on lecturing.... I mean to hear some

of the course, but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever the

lecturer may be. If _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't think

why you are brought together to hear a man read his works, which you

could read so much better at leisure yourself; if delivered extempore,

I am always in pain, lest the gift of utterance should suddenly fail

the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honour

of me at the London Tavern. 'Gentlemen,' said I, and there I stopped;

the rest my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. Mrs.

Wordsworth _will_ go on, kindly haunting us with visions of seeing the

lakes once more, which never can be realised. Between us there is a

great gulf, not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, I

hope, as there seemed to be between me and that gentleman concerned

in the Stamp Office, that I so strangely recoiled from at Haydon's. I

think I had an instinct that he was the head of an office. I hate all

such people--accountants' deputy accountants. The dear abstract notion

of the East India Company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather

poetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of such

beasts, I loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-her

of Babylon. I thought, after abridging us of all our red-letter days,

they had done their worst; but I was deceived in the length to which

heads of offices, those true liberty-haters, can go. They are the

tyrants; not Ferdinand, nor Nero. By a decree passed this week, they

have abridged us of the immemorially-observed custom of going at one

o'clock of a Saturday, the little shadow of a holiday left us. Dear

W.W., be thankful for liberty.

To SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

_The famous pigling_

9 _March_, 1822.

DEAR COLERIDGE,

It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so

well: they are such interesting creatures at a certain age. What a

pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! You

had all some of the crackling and brain sauce. Did you remember to rub

it with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis?

Did the eyes come away kindly with no Oedipean avulsion? Was the

crackling the colour of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no complement of

boiled neck of mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire?

Did you flesh maiden teeth in it? Not that _I_ sent the pig, or can

form the remotest guess what part Owen could play in the business. I

never knew him give anything away in my life. He would not begin with

strangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me; but at the

unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went round

to Highgate. To confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those things

which I could never think of sending away. Teal, widgeon, snipes,

barn-door fowls, ducks, geese--your tame villatic things--Welsh

mutton, collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your potted

char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early grapes, muscadines, I impart

as freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self extended,

but pardon me if I stop somewhere. Where the fine feeling of

benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there my

friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, and

I myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, I should think it an

affront, an undervaluing done to Nature who bestowed such a boon upon

me, if in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. One of the

bitterest pangs of remorse I ever felt was when a child--when my kind

old aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny

whole plum-cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough I met a

venerable old man, not a mendicant, but thereabouts; a look-beggar,

not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught charity I

gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of an

Evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed

me; the sum it was to her; the pleasure she had a right to expect

that I--not the old impostor--should take in eating her cake; the

ingratitude by which, under the colour of a Christian virtue, I had

frustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it to

heart so grievously, that I think I never suffered the like; and I was

right. It was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and it proved a lesson

to me ever after. The cake has long been masticated, consigned to

the dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. But when

Providence, who is better to us than all our aunts, gives me a pig,

remembering my temptation and my fall, I shall endeavour to act

towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose.

Yours (short of pig) to command in every thing.

To BERNARD BARTON

_A blessing in disguise_

9 _Jan_. 1823.

'Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support,

beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you'!!!

Throw yourself rather, my dear sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock,

slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. If you have but five consolatory

minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a

century in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. They are

Turks and Tartars when they have poor authors at their beck. Hitherto

you have been at arm's length from them. Come not within their grasp.

I have known many authors want for bread, some repining, others

envying the blessed security of a counting-house, all agreeing they

had rather have been tailors, weavers--what not? rather than the

things they were. I have known some starved, some to go mad, one dear

friend literally dying in a workhouse. You know not what a rapacious,

dishonest set these booksellers are. Ask even Southey, who (a single

case almost) has made a fortune by book-drudgery, what he has found

them. Oh, you know not, may you never know, the miseries of subsisting

by authorship! 'Tis a pretty appendage to a situation like yours or

mine; but a slavery, worse than all slavery, to be a bookseller's

dependant, to drudge your brains for pots of ale, and breasts of

mutton, _to change your_ FREE THOUGHTS _and_ VOLUNTARY NUMBERS _for

ungracious_ TASK-WORK. Those fellows hate _us_. The reason I take to

be, that contrary to other trades, in which the master gets all the

credit (a jeweller or silversmith for instance,) and the journeyman,

who really does the fine work, is in the background: in _our_ work

the world gives all the credit to us, whom _they_ consider as _their_

journeymen, and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, and oppress

us, and would wring the blood of us out, to put another sixpence in

their mechanic pouches!...

Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. Trust not to the

public; you may hang, starve, drown yourself, for anything that worthy

_personage_ cares. I bless every star, that Providence, not seeing

good to make me independent, has seen it next good to settle me upon

the stable foundation of Leadenhall. Sit down, good B.B., in the

banking-office: what! is there not from six to eleven p.m. six days

in the week, and is there not all Sunday? Fie, what a superfluity

of man's time, if you could think so! Enough for relaxation, mirth,

converse, poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. O the corroding,

torturing, tormenting thoughts, that disturb the brain of the unlucky

wight who must draw upon it for daily sustenance! Henceforth I retract

all my fond complaints of mercantile employment; look upon them as

lover's quarrels. I was but half in earnest. Welcome dead timber

of the desk, that makes me live. A little grumbling is a wholesome

medicine for the spleen, but in my inner heart do I approve and

embrace this our close, but unharassing way of life. I am quite

serious. If you can send me Fox, I will not keep it _six weeks_, and

will return it, with warm thanks to yourself and friend, without blot

or dog's-ear. You will much oblige me by this kindness.

TO THE SAME

_A cold_

9 _Jan_. 1824.

DEAR B.B.,

Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable

day-mare,--'a whoreson lethargy', Falstaff calls it,--an indisposition

to do anything, or to be anything,--a total deadness and distaste,--a

suspension of vitality,--an indifference to locality,--a numb,

soporifical, good-for-nothingness,--an ossification all over,--an

oyster-like insensibility to the passing events,--a mind-stupor,--a

brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience? Did you

ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to

water-gruel processes? This has been for many weeks my lot, and my

excuse; my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it

is three-and-twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet.

I have not a thing to say; no thing is of more importance than

another; I am flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge

----'s wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when

the actors are off it; a cipher, an O! I acknowledge life at all, only

by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain

in the chest. I am weary of the world; life is weary of me. My day is

gone into twilight, and I don't think it worth the expense of candles.

My wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it.

I inhale suffocation; I can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing

interests me. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Thurtell is just now coming out

upon the New Drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves

to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or

a moral reflection. If you told me the world will be at an end

to-morrow, I should just say, 'Will it?' I have not volition enough

left to dot my _i's_, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are

set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in

Moorflelds, and they did not say when they'd come back again; my skull

is a Grub Street attic to let--not so much as a joint stool left in

it; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a

little, when their heads are off. O for a vigorous fit of gout, colic,

toothache,--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs; pain

is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life; but this apathy, this

death! Did you ever have an obstinate cold,--a six or seven weeks'

unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and

every thing? Yet do I try all I can to cure it; I try wine, and

spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all

only seem to make me worse instead of better. I sleep in a damp room,

but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find

any visible amendment!...

It is just fifteen minutes after twelve; Thurtell is by this time

a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps; Ketch is

bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; the Jew demurs at first at

three half-crowns, but, on consideration that he may get somewhat by

showing 'em in the town, finally closes.

WILLIAM HAZLITT

1778-1830

To Miss Sarah Stoddart

_A love-letter_

Tuesday night [_Jan._ 1808].

MY DEAR LOVE,

Above a week has passed, and I have received no letter--not one of

those letters 'in which I live, or have no life at all'. What is

become of you? Are you married, hearing that I was dead (for so it has

been reported)? Or are you gone into a nunnery? Or are you fallen in

love with some of the amorous heroes of Boccaccio? Which of them is

it? Is it with Chynon, who was transformed from a clown into a lover,

and learned to spell by the force of beauty? Or with Lorenzo, the

lover of Isabella, whom her three brethren hated (as your brother does

me), who was a merchant's clerk? Or with Federigo Alberigi, an honest

gentleman, who ran through his fortune, and won his mistress by

cooking a fair falcon for her dinner, though it was the only means he

had left of getting a dinner for himself? This last is the man; and

I am the more persuaded of it, because I think I won your good liking

myself by giving you an entertainment--of sausages, when I had no

money to buy them with. Nay now, never deny it! Did I not ask your

consent that very night after, and did you not give it? Well, I should

be confoundedly jealous of those fine gallants, if I did not know that

a living dog is better than a dead lion; though, now I think of it,

Boccaccio does not in general make much of his lovers: it is his women

who are so delicious. I almost wish I had lived in those times, and

had been a little _more amiable_. Now if a woman had written the book,

it would not have had this effect upon me: the men would have been

heroes and angels, and the women nothing at all. Isn't there some

truth in that? Talking of departed loves, I met my old flame the other

day in the street. I did dream of her _one_ night since, and only one:

every other night I have had the same dream I have had for these two

months past. Now, if you are at all reasonable, this will satisfy you.

_Thursday morning_. The book is come. When I saw it I thought you had

sent it back in a _huff_, tired out by my sauciness, and _coldness_,

and delays, and were going to keep an account of dimities and sayes,

or to salt pork and chronicle small beer as the dutiful wife of some

fresh-looking, rural swain; so that you cannot think how surprised

and pleased I was to find them all done. I liked your note as well or

better than the extracts; it is just such a note as such a nice rogue

as you ought to write after the _provocation_ you had received. I

would not give a pin for a girl 'whose cheeks never tingle', nor for

myself if I could not make them tingle sometimes. Now, though I am

always writing to you about 'lips and noses', and such sort of stuff,

yet as I sit by my fireside (which I do generally eight or ten hours a

day), I oftener think of you in a serious, sober light. For, indeed,

I never love you so well as when I think of sitting down with you to

dinner on a boiled scrag-end of mutton, and hot potatoes. You please

my fancy more then than when I think of you in--no, you would never

forgive me if I were to finish the sentence. Now I think of it, what

do you mean to be dressed in when we are married? But it does not much

matter! I wish you would let your hair grow; though perhaps nothing

will be better than 'the same air and look with which at first my

heart was took'. But now to business. I mean soon to call upon your

brother _in form_, namely, as soon as I get quite well, which I hope

to do in about another _fortnight_; and then I hope you will come up

by the coach as fast as the horses can carry you, for I long mightily

to be in your ladyship's presence--to vindicate my character. I think

you had better sell the small house, I mean that at 4.10, and I will

borrow L100. So that we shall set off merrily in spite of all the

prudence of Edinburgh. Goodbye, little dear!

TO HIS SON

_Marriage, and the choice of a profession_

[1822.]

... If you ever marry, I would wish you to marry the woman you like.

Do not be guided by the recommendations of friends. Nothing will

atone for or overcome an original distaste. It will only increase from

intimacy; and if you are to live separate, it is better not to come

together. There is no use in dragging a chain through life, unless

it binds one to the object we love. Choose a mistress from among your

equals. You will be able to understand her character better, and she

will be more likely to understand yours. Those in an inferior station

to yourself will doubt your good intentions, and misapprehend your

plainest expressions. All that you swear is to them a riddle or

downright nonsense. You cannot by any possibility translate your

thoughts into their dialect. They will be ignorant of the meaning of

half you say, and laugh at the rest. As mistresses, they will have no

sympathy with you; and as wives, you can have none with them.

Women care nothing about poets, or philosophers, or politicians. They

go by a man's looks and manner. Richardson calls them 'an eye-judging

sex'; and I am sure he knew more about them than I can pretend to do.

If you run away with a pedantic notion that they care a pin's point

about your head or your heart, you will repent it too late....

If I were to name one pursuit rather than another, I should wish you

to be a good painter, if such a thing could be hoped. I have failed in

this myself, and should wish you to be able to do what I have not--to

paint like Claude, or Rembrandt, or Guido, or Vandyke, if it were

possible. Artists, I think, who have succeeded in their chief object,

live to be old, and are agreeable old men. Their minds keep alive

to the last. Cosway's spirits never flagged till after ninety; and

Nollekens, though nearly blind, passed all his mornings in giving

directions about some group or bust in his workshop. You have seen Mr.

Northcote, that delightful specimen of the last age. With what avidity

he takes up his pencil, or lays it down again to talk of numberless

things! His eye has not lost its lustre, nor 'paled its ineffectual

fire'. His body is but a shadow: he himself is a pure spirit. There is

a kind of immortality about this sort of ideal and visionary existence

that dallies with Fate and baffles the grim monster, Death. If I

thought you could make as clever an artist, and arrive at such an

agreeable old age as Mr. Northcote, I should declare at once for your

devoting yourself to this enchanting profession; and in that reliance,

should feel less regret at some of my own disappointments, and little

anxiety on your account!

To CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE

_The Life of Napoleon_

7 _Dec_. [1827].

DEAR SIR,

I thought all the world agreed with me at present that Buonaparte was

better than the Bourbons, or that a tyrant was better than tyranny.

