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, andoccasionally acknowledge; then, with the desire to interest as largea section of the public as may be. Here is a medley of gay, grave, frivolous, homely, religious, sociable, refined, philosophic, andfeminine, --something for every mood, and for the proper studyof mankind. We do not hope to satisfy all critics, but we do notanticipate that we shall please none. Our difficulty has been thatof choice. Many pleasant companions we have had to pass by; to strikefrom our list many excellent letters. Those that remain are intendedto 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 heis resolute to read letters in chronological order, he will also, we hope, find in our selection some trace of the development of theEpistolary art, as, rising through earlier naiveties and formalitiesto the grace and _bel air_ of the great Augustans, it slides into thefreer, if less dignified, utterance of an age which, startled by criesof 'Equality' at its birth, has concerned itself less with form thanwith individuality and sincerity of expression. 

Three letters are included of which the originals were pennedin Latin. In a few cases the spelling and punctuation have beenmodernized. 

Our best thanks are due to Mr. J. C. Smith, whose kind criticism andinspiring suggestions have been of inestimable service to us in thepreparation 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. To the same. An old man's occupations. 

DAME DOROTHY BROWNE, 1621-1685--To her daughter in London. Three interestingpostscripts. 

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, andELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 1806-1861--To Leigh Hunt. A joint epistle. 

CHARLOTTE BRONTË, 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 Brontë. 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 ofbodye, and in good quiet of minde: and of worldly thynges I no moredesyer then I have. I beseche hym make you all mery in the hope ofheaven. And such thynges as I somewhat longed to talke with you all, concerning the worlde to come, our Lord put theim into your myndes, asI trust he dothe, and better to, by his holy spirite: who blesseyou and preserve you all. Written wyth a cole by your tender lovingfather, who in his pore prayers forgetteth none of you all, noryour babes, nor your nurses, nor your good husbandes, nor your goodhusbandes shrewde wyves, nor your fathers shrewde wyfe neither, norour 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 thecontrarye whereof I beseche hym hartelye never to suffer me live. Foras for longe life (as I have often tolde the Megge) I neyther lookefor, nor long for, but am well content to goe, yf God call me henceto morowe. And I thanke our lorde, I knowe no person living, that Iwoulde had one philippe for my sake: of whiche minde I am more gladdethen of all the worlde. 

Recommend me to your shrewde wil, and mine other sonnes, and to JohnHarris my frende, and your selfe knoweth to whome els, and to myshrewde wife above all, and God preserve you all and make and kepe youhis 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 neverhable to geve you sufficiente thankes, for the inestimable coumfortemy poore hearte received in the readyng of youre moste lovynge andgodlye letter, representing to me, the cleare shynyng bryghtenesseof youre soule, the pure temple of the holy spirite of God, which Idoubte not shall perpetuallye reste in you and you in hym. Father, ifall the worlde hadde bene geven to me, as I be saved it hadde benea small pleasure, in comparison of the pleasure I conceived of thetreasure 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 sotemperate mind, that you were contented to abyde there all your lyfewith suche libertie, they thought it wer never possible to enclyne youto theyr will, excepte it were by restrayning you from the church, andthe companye of my good mother youre deare wyfe and us youre chyldrenand bedesfolke. But father this chaunce was not straunge to you. ForI shal not forgeat howe you tolde us when we were with you in thegardeyne, that these thinges wer like ynoughe to chaunce you shortlyeafter. Father I have manye tymes rehearsed to myne owne coumfort anddyvers others, your fashyon and wordes ye hadde to us when we werelaste with you: for which I trust by the grace of god to be the betterwhile I live, and when I am departed oute of this frayle life, whichI praye God I maye passe and ende in his true obedient service, afterthe wholesome counsayle and fruitful exaumple of living I have had(good father) of you, whom I pray god geve me grace to folowe: whichI shal the better thorow the assistaunce of your devoute prayers, the speciall staye of my frayltie. Father I am sory I have no lengerlaysure 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 yourdaily prayer and blessing. 

Your most loving obedient daughter and bedeswoma Margaret Roper, whichdaily and howrely is boude to pray for you, for whom she prayethin this wise, that our lord of his infinite mercye geve you of hyshevenly comfort, and so to assist you with hys speciall grace, that yenever in any thing declyne from hys blessed will, but live and dye histrue 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 ofcountry, and seen the largest cities, I have studied the customs, institutes, laws, and religion of many men and diverse nations, withas 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 youlast summer, a maiden of noble birth, and that too in the absence ofyour tutor, in the hall of your most noble family, and at a timewhen others, both men and women, give themselves up to hunting andpleasures, you, a divine maiden, reading carefully in Greek the_Phaedo_ of the divine Plato; and happier in being so occupied thanbecause you derive your birth, both on your father's side, and on yourmother's, from kings and queens! Go on then, most accomplished maiden, to bring honour on your country, happiness on your parents, glory toyourself, 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 havingsuch a tutor . . . I ask two things of you, my dear Elmar, for I supposeyou will read this letter, that you will persuade the Lady Jane towrite me a letter in Greek as soon as possible; for she promised shewould do so . . . I have also lately written to John Sturm, and told himthat she had promised. Take care that I get a letter soon from her aswell as from you. It is a long way for letters to come, but John Haleswill 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 illustriouslady, joined with such talents and perseverance, are worthy of greatpraise in themselves, and greater still because you are a woman, butgreatest of all because you are a lady of the court; where there aremany other occupations for ladies, besides learning, and many otherpleasures besides the practice of the virtues. This double praiseis further enhanced by the two patterns that you have proposed toyourself to follow, the one furnished you by the court, the otherby your family. I mean our illustrious queen Mary, and your noblegrandfather, Thomas More--a man whose virtues go to raise Englandabove all other nations. . . . 

I am led to write thus not altogether by my admiration of you, butpartly by my own wish and more from the nature of my own office. Itwas I who was invited some years ago from the University of Cambridgeby your mother, Margaret Roper--a lady worthy of her great father, and of you her daughter--to the house of your kinsman, Lord GilesAlington, to teach you and her other children the Greek and Latintongues; but at that time no offers could induce me to leave theUniversity. It is sweet to me to bear in mind this request of yourmother'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 mybest to fulfil them, were it not that you have so much learningin yourself, and also the aid of those two learned men, Cole andChristopherson, so that you need no help from me, unless in theirabsence 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 arevery small) but because of my will (which I know is very great), andbecause of the opportunity long wished for and now granted me. Forby favour of that great bishop the Lord Stephen of Winchester, I havebeen fetched away from the University to serve our illustrious queenat court, and that too in such a post, that I can there follow thesame mode of life for the discharge of my duties as I did at theUniversity for study. My office is to write Latin letters for thequeen, and I hope I shall fulfil that office, if not with ability, yet faithfully, diligently, and unblameably . . . Farewell, mostaccomplished 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 incolafuit anima mea_, than myself. For I do confess, since I was of anyunderstanding, my mind hath in effect been absent from that I havedone; and in absence are many errors which I do willingly acknowledge;and amongst the rest this great one that led the rest; that knowingmyself by inward calling to be fitter to hold a book than to play apart, I have led my life in civil causes; for which I was not very fitby nature, and more unfit by the preoccupation of my mind. Thereforecalling myself home, I have now for a time enjoyed myself; whereoflikewise I desire to make the world partaker. My labours (if I may soterm that which was the comfort of my other labours) I have dedicatedto the King; desirous, if there be any good in them, it may be as thefat of a sacrifice, incensed to his honour: and the second copy I havesent 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 theshrines where the saint is, or is believed to be; and you having builtan Ark to save learning from deluge, deserve propriety in any newinstrument 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 yousayled, which I hope will come vnto you; for in this wind, neither canReare-admirall Kempthorne come to you, nor you beginne your voyage. I am glad you like Lucan so well. I wish more military men could readhim; in this passage you mention, there are noble straynes; and suchas may well affect generous minds. Butt I hope you are more taken withthe verses then the subject, and rather embrace the expression thenthe 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 knowyou are sober and considerative, yet knowing you also to be of greatresolution; and having also heard from ocular testimonies with whatvndaunted and persevering courage you have demeaned yourself in greatdifficulties; and knowing your captaine to bee a stout and resoluteman; and with all the cordiall friendshippe that is between you; Icannot omitt my earnest prayers vnto God to deliver you from such atemptation. Hee that goes to warre must patiently submitt vnto thevarious accidents thereof. To bee made prisoner by an vnequall andoverruling power, after a due resistance, is no disparagement; buttupon a carelesse surprizall or faynt opposition; and you have so gooda memorie that you cannot forgett many examples thereof, even of theworthiest commanders in your beloved Plutark. God hath given you astout, butt a generous and mercifull heart withall; and in all yourlife you could never behold any person in miserie butt with compassionand relief; which hath been notable in you from a child: so have youlayd up a good foundation for God's mercy; and, if such a disastershould happen, Hee will, without doubt, mercifully remember you. Howeuer, 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; andwithout 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, andbring it in the bark, not in powder. I am glad you haue receaued thebill of exchange for Cales; if you should find occasion to make vsethereof. Enquire farther at Tangier of the minerall water you toldmee, which was neere the towne, and whereof many made use. Take noticeof such plants as you meet with, either upon the Spanish or Africancoast; and if you knowe them not, putt some leaves into a booke, though carelessely, and not with that neatenesse as in your booke atNorwich. Enquire after any one who hath been at Fez; and learne whatyou can of the present state of that place, which hath been so famousin the description of Leo and others. The mercifull providence of Godgo 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 ofphysicall meanes, or that at a hundred yeares of age 'tis either afolly or a shame to vse meanes to liue longer, and yet I haue knownemany send to mee for their seuerall troubles at a hundred yeares ofage, and this day a poore woeman being a hundred and three yearesand 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 ofthe meaner and poorer sort of people. Tho. Parrot was butt a meane orrather poore man. Your brother Thomas gaue two pence a weeke to JohnMore, a scauenger, who dyed in the hundred and second yeare of hislife; and 'twas taken the more notice of that the father of Sir JohnShawe, who marryed my Lady Killmorey, and liueth in London, I say thathis father, who had been a vintner, liued a hundred and two yeares, orneere it, and dyed about a yeere agoe. God send us to number our dayesand 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 profitby you whenever we meet, you are often to me, and were yesterdayespecially, as a good watchman to admonish that the hours of the nightpass on (for so I call my life, as yet obscure and unserviceable tomankind), and that the day with me is at hand, wherein Christ commandsall to labour, while there is light. Which because I am persuaded youdo to no other purpose than out of a true desire that God should behonoured 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 notwithout God. Yet now I will not strain for any set apology, but onlyrefer myself to what my mind shall have at any time to declare herselfat her best ease. 