In my opinion, no one of an understanding above the rank of a lady's

waiting-maid could ever have doubted this, though I alone said it ten

years ago. It might be impolicy then and now for what I know, for the

world stick to an opinion in appearance long after they have given it

up in reality. I should like to know whether the preface is thought

impolitic by some one who agrees with me in the main point, or by some

one who differs with me and makes this excuse not to have his opinion

contradicted? In Paris (_jubes regina renovare dolorem_) the preface

was thought a masterpiece, the best and only possible defence of

Buonaparte, and quite new _there_! It would be an impertinence in me

to write a Life of Buonaparte after Sir W. without some such object as

that expressed in the preface. After all, I do not care a _damn_ about

the preface. It will get me on four pages somewhere else. Shall I

retract my opinion altogether, and forswear my own book? Rayner is

right to cry out: I think I have tipped him fair and foul copy, a lean

rabbit and a fat one. The remainder of vol. ii will be ready to go on

with, but not the beginning of the third. The appendixes had better

be at the end of the second vol. Pray get them if you can: you have my

Sieyes, have you not? One of them is there. I have been nearly in the

other world. My regret was 'to die and leave the world "rough" copy'.

Otherwise I had thought of an epitaph and a good end. Hic jacent

reliquiae mortales Gulielmi Hazlitt, auctoris non intelligibilis:

natus Maidstoniae in comi [ta] tu Cantiae, Apr. 10, 1778. Obiit

Winterslowe, Dec., 1827. I think of writing an epistle to C. Lamb,

Esq., to say that I have passed near the shadowy world, and have had

new impressions of the vanity of this, with hopes of a better. Don't

you think this would be good policy? Don't mention it to the severe

author of the '_Press_', a poem, but me thinks the idea _arridet_

Hone. He would give sixpence to see me floating, upon a pair of

borrowed wings, half way between heaven and earth, and edifying

the good people at my departure, whom I shall only scandalize by

remaining. At present my study and contemplation is the leg of a

stewed fowl. I have behaved like a saint, and been obedient to orders.

_Non fit pugil_, &c., I got a violent spasm by walking fifteen miles

in the mud, and getting into a coach with an old lady who would have

the window open. Delicacy, moderation, complaisance, the _suaviter in

modo_, whisper it about, my dear Clarke, these are my faults and have

been my ruin.

LEIGH HUNT

1784-1859

To JOSEPH SEVERN

_A belated letter_[1]

Vale of Health, Hampstead, 8 _March_, 1821

DEAR SEVERN,

You have concluded, of course, that I have sent no letters to Rome,

because I was aware of the effect they would have on Keats's mind; and

this is the principal cause; for, besides what I have been told about

letters in Italy, I remember his telling me upon one occasion that, in

his sick moments, he never wished to receive another letter, or ever

to see another face, however friendly. But still I should have written

to you, had I not been almost at death's door myself. You will imagine

how ill I have been, when you hear that I have but just begun writing

again for the _Examiner_ and _Indicator_, after an interval of

several months, during which my flesh wasted from me with sickness

and melancholy. Judge how often I thought of Keats, and with what

feelings. Mr. Brown tells me he is comparatively calm now, or rather

quite so. If he can bear to hear of us, pray tell him; but he knows it

already, and can put it in better language than any man. I hear that

he does not like to be told that he may get better; nor is it to

be wondered at, considering his firm persuasion that he shall not

survive. He can only regard it as a puerile thing, and an insinuation

that he shall die. But if his persuasion should happen to be no longer

so strong, or if he can now put up with attempts to console him, of

what I have said a thousand times, and what I still (upon my honour)

think always, that I have seen too many instances of recovery from

apparently desperate cases of consumption not to be in hope to the

very last. If he still cannot bear this, tell him--tell that great

poet and noble-hearted man--that we shall all bear his memory in the

most precious part of our hearts, and that the world shall bow their

heads to it, as our loves do. Or if this, again, will trouble his

spirit, tell him that we shall never cease to remember and love him;

and that, Christian or infidel, the most sceptical of us has faith

enough in the high things that nature puts into our heads, to think

all who are of one accord in mind or heart are journeying to one and

the same place, and shall unite somewhere or other again, face to

face, mutually conscious, mutually delighted. Tell him he is only

before us on the road, as he is in everything else; or, whether you

tell him the latter or no, tell him the former, and add that we shall

never forget that he was so, and that we are coming after him. The

tears are again in my eyes, and I must not afford to shed them. The

next letter I write shall be more to yourself, and more refreshing to

your spirits, which we are very sensible must have been greatly taxed.

But whether your friend dies or not, it will not be among the least

lofty of your recollections by-and-by that you helped to smooth the

sick-bed of so fine a being. God bless you, dear Severn.

[Footnote 1: Keats died in February.]

To PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

_Outpourings of gratitude_

Stonehouse, near Plymouth, 26 _March_, 1822.

MY DEAREST FRIEND,

Your letters always contain something delightful to me, whatever news

they bring.

Surgit _amici_ aliquid, quod in ipsis _nubibus_

_ardet_.

But I confess your latter ones have greatly relieved me on the subject

you speak of. They only make me long, with an extreme Homeric longing,

to be at Pisa,--I mean such an one as Achilles felt when he longed to

be with his father,--sharp in his very limbs. We have secured a ship,

the _David Walter_, which will call for us here, and sets sail

from London in a fortnight. I have written by to-day's post with

intelligence of it to Mrs. Fletcher, enclosing her the letter, and

giving her the option of going on board in London, or here. I need not

say we shall attend to her comforts in every respect. The same post

also carries a letter to Mr. Gisborne, stating your wishes, and

wonders respecting _Adonais_. If it is not published before I leave

England, I will publish my criticism upon the Pisa copy,--a criticism

which I think you will like. I take the opportunity of showing the

public why Gifford's review spoke so bitterly of _Prometheus_, and

why it pretends that the most metaphysical passage of your most

metaphysical poem is a specimen of the clearness of your general

style. The wretched priest-like cunning and undertoned malignity of

that review of _Prometheus_ is indeed a homage paid to qualities which

can so provoke it. The _Quarterly_ pretends now, that it never meddles

with you personally,--of course it never did! For this, _Blackwood_

cries out upon it, contrasting its behaviour in those delicate matters

with its own! This is better and better, and the public seem to think

so; for these things, depend upon it, are getting better understood

every day, and shall be better and better understood every day to

come. One circumstance which helps to reconcile me to having been

detained on this coast, is the opportunity it has given me to make

your works speak for themselves wherever I could; and you are in high

lustre, I assure you, with the most intelligent circles in Plymouth,

[Greek: astaer epsos]. I have, indeed, been astonished to find

how well prepared people of intelligence are to fall in with your

aspirations, and despise the mistakes and rascally instincts of your

calumniators. This place, for instance, abounds in _schoolmasters_,

who appear, to a man, to be liberal to an extreme and esoterical

degree. And such, there is reason to believe, is the case over the

greater part of the kingdom, greatly, no doubt, owing to political

causes. Think of the consequences of this with the rising generation.

I delight in _Adonais_. It is the most Delphic poetry I have seen

a long while; full of those embodyings of the most subtle and airy

imaginations,--those arrestings and explanations of the most shadowy

yearnings of our being--which are the most difficult of all things

to put into words, and the most delightful when put. I do not know

whether you are aware how fond I am of your song on the Skylark; but

you ought, if Ollier sent you a copy of the enlarged _Calendar_

_of Nature_, which he published separately under the title of the

_Months_. I tell you this, because I have not done half or a twentieth

part of what I ought to have done to make your writings properly

appreciated. But I intended to do more every day, and now that I am

coming to you, I shall be _totus_ in you and yours! For all good, and

healthy, and industrious things, I will do such wonders, that I shall

begin to believe I make some remote approach to something like a

return for your kindness. Yet how can that be? At all events, I hope

we shall all be the better for one another's society. Marianne, poor

dear girl, is still very ailing and weak, but stronger upon the whole,

she thinks, than when she first left London, and quite prepared and

happy to set off on her spring voyage. She sends you part of her best

love. I told her I supposed I must answer Marina's letter for her, but

she is quite grand on the occasion, and vows she will do it herself,

which, I assure you, will be the first time she has written a letter

for many months. Ask Marina if she will be charitable, and write one

to me. I will undertake to answer it with one double as long. But what

am I talking about, when the captain speaks of sailing in a fortnight?

I was led astray by her delightful letter to Marianne about walks, and

duets, and violets, and ladies like violets. Am I indeed to see and

be in the midst of all these beautiful things, ladies like lilies not

excepted? And do the men in Italy really leave ladies to walk in those

very amiable dry ditches by themselves? Oh! for a few strides, like

those of Neptune, when he went from some place to some other place,

and 'did it in three!' Dear Shelley, I am glad my letter to Lord B.

pleased you, though I do not know why you should so thank me for it.

But you are ingenious in inventing claims for me upon your affection.

To HORACE SMITH

_Shelley's death_

Pisa, 25 _July_, 1822.

Dear Horace,

I trust that the first news of the dreadful calamity which has

befallen us here will have been broken to you by report, otherwise I

shall come upon you with a most painful abruptness; but Shelley, my

divine-minded friend, your friend, the friend of the universe, he has

perished at sea. He was in a boat with his friend Captain Williams,

going from Leghorn to Lerici, when a storm arose, and it is supposed

the boat must have foundered. It was on the 8th instant, about four

or five in the evening, they guess. A fisherman says he saw the boat

a few minutes before it went down: he looked again and it was gone. He

saw the boy they had with them aloft furling one of the sails. We hope

his story is true, as their passage from life to death will then have

been short; and what adds to the hope is, that in S's pocket (for the

bodies were both thrown on shore some days afterwards,--conceive our

horrible certainty, after trying all we could to hope!) a copy of

Keats's last volume, which he had borrowed of me to read on his

passage, was found _open_ and doubled back as if it had been thrust

in, in the hurry of a surprise. God bless him! I cannot help thinking

of him as if he were alive as much as ever, so unearthly he always

appeared to me, and so seraphical a thing of the elements; and this

is what all his friends say. But what we all feel, your own heart will

tell you....

It has been often feared that Shelley and Captain Williams would meet

with some accident, they were so hazardous; but when they set out on

the 8th, in the morning it was fine. Our dear friend was passionately

fond of the sea, and has been heard to say he should like it to be his

death-bed....

To MRS. PROCTER

_Accepting an invitation_

5 York Buildings, 13 _March_ [1831].

MY DEAR MRS. PROCTER (for Madam, somehow, is

not the thing),

I am most pleased to be reminded of my promise, which I must have made

if you say I did. I suppose I have been coming to keep it ever since;

but it is a long road from sorrow to joy, and one is apt to get

confused on the road. Do you know your letter brought the tears into

my eyes? I hardly know why, unless it was that I saw Procter had been

pouring his kind heart into yours, and you said:--'We must have him

here instead of the coffee-house, and plant him by the fire, and warm

him like a stray bird till he sings.' But indeed a kind word affects

me where many a hard thump does not. Nevertheless, you must not tell

this, except to the very masculine or feminine; though if you do not

take it as a compliment to yourself,--I mean the confession of

my weakness,--why, you are not Procter's wife, nor Mrs. Montagu's

daughter, nor she who wrote the letter this morning to a poor battered

author.

PS. I eat any plain joint, of the plainer order, beef or mutton:--and

you know I care for nothing at dinner, so that it does not hurt me.

Friends' company is the thing.

To A FRIEND

_Offence and punishment_

Wimbledon, 11 and 12 _August_, 1846.

... I find I made a great confusion of my _portion_ of the legal

expenses incurred by the _Examiner_, with the _whole_ of them. That

portion only amounted to L750, the whole being L1500. Of this L750 out

of my pocket (which was quite enough), L250 went to pay for

expenses (counsel, &c.) attendant on the _failure_ of two Government

prosecutions,--one for saying (_totidem verbis_) that 'of all monarchs

since the Revolution, the successor of George III would have the

finest opportunity of becoming nobly popular'; (think, nowadays,

of being prosecuted for _that_!) and the other for copying from the

_Stamford News_ the paragraph against military flogging, alluded to

the other day in the _Daily News_. (Think, now, this moment, of being

prosecuted for _That_!) The L500 fine and two years' imprisonment was

for ludicrously contrasting the _Morning Post's_ picture of the Regent

as an 'Adonis', &c. with the old and real fat state of the case, and

for adding that his Royal Highness had lived for 'upwards of half

a century without doing anything to deserve the admiration of his

contemporaries or the gratitude of posterity'. Words to that effect,

and I believe better,--but I do not quite remember them. They might be

easily ascertained by reference to Peel's Coffee-house, and the words

of the _Post_, too.

Besides the fine, my imprisonment cost me several hundred pounds (I

can't exactly say how many) in monstrous _douceurs_ to the gaoler

for _liberty to walk in the garden_, for help towards getting me

permission to fit up rooms in the sick hospital, and for fitting

up said rooms, or rather converting them from sorts of

washhouses, hitherto uninhabited and unfloored, into comfortable

apartments,--which I did too expensively,--at least as far as papering

the sitting-room with a trellis of roses went, and having my ceiling

painted to imitate an out-of-door sky. No notice, however, could

be taken, I suppose, of any of _this_ portion of the expenses,

governments having nothing to do with the secret corruptions of

gaolers or the pastorals of incarcerated poets: otherwise the

prosecutions cost me altogether a good bit beyond a thousand pounds.

But perhaps it might be mentioned that I went to prison from all but

a sick bed, having been just ordered by the physician _to go to the

seaside_, and _ride_ for the benefit of my health (pleasing dramatic

contrast to the _verdict_!). I also declined, as I told you, to try

avoiding the imprisonment by the help of Perry's offer of the famous

secret 'Book'; and I further declined (as I think I also told you)

to avail myself of an offer on the part of a royal agent (made, of

course, in the guarded, though obvious manner in which such offers are

conveyed), to drop the prosecution, provided we would agree to

drop all future hostile mention of the Regent. But of this, too,

governments could not be expected to take notice--perhaps would regard

it as an addition to the offence. This, however, I must add, that the

whole attack on the Regent was owing, not merely to the nonsense of

the _Post_, but to his violation of those promises of conceding the

Catholic claims, to which his princely word stood pledged. The subject

of the article was the '_Dinner on St. Patrick's day_'. All the Whig

world was indignant at that violation; so were the Irish, of course,

_vehemently_; and it was on the spur of this publicly indignant

movement that I wrote what I did,--as angrily and as much in earnest

in the serious part of what I said as I was derisive in the rest.

I did not care for any factious object, nor was I what is called

anti-monarchical. I didn't know Cobbett, or Henry Hunt, or any

demagogue, _even by sight_, except Sir Francis Burdett, and him

by sight alone. Nor did I ever see, or speak a word with them,

afterwards. I knew nothing, in fact, of politics themselves, except in

some of those large and, as it appeared to me, obvious phases, which,

at all events, _have since become obvious to most people_, and in

fighting for which (if a man can be said to fight for a 'phase'!) I

suffered all that Tories could inflict upon me,--by expenses in law

and calumnies in literature;--reform, Catholic claims, free

trade, abolition of flogging, right of free speech, as opposed by

attorneys-general. I was, in fact, all the while nothing but a poetic

student, appearing in politics once a week, but given up entirely to

letters almost all the rest of it, and loving nothing so much as a

book and a walk in the fields. I was precisely the sort of person, in

these respects, which I am at this moment. As to George the Fourth, I

aided, years afterwards, in publicly wishing him well--'years having

brought the philosophic mind'. I believe I even expressed regret at

not having given him the excuses due to all human beings (the passage,

I take it, is in the book which Colburn called _Lord Byron and his

Contemporaries_); _and when I consider that Moore has been pensioned,

not only in spite of all his libels on him, but perhaps by very reason

of their Whig partisanship, I should think it hard to be refused a

pension purely because I openly suffered for what I had earnestly

said_. I knew George the Fourth's physician, Sir William Knighton,

who had been mine before I was imprisoned (it was _not_ he who was the

royal agent alluded to); and, if my memory does not deceive me, Sir

William told me that George had been gratified by the book above

mentioned. Perhaps he had found out, by Sir William's help, that I was

not an ill-natured man, or one who could not outlive what was

mistaken in himself or resentful in others. As to my opinions about

Governments, the bad conduct of the Allies, and of Napoleon, and the

old Bourbons, certainly made them waver as to what might be ultimately

best, monarchy or republicanism; but they ended in favour of their

old predilections; and no man, for a long while, has been less a

republican than myself, monarchies and courts appearing to me salutary

for the good and graces of mankind, and Americanisms anything but

either. But nobody, I conceive, that knew my writings, or heard of me

truly from others, ever took me for a republican. William the Fourth

saw or heard nothing of me to hinder his letting Lord Melbourne give

me L200 out of the Royal Fund. Queen Victoria gave me another,

through the same kind friend. She also went twice to see my play; and

everybody knows how I praise and love her. _I do not think, therefore,

in reference to the pension, that the public would care twopence about

George the Fourth, one way or the other; or that if any remembered the

case at all, they would connect the pension in the least with anything

about him, but attribute it solely to the Queen's and Minister's

goodness, and the wants of a sincere and not undeserving man of

letters, distinguished for his loyal attachment_. I certainly think

the L500 fine ought not to have been taken out of my pocket, or the

other two L125 either; and I think also, that a liberal Whig minister

might reasonably and _privately_ think some compensation on those

accounts due to me. _I have been fighting his own fight from first to

last, and helping to prepare matters for his triumph_. But still the

above, in my opinion, is what the public would think of the matter,

_and my friends of the press could lay it entirely to the literary

account_.

GEORGE GORDON NOEL,

LORD BYRON

1788-1824

To MR. HODGSON

_Travel in Portugal_

Lisbon, 16 _July_, 1809.

Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of marvellous

sights, palaces, convents, &c.,--which, being to be heard in my friend

Hobhouse's forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate by

smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private and clandestine

manner. I must just observe, that the village of Cintra in Estremadura

is the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world.

I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talks bad Latin

to the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own,--and I goes

into society (with my pocket pistols), and I swims in the Tagus

all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears

Portuguese, and have got bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that?

Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a-pleasuring.

When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say '_Carracho_!'--the

great oath of the grandees, that very well supplies the place of

'Damme!'--and when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I pronounce

him '_Ambra di merdo_'. With these two phrases, and a third,'_Avra

bouro_', which signifieth 'Get an ass', I am universally understood to

be a person of degree and a master of languages. How merrily we

lives that travellers be!--if we had food and raiment. But, in sober

sadness, anything is better than England, and I am infinitely amused

with my pilgrimage, as far as it has gone.

To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as far as Gibraltar,

where we embark for Melita and Byzantium. A letter to Malta will find

me, or to be forwarded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and

Dwyer, and all the Ephesians you encounter. I am writing with Butler's

donative pencil, which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility.

Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths and defeats and capital

crimes and the misfortunes of one's friends; and let us hear of

literary matters, and the controversies and the criticisms. All this

will be pleasant--'_Suave mari magno_, &c.' Talking of that, I have

been sea-sick, and sick of the sea. Adieu.

TO THOMAS MOORE

_Announces his engagement_

Newstead Abbey, 20 _Sept._ 1814.

Here's to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh!

The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

MY DEAR MOORE,

I am going to be married--that is, I am accepted, and one usually

hopes the rest will follow. My mother of the Gracchi (that _are_ to

be), _you_ think too strait-laced for me, although the paragon of only

children, and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men', and

full of 'most blest conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss Milbanke

is the lady, and I have her father's invitation to proceed there in my

elect capacity,--which, however, I cannot do until I have settled some

business in London, and got a blue coat.

She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know nothing

certainly, and shall not inquire. But I do know, that she has talents

and excellent qualities; and you will not deny her judgement, after

having refused six suitors and taken me.

Now, if you have anything to say against this, pray do; my mind's

made up, positively fixed, determined, and therefore I will listen to

reason, because now it can do no harm. Things may occur to break it

off, but I will hope not. In the meantime I tell you (a _secret_, by

the by,--at least till I know she wishes it to be public) that I have

proposed and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish me joy,

for one mayn't be married for months. I am going to town to-morrow,

but expect to be here, on my way there, within a fortnight.

If this had not happened, I should have gone to Italy. In my way down,

perhaps you will meet me at Nottingham, and come over with me here.

I need not say that nothing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of

course, reform thoroughly; and, seriously, if I can contribute to

her happiness, I shall secure my own. She is so good a person

that--that--in short, I wish I was a better.

TO JOHN MURRAY

_No bid for sweet voices_

Venice, 6 _April_, 1819.

The second canto of Don Juan was sent, on Saturday last, by post, in

four packets, two of four, and two of three sheets each, containing

in all two hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. But I will

permit no curtailments.... You shan't make _canticles_ of my cantos.

The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is stupid, it will fail;

but I will have none of your damned cutting and slashing. If you

please, you may publish _anonymously_; it will perhaps be better; but

I will battle my way against them all, like a porcupine.

So you and Mr. Foscolo, etc., want me to undertake what you call a

'great work'? an Epic Poem, I suppose or some such pyramid. I'll try

no such thing; I hate tasks. And then 'seven or eight years'! God send

us all well this day three months, let alone years. If one's years

can't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man had better be a

ditcher. And works, too!--is _Childe Harold_ nothing? You have so many

'_divine_' poems, is it nothing to have written a _human_ one? without

any of your worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could have spun the

thoughts of the four cantos of that poem into twenty, had I wanted to

book-make, and its passion into as many modern tragedies. Since you

want _length_, you shall have enough of _Juan_, for I'll make fifty

cantos....

Besides, I mean to write my best work in _Italian_, and it will take

me nine years more thoroughly to master the language; and then if my

fancy exist, and I exist too, I will try what I _can_ do _really_. As

to the estimation of the English which you talk of, let them

calculate what it is worth, before they insult me with their insolent

condescension.

I have not written for their pleasure. If they are pleased, it is that

they chose to be so; I have never flattered their opinions, nor their

pride; nor will I. Neither will I make 'Ladies' books' '_al dilettar

le femine e la plebe_'. I have written from the fullness of my mind,

from passion, from impulse, from many motives, but not for their

'sweet voices'.

I know the precise worth of popular applause, for few scribblers have

had more of it; and if I chose to swerve into their paths, I could

retain it, or resume it. But I neither love ye, nor fear ye; and

though I buy with ye and sell with ye, and talk with ye, I will

neither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. They made me,

without my search, a species of popular idol; they, without reason or

judgement, beyond the caprice of their good pleasure, threw down the

image from its pedestal; it was not broken with the fall, and they

would, it seems, again replace it,--but they shall not.

You ask about my health: about the beginning of the year I was in a

state of great exhaustion ... and I was obliged to reform my 'way of

life', which was conducting me from the 'yellow leaf' to the ground,

with all deliberate speed. I am better in health and morals, and very

much yours, &c.--

PS. I have read Hodgson's '_Friends_'. He is right in defending Pope

against the bastard pelicans of the poetical winter day, who add

insult to their parricide, by sucking the blood of the parent of

English _real_ poetry,--poetry without fault,--and then spurning the

bosom which fed them.

TO THE SAME

_The cemetery at Bologna_

Bologna, 7 _June_, 1819.

... I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous Domenichino

and Guido, both of which are superlative. I afterwards went to the

beautiful cemetery of Bologna, beyond the walls, and found, besides

the superb burial-ground, an original of a Custode, who reminded me

of the grave-digger in _Hamlet_. He has a collection of capuchins'

skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of them, said,

'This was Brother Desiderio Berro, who died at forty--one of my best

friends. I begged his head of his brethren after his decease, and they

gave it me. I put it in lime, and then boiled it. Here it is, teeth

and all, in excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest

fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went, he brought joy; and whenever any

one was melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful

again. He walked so actively, you might have taken him for a

dancer--he joked--he laughed--oh! he was such a Frate as I never saw

before, nor ever shall again!'

He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in the

cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead

people; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons.

In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of

twenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Bartorini, dead two

centuries ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had found

her hair complete, and 'as yellow as gold'. Some of the epitaphs at

Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna;

for instance:--

'_Martini Luigi

Implora pace.'

'Lucrezia Picini

Implora eterna quiete_.'

Can anything be more full of pathos? Those few words say all that can

be said or sought: the dead had had enough of life; all they wanted

was rest, and this they _implore_! There is all the helplessness,

and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the

grave--'_implora pace_'. I hope, whoever may survive me, and shall

see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within the

fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, and no more, put

over me. I trust they won't think of 'pickling, and bringing me home

to Clod or Blunderbuss Hall'. I am sure my bones would not rest in

an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I

believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed, could I suppose

that any of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcass back

to your soil. I would not even feed your worms, if I could help it.

So, as Shakespeare says of Mowbray, the banished Duke of Norfolk, who

died at Venice (see _Richard II_), that he, after fighting

Against black Pagans, Turks, and Saracens,

And toiled with works of war, retired himself

To Italy, and there, at _Venice_, gave

His body to that _pleasant_ country's earth,

And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ,

Under whose colours he had fought so long.

Before I left Venice, I had returned to you your late, and Mr.

Hobhouse's sheets of _Juan_. Don't wait for further answers from

me, but address yours to Venice, as usual. I know nothing of my own

movements; I may return there in a few days, or not for some time.

All this depends on circumstances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well....

My daughter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty; her hair is

growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her temper and her ways, Mr.

Hoppner says, are like mine, as well as her features: she will make,

in that case, a manageable young lady.

I have never heard anything of Ada, the little Electra of my

Mycenae.... But there will come a day of reckoning, even if I should

not live to see it.... What a long letter I have scribbled!

PS. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers on the tombs. I saw a

quantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, scattered over the graves

at Ferrara. It has the most pleasing effect you can imagine.