But if you think, as you said, that too much love of learning is infault, and that I have given up myself to dream away my years in thearms of studious retirement, like Endymion with the moon, as the taleof Latmus goes; yet consider that if it were no more but the merelove of learning--whether it proceed from a principle bad, good, or natural--it could not have held out thus long against so strongopposition on the other side of every kind. For, if it be bad, whyshould not all the fond hopes that forward youth and vanity are fledgewith, together with gain, pride, and ambition, call me forward morepowerfully than a poor, regardless, and unprofitable sin of curiosityshould be able to withhold me; whereby a man cuts himself off from allaction, and becomes the most helpless, pusillanimous, and unweaponedcreature in the world, the most unfit and unable to do that whichall mortals most aspire to--either to be useful to his friends or tooffend his enemies? Or, if it be to be thought a natural proneness, there is against that a much more potent inclination inbred, whichabout this time of a man's life solicits most--the desire of house andfamily of his own; to which nothing is esteemed more helpful than theearly entering into credible employment, and nothing more hinderingthan this affected solitariness. And though this were enough, yetthere is to this another act, if not of pure, yet of refined nature, no less available to dissuade prolonged obscurity--a desire of honourand repute and immortal fame, seated in the breast of every truescholar; which all make haste to by the readiest ways of publishingand divulging conceived merits--as well those that shall, as thosethat never shall, obtain it. Nature, therefore, would presently workthe more prevalent way, if there were nothing but this inferior bentof herself to restrain her. Lastly, the love of learning, as it is thepursuit of something good, it would sooner follow the more excellentand supreme good known and presented, and so be quickly diverted fromthe empty and fantastic chase of shadows and notions, to the solidgood flowing from due and timely obedience to that command in theGospel set out by the terrible seasing of him that hid the talent. 

It is more probable, therefore, that not the endless delight ofspeculation, but this very consideration of that great commandment, does not press forward, as soon as many do, to undergo, but keepsoff, with a sacred reverence and religious advisement how _best_ toundergo--not taking thought of being _late_, so it give advantageto be more _fit_; for those that were latest lost nothing, when themaster of the vineyard came to give each one his hire. And here I amcome to a stream-head, copious enough to disburden itself, like Nilus, at seven mouths into an ocean. But then I should also run into areciprocal contradiction of ebbing and flowing at once, and do thatwhich I excuse myself for not doing--'preach and not preach. ' Yet, that you may see that I am something suspicious of myself, and do takenotice of a certain belatedness in me, I am the bolder to send yousome of my nightward thoughts some while since, because they come innot altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrarchian stanza, which I toldyou 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 ofthis matter; for, if I have not all this while won you to this, Ihave certainly wearied you of it. This, therefore, alone may be asufficient reason for me to keep me as I am, lest having thus tiredyou singly, I should deal worse with, a whole congregation, and spoilall the patience of a parish; for I myself do not only see my owntediousness, but now grow offended with it, that has hindered me thuslong from coming to the last and best _period_ of my letter, andthat which must now chiefly work my pardon, that I am your true andunfeigned _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, andparticularly to that of your Athens; and have never ceased to cherishthe persuasion that that city would one day make me ample recompensefor the warmth of my regard. The ancient genius of your renownedcountry has favoured the completion of my prophecy in presenting mewith your friendship and esteem. Though I was known to you only by mywritings, and we were removed to such a distance from each other, youmost courteously addressed me by letter; and when you unexpectedlycame to London, and saw me who could no longer see, my affliction, which causes none to regard me with greater admiration, and perhapsmany even with feelings of contempt, excited your tenderest sympathyand concern. You would not suffer me to abandon the hope of recoveringmy 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 beforehim the causes and the symptoms of the complaint. I will do what youdesire, lest I should seem to reject that aid which perhaps may beoffered me by Heaven. It is now, I think, about ten years since Iperceived my vision to grow weak and dull; and at the same time Iwas troubled with pain in my kidneys and bowels, accompanied withflatulency. In the morning, if I began to read, as was my custom, my eyes instantly ached intensely, but were refreshed after a littlecorporeal exercise. The candle which I looked at, seemed as it wereencircled with a rainbow. Not long after the sight in the left part ofthe left eye (which I lost some years before the other) became quiteobscured, and prevented me from discerning any object on thatside. The sight in my other eye has now been gradually and sensiblyvanishing away for about three years; some months before it hadentirely perished, though I stood motionless, everything which Ilooked at seemed in motion to and fro. A stiff cloudy vapour seemedto have settled on my forehead and temples, which usually occasions asort of somnolent pressure upon my eyes, and particularly from dinnertill the evening. So that I often recollect what is said of the poetPhineas 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 laydown on my bed and turned on either side, a flood of light used togush from my closed eyelids. Then, as my sight became daily moreimpaired, the colours became more faint and were emitted with acertain inward crackling sound; but at present, every species ofillumination being, as it were, extinguished, there is diffused aroundme nothing but darkness, or darkness mingled and streaked with anashy brown. Yet the darkness in which I am perpetually immersed seemsalways, 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 particleof light, as through a chink. And though your physician may kindlea small ray of hope, yet I make up my mind to the malady as quiteincurable; and I often reflect, that as the wise man admonishes, days of darkness are destined to each of us, the darkness which Iexperience, less oppressive than that of the tomb, is, owing to thesingular goodness of the Deity, passed amid the pursuits of literatureand the cheering salutations of friendship. But if, as is written, 'Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedethfrom the mouth of God, ' why may not any one acquiesce in the privationof his sight, when God has so amply furnished his mind and hisconscience with eyes? While He so tenderly provides for me, whileHe so graciously leads me by the hand, and conducts me on the way, Iwill, since it is His pleasure, rather rejoice than repine at beingblind. And, my dear Philaras, whatever may be the event, I wish youadieu with no less courage and composure than if I had the eyes of alynx. 

[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 ofthis place, whither I am retired to pass and mourn the absence of myworthiest friend. Here is wood and water, meadows and mountains, theDryads and Hamadryads; but here's no Mr. Pepys, no Dr. Gale. Nothingof all the cheer in the parlour that I taste; all's insipid, and allwill be so to me, till I see and enjoy you again. I long to know whatyou do, and what you think, because I am certain you do both whatis worthy the knowing and imitation. On Monday next will Mr. Bentleyresume his lecture, I think, at Bow Church: I fear I shall hardlyget through this wilderness by that time. Pray give him your wontedconfidence if you can, and tell him how unhappily I am entangled. Ihope, however, to get home within this fortnight, and about the end ofOctober to my hyemation in Dover Street. My son is gone with the LordLieutenant, and our new relation, Sir Cyril Wych, into Ireland: I lookthey should return wondrous statesmen, or else they had as well havestayed at home. I am here with Boccalini, and Erasmus's _Praise ofFolly_, and look down upon the world with wondrous contempt, whenI consider for what we keep such a mighty bustle. _O fortunate_ Mr. Pepys! who knows, possesses, and enjoys all that's worth the seekingafter. 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 repassso near Clapham without a particular account of your health and allyour happy family. You will now inquire what I do here? Why, as thepatriarchs of old, I pass the days in the fields, among horses andoxen, sheep, cows, bulls, and sows, _et cetera pecora campi_. We have, thank God! finished our hay harvest prosperously. I am looking aftermy hinds, providing carriage and tackle against reaping time andsowing. What shall I say more? _Venio ad voluptates agricolarum_, which Cicero, you know, reckons amongst the most becoming diversionsof old age; and so I render it. This without: now within doors, neverwas any matron more busy than my wife, disposing of our plaincountry furniture for a naked old extravagant house, suitable toour employments. She has a dairy, and distaffs, for _lac, linum, etlanam_, and is become a very Sabine. But can you thus hold out? Willmy friend say; is philosophy, Gresham College, and the example of Mr. Pepys, and agreeable conversation of York Buildings, quite forgottenand 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 dayswholly destitute of my young coadjutor, who, upon some pretence ofbeing much engaged in the mathematics, and desiring he may continuehis course at Oxford till the beginning of August, I have wholly leftit to him. You will now suspect something by this disordered hand;truly I was too happy in these little domestic affairs, when, on thesudden, as I was about my books in the library, I found myself sorelyattacked with a shivering, followed by a feverish indisposition, anda strangury, so as to have kept, not my chamber only, but my bed, tillvery lately, and with just so much strength as to scribble these linesto you. For the rest, I give God thanks for this gracious warning, mygreat age calling upon me _sarcinam componere_ every day expecting it, who have still enjoyed a wonderful course of bodily health for fortyyears. . . . 

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 ofall sorts: and I give you many thanks for the troble you have had withthem: I sent you Tomey's scurt and long slevs of his ould cott; I hopeyou have them. On Mr. Felden it seemes took it last Wadinsday, andsayd hee would deliver it him selfe. Wee dayly wish for the newcloths; all our linen being worne out but shefts, and Tomey would giveall his stock to see his briches. I bless God wee ar all well asI hope you ar. Tomey presents his dutty, your sisters all love andservices. 

[4 _July_. ]

GOOD DAUGHTER, I must troble you once more abought my cosen Tenoson. She wouldmacke a manto gown of the grene and whight silke you sent down for apeticot, but she wants two yards, and as much slit grene sarsinat aswill line it in sight. I pray send nurs to gett it and lett meeknow what it com to, and I will send you the mony. I sayes my CossenCradock might send it me by the choch for she would have it as sonneas possible. I bless God wee ar all in helth, and Tomey much longingfor his briches. 

[5 _July_. ]

Tomey have received his cloues, and is much delighted, and sends youand his mother and grandmother dutty and thanckes, and meanes to warthem 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 myselfboth much surprised and troubled to receive a letter from you uponsuch an occasion: so is my wife, who professes herself wholly innocentof any crime of charging you in thought, word, or deed, and hopes youwill do her that right to believe so of her. My daughter Berkeley saysshe expressed some trouble that the friend she recommended had notsuccess, and that she was told the Commissioners of the Navy didreport they had given the same recommendations of the person sheproposed, as they did of him that was accepted, for the lieutenant'splace; which my daughter, supposing to be true, wondered the more helost the preferment: but, by the copies enclosed in your's, it appearsher Ladyship was very much misinformed. As for Mrs. Henrietta, sheis extremely troubled in saying any thing that gave you offence; andthough 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, andtherefore need not say any thing to vindicate myself, yet give meleave, upon this occasion, to assure you, that there is no personhas a better opinion of you than myself, nor is more sensible of yourparticular civilities to me; which I should be very glad to make areturn of when in my power to serve you: and give me leave to addfurther, without flattery to you, and with great sincerity, that Ibelieve our gracious master, His Majesty, is so fortunate in employingyou in his service, that, if he should lose you, it would be verydifficult for His Majesty to find a successor so well qualified inall respects for his service, if we consider both your integrity, vastabilities, industry, and zealous affections for his service; and, if His Majesty were asked the question, I will hold ten to one HisMajesty declares himself of my opinion; so will I believe all thatknow you, more especially our fellow-traders that are so conversantwith you and obliged by you. 