TO THE SAME

_In rebellious mood_

Bologna, 24 _Aug_. 1819.

I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffooning letter for

publication, addressed to the buffoon Roberts, who has thought proper

to tie a canister to his own tail. It was written off-hand, and in the

midst of circumstances not very favourable to facetiousness, so that

there may, perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort of

small acid punch:--you will tell me. Keep the _anonymous_, in any

case: it helps what fun there may be. But if the matter grow serious

about _Don Juan_, and you feel _yourself_ in a scrape, or _me_ either,

_own that I am the author. I_ will never _shrink_, and if _you_ do,

I can always answer you in the question of Guatimozin to his

minister--each being on his own coals.

I wish that I had been in better spirits; but I am out of sorts, out

of nerves, and now and then (I begin to fear) out of my senses. All

this Italy has done for me, and not England: I defy all you, and your

climate to boot, to make me mad. But if ever I do really become a

Bedlamite, and wear a strait waistcoat, let me be brought back among

you: your people will then be proper company.

I assure you what I here say and feel has nothing to do with England,

either in a literary or personal point of view. All my present

pleasures or plagues are as Italian as the opera. And, after all, they

are but trifles; for all this arises from my 'Dama's' being in the

country for three days (at Capofiume). But as I could never live but

for one human being at a time (and, I assure you, _that one_ has never

been _myself_, as you may know by the consequences, for the _selfish_

are _successful_ in life), I feel alone and unhappy.

I have sent for my daughter from Venice, and I ride daily, and walk in

a garden, under a purple canopy of grapes, and sit by a fountain, and

talk with the gardener of his tools, which seem greater than Adam's,

and with his wife, and with his son's wife, who is the youngest of the

party, and, I think, talks best of the three. Then I revisit the Campo

Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, has two--but _one_ the prettiest

daughter imaginable; and I amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful

and innocent face of fifteen with the skulls with which he has peopled

several cells, and particularly with that of one skull, dated 1766,

which was once covered (the tradition goes) by the most lovely

features of Bologna--noble and rich. When I look at these, and at

this girl--when I think of what _they were_, and what she must be--why

then, my dear Murray, I won't shock you by saying what I think. It is

little matter what becomes of us 'bearded men', but I don't like the

notion of a beautiful woman's lasting less than a beautiful tree--than

her own picture--her own shadow, which won't change so to the sun

as her face to the mirror. I must leave off, for my head aches

consumedly. I have never been quite well since the night of the

representation of Alfieri's _Mirra_, a fortnight ago.

To PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

_A trio of poets_

Ravenna, 26 _April_, 1821.

The child continues doing well, and the accounts are regular and

favourable. It is gratifying to me that you and Mrs. Shelley do not

disapprove of the step which I have taken, which is merely temporary.

I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats--is it _actually_ true?

I did not think criticism had been so killing. Though I differ from

you essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhor

all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on the

highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poor

fellow! though with such inordinate self-love he would probably

have not been very happy. I read the review of _Endymion_ in the

_Quarterly_. It was severe,--but surely not so severe as many reviews

in that and other journals upon others.

I recollect the effect on me of the _Edinburgh_ on my first poem;

it was rage, and resistance, and redress--but not despondency nor

despair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in this

world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing,

a man should calculate upon his powers of _resistance_ before he goes

into the arena.

Expect not life from pain nor danger free,

Nor deem the doom of man reserved for thee.

You know my opinion of _that second-hand_ school of poetry. You

also know my high opinion of your own poetry,--because it is of

_no_ school. I read _Cenci_--but, besides that I think the _subject_

essentially _un_ dramatic, I am not an admirer of our old dramatists,

_as models_. I deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all.

Your _Cenci_, however, was a work of power, and poetry. As to _my_

drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being as free as I have been

with yours.

I have not yet got your _Prometheus_, which I long to see. I have

heard nothing of mine, and do not know that it is yet published. I

have published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will not

like. Had I known that Keats was dead--or that he was alive and so

sensitive--I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry,

to which I was provoked by his _attack_ upon _Pope_, and my

disapprobation of _his own_ style of writing.

You want me to undertake a great poem--I have not the inclination nor

the power. As I grow older, the indifference--_not_ to life, for we

love it by instinct--but to the stimuli of life, increases. Besides,

this late failure of the Italians has latterly disappointed me for

many reasons,--some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs. S.

PS. Could not you and I contrive to meet this summer? Could not you

take a run here _alone_?

To LADY BYRON

_A plain statement of facts_

Pisa, 17 _Nov_. 1821,

I have to acknowledge the receipt of 'Ada's hair', which is very soft

and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve years

old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta's

possession, taken at that age. But it don't curl,--perhaps from its

being let grow.

I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name, and I will

tell you why;--I believe that they are the only two or three words of

your handwriting in my possession. For your letters I returned; and

except the two words, or rather the one word, 'Household', written

twice in an old account book, I have no other. I burnt your last

note, for two reasons:--firstly, it was written in a style not

very agreeable; and, secondly, I wished to take your word without

documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people.

I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's

birthday--the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six,

so that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting

her;--perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business

or otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or

nearness;--every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a

period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have one

rallying-point as long as our child exists, which I presume we both

hope will be long after either of her parents.

The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably

more than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much longer

one of our prior acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake; but now

it is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my part, and a

few years less on yours, though it is no very extended period of life,

still it is one when the habits and thought are generally so formed as

to admit of no modification; and as we could not agree when younger,

we should with difficulty do so now.

I say all this, because I own to you, that, notwithstanding

everything, I considered our reunion as not impossible for more than

a year after the separation;--but then I gave up the hope entirely and

for ever. But this very impossibility of reunion seems to me at least

a reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can arise

between us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much of

its kindness as people who are never to meet may preserve perhaps more

easily than nearer connexions. For my own part, I am violent, but not

malignant; for only fresh provocations can awaken my resentments. To

you, who are colder and more concentrated, I would just hint, that

you may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and a

worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I bear you _now_ (whatever

I may have done) no resentment whatever. Remember, that _if you have

injured me_ in aught, this forgiveness is something; and that, if I

have _injured you_, it is something more still, if it be true, as the

moralists say, that the most offending are the least forgiving.

Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or on

yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect upon any but two things,--viz.

that you are the mother of my child, and that we shall never meet

again. I think if you also consider the two corresponding points with

reference to myself, it will be better for all three.

To MR. BARFF

_Sympathy with the Greeks_

10 _March_, 1824.

Enclosed is an answer to Mr. Parruca's letter, and I hope that you

will assure him from me, that I have done and am doing all I can to

reunite the Greeks with the Greeks.

I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country-house (as for all

other kindness) in case that my health should require my removal; but

I cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of any (even

supposed) utility:--there is a stake worth millions such as I am, and

while I can stand at all, I must stand by the cause. When I say this,

I am at the same time aware of the difficulties and dissensions and

defects of the Greeks themselves; but allowance must be made for them

by all reasonable people.

My chief, indeed _nine-tenths_ of my expenses here are solely in

advances to or on behalf of the Greeks, and objects connected with

their independence.

[_Enclosure, translated_]

To S.R. PARRUCA

10 _March_, 1824.

_Sir_,--I have the honour of answering your letter. My first wish has

always been to bring the Greeks to agree among themselves. I came here

by the invitation of the Greek Government, and I do not think that I

ought to abandon Roumelia for the Peloponnesus until that Government

shall desire it; and the more so, as this part is exposed in a greater

degree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my presence can really be of any

assistance in uniting two or more parties, I am ready to go anywhere,

either as a mediator, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these affairs

I have neither private views, nor private dislike of any individual,

but the sincere wish of deserving the name of the friend of your

country, and of her patriots.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 1792-1822

To T.J. HOGG

_His first marriage_

[_No date. Postmark_, Rhayader. Summer of 1811.]

MY DEAR FRIEND,

You will perhaps see me before you can answer this; perhaps not;

Heaven knows! I shall certainly come to York, but _Harriet Westbrook_

will decide whether now or in three weeks. Her father has persecuted

her in a most horrible way, by endeavouring to compel her to go to

school. She asked my advice: resistance, was the answer, at the same

time that I essayed to mollify Mr. W. in vain! And in consequence of

my advice _she_ has thrown herself upon _my_ protection.

I set off for London on Monday. How flattering a distinction!--I am

thinking of ten million things at once.

What have I said? I declare, quite _ludicrous_. I advised her to

resist. She wrote to say that resistance was useless, but that she

would fly with me, and threw herself upon my protection. We shall have

L200 a year; when we find it run short, we must live, I suppose, upon

love! Gratitude and admiration, all demand that I should love her

_for ever._ We shall see you at York. I will hear your arguments for

matrimonialism, by which I am now almost convinced. I can get lodgings

at York, I suppose. Direct to me at Graham's, 18, Sackville Street,

Piccadilly.

Your inclosure of L10 has arrived; I am now indebted to you L30.

In spite of philosophy, I am rather ashamed of this unceremonious

exsiccation of your financial river. But indeed, my dear friend, the

gratitude which I owe you for your society and attachment ought so far

to overbalance this consideration as to leave me nothing but that. I

must, however, pay you when I can.

I suspect that the _strain_ is gone for ever. This letter will

convince you that I am not under the influence of a _strain_.

I am thinking at once of ten million things. I shall come to live near

you, as Mr. Peyton.

Ever your most faithful friend.

I shall be at 18, Sackville Street; at least direct there. Do not send

more cash; I shall raise supplies in London.

To WILLIAM GODWIN

_An introduction_

Keswick, 3 _Jan_. 1812.

You will be surprised at hearing from a stranger. No introduction has,

nor in all probability ever will authorize that which common thinkers

would call a liberty; it is, however, a liberty which, although not

sanctioned by custom, is so far from being reprobated by reason, that

the dearest interests of mankind imperiously demand that a certain

etiquette of fashion should no longer keep 'man at a distance from

man', or impose its flimsy fancies between the free communication of

intellect.

The name of Godwin has been used to excite in me feelings of reverence

and admiration. I have been accustomed to consider him a luminary

too dazzling for the darkness which surrounds him. From the earliest

period of my knowledge of his principles, I have ardently desired

to share, on the footing of intimacy, that intellect which I have

delighted to contemplate in its emanations.

Considering, then, these feelings, you will not be surprised at the

inconceivable emotions with which I learned your existence and your

dwelling. I had enrolled your name in the list of the honourable dead.

I had felt regret that the glory of your being had passed from this

earth of ours. It is not so; you still live, and, I firmly believe,

are still planning the welfare of human kind.

I have but just entered on the scene of human operations; yet my

feelings and my reasonings correspond with what yours were. My course

has been short, but eventful. I have seen much of human prejudice,

suffered much from human persecution, yet I see no reason hence

inferable which should alter my wishes for their renovation. The

ill-treatment I have met with has more than ever impressed the truth

of my principles on my judgement. I am young, I am ardent in the cause

of philanthropy and truth; do not suppose that this is vanity; I am

not conscious that it influences this portraiture. I imagine myself

dispassionately describing the state of my mind. I am young; you

have gone before me--I doubt not, are a veteran to me in the years of

persecution. Is it strange that, defying prejudice as I have done; I

should outstep the limits of custom's prescription, and endeavour to

make my desire useful by a friendship with William Godwin?

I pray you to answer this letter. Imperfect as may be my capacity,

my desire is ardent and unintermitted. Half an hour would be at least

humanely employed in the experiment. I may mistake your residence;

certain feelings, of which I may be an inadequate arbiter, may induce

you to desire concealment; I may not, in fine, have an answer to this

letter. If I do not, when I come to London, I shall seek for you. I am

convinced I could represent myself to you in such terms as not to be

thought wholly unworthy of your friendship; at least, if desire for

universal happiness has any claim upon your preference, that desire I

can exhibit. Adieu! I shall earnestly await your answer.

To THOMAS HOOKHAM

_A subscription for Hunt_

_February_ 1813.

MY DEAR SIR,

I am boiling with indignation at the horrible injustice and tyranny

of the sentence pronounced on Hunt and his brother; and it is on this

subject that I write to you. Surely the seal of abjectness and slavery

is indelibly stamped upon the character of England.

Although I do not retract in the slightest degree my wish for a

subscription for the widows and children of those poor men hung at

York, yet this L1000 which the Hunts are sentenced to pay is an affair

of more consequence. Hunt is a brave, a good, and an enlightened man.

Surely the public, for whom Hunt has done so much, will repay in part

the great debt of obligation which they owe the champion of their

liberties and virtues; or are they dead, cold, stone-hearted, and

insensible--brutalized by centuries of unremitting bondage?

However that may be, they surely may be excited into some slight

acknowledgement of his merits. Whilst hundreds of thousands are sent

to the tyrants of Russia, he pines in a dungeon, far from all that can

make life desired.

Well, I am rather poor at present; but I have L20 which is not

immediately wanted. Pray, begin a subscription for the Hunts; put down

my name for that sum, and, when I hear that you have complied with my

request, I will send it you. Now, if there are any difficulties in

the way of this scheme of ours, for the love of liberty and virtue,

overcome them. Oh! that I might wallow for one night in the Bank of

England!

_Queen Mab_ is finished and transcribed. I am now preparing the notes,

which shall be long and philosophical. You will receive it with the

other poems. I think that the whole should form one volume; but of

that we can speak hereafter.

As to the French _Encyclopedie_, it is a book which I am

desirous--very desirous--of possessing, and if you could get me a few

months' credit (being at present rather low in cash), I should very

much desire to have it.

My dear sir, excuse the earnestness of the first part of my letter. I

feel warmly on this subject, and I flatter myself that so long as your

own independence and liberty remain uncompromised, you are inclined to

second my desires.

PS. If no other way can be devised for this subscription, will you

take the trouble on yourself of writing an appropriate advertisement

for the papers, inserting, by way of stimulant, my subscription?

On second thoughts, I enclose the L20.

To MR. OLLIER

_An article by Southey_

Florence, 15 _Oct_. 1819.

DEAR SIR,

The droll remarks of the _Quarterly_, and Hunt's kind defence, arrived

as safe as such poison, and safer than such an antidote, usually do.

I am on the point of sending to you 250 copies of a work which I have

printed in Italy; which you will have to pay four or five pounds duty

upon, on my account. Hunt will tell you the _kind of thing_ it is,

and in the course of the winter I shall send directions for its

publication, _until the arrival of which directions, I request that

you would have the kindness not_ to open the box, _or, if by necessity

it is opened, to abstain from observing yourself or permitting others

to observe, what it contains_. I trust this confidently to you, it

being of consequence. Meanwhile, assure yourself that this work has no

reference, direct or indirect, to politics, or religion, or personal

satire, and that this precaution is merely literary.

The _Prometheus_, a poem in my best style, whatever that may amount

to, will arrive with it, but in MS., which you can print and publish

in the season. It is the most perfect of my productions.

Southey wrote the article in question, I am well aware. Observe the

impudence of the man in speaking of himself. The only remark worth

notice in this piece is the assertion that I imitate Wordsworth.

It may as well be said that Lord Byron imitates Wordsworth, or that

Wordsworth imitates Lord Byron, both being great poets, and deriving

from the new springs of thought and feeling, which the great events

of our age have exposed to view, a similar tone of sentiment, imagery,

and expression. A certain similarity all the best writers of any

particular age inevitably are marked with, from the spirit of that age

acting on all. This I had explained in my _Preface_, which the

writer was too disingenuous to advert to. As to the other trash, and

particularly that lame attack on my personal character, which was

meant so ill, and which I am not the man to feel, 'tis all nothing. I

am glad, with respect to that part of it which alludes to Hunt, that

it should so have happened that I dedicate, as you will see, a work

which has all the capacities for being popular to that excellent

person. I was amused, too, with the finale; it is like the end of the

first act of an opera, when that tremendous concordant discord sets

up from the orchestra, and everybody talks and sings at once. It

describes the result of my battle with their Omnipotent God; his

pulling me under the sea by the hair of my head, like Pharaoh; my

calling out like the devil who was _game_ to the last; swearing and

cursing in all comic and horrid oaths, like a French postilion on

Mount Cenis; entreating everybody to drown themselves; pretending not

to be drowned myself when I _am_ drowned; and lastly, _being_ drowned.

You would do me a particular kindness if you would call on Hunt, and

ask him when my parcel went, the name of the ship, and the name of the

captain, and whether he has any bill of lading, which, if he has, you

would oblige me by sending, together with the rest of the information,

by return of post, addressed to the Post Office, Florence.

To MRS. HUNT

_Keats and some others_

[Pisa] 11 _Nov_. 1820.

MY BEST MARIANNE,

I am delighted to hear that you complain of me for not writing to you,

although I have much more reason to complain of you for not writing to

me. At least it promises me a letter from you, and you know with what

pleasure we receive, and with what anxiety we expect intelligence from

you--almost the only friends who now remain to us.

I am afraid that the strict system of expense to which you are limited

annoys you all very much, and that Hunt's health suffers both from

that and from the incredible exertions which I see by the _Indicators_

and the _Examiners_ that he is making. Would to Heaven that I had the

power of doing you some good! but when you are sure that the wish is

sincere, the bare expression of it may help to cheer you.

The Gisbornes are arrived, and have brought news of you, and some

books, the principal part of which, however, are yet to arrive by

sea. Keats's new volume has arrived to us, and the fragment called

_Hyperion_ promises for him that he is destined to become one of the

first writers of the age. His other things are imperfect enough, and,

what is worse, written in the bad sort of style which is becoming

fashionable among those who fancy that they are imitating Hunt and

Wordsworth. But of all these things nothing is worse than ----, in

spite of Hunt's extracting the only good stanzas, with his usual good

nature. Indeed, _I_ ought not to complain of Hunt's good nature, for

no one owes so much to it. Is not the vulgarity of these wretched

imitations of Lord Byron carried to a pitch of the sublime? His

indecencies, too, both against sexual nature, and against human

nature in general, sit very awkwardly upon him. He only affects the

libertine: he is, really, a very amiable, friendly, and agreeable

man, I hear. But is not this monstrous? In Lord Byron all this has

an analogy with the general system of his character, and the wit and

poetry which surround hide with their light the darkness of the thing

itself. They contradict it even; they prove that the strength and

beauty of human nature can survive and conquer all that appears most

inconsistent with it. But for a writer to be at once filthy and dull

is a crime against gods, men, and columns. For Heaven's sake do not

show this to any one but Hunt, for it would irritate the wasp's nest

of the irritable race of poets.

Where is Keats now? I am anxiously expecting him in Italy, when I

shall take care to bestow every possible attention on him. I consider

his a most valuable life, and I am deeply interested in his safety. I

intend to be the physician both of his body and his soul, to keep

the one warm, and to teach the other Greek and Spanish. I am aware,

indeed, in part, that I am nourishing a rival who will far surpass me;

and this is an additional motive, and will be an added pleasure.

We are at this moment removing from the Bagni to Pisa, for the Serchio

has broken its banks, and all the country about is under water. An old

friend and fellow-townsman of mine, Captain Medwin, is on a visit to

us at present, and we anxiously expect Keats, to whom I would write if

I knew where to address.

Adieu, my dear Marianne. Write soon; kiss all the babes for me, and

tell me news of them, and give my love to Bessy and Hunt.

To LEIGH HUNT

_A literary collaboration_

Pisa, 26 _Aug._ 1821.

MY DEAREST FRIEND,

Since I last wrote to you, I have been on a visit to Lord Byron at

Ravenna. The result of this visit was a determination, on his part, to

come and live at Pisa; and I have taken the finest palace on the Lung'

Arno for him. But the material part of my visit consists in a message

which he desires me to give you, and which, I think, ought to add

to your determination--for such a one I hope you have formed--of

restoring your shattered health and spirits by a migration to these

'regions mild of calm and serene air'.

He proposes that you should come out and go shares with him and me,

in a periodical work, to be conducted here; in which each of the

contracting parties should publish all their original compositions and

share the profits. He proposed it to Moore, but for some reason it was

never brought to bear. There can be no doubt that the _profits_ of

any scheme in which you and Lord Byron engage, must, from various,

yet co-operating reasons, be very great. As for myself, I am for the

present only a sort of link between you and him, until you can know

each other, and effectuate the arrangement; since (to entrust you with

a secret which, for your sake, I withhold from Lord Byron) nothing

would induce me to share in the profits, and still less, in the

borrowed splendour of such a partnership. You and he, in different

manners, would be equal, and would bring, in a different manner, but

in the same proportion, equal stocks of reputation and success. Do not

let my frankness with you, nor my belief that you deserve it more than

Lord Byron, have the effect of deterring you from assuming a station

in modern literature which the universal voice of my contemporaries

forbids me either to stoop or to aspire to. I am, and I desire to be,

nothing.

I did not ask Lord Byron to assist me in sending a remittance for your

journey; because there are men, however excellent, from whom we would

never receive an obligation, in the worldly sense of the word; and I

am as jealous for my friend as for myself. But I suppose that I shall

at last make up an impudent face, and ask Horace Smith to add to the

many obligations he has conferred on me. I know I need only ask.

I think I have never told you how very much I like your _Amyntas_; it

almost reconciles me to translations. In another sense I still demur.

You might have written another such a poem as the _Nymphs_, with no

access of efforts. I am full of thoughts and plans, and should do

something, if the feeble and irritable frame which incloses it was

willing to obey the spirit. I fancy that then I should do great

things. Before this you will have seen _Adonais_. Lord Byron, I

suppose from modesty, on account of his being mentioned in it, did

not say a word of _Adonais_, though he was loud in his praise of

_Prometheus_, and, what you will not agree with him in, censure of

the _Cenci_. Certainly, if _Marino Faliero_ is a drama, the _Cenci_

is not--but that between ourselves. Lord Byron is reformed, as far

as gallantry goes, and lives with a beautiful and sentimental Italian

lady, who is as much attached to him as may be. I trust greatly to his

intercourse with you, for his creed to become as pure as he thinks his

conduct is. He has many generous and exalted qualities, but the canker

of aristocracy wants to be cut out.

JOHN KEATS

1795-1821

To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS

_Burns's cottage_

Maybole, 11 _July_ [1818].

MY DEAR REYNOLDS,

... I am approaching Burns's cottage very fast. We have made continual

inquiries from the time we saw his tomb at Dumfries. His name, of

course, is known all about: his great reputation among the plodding

people is, 'that he wrote a good _mony_ sensible things'. One of the

pleasantest means of annulling self is approaching such a shrine as

the Cottage of Burns: we need not think of his misery--that is all

gone, bad luck to it! I shall look upon it hereafter with unmixed

pleasure, as I do my Stratford-on-Avon day with Bailey. I shall fill

this sheet for you in the Bardie's country, going no further than

this, till I get to the town of Ayr, which will be a nine miles' walk

to tea.

We were talking on different and indifferent things, when, on a

sudden, we turned a corner upon the immediate country of Ayr. The

sight was as rich as possible. I had no conception that the native

place of Burns was so beautiful; the idea I had was more desolate: his

'_Rigs of Barley_' seemed always to me but a few strips of green on a

cold hill--Oh, prejudice!--It was as rich as Devon. I endeavoured

to drink in the prospect, that I might spin it out to you, as the

silkworm makes silk from mulberry leaves. I cannot recollect it.

Besides all the beauty, there were the mountains of Arran Isle, black

and huge over the sea. We came down upon everything suddenly; there

were in our way the 'bonny Doon', with the brig that Tam o' Shanter

crossed, Kirk Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr.

First we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon, surrounded by every

phantasy of green in tree, meadow, and hill: the stream of the Doon,

as a farmer told us, is covered with trees 'from head to foot'.

You know those beautiful heaths, so fresh against the weather of a

summer's evening; there was one stretching along behind the trees.

I wish I knew always the humour my friends would be in at opening

a letter of mine, to suit it to them as nearly as possible. I could

always find an egg-shell for melancholy, and, as for merriment, a

witty humour will turn anything to account. My head is sometimes in

such a whirl in considering the million likings and antipathies of our

moments, that I can get into no settled strain in my letters. My wig!

Burns and sentimentality coming across you and Frank Floodgate in the

office. Oh, Scenery, that thou shouldst be crushed between two puns!

As for them, I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch region. I hope

Brown does not put them in his journal: if he does, I must sit on the

cutty-stool all next winter. We went to Kirk Alloway. 'A prophet is

no prophet in his own country.' We went to the Cottage and took some

whisky. I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of writing some lines under

the roof: they are so bad I cannot transcribe them. The man at the

cottage was a great bore with his anecdotes. I hate the rascal. His

life consists in fuzy, fuzzy, fuzziest. He drinks glasses, five for

the quarter, and twelve for the hour; he is a mahogany-faced old

jackass who knew Burns: he ought to have been kicked for having spoken

to him. He calls himself 'a curious old bitch', but he is a flat

old dog. I should like to employ Caliph Vathek to kick him. Oh, the

flummery of a birthplace! Cant! cant! cant! It is enough to give

a spirit the guts-ache. Many a true word, they say, is spoken in

jest--this may be because his gab hindered my sublimity: the flat dog

made me write a flat sonnet. My dear Reynolds, I cannot write about

scenery and visitings. Fancy is indeed less than a present palpable

reality, but it is greater than remembrance. You would lift your eyes

from Homer only to see close before you the real Isle of Tenedos. You

would rather read Homer afterwards than remember yourself. One song

of Burns's is of more worth to you than all I could think for a whole

year in his native country. His misery is a dead weight upon the

nimbleness of one's quill; I tried to forget it--to drink toddy

without any care--to write a merry sonnet--it won't do--he talked, he

drank with blackguards; he was miserable. We can see horribly clear,

in the works of such a man, his whole life, as if we were God's

spies....

TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE

_The poetic character_

Hampstead, 27 _Oct_. 1818.

MY DEAR WOODHOUSE,

Your letter gave me great satisfaction, more on account of its

friendliness than any relish of that matter in it which is accounted

so acceptable in the _genus irritabile_. The best answer I can

give you is in a clerklike manner to make some observations on two

principal points which seem to point like indices into the midst of

the whole _pro_ and _con_ about genius, and views, and achievements,

and ambition, _et coetera_. 1st. As to the poetical character itself

(I mean that sort, of which, if I am anything, I am a member; that

sort distinguished from the Wordsworthian, or egotistical sublime;

which is a thing _per se_, and stands alone), it is not itself--it has

no self--it is everything and nothing--it has no character--it enjoys

light and shade--it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low,

rich or poor, mean or elevated--it has as much delight in conceiving

an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher delights

the chameleon poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side

of things, any more than from its taste for the bright one, because

they both end in speculation. A poet is the most unpoetical of

anything in existence, because he has no identity; he is continually

in for, and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, the sea, and

men and women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have

about them an unchangeable attribute; the poet has none, no identity.

He is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's creatures. If, then,

he has no self, and if I am a poet, where is the wonder that I should

say I would write no more? Might I not at that very instant have been

cogitating on the characters of Saturn and Ops? It is a wretched thing

to confess, but it is a very fact, that not one word I ever utter can

be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my identical nature.

How can it, when I have no nature? When I am in a room with people,

if I ever am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then,

not myself goes home to myself, but the identity of every one in the

room begins to press upon me, [so] that I am in a very little time

annihilated--not only among men; it would be the same in a nursery of

children. I know not whether I make myself wholly understood: I hope

enough so to let you see that no dependence is to be placed on what I

said that day.

In the second place, I will speak of my views, and of the life I

purpose to myself. I am ambitious of doing the world some good: if

I should be spared, that may be the work of maturer years--in the

interval I will assay to reach to as high a summit in poetry as the

nerve bestowed upon me will suffer. The faint conceptions I have of

poems to come bring the blood frequently into my forehead. All I

hope is, that I may not lose all interest in human affairs--that

the solitary indifference I feel for applause, even from the finest

spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of vision I may have. I do not

think it will. I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning

and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labours

should be burnt every morning, and no eye ever shine upon them.

But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself, but from some

character in whose soul I now live ...

TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

_Returning advice_

Hampstead, 10 _Aug_. 1820.

MY DEAR SHELLEY,

I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a

mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the

letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation,

it will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to

prophesy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to

me, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I must either

voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery.

My nerves at present are the worst part of me, yet they feel soothed

that, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one

spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. I

am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, which I would willingly

take the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so much as I

have done about reputation. I received a copy of the _Cenci_, as from

yourself, from Hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of--the

poetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays is

considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose,

which may be the God. An artist must serve Mammon; he must have

'self-concentration'--selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure,

will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your

magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your

subject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold

chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six

months together. And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of

_Endymion_, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked

up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its

monk. I am in expectation of _Prometheus_ every day. Could I have my

own wish effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be but

now putting an end to the second act. I remember you advising me not

to publish my first blights, on Hampstead Heath. I am returning advice

upon your hands. Most of the poems in the volume I send you have been

written above two years, and would never have been published but for a

hope of gain; so you see I am inclined enough to take your advice now.

I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my

sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley. In hope of soon seeing

you--

To CHARLES BROWN

_A despairing cry_

Naples, 1 _Nov_. [1820.]

MY DEAR BROWN,

Yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during which my health

suffered more from bad air and the stifled cabin than it had done the

whole voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I am well

enough this morning to write to you a short calm letter;--if that can

be called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I would

fainest dwell upon. As I have gone thus far into it, I must go on

a little;--perhaps it may relieve the load of _wretchedness_ which

presses upon me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will kill

me. My dear Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and I

should have remained well. I can bear to die--I cannot bear to leave

her. Oh, God! God! God! Everything I have in my trunks that reminds

me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in my

travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vivid

about her--I see her--I hear her. There is nothing in the world of

sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the case

when I was in England: I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the

time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes

fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing

her again--Now!--O that I could be buried near where she lives! I

am afraid to write to her--to receive a letter from her--to see her

handwriting would break my heart--even to hear of her anyhow, to see

her name written, would be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, what

am I to do? Where can I look for consolation or ease? If I had any

chance of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through the

whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this

fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which you

will do immediately, write to Rome (_poste restante_)--if she is well

and happy, put a mark thus +; if--

Remember me to all. I will endeavour to bear my miseries patiently.

A person in my state of health should not have such miseries to bear.

Write a short note to my sister, saying you have heard from me. Severn

is very well. If I were in better health I would urge your coming to

Rome. I fear there is no one can give me any comfort. Is there any

news of George? O that something fortunate had ever happened to me or

my brothers!--then I might hope,--but despair is forced upon me as a

habit. My dear Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. I

cannot say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in the

thousand novelties around me. I am afraid to write to her. I should

like her to know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown, I have coals of

fire in my breast. It surprises me that the human heart is capable of

containing and bearing so much misery. Was I born for this end? God

bless her, and her mother, and my sister, and George, and his wife,

and you, and all!...

THOMAS HOOD

1799-1845

To CHARLES DICKENS

_American Notes_

17 Elm Tree Road, 12 _Oct_. 1842.

DEAR DICKENS,

Can you let me have an early copy of the _American Notes_ so that I

may review it in the _New Monthly_? Is it really likely to be ready

as advertised? I aim this at Devonshire Place, supposing you to be

returned, for with these winds 'tis no fit time for the coast. But

your bones are not so weather unwise (for ignorance _is_ bliss) as

mine. I should have asked this by word of mouth in Devonshire Place,

but the weather has kept me indoors. It is no fiction that the

complaint, derived from Dutch malaria seven years ago, is revived by

Easterly winds. Otherwise I have been better than usual, and 'never

say die'. Don't forget about the Yankee Notes. I never had but one

American friend, and lost him through _a good crop of pears_. He paid

us a visit in England; whereupon in honour of him, a pear tree, which

had never borne fruit to speak of within memory of man, was loaded

with ninety dozen of brown somethings. Our gardener said they were

a _keeping_ sort, and would be good at Christmas; whereupon, as our

Jonathan was on the eve of sailing for the States, we sent him a few

dozens to dessert him on the voyage. Some he put at the bottom of a

trunk (he wrote to us) to take to America; but he could not have been

gone above a day or two, when all _our_ pears began to rot! _His_

would, of course, by sympathy, and I presume spoilt his linen or

clothes, for I have never heard of him since. Perhaps he thought I had

_done_ him on purpose, and for sartin the tree, my accomplice, never

bore any more pears, good or bad, after that supernatural crop.

Pray present my respects for me to Mrs. Dickens. How she must enjoy

being at home and discovering her children, after her Columbusing, and

only discovering America!

TO THE MANCHESTER ATHENAEUM

_The uses of literature_

(From my bed)

17 Elm Tree Road, St. John's Wood, 18 _July_, 1843.

GENTLEMEN,

If my humble name can be of the least use for your purpose, it is

heartily at your service, with my best wishes for the prosperity of

the Manchester Athenaeum, and my warmest approval of the objects of

that Institution.

I have elsewhere recorded my own deep obligations to Literature--that

a natural turn for reading, and intellectual pursuits, probably

preserved me from the moral shipwreck so apt to befall those who are

deprived in early life of the paternal pilotage. At the very least my

books kept me aloof from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the

saloons, with their degrading orgies. For the closet associate of Pope

and Addison, the mind accustomed to the noble, though silent discourse

of Shakespeare and Milton, will hardly seek, or put up with low

company and slang. The reading animal will not be content with the

brutish wallowings that satisfy the unlearned pigs of the world.

Later experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that

literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow; how powerfully

intellectual pursuits can help in keeping the head from crazing, and

the heart from breaking; nay, not to be too grave, how generous mental

food can even atone for a meagre diet; rich fare on the paper, for

short commons on the cloth.

Poisoned by the malaria of the Dutch marshes, my stomach for many

months resolutely set itself against fish, flesh, or fowl; my appetite

had no more edge than the German knife placed before me. But luckily

the mental palate and digestion were still sensible and vigorous; and

whilst I passed untasted every dish at the Rhenish table-d'-hote,

I could still enjoy my _Peregrine Pickle_, and the feast after the

manner of the Ancients. There was no yearning towards calf's head

_a la tortue_, or sheep's heart; but I could still relish Head _a la

Brunnen_, and the _Heart of Mid-Lothian._ Still more recently it was

my misfortune, with a tolerable appetite, to be condemned to Lenten

fare, like Sancho Panza, by my physician, to a diet, in fact, lower

than any prescribed by the Poor-Law Commissioners, all animal food,

from a bullock to a rabbit, being strictly interdicted, as well as

all fluids stronger than that which lays dust, washes pinafores, and

waters polyanthus. But the feast of reason and the flow of soul were

still mine!

Denied beef, I had Bulwer and Cowper; forbidden mutton, there was

Lamb; and in lieu of pork, the great Bacon, or Hogg. Then as to

beverage; it was hard, doubtless, for a Christian to set his face,

like a Turk, against the juice of the grape. But, eschewing wine,

I had still my Butler; and in the absence of liquor, all the Choice

Spirits from Tom Browne to Tom Moore. Thus though confined physically

to the drink that drowns kittens, I quaffed mentally, not merely the

best of our own home-made, but the rich, racy, sparkling growths of

France and Italy, of Germany and Spain; the champagne of Moliere, the

Monte Pulciano of Boccaccio, the hock of Schiller, and the sherry of

Cervantes. Depressed bodily by the fluid that damps everything, I got

intellectually elevated with Milton, a little merry with Swift, or

rather jolly with Rabelais, whose Pantagruel, by the way, is equal to

the best gruel with rum in it.

So far can Literature palliate, or compensate, for gastronomical

privations. But there are other evils, great and small, in this world,

which try the stomach less than the head, the heart, and the temper;

bowls that will not roll right, well-laid schemes that will 'gang

aglee', and ill winds that blow with the pertinacity of the monsoon.

Of these Providence has allotted me a full share, but still,

paradoxical as it may sound, my _burthen_ has been greatly lightened

by a _load of books_. The manner of this will be best understood by a

_feline_ illustration. Everybody has heard of the two Kilkenny cats,

who devoured each other; but it is not so generally known, that they

left behind them an orphan kitten, which, true to its breed, began to

eat itself up, till it was diverted from the operation by a mouse. Now

the human mind, under vexation, is like that kitten, for it is apt to

_prey upon itself_, unless drawn off by a new object, and none better

for the purpose than a book. For example, one of Defoe's; for who,

in reading his thrilling _History of the Great Plague_, would not be

reconciled to a few little ones?

Many, many a dreary weary hour have I got over--many a gloomy

misgiving postponed--many a mental and bodily annoyance forgotten by

help of the tragedies, and comedies, of our dramatists and novelists!

Many a trouble has been soothed by the still small voice of the moral

philosopher; many a dragon-like care charmed to sleep by the sweet

song of the poet! For all which I cry incessantly, not aloud, but in

my heart, 'Thanks and honour to the glorious masters of the pen, and

the great inventors of the press!' Such has been my own experience of

the blessing and comfort of literature and intellectual pursuits;

and of the same mind, doubtless, was Sir Humphry Davy, who went for

_Consolations in Travel_, not to the inn, or the posting-house, but to

his library and his books.

To DR. MOIR

_A humourist to the last_

[1845.]

DEAR MOIR,

God bless you and yours, and good-bye! I drop these few lines, as in a

bottle from a ship water-logged, and on the brink of foundering, being

in the last stage of dropsical debility; but though suffering in body,

serene in mind. So without reversing my union-jack, I await my last

lurch. Till which, believe me, dear Moir,

Yours most truly.

To SIR ROBERT PEEL

_A farewell letter_

Devonshire Lodge, New Finchley Road, [1845].

DEAR SIR,

We are not to meet in the flesh. Given over by my physicians and by

myself, I am only kept alive by frequent instalments of mulled port

wine. In this extremity I feel a comfort, for which I cannot refrain

from again thanking you, with all the sincerity of a dying man,--and,

at the same time, bidding you a respectful farewell.

Thank God my mind is composed and my reason undisturbed, but my race

as an author is run. My physical debility finds no tonic virtue in

a steel pen, otherwise I would have written one more paper--a

forewarning one--against an evil, or the danger of it, arising from

a literary movement in which I have had some share, a one-sided

humanity, opposite to that Catholic Shakespearian sympathy, which

felt with King as well as Peasant, and duly estimated the mortal

temptations of both stations. Certain classes at the poles of Society

are already too far asunder; it should be the duty of our writers to

draw them nearer by kindly attraction, not to aggravate the existing

repulsion, and place a wider moral gulf between Rich and Poor, with

Hate on the one side and Fear on the other. But I am too weak for this

task, the last I had set myself; it is death that stops my pen, you

see, and not the pension.