This is asserted as a great truth by, Sir, your very affectionate andhearty 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 yourlast 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, andI fear that I shall be so old before I am good, that 'twill not beconsiderable to any body but myself whether I am so or not. . . . You askme how I pass my time here. I can give you a perfect account, not onlyof what I do for the present, but what I am likely to do this sevenyears 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 ofmaking 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 statein a room and at a table that would hold a great many more. Afterdinner we sit and talk till Mr. P. Comes in question, and then I amgone. The heat of the day is spent in reading or working; and aboutsix or seven o'clock I walk out into a common that lies hard by thehouse, where a great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, andsit in the shade singing of ballads; I go to them, and compare theirvoices and beauty to some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, and find a vast difference there; but, trust me, I think these areas innocent as those could be. I talk to them, and find _theywant nothing to make them the happiest people in the world but theknowledge that they are so_. Most commonly, while we are in the middleof our discourse, one looks about her, and spies her cows going intothe corn, and then away they all run as if they had wings at theirheels. I that am not so nimble stay behind, and when I see themdriving home their cattle think it is time for me to return too. WhenI have supped I go into the garden, and so to the side of a smallriver that runs by it, where I sit down and wish you with me (youhad best say this is not kind, neither). In earnest, it is a pleasantplace, and would be more so to me if I had your company, as I sitthere sometimes till I am lost with thinking; and were it not for somecruel thoughts of the crossness of my fortune, that will not let mesleep there, I should forget there were such a thing to be done asgoing to bed. Since I writ this, my company is increased by two, mybrother Harry, and a fair niece, my brother Peyton's daughter. She isso much a woman that I am almost ashamed to say I am her aunt, and sopretty, that if I had any design to gain a servant I should not likeher company; but I have none, and therefore I shall endeavour to keepher here as long as I can persuade her father to spare her, for shewill easily consent to it, having so much of my humour (though itbe the worst thing in her) as to like a melancholy place, and littlecompany. . . . My father is reasonably well, but keeps his chamber still;but will hardly, I am afraid, ever be so perfectly recovered as tocome 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 wouldmake you see what I never discovered in my life before, that I ama valiant lady. In earnest, we have had such a skirmish and upon sofoolish an occasion, as I cannot tell which is strangest. The Emperorand his proposals began it; I talked merrily on it till I saw mybrother put on his sober face, and could hardly then believe he wasin earnest. It seems he was; for when I had spoke freely my meaning itwrought so with him, as to fetch up all that lay upon his stomach: allthe people that I had ever in my life refused were brought again uponthe stage, like Richard the Third's ghosts, to reproach me withal, andall the kindness his discoveries could make I had for you was laid tomy charge; my best qualities, if I have any that are good, servedbut for aggravations of my fault, and I was allowed to have wit, andunderstanding, and discretion, in all other things, that it mightappear I had none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty lecture, and I grewwarm with it after a while. In short, we came so near to an absolutefalling out that 'twas time to give over, and we said so much thenthat we have hardly spoken a word together since. But 'tis wonderfulto see what courtesies and legs pass between us, and as before we werethought the kindest brother and sister, we are certainly now the mostcomplimental couple in England: it is a strange change, and I am verysorry 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 shouldnot: would you believe that I had the grace to go to hear a sermonupon a week-day? In earnest, 'tis true, and Mr. Marshall was the manthat preached, but never any body was so defeated. He is so famed thatI expected rare things from him, and seriously I listened to him atfirst 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, noqueens, 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 someforty times, which made me remember it, whether I would or not. The rest was much at this rate, entertained with the prettiest oddphrases, that I had the most ado to look soberly enough for the placeI 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 towardsthe bringing anybody to heaven more than by exercising their patience;yet I'll say that for him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though inmy opinion few deserve them less than he, and it may be he would bebetter without them. Yet you say you are not convinced that to bemiserable 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 leastbreath of good fortune swells them with so much pride, that if theywere not put in mind sometimes by a sound cross or two that they aremortal, they would hardly think it possible; and though it is a signof a servile nature, when fear produces more of reverence in usthan love, yet there is more danger of forgetting one's self in aprosperous fortune than in the contrary; and affliction may be thesurest 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 ina husband. My cousin F. Says our humours must agree, and to do that hemust have that kind of breeding that I have had, and used to that kindof company; that is, he must not be so much a country gentleman as tounderstand nothing but hawks and dogs, and be fonder of either than ofhis wife; nor of the next sort of them, whose time reaches no fartherthan to be justice of peace, and once in his life high sheriff, whoreads no book but statutes, and studies nothing but how to make aspeech interlarded with Latin, that may amaze his disagreeing poorneighbours, and fright them rather than persuade them into quietness. He must not be a thing that began the world in a free school, was sentfrom thence to the university, and is at his farthest when he reachesthe inns of court; has no acquaintance but those of his form in thoseplaces; speaks the French he has picked out of old laws, and admiresnothing but the stories he has heard of the revels that were keptthere before his time. He must not be a town gallant neither, thatlives in a tavern and an ordinary; that cannot imagine how an hourshould be spent without company unless it be in sleeping; that makescourt to all the women he sees, thinks they believe him, and laughsand is laughed at equally. Nor a travelled Monsieur, whose head isfeathered inside and outside, that can talk of nothing but of dancesand duels, and has courage enough to wear slashes, when every bodyelse dies with cold to see him. He must not be a fool of no sort, norpeevish, nor ill-natured, nor proud, nor courteous; and to all thismust be added, that he must love me, and I him, as much as we arecapable of loving. Without all this his fortune, though never sogreat, would not satisfy me, and with it a very moderate one wouldkeep 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 werewont to be, when we first met, if you will not have me show that I amnothing akin to my cousin Osborne's lady. But what an age it is sincewe 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 veryhandsome or very ugly. For God's sake, when we meet, let us design oneday to remember old stories in, to ask one another by what degreesour friendship grew to this height 'tis at. In earnest, I am lostsometimes in thinking of it, and though I can never repent of theshare you have in my heart, I know not whether I gave it you willinglyor not at first. No; to speak ingenuously, I think you got an interestthere a good while before I thought you had any, and it grew soinsensibly and yet so fast, that all the traverses it has met withsince have served rather to discover it to me than at all to hinderit. 

TO THE SAME. 

_Wilful woman_

[No date; c. 1653. ]

I was carried yesterday abroad to a dinner that was designed formirth, but it seems one ill-humoured person in the company is enoughto put all the rest out of tune, for I never saw people perform whatthey intended worse, and could not forbear telling them so; but toexcuse themselves and silence my reproaches they all agreed to saythat I spoiled their jollity by wearing the most unseasonable looksthat could be put on for such an occasion. I told them I knew noremedy but leaving me behind them; that my looks were suitable tomy fortune though not to a feast. Fie, I am got into my complaininghumour that tires myself as well as every body else, and which (as youobserve) helps not at all; would it would leave me and that I shouldnot always have occasion for it, but that's in nobody's power, and myLady Talmash, that says she can do whatever she will, cannot believewhatsoever she pleases. 'Tis not unpleasant, methinks, to hear hertalk how at such a time she was sick, and the physicians told her shewould have the small-pox and showed her where they were coming outupon her, but she bethought herself that it was not at all convenientfor her to have them at that time; some business she had that requiredher going abroad, and so she resolved she would not be sick nor wasnot. Twenty such stories as these she tells, and then falls intodiscourses of the strength of reason and power of philosophy till sheconfounds herself and all that hear her. You have no such ladies inIreland. . . . My poor Lady Vavasor is carried to the Tower, and hersituation could not excuse her, because she was acquainted by somebodythat 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 sayfrom whence she had it; we shall see whether her resolutions are asunalterable as those of my Lady Talmash. I wonder how she behavedherself when she was married; I never yet saw anybody that did notlook simply and out of countenance, nor ever knew a wedding welldesigned but one, and that was of two persons who had time enough Iconfess to contrive it, and nobody to please in it but themselves. Hecame down into the country where she was upon a visit, and one morningmarried her; as soon as they came out of the church, they took coachand came for the town, dined at an Inn by the way, and at night cameinto lodgings that were provided for them, where nobody knew them, and where they passed for married people of seven years' standing. Thetruth is I could not endure to be Mrs. Bride in a public wedding, tobe made the happiest person on earth; do not take it ill, for I wouldendure it if I could, rather than fail, but in earnest I do not thinkit were possible for me; you cannot apprehend the formalities of atreaty more than I do, nor so much the success of it. Yet in earnestyour father will not find my brother Peyton wanting in civility(though he is not a man of much compliment unless it be in his lettersto 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 hissister than she deserves. I know not how he may be prejudiced upon thebusiness, but he is not deaf to reason when it is civilly delivered, and is as easily gained with compliance and good usage as any bodyI know, but no other way; when he is roughly used he is like me tentimes the worse for it. I make it a case of conscience to discover myfaults to you as fast as I know them, that you may consider what youhave to do: my aunt told me no longer ago than yesterday, that I wasthe most wilful woman that ever she knew, and had an obstinacy ofspirit nothing could overcome. Take heed, you see I give you fairwarning. 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 laidaside, which I am not displeased at, because it would have broken ourintercourse very much. Here are some verses of Cowley's; pray tell mehow you like them. It is only a piece taken out of a new thing ofhis. The whole is very long, and is a description of, or rather aparaphrase upon, the friendships of David and Jonathan. 'Tis I thinkthe best I have seen of his, and I like the subject because it is thatI 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 todiffuse itself in expressions of friendship to me, that it meritsa great deal more acknowledgement than I am able to pay at my bestcondition, and am less now when my head aches, and will give me noleave to enlarge, though I have so much subject and reason; but reallyif my heart ached too, I could be sensible of a very great kindnessand condescension in thinking me worthy of your concern, thoughI visibly perceive most of my letters have lost their way to yourLadyship. I beseech you be pleased first to believe I have writtenevery post; but, secondly, since I came, and then to enquire for them, that they may be commended into your hands, where alone they can hopefor a favourable residence; I am very much a sharer by sympathy, inyour Ladyship's satisfaction in the converse you had in the country, and find that to that ingenious company Fortune hath been just, therebeing no person fitter to receive all the admiration of persons bestcapable 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, butI humbly beg your Ladyship to unriddle that part of your letter, forI cannot understand why you, madam, who have no persons alive to whomyour birth hath submitted you, and have already by your life securedto yourself the best opinion the world can give you, should create anawe upon your own actions, from imaginary inconveniences: Happiness, I confess, is two-faced, and one is opinion; but that opinion iscertainly _our own_; for it were equally ridiculous and impossibleto shape our _actions_ by others' _opinions_. I have had so much (andsome sad) reason to discuss this principle, that I can speak with someconfidence, That _none will ever be happy, who make their happiness toconsist in, or be governed by the votes of other persons. _ I denynot but the approbation of wise and good persons is a very necessarysatisfaction; but to forbear innocent contentments, only because it'spossible some fancies may be so capricious as to dispute whether Ishould have taken them, is, in my belief, neither better nor worsethan to fast always, because there are some so superstitious in theworld, that will abstain from meat, upon some score or other, uponevery day in the year, that is, some upon some days, and othersupon others, and some upon all. You know, madam, there is nothing sovarious as _vulgar opinion_, nothing so untrue to itself. Who shallthen please since none can fix it? 'Tis heresy (this of submitting toevery blast of popular extravagancy) which I have combated in personsvery dear to me; _Dear madam_, let them not have your authority for arelapse, when I had almost committed them; but consider it without abias, and give sentence as you see cause; and in that interim put menot off (_Dear madam_) with those chimeras, but tell me plainly whatinconvenience 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 youractions by others' opinion, when I know too that the severest couldfind nothing in this journey that they could condemn, but your excessof charity to me, and that censure you have already supported withpatience, and (notwithstanding my own consciousness of no waysdeserving your sufferance upon that score) I cannot beg you to recoverthe reputation of your judgement in that particular, since it must bemy ruin. I should now say very much for your most obliging commands tome, to write, and should beg frequent letters from your Ladyship withall possible importunity, and should by command from my _Lucasia_excuse her last rudeness (as she calls it) in giving you account ofher 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, forreally, madam, you cannot tell how to imagine any person more to anyone, than I am, _Madam, Your Ladyship'smost 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 youmake my life of much more concern to the world than your own. I takeit, as it is, for an effect of your kindness, and so shall not accuseyou of compliment; the mistakes and over-valuings of good-will beingalways sincere, even when they exceed what common truth allows. Thison my side I must beg you to believe, that my life would be much morepleasant and useful to me, if you were within my reach, that I mightsometimes enjoy your conversation, and, upon twenty occasions, laymy thoughts before you, and have the advantage of your judgement. Icannot complain that I have not my share of friends of all ranks, andsuch, whose interest, assistance, affection, and opinions too, in fitcases, I can rely on. But methinks, for all this, there is one placevacant, that I know nobody that would so well fill as yourself; I wantone near me to talk freely with, _de quolibet ente_; to propose tothe extravagancies that rise in my mind; one with whom I would debateseveral doubts and questions, to see what was in them. Meditating byone's self, is like digging in the mine; it often, perhaps, brings upmaiden earth, which never came near the light before; but whether itcontains any metal in it, is never so well tried as in conversationwith a knowing judicious friend who carries about with him the truetouchstone, which is love of truth in a clear-thinking head. Men ofparts and judgement the world usually gets hold of, and by a greatmistake (that their abilities of mind are lost, if not employed in thepursuit of wealth or power) engages them in the ways of fortune andinterest, which usually leave but little freedom or leisure of thoughtfor pure disinterested truth. And such who give themselves up frankly, and in earnest to the full latitude of real knowledge, are noteverywhere to be met with. Wonder not, therefore, that I wish so muchfor you in my neighbourhood; I should be too happy in a friend of yourmake, were you within my reach. But yet I cannot but wish that somebusiness would once bring you within distance; and it is a pain to meto think of leaving the world without the happiness of seeing you. 

I do not wonder that a kinsman of yours should magnify civilities thatscarce deserve the name; I know not wherein they consisted, but inbeing glad to see one that was in any way related to you, and washimself a very ingenious man; either of those was a title to more thanI did, or could show him. I am sorry I have not yet had an opportunityto wait on him in London; and I fear he should be gone before I amable to get thither. This long winter, and cold spring, has hung veryheavy upon my lungs, and they are not yet in a case to be ventured inLondon 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 thepress. But what perhaps will seem stranger, and possibly please youbetter, an abridgement is now making (if it be not already done) byone of the university of Oxford, for the use of young scholars, in theplace of the ordinary system of logic. From the acquaintance I had ofthe temper of that place I did not expect to have it get much footingthere. But so it is, I some time since received a very civil letterfrom one, wholly a stranger to me there, concerning such a design; andby another from him since, I conclude it near done. He seems to be aningenious man, and he writes sensibly about it, but I can say nothingof it till I see it; and he, of his own accord, has offered that itshall be wholly submitted to my opinion, and disposal of it. And thus, sir, possibly that which you once proposed may be attained to, and Iwas pleased with the gentleman's design for your sake. 

You are a strange man, you oblige me very much by the care you taketo have it well translated, and you thank me for complying with youroffer. In my last, as I remember, I told you the reason why it wasso long before I writ, was an expectation of an answer from London, concerning something I had to communicate to you: it was in shortthis; I was willing to know what my bookseller would give for a goodlatin copy; he told me, at last, twenty pounds. His delay was, becausehe would first have known what the translator demanded. But I forcedhim to make his proposal, and so I send it to you, to make what use ofit you please. He since writ me word, that a friend of his at Oxfordwould, in some time, be at leisure to do it, and would undertake it. Ibid 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 toshow you the next week after you writ to me last) pleased you. Thinkit not a compliment, that I desire you to make what alterations youthink fit. One thing particularly you will oblige me and the world in, and that is, in paring off some of the superfluous repetitions, whichI left in for the sake of illiterate men, and the softer sex, not usedto abstract notions and reasonings. But much of this reasoning willbe 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 agreewith your thoughts, since yours jump so right with mine, about theplace 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 givean historical account of the various ravings men have embraced forreligion, would, I fear, be besides my purpose, and be enough to makean huge volume. 

My opinion of P. Malebranche agrees perfectly with yours. What Ihave writ concerning 'seeing all things in God', would make a littletreatise of itself. But I have not quite gone through it, for fearI should by somebody or other be tempted to print it. For I love notcontroversies, and have a personal kindness for the author. When Ihave the happiness to see you, we will consider it together, and youshall dispose of it. 

I think I shall make some other additions to be put into your latintranslation, and particularly concerning the 'connection of ideas', which has not, that I know, been hitherto considered, and has, Iguess, a greater influence upon our minds than is usually taken noticeof. Thus, you see, I make you the confident of my reveries; you wouldbe 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 dearbrother. I doubt not but, on this occasion, you need all theconsolation can be given to one unexpectedly bereft of so worthy andnear a relation. Whatever inclination I may have to alleviate yoursorrow, I bear too great a share in the loss, and am too sensiblytouched with it myself, to be in a condition to discourse with you onthis subject, or do any thing but mingle my tears with yours. I havelost, in your brother, not only an ingenious and learned acquaintance, all that the world esteemed; but an intimate and sincere friend, whomI 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 oftreasure. He has left a son, who I know was dear to him, and deservedto be so as much as was possible, for one of his age. I cannot thinkmyself wholly incapacitated from paying some of the affection andservice that was due from me to my dear friend, as long as he has achild, 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 serveyour 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 Iam, 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 myLadies for the honour at the same time done me, in their commandstouching Mr. Bonithan. But, my Lord, I have lately had the misfortuneof being undeceived in the latter, by coming to know the severity withwhich some of my Ladies are pleased to discourse of me in relationthereto. I assure your Lordship, I was so big with the satisfaction ofhaving 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 deservinggentleman, that I did not let one day pass before I had bespoke andobtained His Majesty's and Royal Highness's promise of favour in Mr. Bonithan's behalf: and was so far afterwards from failing him in myfurther assistances with Captain Trevanion and others, that I tookearly care to secure him a lieutenancy, by a commission actuallysigned for him by the King, in the ship _Stavereene_, relying upon thecharacter Captain Trevanion had given me of his capacity to abidethe examination, established by the King, upon the promotion oflieutenants; which was not only the most I should have done in thecase 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 wasfound not so fully qualified for the office of lieutenant as wasrequisite, I did with all respect, and to his seeming satisfaction, advise him to pass a little longer time in the condition he wasthen in, under a stricter application of himself to the practice ofnavigation. And, in pursuance of my duty to the King, I did acquainthim also with Mr. Bonithan's present unreadiness; and had, therefore, a command given me for conferring the commission prepared for him uponanother, who, upon examination, at the same time with Mr. Bonithan, was found better qualified for it. As to what I understand my Ladiesare pleased to entertain themselves and others with, to my reproach, as if money had been wanting in the case, it is a reproach lost uponme, my Lord, who am known to be so far from needing any purgation inthe point of selling places, as never to have taken so much as my feefor a commission or warrant to any one officer in the Navy, withinthe whole time, now near twenty years, that I have had the honour ofserving His Majesty therein--a self-denial at this day so little infashion, and yet so chargeable to maintain, that I take no pride, and as little pleasure, in the mentioning it, further than it happilyfalls in here to my defence against the mistake the Ladies seemdisposed to arraign me by on this occasion. Besides that, in theparticular case of this gentleman, Lieut. Beele, who enjoys thecommission designed for Mr. Bonithan, he is one whose face I neversaw either before or since the time of his receiving it, nor know onefriend he has in the world to whom he owes this benefit, other thanthe King's justice and his own modest merit: which, having said, itremains only that I assure your Lordship what I have so said, is notcalculated with any regard to, much less any repining at, the usagethe Ladies are pleased to show me in this affair, for 'tis fit I bearit, but to acquit myself to your Lordship in my demeanour towardsthem, 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 asyou can, and notices of your health, such as the bearer brings youback my thanks for, and a thousand services. Here's a sad town, andGod knows when it will be a better, our losses at sea making a verymelancholy exchange at both ends of it; the gentlewomen of this, tosay nothing of the other, sitting with their arms across, without ayard of muslin in their shops to sell, while the ladies, they tellme, walk pensively by, without a shilling, I mean a good one, in theirpockets to buy. One thing there is indeed, that comes in my way as aGovernor, to hear of, which carries a little mirth with it, and indeedis very odd. Two wealthy citizens that are lately dead, and left theirestates, one to a Blue Coat boy, and the other to a Blue Coat girl, inChrist's Hospital. The extraordinariness of which has led some ofthe magistrates to carry it on to a match, which is ended in a publicwedding; he in his habit of blue satin, led by two of the girls, andshe in blue, with an apron green and petticoat yellow, all of sarsnet, led by two of the boys of the house, through Cheapside to GuildhallChapel, where they were married by the Dean of St. Paul's, she givenby my Lord Mayor. The wedding dinner, it seems, was kept in theHospital 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 alsohave had a ticket of invitation thither, and if I can, will be theretoo, 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, Icannot presently tell; but it is likely enough, for I have known themring 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 thatwill bear naming, and yet I am not, I think, idle; for who can, thathas 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 youare doing. But pray remember what o'clock it is with you and me; andbe not now, by overstirring, too bold with your present complaint, anymore than I dare be with mine, which, too, has been no less kind ingiving 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 orunwelcome. I wish, nevertheless, that I were able to administer anything towards the lengthening that precious rest of life which God hasthus long blessed you, and, in you, mankind, with; but I have alwaysbeen too little regardful of my own health, to be a prescriber toothers. I cannot give myself the scope I otherwise should in talkingnow to you at this distance, on account of the care extraordinary I amnow under from Mrs. Skinner's being suddenly fallen very ill; but erelong I may possibly venture at entertaining you with something frommy young man in exchange--I don't say in payment, for the pleasure yougratify me with from yours, whom I pray God to bless with continuingbut 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 crumbof an answer to any of MD's; there is for you now; and yet Prestoben't angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain nextIrish post, except he sees MD's little handwriting in the glass frameat the bar of St. James's Coffee-house, where Presto would never gobut for that purpose. Presto's at home, God help him, every night fromsix till bed time, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life atpresent as anybody in the world, although in full favour with all theministry. As hope saved, nothing gives Presto any sort of dream ofhappiness, but a letter now and then from his own dearest MD. I lovethe 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 toMD, I am happy too; it is just as if methinks you were here, and Iprating 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 sothen I answer; Ford and I were visiting Mr. Lewis, and Mr. Prior, andPrior has given me a fine Plautus, and then Ford would have had medine at his lodgings, and so I would not; and so I dined with him atan 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 andsister, and Sir Andrew Fountaine is mending, though slowly. 

17. I was making, this morning, some general visits, and at twelve Icalled at the coffee-house for a letter from MD; so the man said hehad given it to Patrick; then I went to the Court of requests andtreasury to find Mr. Harley, and after some time spent in mutualreproaches, 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 tohave it sent by Smyth; Sterne says he has been making inquiries, and will set things right as soon as possible. I suppose it lies atChester, 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 dogPatrick was abroad; at last he came, and I got my letter; I foundanother hand had superscribed it; when I opened it, I found it writtenall in French, and subscribed Bernage: faith, I was ready to flingit at Patrick's head. Bernage tells me, he had been to desire yourrecommendation 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 youwere 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 secondletter I have had without any direction; however, I beg I may not havea third, but that you will ask him, and send me how I shall directto him. In the meantime, tell him, that if regiments are to be raisedhere, 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 withhis 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 todine at Mr. Harley's alone, about some business of importance; butthere were two or three gentlemen there. Mr. Secretary and I wenttogether from his office to Mr. Harley's, and thought to have beenvery 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 therest 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 thatflask, 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 byme, and yet I could not keep the toad from drinking himself, nor hewould not let me go neither, nor Masham, who was with us. When Igot home, I found a parcel directed to me, and opening it, I founda pamphlet written entirely against myself, not by name, but againstsomething I writ: it is pretty civil, and affects to be so, and Ithink I will take no notice of it; it is against something writtenvery lately; and indeed I know not what to say, nor do I care; and soyou are a saucy rogue for losing your money to-day at Stoyte's; to letthat bungler beat you, my Stella, are not you ashamed? well, I forgiveyou 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; andhave not been out so late these two months; but the secretary was in adrinking humour. So good night, myownlittledearsaucyinsolentrogues. 