God bless you, Sir, and prosper all your measures for the benefit of

my beloved country.

ROBERT BROWNING

1812-1889

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

1806-1861

To LEIGH HUNT

_A joint epistle_

Bagni di Lucca, 6 _Oct_. 1857.

DEAR LEIGH HUNT,

(It is hard to write, but you bade me do so; yet I had better say

'Master Hunt', as they used to call Webster or Ford.) A nine months'

silence after such a letter as yours seems too strange even to you

perhaps. So understand that you gave us more delight at once than we

could bear, that was the beginning of the waiting to recover spirit

and try and do one's feeling a little less injustice. But soon

followed unexpected sorrows to us and to you, and the expression of

even gratitude grew hard again. Certainly all this while your letter

has been laid before our very eyes, and we have waited for a brighter

day than ever came till we left Florence two months ago and more, then

we brought it to 'answer' among the chestnut trees; but immediately

on our arrival a friend was attacked by fever, and we were kept in

anxiety about him for six weeks. At last he recovered sufficiently to

leave for Florence, and (just think) our little boy became ill,

for the first time in his life, and gave us solicitude enough for a

fortnight: it is nothing now that it is over; he is going about now

almost as well as before, and we go away to-morrow, as I said. But I

will try and get one, at least, of the joys I came to find here, and

really write to you from this place, as I meant to do. '_I_'--you

know it is my wife that I write for, though you entangle and distract

either of us by the reverberations (so to speak) of pleasures over and

above the pleasure you give us. I intend to say, that you praise that

poem, and mix it up with praise of her very self, and then give it to

me directly, and then give it to _her_ with the pride you have just

given me, and then it somehow comes back to me increased so far, till

the effect is just as you probably intended. I wish my wife may know

you more: I wish you may see and know her more, but you cannot live

by her eleven years, as I have done--or yes, what cannot you do, being

the man, the poet you are? This last word, I dare think, I have a

right to say; I _have_ always venerated you as a poet; I believe your

poetry to be sure of its eventual reward; other people, not unlikely,

may feel like me, that there has been no need of getting into feverish

haste to cry out on what is; yet you, who wrote it, can leave it and

look at other poetry, and speak so of it: how well of you!

I am still too near the production of _Aurora Leigh_ to be quite able

to see it all; my wife used to write it, and lay it down to hear our

child spell, or when a visitor came,--it was thrust under the cushion

then. At Paris, a year ago last March, she gave me the first six books

to read, I having never seen a line before. She then wrote the rest,

and transcribed them in London, where I read them also. I wish, in

one sense, that I had written and she had read it.... I shall commend

myself to you by telling you this. Indeed, the proper acknowledgement

of your letter seems to be that one should do something, not say

something. If you were here, I might quite naturally begin repeating

_Giaffar_ or _Solomon_, and the rest. You would see whether I was not

capable of getting all the good out of your praise.

While I write, there is a strange thing that happened last night

impossible to get out of my thoughts. It may give you pain to tell you

of it, yet if with the pain come triumphant memories and hopes, as I

expect there will, you may choose the pain with them. What decides me

to tell it is that I heard you years ago allude to the destruction of

a volume of _Lamia, Isabella, &c., to be restored to you yet_--now you

remember; also, I think, of your putting my name near Shelley's in the

end of your letter, where you say 'since I lost Shelley'. Is it not

strange that I should have transcribed for the first time, last night,

the _Indian Serenade_ that, together with some verses of Metastasio,

accompanied that book? That I should have been reserved to tell

the present possessor of them--to whom they were given by Captain

Roberts--_what_ the poem _was, and that it had been published_! It is

preserved religiously; but the characters are all but illegible, and

I needed a good magnifying-glass to be quite sure of such of them as

remain. The end is that I have rescued three or four variations in the

reading of that divine little poem, as one reads it, at least, in the

_Posthumous Poems_. It is headed the _Indian_ _Serenade_ (not _Lines

to an Indian Air_). In the first stanza the seventh line is 'Hath led

me'; in the second, the third line is 'And the champak's odours fail';

and the eighth, 'O! Beloved as thou art!' In the last stanza, the

seventh line was, 'Oh, press it to thine own again.' Are not all these

better readings? (even to the 'Hath' for 'Has'.) There, I give them

you as you gave us Milton's hair. If I have mistaken in telling you,

you will understand and forgive.

I think I will ask my wife to say a word or two so I shall be sure

that you forgive. Now let my wife say the remainder. All I have

wished to do--know how little likely it was that I should succeed in

that--was to assure you of my pride and affectionate gratitude.--God

bless you ever,

R.B.

Dear friend, I will say; for I feel it must be something as good as

friendship that can forgive and understand this silence, so much like

the veriest human kind of ingratitude. When I look back and think--all

this time after that letter, and not a sign made--I wonder. Yet,

if you knew! First of all, we were silent because we waited for

information which you seemed to desire.... Then there were sadder

reasons. Poor _Aurora_, that you were so more than kind to (oh, how

can I think of it?), has been steeped in tears, and some of them of a

very bitter sort. Your letter was addressed to my husband, you knowing

by your delicate true instinct where your praise would give most

pleasure; but I believe Robert had not the heart to write when I felt

that I should not have the spirits to add a word in the proper key.

When we came here from Florence a few months ago to get repose and

cheerfulness from the sight of the mountains, we said to ourselves

that we would speak to you at ease--instead of which the word was

taken from our own mouth, and we have done little but sit by sick beds

and meditate on gastric fevers. So disturbed we have been--so sad! our

darling precious child the last victim. To see him lying still on his

golden curls, with cheeks too scarlet to suit the poor patient eyes,

looking so frightfully like an angel! It was very hard. But this is

over, I do thank God, and we are on the point of carrying back our

treasure with us to Florence to-morrow, quite recovered, if a little

thinner and weaker, and the young voice as merry as ever. You are

aware that that child I am more proud of than twenty _Auroras_, even

after Leigh Hunt has praised them. He is eight years old, has never

been '_crammed_', but reads English, Italian, French, German, and

plays the piano--then, is the sweetest child! sweeter than he looks.

When he was ill, he said to me, 'You pet! don't be unhappy about

_me_. Think it's a boy in the street, and be a little sorry, but not

unhappy.' Who could not be unhappy, I wonder?

I never saw your book called the _Religion of the Heart._ It's the

only book of yours I never saw, and I mean to wipe out that reproach

on the soonest day possible. I receive more dogmas, perhaps (my

'perhaps' being in the dark rather), than you do. I believe in the

divinity of Jesus Christ in the intensest sense--that he was God

absolutely. But for the rest, I am very unorthodox--about the spirit,

the flesh, and the devil, and if you would not let me sit by you, a

great many churchmen wouldn't; in fact, churches do all of them, as at

present constituted, seem too narrow and low to hold true Christianity

in its proximate developments. I, at least, cannot help believing them

so.

My dear friend, can we dare, after our sins against you--can we dare

_wish_ for a letter from you sometimes? Ask, we dare not. May God

bless you. Even if you had not praised me and made me so grateful,

I should be grateful to you for three things--for your poetry (that

first), then for Milton's hair, and then for the memory I have of

our visit to you, when you sat in that chair and spoke so mildly and

deeply at once.

Let me be ever affectionately yours,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

1816-1855

TO A FRIEND

_Trials of a governess_

_July_ 1839.

I cannot procure ink, without going into the drawing-room, where I do

not wish to go.... I should have written to you long since, and told

you every detail of the utterly new scene into which I have lately

been cast, had I not been daily expecting a letter from yourself, and

wondering and lamenting that you did not write; for you will remember

it was your turn. I must not bother you too much with my sorrows, of

which, I fear, you have heard an exaggerated account. If you were near

me, perhaps I might be tempted to tell you all, to grow egotistical,

and pour out the long history of a private governess's trials and

crosses in her first situation. As it is, I will only ask you to

imagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like me, thrown at once into

the midst of a large family--proud as peacocks and wealthy as Jews--at

a time when they were particularly gay--when the house was filled with

company--all strangers--people whose faces I had never seen before.

In this state I had charge given me of a set of pampered, spoilt,

turbulent children, whom I was expected constantly to amuse, as well

as to instruct. I soon found that the constant demand on my stock

of animal spirits reduced them to the lowest state of exhaustion; at

times I felt--and, I suppose, seemed--depressed. To my astonishment,

I was taken to task on the subject by Mrs.----, with a sternness of

manner and a harshness of language scarcely credible; like a fool, I

cried most bitterly. I could not help it; my spirits quite failed me

at first. I thought I had done my best--strained every nerve to please

her; and to be treated in that way, merely because I was shy and

sometimes melancholy, was too bad. At first I was for giving all up

and going home. But, after a little reflection, I determined to summon

what energy I had, and to weather the storm. I said to myself, 'I have

never yet quitted a place without gaining a friend; adversity is

a good school; the poor are born to labour, and the dependent to

endure.' I resolved to be patient, to command my feelings, and to take

what came; the ordeal, I reflected, would not last many weeks, and I

trusted it would do me good. I recollected the fable of the willow and

the oak; I bent quietly, and now, I trust, the storm is blowing over

me. Mrs. ---- is generally considered an agreeable woman; so she is, I

doubt not, in general society. Her health is sound, her animal spirits

good, consequently she is cheerful in company; but oh! does this

compensate for the absence of every fine feeling--of every gentle and

delicate sentiment? She behaves somewhat more civilly to me now than

she did at first, and the children are a little more manageable; but

she does not know my character, and she does not wish to know it.

I have never had five minutes' conversation with her since I came,

except while she was scolding me. I have no wish to be pitied, except

by yourself; if I were talking to you I could tell you much more.

To WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

_Thanks for advice_

[1840.]

... Authors are generally very tenacious of their productions, but I

am not so much attached to this but that I can give it up without

much distress. No doubt, if I had gone on, I should have made quite

a Richardsonian concern of it.... I had materials in my head for

half-a-dozen volumes.... Of course, it is with considerable regret I

relinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched. It is

very edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own brains,

and people it with inhabitants, who are so many Melchisedecs, and have

no father nor mother but your own imagination.... I am sorry I did

not exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the _Ladies' Magazine_ was

flourishing like a green bay tree. In that case, I make no doubt, my

aspirations after literary fame would have met with due encouragement,

and I should have had the pleasure of introducing Messrs. Percy and

West into the very best society, and recording all their sayings and

doings in double-columned close-printed pages.... I recollect, when I

was a child, getting hold of some antiquated volumes, and reading

them by stealth with the most exquisite pleasure. You give a correct

description of the patient Grisels of those days. My aunt was one of

them; and to this day she thinks the tales of the _Ladies' Magazine_

infinitely superior to any trash of modern literature. So do I; for

I read them in childhood, and childhood has a very strong faculty of

admiration, but a very weak one of criticism.... I am pleased that

you cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney's clerk or a

novel-reading dressmaker. I will not help you at all in the discovery;

and as to my handwriting, or the ladylike touches in my style and

imagery, you must not draw any conclusion from that--I may employ an

amanuensis. Seriously, sir, I am very much obliged to you for your

kind and candid letter. I almost wonder you took the trouble to read

and notice the novelette of an anonymous scribe, who had not even the

manners to tell you whether he was a man or a woman, or whether his

'C.T.' meant Charles Timms or Charlotte Tomkins.

TO A FRIEND

_At school abroad_

Brussels [c. _May_ 1842].

I was twenty-six years old a week or two since; and at this ripe time

of life I am a school-girl, and, on the whole, very happy in that

capacity. It felt very strange at first to submit to authority instead

of exercising it--to obey orders instead of giving them; but I like

that state of things. I returned to it with the same avidity that a

cow, that has long been kept on dry hay, returns to fresh grass. Don't

laugh at my simile. It is natural to me to submit, and very unnatural

to command.