19. Then you read that long word in the last line, no faith have notyou. Well, when will this letter come from our MD? to-morrow or nextday without fail; yes faith, and so it is coming. This was an insipidsnowy 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'smaxim:

 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 LadyWorsley, whom I had not seen before, although she was near a month intown. Then I walked in the Park to find Mr. Ford, whom I had promisedto meet, and coming down the Mall, who should come towards me butPatrick, and gives me five letters out of his pocket. I read thesuperscription of the first, Pshoh, said I; of the second, pshohagain; 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 marrythis is something, this is our MD, so truly we opened it, I thinkimmediately, and it began the most impudently in the world, thus; DearPresto, we are even thus far. Now we are even, quoth Stephen, when hegave his wife six blows for one. I received your ninth four days afterI 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 yougot your eleventh? tell me that, huzzies base, were we even then, werewe, sirrah? but I will not answer your letter now, I will keep it foranother time. We had a great deal of snow to-day, and it is terriblecold. . . . 

21. _Morning_. It has snowed terribly all night, and is vengeancecold. I am not yet up, but cannot write long; my hands will freeze. Isthere a good fire, Patrick? Yes, sir, then I will rise; come take awaythe 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 betweenme and the window, and I keep the curtains shut this cold weather. So pray let me rise, and, Patrick, here, take away the candle. --_Atnight. _ We are now here in high frost and snow, the largest fire canhardly keep us warm. It is very ugly walking, a baker's boy broke histhigh yesterday. I walk slow, make short steps, and never tread on myheel. 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 notyou remember I used to come into your chamber, and turn Stella out ofher 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 fourdays, that I could not write to MD. My head is not in order, and yetit is not absolutely ill, but giddyish, and makes me listless; I walkevery day, and hope I shall grow better. I wish I were with MD; I longfor spring and good weather, and then I will come over. My riding inIreland keeps me well. I am very temperate, and eat of the easiestmeats as I am directed, and hope the malignity will go off; butone 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 allthe journal I can send MD; for I was so lazy while I was well that Icould 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 neverallow quality or station made any real difference between men. Beingnow absent and forgotten, I have changed my mind: you have a thousandpeople who can pretend they love you, with as much appearance ofsincerity as I, so that, according to common justice, I can have buta thousandth part in return of what I give. And this difference iswholly 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 towardmyself, I could wish you a private man to-morrow: for I have nothingto 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 willingnessattend you in a retirement, whenever you please to give me leave, thanever I did at London or Windsor. From these sentiments I will neverwrite 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 willcarry to my grave; that having been in a manner domestic with youfor almost four years, it was never in the power of any public orconcealed enemy to make you think ill of me, though malice and envywere often employed to that end. If I live, posterity shall know that, and more; which, though you, and somebody that shall be nameless, seemto 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 yourmemory? 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 neitherassuming, officious, nor teasing; who never wilfully misrepresentedpersons or facts to you, nor consulted his passions when he gavea character; and lastly, as one, whose indiscretions proceededaltogether from a weak head, and not an ill heart. I will add onething more, which is the highest compliment I can make, that I neverwas afraid of offending you, nor am now in any pain for the mannerI 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 hasbeen stopped three days by the bad weather; but now I will send themby the post to-morrow to Kells, and enclosed to Mr. Tickell there isone to you, and one to James Stopford. 

I can do no work this terrible weather; which has put us all seventytimes out of patience. I have been deaf nine days, and am now prettywell recovered again. 

Pray desire Mr. Stanton and Worral to continue giving themselves sometrouble with Mr. Pratt; but let it succeed or not, I hope I shall beeasy. 

Mrs. Johnson swears it will rain till Michaelmas. She is so pleasedwith her pick-axe, that she wears it fastened to her girdle on herleft side, in balance with her watch. The lake is strangely overflown, and we are desperate about turf, being forced to buy it three milesoff: and Mrs. Johnson (God help her!) gives you many a curse. Yourmason is come, but cannot yet work upon your garden. Neither can Iagree with him about the great wall. For the rest, _vide_ the letteryou will have on Monday, if Mr. Tickell uses you well. 

The news of this country is, that the maid you sent down, JohnFarelly's sister, is married; but the portion and settlement are yet asecret. The cows here never give milk on midsummer eve. 

You would wonder what carking and caring there is among us for smallbeer and lean mutton, and starved lamb, and stopping gaps, and drivingcattle from the corn. In that we are all-to-be-Dingleyed. 

The ladies' room smokes; the rain drops from the skies into thekitchen; our servants eat and drink like the devil, and pray for rain, which entertains them at cards and sleep; which are much lighter thanspades, 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, aswe are all at this present writing &c. 

Robin has just carried out a load of bread and cold meat forbreakfast; this is their way; but now a cloud hangs over them, forfear it should hold up, and the clouds blow off. 

I write on till Molly comes in for the letter. O, what a draggletailwill she be before she gets to Dublin! I wish she may not happen tofall 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, andclaret. Happy weather for Mrs. Maul, Betty, and Stopford, and all truelovers 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 suchmystical terms, that I should never have found out the meaning, if abook had not been sent me called _Gulliver's Travels_, of which yousay so much in yours. I read the book over, and in the second volumeobserved several passages which appear to be patched and altered, andthe style of a different sort, unless I am mistaken. Dr. Arbuthnotlikes 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 aremost to be blamed; so that in these cases, I think the best method isto let censure and opinion take their course. A bishop here said, thatbook was full of improbable lies, and for his part, he hardly believeda word of it; and so much for Gulliver. 

Going to England is a very good thing, if it were not attended withan ugly circumstance of returning to Ireland. It is a shame you do notpersuade your ministers to keep me on that side, if it were but by acourt expedient of keeping me in prison for a plotter; but at the sametime 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 fiftythousand lies sooner than he can publish fifty fables. . . . Let me add, that if I were Gulliver's friend, I would desire all my acquaintanceto 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 secondvolume 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 asyour letter itself, for want of that limb from my lady duchess, whichyou promised, and without which I wonder how it could limp hither. Iam not in a condition to make a true step even on Amesbury Downs, andI declare that a corporeal false step is worse than a political one:nay, worse than a thousand political ones, for which I appeal tocourts and ministers, who hobble on and prosper without the sense offeeling. To talk of riding and walking is insulting me, for I canas soon fly as do either. It is your pride or laziness, more thanchair-hire, that makes the town expensive. No honour is lost bywalking in the dark; and in the day you may beckon a blackguardboy under a gate, near your visiting place, (experto crede, ) saveelevenpence, and get half-a-crown's worth of health. The worst of mypresent misfortune is, that I eat and drink, and can digest neitherfor want of exercise; and, to increase my misery, the knaves aresure to find me at home, and make huge void spaces in my cellars. Icongratulate with you for losing your great acquaintance; in such acase, philosophy teaches that we must submit, and be content with goodones. I like Lord Cornbury's refusing his pension, but I demur at hisbeing elected for Oxford; which, I conceive, is wholly changed; andentirely devoted to new principles; so it appeared to me the two lasttimes I was there. I find by the whole cast of your letter, that youare 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 towish you had some little place that you could call your own, but, Iprofess I do not know you well enough to contrive any one systemof life that would please you. You pretend to preach up riding andwalking to the duchess, yet from my knowledge of you after twentyyears, you always joined a violent desire of perpetually shiftingplaces and company, with a rooted laziness, and an utter impatience offatigue. 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 suitedto your taste, and how glad would you be if it could waft you in theair 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. Youmortally hate writing, only because it is the thing you chiefly oughtto do; as well to keep up the vogue you have in the world, as to makeyou easy in your fortune. You are merciful to everything but money, your best friend, whom you treat with inhumanity. Be assured I willhire people to watch all your motions, and to return me a faithfulaccount. Tell me, have you cured your absence of mind? can you attendto trifles? can you at Amesbury write domestic libels to divert thefamily and neighbouring squires for five miles round? or venture sofar on horseback, without apprehending a stumble at every step? canyou set the footmen a-laughing as they wait at dinner? and do theduchess's women admire your wit? in what esteem are you with the vicarof the parish? can you play with him at backgammon? have the farmersfound out that you cannot distinguish rye from barley, or an oak froma crab-tree? You are sensible that I know the full extent of yourcountry skill is in fishing for roaches or gudgeons at the highest. 

I love to do you good offices with your friends, and therefore desireyou will show this letter to the duchess, to improve her grace's goodopinion of your qualifications, and convince her how useful you arelikely to be in the family. Her grace shall have the honour of mycorrespondence again when she goes to Amesbury. Hear a piece of Irishnews; I buried the famous General Meredyth's father last night in mycathedral, he was ninety-six years old; so that Mrs. Pope may liveseven years longer. You saw Mr. Pope in health, pray is he generallymore healthy than when I was among you? I would know how your ownhealth is, and how much wine you drink in a day? My stint in companyis a pint at noon, and half as much at night; but I often dine at homelike a hermit, and then I drink little or none at all. Yet I differfrom you, for I would have society, if I could get what I like, peopleof 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 uponreading the contents of it. The work you mention will, I dare say, very sufficiently recommend itself when your name appears with theproposals: and if you think I can any way contribute to the forwardingof them, you cannot lay a greater obligation upon me, than byemploying me in such an office. As I have an ambition of having itknown that you are my friend, I shall be very proud of showing it bythis or any other instance. I question not but your translation willenrich our tongue, and do honour to our country; for I conclude ofit already from those performances with which you have obliged thepublic. I would only have you consider how it may most turn to youradvantage. Excuse my impertinence in this particular, which proceedsfrom my zeal for your ease and happiness. The work would cost you agreat 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 thatis equal to it besides yourself. 

I am at present wholly immersed in country business, and begin to takea delight in it. I wish I might hope to see you here some time, andwill not despair of it, when you engage in a work that will requiresolitude and retirement. 

TO MR. SECRETARY CRAGGS

_A bequest_

_June_ 1719. 

DEAR SIR, I cannot wish that any of my writings should last longer than thememory of our friendship, and therefore I thus publicly bequeath themto 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 someyears, I know well-qualified to answer my intentions. He has alreadythe honour and happiness of being under your protection; and as hewill very much stand in need of it, I cannot wish him better thanthat he may continue to deserve the favour and countenance of such apatron. 

I have no time to lay out in forming such compliments as would but illsuit that familiarity between us which was once my greatest pleasure, and will be my greatest honour hereafter. Instead of them, accept ofmy hearty wishes that the great reputation you have acquired so early, may increase more and more, and that you may long serve your countrywith those excellent talents and unblemished integrity, which have sopowerfully recommended you to the most gracious and amiable monarchthat ever filled a throne. May the frankness and generosity of yourspirit continue to soften and subdue your enemies, and gain you manyfriends, if possible, as sincere as yourself. When you have foundsuch, they cannot wish you more true happiness than I, who am with thegreatest zeal, dear sir, Your most entirely affectionate friendand 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 thistrouble to urge the same request I made then; which was, that I may beadmitted to wait upon you. I should be very far from desiring this ifit were a transgression of the most severe rules to allow it. I knowyou are very much above the little arts which are frequent in yoursex, of giving unnecessary torment to their admirers; I therefore hopeyou will do so much justice to the generous passion I have for you, asto let me have an opportunity of acquainting you upon what motivesI pretend to your good opinion. I shall not trouble you with mysentiments till I know how they will be received; and as I know noreason why the difference of sex should make our language to eachother differ from the ordinary rules of right reason, I shall affectplainness and sincerity in my discourse to you, as much as otherlovers do perplexity and rapture. Instead of saying 'I shall die foryou', I profess I should be glad to lead my life with you. You areas beautiful, as witty, as prudent, and as good-humoured as any womanbreathing; but, I must confess to you, I regard all these excellencesas 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 becomingmutual. I beg of you to let Mrs. Warren send me word when I may attendyou. 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 thetender moment of first seeing you after this declaration which hasbeen made by, madam, Your most obedient and most faithfulhumble servant. 

TO THE SAME

_A pleasing transport_

Smith Street, Westminster, 1707. 

Madam, --I lay down last night with your image in my thoughts, andhave awakened this morning in the same contemplation. The pleasingtransport with which I am delighted has a sweetness in it attendedwith a train of ten thousand soft desires, anxieties, and cares. The day arises on my hopes with new brightness; youth, beauty, andinnocence are the charming objects that steal me from myself, and giveme joys above the reach of ambition, pride, or glory. Believe me, fairone, to throw myself at your feet is giving myself the highest blissI know on earth. Oh, hasten, ye minutes! bring on the happy morningwherein 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 toattend to business. As for me, all who speak to me find me out, and Imust lock myself up, or other people will do it for me. 

A gentleman asked me this morning, 'What news from Lisbon?' and Ianswered, 'She's exquisitely handsome. ' Another desired to know when Ihad been last at Hampton Court. I replied, 'It will be on Tuesday comese'nnight. ' Pr'ythee allow me at least to kiss your hand before thatday, 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 earthwould fail in saying how much, and with what disinterested passion, Iam 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 soonas you can conveniently, and call for me here, from whence we will goand spend some time together in the fresh air in free conference. Letmy best periwig be put in the coach-box, and my new shoes, for it isa great comfort to be well dressed in agreeable company. You are vitallife 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 littledispute we have had is far from being a trouble to you; neverthelessI assure you, any disturbance between us is the greatest affliction tome imaginable. You talk of the judgement of the world; I shall nevergovern my actions by it, but by the rules of morality and rightreason. I love you better than the light of my eyes or the life-bloodin my heart; but you are also to understand that neither my sightshall be so far enchanted, nor my affection so much master of me, as to make me forget our common interest. To attend my business asI ought, and improve my fortune, it is necessary that my time andmy will should be under no direction but my own. . . . I write all thisrather to explain my own thoughts to you, than to answer your letterdistinctly. I enclose it to you, that upon second thoughts, you maysee the disrespectful manner in which you treat

Your affectionate, faithful husband. 

TO THE SAME

_Four characteristic notes_

I

From the Press, one in the morning, 30 _Sept. _ 1710. 

Dear Prue, --I am very sleepy and tired, but could not think of closingmy eyes till I had told you I am, dearest creature, Your most affectionate and faithful husband. 

II

Bloomsbury Square, 24 _Dec. _ 1713. 

Dear Prue, --I dine with Lord Halifax and shall be at home half hourafter six. For thee I die, for thee I languish. 

III

16 _Feb. _ 1716-17. 

Dear Prue, --Sober or not, I am ever yours. 

IV

Thursday, 3 in the afternoon, 2 _May_, 1717. 

I had a very painful night last night; but, after a little chocolatean 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 youfor the length of it. I do not know another whom I could commend forthat circumstance; but where we entirely love, the continuance ofanything they do to please us is a pleasure. As for your relations, once for all, pray take it for granted, that my regard and conducttowards all and singular of them shall be as you direct. 

I hope, by the grace of God, to continue what you wish me, everyway, an honest man. My wife and my children are the objects that havewholly taken up my heart; and as I am not invited or encouraged inanything which regards the public, I am easy under that neglect orenvy of my past actions, and cheerfully contract that diffusive spiritwithin the interests of my own family. You are the head of us; and Istoop 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 atChelsea, what I think may contribute to our better way of living. I very much approve Mrs. Evans and her husband; and if you take myadvice, I would have them a being in our house, and Mrs. Clark thecare and inspection of the nursery. I would have you entirelyat leisure to pass your time with me in diversions, in books, inentertainments, and no manner of business intrude upon us but atstated 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 careand housewifery, and I know not what prepossession againstconversation-pleasures, robs me of the witty and the handsome womanto a degree not to be expressed. I will work my brains and fingers toprocure us plenty of all things, and demand nothing of you but to takedelight in agreeable dresses, cheerful discourses, and gay sights, attended by me. This may be done by putting the kitchen and thenursery in the hands I propose; and I shall have nothing to do but topass as much time at home as I possibly can, in the best company inthe world. We cannot tell here what to think of the trial of my LordOxford; if the ministry are in earnest in that, and I should see itwill 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 bevery prettily dressed, as likewise shall Betty and Eugene: and ifI throw away a little money in adorning my brats, I hope you willforgive me: they are, I thank God, all very well; and the charmingform of their mother has tempered the likeness they bear to theirrough 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 oneGulliver, which has been the conversation of the whole town eversince: the whole impression sold in a week: and nothing is morediverting than to hear the different opinions people give of it, though all agree in liking it extremely. It is generally said that youare the author; but I am told the bookseller declares, he knowsnot from what hand it came. From the highest to the lowest it isuniversally read, from the cabinet-council to the nursery. Thepoliticians to a man agree, that it is free from particularreflections, but that the satire on general societies of men istoo severe. Not but we now and then meet with people of greaterperspicuity, who are in search for particular applications in everyleaf; and it is highly probable we shall have keys published togive light into Gulliver's design. Lord ---- is the person who leastapproves it, blaming it as a design of evil consequence to depreciatehuman nature, at which it cannot be wondered that he takes mostoffence, being himself the most accomplished of his species, and solosing more than any other of that praise which is due both to thedignity and virtue of a man. Your friend, my Lord Harcourt, commendsit very much, though he thinks in some places the matter too farcarried. The Duchess Dowager of Marlborough is in raptures at it; shesays she can dream of nothing else since she read it: she declaresthat she has now found out that her whole life has been lost incaressing the worst part of mankind, and treating the best as herfoes: and that if she knew Gulliver, though he had been the worstenemy she ever had, she should give up her present acquaintance forhis friendship. You may see by this, that you are not much injuredby being supposed the author of this piece. If you are, you havedisobliged us, and two or three of your best friends, in not givingus 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, hecould have added such abundance of things upon every subject. Amonglady critics, some have found out that Mr. Gulliver had a particularmalice to maids of honour. Those of them who frequent the church, sayhis design is impious, and that it is depreciating the works of theCreator. 

Notwithstanding, I am told the princess has read it with greatpleasure. As to other critics, they think the flying island is theleast entertaining; and so great an opinion the town have of theimpossibility of Gulliver's writing at all below himself, it is agreedthat part was not writ by the same hand, though this has its defenderstoo. It has passed lords and commons, _nemine contradicente_; and thewhole 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 neverseen, and which has not yet reached Ireland; if it has not, I believewhat 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, toexplain the difficult passages to you. 

We all rejoice that you have fixed the precise time of your coming tobe _cum hirundine prima_; which we modern naturalists pronounce, ought to be reckoned, contrary to Pliny, in this northern latitude offifty-two degrees, from the end of February, Styl. Greg. , at furthest. But to us, your friends, the coming of such a black swallow as youwill make a summer in the worst of seasons. We are no less glad atyour mention of Twickenham and Dawley; and in town you know, you havea lodging at court. 

The princess is clothed in Irish silk; pray give our service to theweavers. We are strangely surprised to hear that the bells in Irelandring without your money. I hope you do not write the thing that isnot. 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 yourservice. I fear you do not understand these modish terms, which everycreature now understands but yourself. 

You tell us your wine is bad, and that the clergy do not frequent yourhouse, which we look upon to be tautology. The best advice we can giveyou 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 arewith, 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 witha man, whom in his writings I had so long known with pleasure; butit 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 toknow him: _Virgilium tantum vidi_. Had I been born early enough Imust have known and loved him: for I have been assured, not onlyby yourself, but by Mr. Congreve and Sir William Trumbul, that hispersonal qualities were as amiable as his poetical, notwithstandingthe many libellous misrepresentations of them, against which theformer of these gentlemen has told me he will one day vindicate him. Isuppose those injuries were begun by the violence of party, but itis no doubt they were continued by envy at his success and fame. Andthose scribblers who attacked him in his latter times, were only likegnats in a summer's evening, which are never very troublesome but inthe 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 ownperformances 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 theirnotice. For critics, as they are birds of prey, have ever a naturalinclination to carrion: and though such poor writers as I are butbeggars, no beggar is so poor but he can keep a cur, and no authoris so beggarly but he can keep a critic. I am far from thinking theattacks of such people any honour or dishonour even to me, much lessto Mr. Dryden. I agree with you that whatever lesser wits have arisensince his death are but like stars appearing when the sun is set, thattwinkle only in his absence, and with the rays they have borrowedfrom him. Our wit (as you call it) is but reflection or imitation, therefore scarce to be called ours. True wit, I believe, may bedefined a justness of thought, and a facility of expression. . . . However, this is far from a complete definition; pray help me to abetter, 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, thatwere worth communicating to you in a letter. But I am at lengthconvinced that my rambling head can produce nothing of that sort; soI must e'en be content with telling you the old story, that I loveyou heartily. I have often found by experience, that nature andtruth, though never so low or vulgar, are yet pleasing when openly andartlessly represented: it would be diverting to me to read the veryletters of an infant, could it write its innocent inconsistencies andtautologies just as it thought them. This makes me hope a letter fromme will not be unwelcome to you, when I am conscious I write with moreunreservedness than ever man wrote, or perhaps talked, to another. Itrust your good nature with the whole range of my follies, and reallylove you so well, that I would rather you should pardon me than esteemme; since one is an act of goodness and benevolence, the other a kindof constrained deference. 

You cannot wonder my thoughts are scarce consistent, when I tell youhow they are distracted. Every hour of my life my mind is strangelydivided; this minute perhaps I am above the stars, with a thousandsystems round about me, looking forward into a vast abyss, andlosing my whole comprehension in the boundless space of creation, indialogues with Whiston and the astronomers; the next moment I am belowall trifles, grovelling with T---- in the very centre of nonsense: nowI am recreated with the brisk sallies and quick turns of wit, whichMr. Steele, in his liveliest and freest humours, darts about him; andnow levelling my application to the insignificant observations andquirks of grammar of C---- and D----. 

Good God! what an incongruous animal is man! how unsettled in his bestpart, his soul; and how changing and variable in his frame of body!the constancy of the one shook by every notion, the temperament of theother affected by every blast of wind! What is he, altogether, but amighty 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 aboutpassing our time when all our space is but a point! what aims andambitions are crowded into this little instant of our life, which(as Shakespeare finely worded it) is rounded with a sleep! Our wholeextent of being is no more, in the eye of Him who gave it, than ascarce perceptible moment of duration. Those animals whose circle ofliving 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. Whoknows what plots, what achievements a mite may perform in his kingdomof a grain of dust, within his life of some minutes; and of how muchless consideration than even this, is the life of man in the sight ofGod, who is for ever and ever?