This is a large school, in which there are about forty externes, or

day-pupils, and twelve pensionnaires, or boarders. Madame Heger,

the head, is a lady of precisely the same cast of mind, degree of

cultivation, and quality of intellect as Miss ----. I think the severe

points are a little softened, because she has not been disappointed,

and consequently soured. In a word, she is a married instead of a

maiden lady. There are three teachers in the school--Mademoiselle

Blanche, Mademoiselle Sophie, and Mademoiselle Marie. The two first

have no particular character. One is an old maid, and the other will

be one. Mademoiselle Marie is talented and original, but of repulsive

and arbitrary manners, which have made the whole school, except myself

and Emily, her bitter enemies. No less than seven masters attend, to

teach the different branches of education--French, Drawing, Music,

Singing, Writing, Arithmetic, and German. All in the house are

Catholics except ourselves, one other girl, and the gouvernante

of Madame's children, an Englishwoman, in rank something between a

lady's-maid and a nursery governess. The difference in country and

religion makes a broad line of demarcation between us and all the

rest. We are completely isolated in the midst of numbers. Yet I think

I am never unhappy; my present life is so delightful, so congenial to

my own nature, compared to that of a governess. My time, constantly

occupied, passes too rapidly. Hitherto both Emily and I have had good

health, and therefore we have been able to work well. There is one

individual of whom I have not yet spoken--M. Heger, the husband of

Madame. He is professor of rhetoric, a man of power as to mind, but

very choleric and irritable in temperament. He is very angry with me

just at present, because I have written a translation which he chose

to stigmatize as '_peu correcte_'. He did not tell me so, but wrote

the word on the margin of my book, and asked, in brief stern phrase,

how it happened that my compositions were always better than my

translations? adding that the thing seemed to him inexplicable. The

fact is, some weeks ago, in a high-flown humour, he forbade me to use

either dictionary or grammar in translating the most difficult English

compositions into French. This makes the task rather arduous, and

compels me every now and then to introduce an English word, which

nearly plucks the eyes out of his head when he sees it. Emily and he

don't draw well together at all. Emily works like a horse, and she has

had great difficulties to contend with--far greater than I have

had. Indeed, those who come to a French school for instruction ought

previously to have acquired a considerable knowledge of the French

language, otherwise they will lose a great deal of time, for the

course of instruction is adapted to natives and not to foreigners;

and in these large establishments they will not change their ordinary

course for one or two strangers. The few private lessons that M. Heger

has vouchsafed to give us, are, I suppose, to be considered a great

favour; and I can perceive they have already excited much spite and

jealousy in the school.

You will abuse this letter for being short and dreary, and there are a

hundred things which I want to tell you, but I have not time. Brussels

is a beautiful city. The Belgians hate the English. Their external

morality is more rigid than ours. To lace the stays without a

handkerchief on the neck is considered a disgusting piece of

indelicacy.

To A FRIEND

_Curates to tea_

[1845.]

You thought I refused you coldly, did you? It was a queer sort of

coldness, when I would have given my ears to say Yes, and was obliged

to say No. Matters, however, are now a little changed. Anne is come

home, and her presence certainly makes me feel more at liberty. Then,

if all be well, I will come and see you. Tell me only when I must

come. Mention the week and the day. Have the kindness also to answer

the following queries, if you can. How far is it from Leeds to

Sheffield? Can you give me a notion of the cost? Of course, when I

come, you will let me enjoy your own company in peace, and not drag me

out a-visiting. I have no desire at all to see your curate. I think he

must be like all the other curates I have seen; and they seem to me

a self-seeking, vain, empty race. At this blessed moment, we have no

less than three of them in Haworth parish--and there is not one to

mend another. The other day, they all three, accompanied by Mr. S.,

dropped, or rather rushed, in unexpectedly to tea. It was Monday

(baking-day), and I was hot and tired; still, if they had behaved

quietly and decently, I would have served them out their tea in peace;

but they began glorifying themselves, and abusing Dissenters in such

a manner, that my temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a few

sentences sharply and rapidly, which struck them all dumb. Papa was

greatly horrified also, but I don't regret it.

To GEORGE HENRY LEWES

_Herself and Miss Austen_

12 _Jan_. 1848.

Dear Sir,

I thank you then sincerely for your generous review; and it is with

the sense of double content I express my gratitude, because I am now

sure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive. You were not severe

on _Jane Eyre_; you were very lenient. I am glad you told me my faults

plainly in private, for in your public notice you touch on them so

lightly, I should perhaps have passed them over, thus indicated, with

too little reflection.

I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake new

works; my stock of materials is not abundant, but very slender; and

besides, neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers, are

sufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a frequent writer. I

tell you this, because your article in _Fraser_ left in me an uneasy

impression that you were disposed to think better of the author of

_Jane Eyre_ than that individual deserved; and I would rather you had

a correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though I should never

see you.

If I ever _do_ write another book, I think I will have nothing of what

you call 'melodrama'; I _think_ so, but I am not sure. I _think_,

too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out of

Miss Austen's 'mild eyes', 'to finish more and be more subdued'; but

neither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or at least, when

they write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them, which

becomes their master--which will have its own way--putting out of view

all behests but its own, dictating certain words, and insisting

on their being used, whether vehement or measured in their nature;

new-moulding characters, giving unthought-of turns to incidents,

rejecting carefully-elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and

adopting new ones.

Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence? Can we

indeed counteract it?

* * * * *

Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point.

What induced you to say that you would have rather written _Pride and

Prejudice_, or _Tom Jones_, than any of the Waverley Novels?

I had not seen _Pride and Prejudice_ till I read that sentence of

yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate,

daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully-fenced,

highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but

no glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh

air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with

her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These

observations will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk.

Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I never saw

any of her works which I admired throughout (even _Consuelo_, which

is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple

strange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp of

mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect;

she is sagacious and profound;--Miss Austen is only shrewd and

observant.

Am I wrong--or, were you hasty in what you said? If you have time,

I should be glad to hear further on this subject; if not, or if you

think the questions frivolous, do not trouble yourself to reply.

TO THE SAME

_The argument continued_

18 _Jan_. 1848.

Dear Sir,

I must write you one more note, though I had not intended to trouble

you again so soon. I have to agree with you, and to differ from you.

You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the 'influence'; well,

I accept your definition of what the effects of that influence should

be; I recognize the wisdom of your rules for its regulation....

What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I must

familiarize my mind with the fact, that 'Miss Austen is not a poetess,

has no "sentiment"' (you scornfully enclose the word in inverted

commas), 'no eloquence, none of the ravishing enthusiasm of

poetry',--and then you add, I _must_ 'learn to acknowledge her as _one

of the greatest artists, of the greatest painters of human character_,

and one of the writers with the nicest sense of means to an end that

ever lived'.

The last point only will I ever acknowledge.

Can there be a great artist without poetry?

What I call--what I will bend to, as a great artist then--cannot

be destitute of the divine gift. But by _poetry_, I am sure, you

understand something different to what I do, as you do by 'sentiment'.

It is _poetry_, as I comprehend the word, which elevates that

masculine George Sand, and makes out of something coarse, something

Godlike. It is 'sentiment', in my sense of the term--sentiment

jealously hidden, but genuine, which extracts the venom from that

formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive poison into

purifying elixir.

If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his

kind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe, he wishes

only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without 'sentiment',

without _poetry_, maybe _is_ sensible, real (more _real_ than _true_),

but she cannot be great.

I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not

questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass over

me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that will be,

as I have no access to a circulating library), diligently peruse all

Miss Austen's works, as you recommend.... You must forgive me for

not always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, Yours

gratefully.

TO A FRIEND

_Illness and death of Emily Bronte_

23 _Nov_. 1848.

I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied yet.

She is _very_ ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your impression

would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect

I have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues; the breathing after

the least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompanied

by pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowed

it to be felt, was found to beat 115 per minute. In this state she

resolutely refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation of

her feelings, she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to.

Our position is, and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God

only knows how all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been

forced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible,

and even probable. But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think

Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in the world.

* * * * *

10 _Dec_.

I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now interests

me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I hardly

know what to think myself. Hope and fear fluctuate daily. The pain in

her side and chest is better; the cough, the shortness of breath, the

extreme emaciation, continue. I have endured, however, such tortures

of uncertainty on this subject that, at length, I could endure it

no longer; and as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continues

immutable,--as she declares 'no poisoning doctor' shall come near

her,--I have written, unknown to her, to an eminent physician in

London, giving as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as I

could draw up, and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a day

or two. I am thankful to say that my own health at present is very

tolerable. It is well such is the case; for Anne, with the best will

in the world to be useful, is really too delicate to do or bear much.

She too, at present, has frequent pains in the side. Papa is also

pretty well, though Emily's state renders him very anxious.

* * * * *

_[Tuesday.]_

I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of hope to

say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician's opinion

was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine, which

she would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. I

pray for God's support to us all. Hitherto He has granted it.

* * * * *

21 _Dec_. 1848.

Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will suffer

more in this world. She is gone, after a hard, short conflict. She

died on _Tuesday_, the very day I wrote to you. I thought it very

possible she might be with us still for weeks; and a few hours

afterwards, she was in eternity. Yes; there is no Emily in time or

on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly

under the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why should we

be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over; the spectacle

of the pains of death is gone by; the funeral day is past. We feel she

is at peace. No need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen

wind. Emily does not feel them. She died in a time of promise. We saw

her taken from life in its prime. But it is God's will, and the place

where she is gone is better than that she has left.

God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, through such agony

as I had not conceived. I now look at Anne, and wish she were well and

strong; but she is neither; nor is papa. Could you now come to us for

a few days? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tell me if you

could come next week, and by what train. I would try to send a gig for

you to Keighley. You will, I trust, find us tranquil. Try to come. I

never so much needed the consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure,

of course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what your

kind heart would teach you to find in doing good to others.

To MR. G. SMITH

_Thackeray and 'Esmond'_

14 _Feb_. 1852.

MY DEAR SIR,

It has been a great delight to me to read Mr. Thackeray's work; and

I so seldom now express my sense of kindness that, for once, you must

permit me, without rebuke, to thank you for a pleasure so rare and

special. Yet I am not going to praise either Mr. Thackeray or his

book. I have read, enjoyed, been interested, and after all, feel full

as much ire and sorrow as gratitude and admiration. And still one

can never lay down a book of his without the two last feelings having

their part, be the subject or treatment what it may. In the first half

of the book, what chiefly struck me was the wonderful manner in which

the writer throws himself into the spirit and letters of the times

whereof he treats; the allusions, the illustrations, the style,

all seem to me so masterly in their exact keeping, their harmonious

consistency, their nice, natural truth, their pure exemption from

exaggeration. No second-rate imitator can write in that way; no coarse

scene-painter can charm us with an allusion so delicate and perfect.

But what bitter satire, what relentless dissection of diseased

subjects! Well, and this, too, is right, or would be right, if

the savage surgeon did not seem so fiercely pleased with his work.

Thackeray likes to dissect an ulcer or an aneurism; he has pleasure

in putting his cruel knife or probe into quivering, living flesh.

Thackeray would not like all the world to be good; no great satirist

would like society to be perfect.

As usual, he is unjust to women; quite unjust. There is hardly any

punishment he does not deserve for making Lady Castlewood peep through

a keyhole, listen at a door, and be jealous of a boy and a milkmaid.

Many other things I noticed that, for my part, grieved and exasperated

me as I read; but then, again, came passages so true, so deeply

thought, so tenderly felt, one could not help forgiving and

admiring....

But I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on the

political or religious intrigues of the times. Thackeray, in his

heart, does not value political or religious intrigues of any age or

date. He likes to show us human nature at home, as he himself daily

sees it; his wonderful observant faculty likes to be in action. In him

this faculty is a sort of captain and leader; and if ever any passage

in his writings lacks interest, it is when this master-faculty is for

a time thrust into a subordinate position. I think such is the case in

the former half of the present volume. Towards the middle, he throws

off restraint, becomes himself, and is strong to the close. Everything

now depends on the second and third volumes. If, in pith and interest,

they fall short of the first, a true success cannot ensue. If the

continuation be an improvement upon the commencement, if the stream

gather force as it rolls, Thackeray will triumph. Some people have

been in the habit of terming him the second writer of the day; it just

depends on himself whether or not these critics shall be justified in

their award. He need not be the second. God made him second to no man.

If I were he, I would show myself as I am, not as critics report me;

at any rate, I would do my best. Mr. Thackeray is easy and indolent,

and seldom cares to do his best. Thank you once more; and believe

me--&c.

TO THE SAME

'_Esmond' again_

10 _Nov_. 1852.

... I have read the third volume of _Esmond._ I found it both

entertaining and exciting to me; it seems to possess an impetus and

excitement beyond the other two,--that movement and brilliancy its

predecessors sometimes wanted, never fails here. In certain passages,

I thought Thackeray used all his powers; their grand, serious force

yielded a profound satisfaction. 'At last he puts forth his strength,'

I could not help saying to myself. No character in the book strikes

me as more masterly than that of Beatrix; its conception is fresh,

and its delineation vivid. It is peculiar; it has impressions of a

new kind--new at least, to me. Beatrix is not, in herself, all bad. So

much does she sometimes reveal of what is good and great as to suggest

this feeling--you would think she was urged by a Fate. You would think

that some antique doom presses on her house, and that once in so

many generations its brightest ornament was to become its greatest

disgrace. At times, what is good in her struggles against this

terrible destiny, but the Fate conquers. Beatrix cannot be an honest

woman and a good man's wife. She 'tries, and she _cannot_'. Proud,

beautiful, and sullied, she was born what she becomes, a king's

mistress. I know not whether you have seen the notice in the _Leader_;

I read it just after concluding the book. Can I be wrong in deeming

it a notice tame, cold, and insufficient? With all its professed

friendliness, it produced on me a most disheartening impression.

Surely, another sort of justice than this will be rendered to _Esmond_

from other quarters. One acute remark of the critic is to the effect

that Blanche Amory and Beatrix are identical--sketched from the same

original! To me they are about as identical as a weazel and a royal

tigress of Bengal; both the latter are quadrupeds,--both the former,

women.

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