Who that thinks in this train, but must see the world, and itscontemptible grandeurs, lessen before him at every thought? It isenough to make one remain stupefied in a poise of inaction, void ofall desires, of all designs, of all friendships. 

But we must return (through our very condition of being) to our narrowselves, and those things that affect ourselves: our passions, ourinterests flow in upon us and unphilosophize us into mere mortals. Formy part, I never return so much into myself, as when I think ofyou, whose friendship is one of the best comforts I have for theinsignificancy 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 NewEngland, wherein you will find a real person, a member of theirparliament, of the name of Jonathan Gulliver. If the fame of thattraveller has travelled thither, it has travelled very quick, to havefolks christened already by the name of the supposed author. But ifyou object that no child so lately christened could be arrived atyears of maturity to be elected into parliament, I reply (to solve theriddle) that the person is an Anabaptist, and not christened tillfull age, which sets all right. However it be, the accident is verysingular that these two names should be united. 

Mr. Gay's opera has been acted near forty days running, and willcertainly continue the whole season. So he has more than a fence abouthis thousand pounds; he will soon be thinking of a fence about his twothousand. 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 Ino prospect of getting to you on the other? This world is made forCaesar, --as Cato said, for ambitious, false, or flattering people todomineer in; nay, they would not, by their good will, leave us ourvery books, thoughts, or words in quiet. I despise the world yet, Iassure you, more than either Gay or you, and the court more than allthe rest of the world. As for those scribblers for whom you apprehendI would suppress my _Dulness_ (which, by the way, for the future youare to call by a more pompous name, the _Dunciad_), how much that nestof 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 friendsto posterity, both in verse and prose, and (as Tully calls it) _inconsuetudine studiorum_. Would to God our persons could but as welland as surely be inseparable! I find my other ties dropping from me;some worn off, some torn off, some relaxing daily: my greatest, bothby duty, gratitude, and humanity, time is shaking every moment, andit now hangs but by a thread! I am many years the older for living somuch with one so old; much the more helpless for having been so longhelped and tendered by her; much the more considerate and tender, fora daily commerce with one who required me justly to be both to her;and consequently the more melancholy and thoughtful; and the less fitfor others, who want only in a companion or a friend to be amused orentertained. My constitution too has had its share of decay as well asmy 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 morehealth, which might make me not quite insupportable. Your deafnesswould agree with my dulness; you would not want me to speak whenyou could not hear. But God forbid you should be as destitute of thesocial comforts of life as I must when I lose my mother; or that everyou should lose your more useful acquaintance so utterly, as to turnyour thoughts to such a broken reed as I am, who could so ill supplyyour 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 yourconcerns; so that though the pleasantest thing you can tell me be thatyou are better or easier; next to that it pleases me that you make methe person you would complain to. 

As the obtaining the love of valuable men is the happiest end Iknow of this life, so the next felicity is to get rid of fools andscoundrels; which I cannot but own to you was one part of my design infalling upon these authors, whose incapacity is not greater than theirinsincerity, 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 degreeof modesty; but however, if it silence these fellows, it must besomething 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 yourletter between two haycocks, but his attention is somewhat diverted bycasting 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 thetriumvirate between yourself and me: though he says, that he doubts heshall fare like Lepidus, while one of us runs away with all the power, like Augustus, and another with all the pleasures, like Anthony. It isupon a foresight of this that he has fitted up his farm, and you willagree that his scheme of retreat at least is not founded upon weakappearances. Upon his return from the Bath, all peccant humours, hefinds, are purged out of him; and his great temperance and economy areso signal, that the first is fit for my constitution, and the latterwould enable you to lay up so much money as to buy a bishopric inEngland. As to the return of his health and vigour, were you here, youmight inquire of his haymakers; but as to his temperance, I can answerthat (for one whole day) we have had nothing for dinner but muttonbroth, beans, and bacon, and a barn-door fowl. 

Now his lordship is run after his cart, I have a moment left to myselfto tell you, that I overheard him yesterday agree with a painterfor £200, to paint his country hall with trophies of rakes, spades, prongs, &c. , and other ornaments, merely to countenance his callingthis place a farm--now turn over a new leaf. 

He bids me assure you, he should be sorry not to have more schemes ofkindness for his friends than of ambition for himself; there, thoughhis schemes may be weak, the motives at least are strong; and hesays farther, if you could bear as great a fall and decrease of yourrevenues, as he knows by experience he can, you would not live inIreland an hour. 

The _Dunciad_ is going to be printed in all pomp, with theinscription, which makes me proudest. It will be attended with_proeme, prolegomena, testimonia scriptorum, index authorum_, andnotes _variorum_. As to the latter, I desire you to read over thetext, 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 theancients. Adieu. I am pretty well, my mother not ill, Dr. Arbuthnotvexed with his fever by intervals; I am afraid he declines, and weshall 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 yourlast, that I would write often to you, would be a very easy task: forevery day I talk with you, and of you, in my heart; and I need onlyset down what that is thinking of. The nearer I find myself verging tothat period of life which is to be labour and sorrow, the more I propmyself upon those few supports that are left me. People in this stateare like props indeed; they cannot stand alone, but two or more ofthem can stand, leaning and bearing upon one another. I wish you and Imight pass this part of life together. My only necessary care is atan end. I am now my own master too much; my house is too large; mygardens furnish too much wood and provision for my use. My servantsare sensible and tender of me; they have intermarried, and are becomerather low friends than servants; and to all those that I see herewith pleasure, they take a pleasure in being useful. I conclude thisis your case too in your domestic life, and I sometimes think of yourold housekeeper as my nurse, though I tremble at the sea, which onlydivides us. As your fears are not so great as mine, and I firmly hopeyour strength still much greater, is it utterly impossible it mightonce more be some pleasure to you to see England? My sole motive inproposing France to meet in, was the narrowness of the passage by seafrom hence, the physicians having told me the weakness of my breast, &c. , is such, as a sea-sickness might endanger my life. Though one ortwo of our friends are gone since you saw your native country, thereremain a few more who will last so till death; and who I cannot buthope have an attractive power to draw you back to a country whichcannot quite be sunk or enslaved, while such spirits remain. And letme tell you, there are a few more of the same spirit, who would awakenall your old ideas, and revive your hopes of her future recovery andvirtue. These look up to you with reverence, and would be animated bythe 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 consistentwith a contempt for the knaves in it. 

I could never be weary, except at the eyes, of writing to you; but myreal 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 beingkept by the partiality of friends, and passing into the hands andmalice of enemies, who publish them with all their imperfections ontheir 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 youin the voyage I could so certainly depend on; and bring with you yourold housekeeper and two or three servants. I have room for all, aheart 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 somesort of monument, what friends two wits could be in spite of all thefools 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 youridea of love excluded gratitude. 

And further on, you are offended that I call this same passion 'alittle selfish passion'. 

And you say that you have known few girls, and still fewer men, whomyou have thought 'capable of being in love'. 

'By this', proceed you, 'you will see that my ideas of the word loveare different from yours, when you call it a little selfish passion. '

Now, madam, if that passion is not little and selfish that makes twovehement souls prefer the gratification of each other, often to asense of duty, and always to the whole world without them, be pleasedto tell me what is? And pray be so good as to define to me what thenoble 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 forinformation; and that I may make my Sir Charles susceptible of thegenerous (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 agreat exigence. But the man who rescued her is not, it seems, to havesuch 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 yoursex), in Sir Charles's character; and I sincerely declare, that Iwould rather form his character to your liking, than to the liking ofthree 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 theopinion that I have of Miss Mulso on these nice subjects?--I asktherefore repeatedly for your definition of the passion which youdignify 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 aman of exalted merit to be in love with? Why, truly, I am half of yourmind; 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 allthat. 

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 terriblyin love. And yet, I know one excellent girl who is afraid 'that ladiesin general will think him too wise'. --Dear, dear girls, help me to afew monkey-tricks to throw into his character, in order to shield himfrom contempt for his wisdom. 

'It is one of my maxims, ' you say, 'that people even of bad heartswill admire and love people of good ones. ' Very true!--and yetadmiration and love, in the sense before us, do not always shakehands, except at parting, and with an intention never to meet again. Ihave known women who professed to admire good men, but have chosento marry men--not so good, when lovers of both sorts have tenderedthemselves to their acceptance. There is something very pretty in thesound of the word wild, added to the word fellow; and good sense isa very grateful victim to be sacrificed on the altar of love. Fervourand extravagance in expressions will please. How shall a woman, who, moreover, loves to be admired, know a man's heart, but fromhis lips?--Let him find flattery, and she will find credulity. Sweetsouls! can they be always contradicting?

You believe it is not in human nature, however depraved, to preferevil to good in another, whatever people may do in themselves. Why, noone would really think so, did not experience convince us that many, very many young women, in the article of marriage, though not beforethought to be very depraved, are taken by this green sickness of thesoul, and prefer dirt and rubbish to wholesome diet. The result of thematter is this, with very many young women: they will admire a goodman, 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'sdifficulties: I intend to make her shine by her cordial approbation, as she goes along, of every good action of her beloved. She ishumbled by her love (suspense in love is a mortifier) to think herselfinferior to his sisters; but I intend to raise her above them, evenin her own just opinion; and when she shines out the girl worthy ofa man, not exalt, but reward her, and at the same time make him thinkhimself 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 withher, 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 longletter, yet I will keep my promise in giving you an account of myfirst going to court. 

In order to that ceremony, I was squeezed up in a gown, and adornedwith a gorget and the other implements thereunto belonging: a dressvery inconvenient, but which certainly shews the neck and shapeto great advantage. I cannot forbear in this place giving you somedescription of the fashions here, which are more monstrous andcontrary to all common sense and reason, than 'tis possible for youto imagine. They build certain fabrics of gauze on their heads abouta yard high, consisting of three or four stories, fortified withnumberless yards of heavy ribbon. The foundation of this structure isa thing they call a _Bourle_, which is exactly of the same shapeand kind, but about four times as big, as those rolls our prudentmilk-maids make use of to fix their pails upon. This machine theycover 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 intoa moderate tub. Their hair is prodigiously powdered, to conceal themixture, and set out with three or four rows of bodkins (wonderfullylarge, that stick two or three inches from their hair), made ofdiamonds, pearls, red, green, and yellow stones, that it certainlyrequires as much art and experience to carry the load upright, as todance upon May-day with the garland. Their whalebone petticoats outdoours by several yards circumference, and cover some acres of ground. 

You may easily suppose how much this extraordinary dress sets off andimproves the natural ugliness with which God Almighty has been pleasedto endow them all generally. Even the lovely empress herself isobliged to comply, in some degree, with these absurd fashions, whichthey would not quit for all the world. I had a private audience(according to ceremony) of half an hour, and then all the other ladieswere permitted to come make their court. I was perfectly charmedwith the empress: I cannot, however, tell you that her features areregular; her eyes are not large, but have a lively look, full ofsweetness; her complexion the finest I ever saw; her nose and foreheadwell-made, but her mouth has ten thousand charms that touch thesoul. When she smiles, 'tis with a beauty and sweetness that forceadoration. She has a vast quantity of fine fair hair; but then herperson!--one must speak of it poetically to do it rigid justice; allthat the poets have said of the mien of Juno, the air of Venus, comesnot up to the truth. The Graces move with her; the famous statue ofMedicis was not formed with more delicate proportion; nothing can beadded to the beauty of her neck and hands. Till I saw them, I did notbelieve there were any in nature so perfect, and I was almost sorrythat my rank here did not permit me to kiss them; but they are kissedsufficiently; for every body that waits on her pays that homage attheir entrance, and when they take leave. 

When the ladies were come in, she sat down to Quinze. I could not playat a game I had never seen before, and she ordered me a seat at herright hand, and had the goodness to talk to me very much, with thatgrace so natural to her. I expected every moment when the men were tocome in to pay their court; but this drawing-room is very differentfrom that of England; no man enters it but the old grand-master, whocomes in to advertize the empress of the approach of the emperor. His imperial majesty did me the honour of speaking to me in a veryobliging manner; but he never speaks to any of the other ladies; andthe whole passes with a gravity and air of ceremony that has somethingvery formal in it. 

The empress Amelia, dowager of the late emperor Joseph, camethis evening to wait on the reigning empress, followed by the twoarchduchesses her daughters, who are very agreeable young princesses. Their imperial majesties rise and go to meet her at the door of theroom, 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 permissionof paying their Court. The archduchesses sit on chairs with backswithout arms. The table is entirely served, and all the dishes set onby the empress's maids of honour, which are twelve young ladies of thefirst quality. They have no salary, but their chambers at court, wherethey live in a sort of confinement, not being suffered to go to theassemblies or public places in town, except in compliment to thewedding of a sister maid, whom the empress always presents with herpicture set in diamonds. The three first of them are called _Ladiesof the Key_, and wear gold keys by their sides; but what I find mostpleasant, is the custom which obliges them, as long as they live, after they have left the empress's service, to make her some presentevery year on the day of her feast. Her majesty is served by nomarried women but the _grande maîtresse_, who is generally a widow ofthe first quality, always very old, and is at the same time groom ofthe stole, and mother of the maids. The dresses are not at all in thefigure they pretend to in England, being looked upon no otherwise thanas downright chambermaids. 

I had audience next day of the empress mother, a princess of greatvirtue and goodness, but who piques herself so much on a violentdevotion; she is perpetually performing extraordinary acts of penance, without having ever done anything to deserve them. She has the samenumber of maids of honour, whom she suffers to go in colours; but sheherself never quits her mourning; and sure nothing can be more dismalthan the mourning here, even for a brother. There is not the least bitof 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 werepilloried. The widows wear, over and above, a crape forehead cloth;and in this solemn weed go to all the public places of diversionwithout scruple. The next day I was to wait on the empress Amelia, whois now at her palace of retirement half a mile from the town. I hadthere the pleasure of seeing a diversion wholly new to me, but whichis the common amusement of this court. The empress herself was seatedon a little throne at the end of a fine alley in the garden, and oneach side of her were ranged two parties of her ladies of honour withother young ladies of quality, headed by the two young archduchesses, all dressed in their hair full of jewels, with fine light guns intheir 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 valianthere_. The second a FORTUNE, holding a garland in her hand, the motto, _For her whom Fortune favours_. The third was a SWORD, with a laurelwreath on the point, the motto, _Here is no shame to the vanquished_. Near the empress was a gilded trophy wreathed with flowers, and madeof little crooks, on which were hung rich Turkish handkerchiefs, tippets, ribbons, laces, etc. , for the small prizes. The empress gavethe first with her own hand, which was a fine ruby ring set roundwith diamonds, in a gold snuff-box. There was for the second, a littleCupid set with brilliants; and besides these, a set of fine china fora tea-table enchased in gold, japan trunks, fans, and many gallantriesof the same nature. All the men of quality at Vienna were spectators;but only the ladies had permission to shoot, and the ArchduchessAmelia carried off the first prize. I was very well pleased withhaving seen this entertainment, and I do not know but it might make asgood a figure as the prize-shooting in the _Eneid_, if I could writeas well as Virgil. This is the favourite pleasure of the emperor, andthere is rarely a week without some feast of this kind, which makesthe young ladies skilful enough to defend a fort, and they laughedvery much to see me afraid to handle a gun. 

My dear sister, you will easily pardon an abrupt conclusion. Ibelieve, by this time, you are ready to fear I would never conclude atall. 

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 notanswering my Nimeguen letter of August till December, than to excusemy not writing again till now. I am sure there is on my side a verygood excuse for silence, having gone such tiresome land-journeys, though I don't find the conclusion of them so bad as you seem toimagine. I am very easy here, and not in the solitude you fancy me. The great number of Greek, French, English, and Italians, that areunder 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 isno possibility for a Christian to live easily under this governmentbut by the protection of an embassador--and the richer they are, thegreater their danger. 

Those dreadful stories you have heard of the plague have very littlefoundation in truth. I own I have much ado to reconcile myself to thesound of a word which has always given me such terrible ideas, thoughI am convinced there is little more in it than a fever. As a proof wepassed through two or three towns most violently infected. In thevery 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 theyboth arrived here in good health; and now I am let into the secretthat he has had the _plague_. There are many that escape it; neitheris the air ever infected. I am persuaded that it would be as easy toroot it out here as out of Italy and France; but it does so littlemischief, they are not very solicitous about it, and are content tosuffer this distemper instead of our variety, which they are utterlyunacquainted with. 

_A propos_ of distempers: I am going to tell you a thing that I amsure will make you wish yourself here. The small-pox, so fatal andso general among us, is here entirely harmless by the invention of_ingrafting_, which is the term they give it. There is a set ofold women who make it their business to perform the operation everyautumn, 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 mindto have the small-pox: they make parties for this purpose, and whenthey are met (commonly fifteen or sixteen together) the old womancomes with a nut-shell full of the matter of the best sort ofsmall-pox, and asks what veins you please to have opened. Sheimmediately rips open that you offer to her with a large needle (whichgives you no more pain than a common scratch), and puts into the veinas much venom as can lie upon the head of her needle, and after thatbinds up the little wound with a hollow bit of shell; and in thismanner opens four or five veins. The Grecians have commonly thesuperstition of opening one in the middle of the forehead, in eacharm, and on the breast, to mark the sign of the cross; but this hasa very ill effect, all these wounds leaving little scars, and is notdone by those that are not superstitious, who choose to have them inthe legs, or that part of the arm that is concealed. The childrenor young patients play together all the rest of the day, and are inperfect health to the eighth. Then the fever begins to seize them, and they keep their beds two days, very seldom three. They have veryrarely above twenty or thirty in their faces, which never mark; and ineight days' time they are as well as before their illness. Where theyare wounded, there remain running sores during the distemper, which Idon't doubt is a great relief to it. Every year thousands undergo thisoperation; and the French embassador says pleasantly, that they takethe small-pox here by way of diversion, as they take the waters inother 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 theexperiment, since I intend to try it on my dear little son. 

I am patriot enough to take pains to bring this useful invention intofashion in England; and I should not fail to write to some of ourdoctors very particularly about it, if I knew any one of them thatI thought had virtue enough to destroy such a considerable branchof their revenue for the good of mankind. But that distemper is toobeneficial to them not to expose to all their resentment the hardywight that should undertake to put an end to it. Perhaps, if I liveto return, I may, however, have courage to war with them. Upon thisoccasion 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, myfirst business here has been to inquire after the stuffs you orderedme to look for, without being able to find what you would like. Thedifference of the dress here and at London is so great, the same sortof things are not proper for _caftans_ and _manteaus_. However, I willnot give over my search, but renew it again at Constantinople, thoughI have reason to believe there is nothing finer than what is tobe found here, being the present residence of the court. The GrandSignior's eldest daughter was married some few days before I came; andupon that occasion the Turkish ladies display all their magnificence. The bride was conducted to her husband's house in very greatsplendour. She is widow of the late Vizier, who was killed atPeterwaradin, though that ought rather to be called a contract than amarriage, not having ever lived with him: however, the greatest partof his wealth is hers. He had the permission of visiting her in theseraglio; and, being one of the handsomest men in the empire, had verymuch engaged her affections. --When she saw this second husband, who isat least fifty, she could not forbear bursting into tears. He is a manof merit, and the declared favourite of the Sultan (which they call_mosáyp_); but that is not enough to make him pleasing in the eyes ofa girl of thirteen. 

The government here is entirely in the hands of the army: and theGrand Signior, with all his absolute power, as much a slave as any ofhis subjects, and trembles at a janissary's frown. Here is, indeed, a much greater appearance of subjection than among us: a minister ofstate is not spoken to, but upon the knee; should a reflection on hisconduct be dropped in a coffee-house (for they have spies everywhere), the house would be razed to the ground, and perhaps the whole companyput to the torture. No huzzaing mobs, senseless pamphlets, and taverndisputes 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 heredispleases the people, in three hours' time he is dragged even fromhis master's arms. They cut off his hands, head, and feet, and throwthem before the palace gate, with all the respect in the world; whilethat Sultan (to whom they all profess an unlimited adoration) sitstrembling in his apartment, and dare neither defend nor revenge hisfavourite. This is the blessed condition of the most absolute monarchupon earth, who owns no _law_ but his _will_. I cannot help wishing, in the loyalty of my heart, that the parliament would send hither aship-load of your passive-obedient men, that they might see arbitrarygovernment in its clearest strongest light, where it is hard to judgewhether the prince, people, or ministers, are most miserable. I couldmake many reflections on this subject; but I know, madam, your owngood sense has already furnished you with better than I am capable of. 

I went yesterday with the French embassadors to see the Grand Signiorin his passage to the mosque. He was preceded by a numerous guard ofjanissaries, with vast white feathers on their heads, _spahis_and _bostangees_ (these are foot and horse guards), and the royalgardeners, which are a very considerable body of men, dressed indifferent habits of fine lively colours, that, at a distance, they appeared like a parterre of tulips. After them the aga of thejanissaries, in a robe of purple velvet, lined with silver tissue, his horse led by two slaves richly dressed. Next him the _Kyzlár-aga_(your ladyship knows this is the chief guardian of the seraglioladies) in a deep yellow cloth (which suited very well to his blackface) lined with sables, and last his Sublimity himself, in greenlined with the fur of a black Muscovite fox, which is supposed wortha thousand pounds sterling, mounted on a fine horse, with furnitureembroidered with jewels. Six more horses richly furnished were ledafter him; and two of his principal courtiers bore, one his gold, andthe other his silver coffee-pot, on a staff; another carried a silverstool on his head for him to sit on. 

It would be too tedious to tell your ladyship the various dressesand turbans by which their rank is distinguished; but they wereall extremely rich and gay, to the number of some thousands; that, perhaps, there cannot be seen a more beautiful procession. The Sultanappeared to us a handsome man of about forty, with a very gracefulair, but something severe in his countenance, his eyes very full andblack. He happened to stop under the window where we stood, and (Isuppose being told who we were) looked upon us very attentively, that we had full leisure to consider him, and the French embassadressagreed with me as to his good mien: I see that lady very often; she isyoung, and her conversation would be a great relief to me, if I couldpersuade her to live without those forms and ceremonies that makelife formal and tiresome. But she is so delighted with her guards, herfour-and-twenty footmen, gentlemen ushers, etc. , that she would ratherdie than make me a visit without them: not to reckon a coachful ofattending damsels yclep'd maids of honour. What vexes me is, that aslong as she will visit with a troublesome equipage, I am obliged to dothe same: however, our mutual interest makes us much together. 

I went with her the other day all round the town, in an open giltchariot, 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 yethaving been in this country at the same time, nor I believe ever willagain. Your ladyship may easily imagine that we drew a vast crowdof spectators, but all silent as death. If any of them had taken theliberties of our mob upon any strange sight, our janissaries had madeno scruple of falling on them with their scimitars, without danger forso doing, being above law. 

Yet these people have some good qualities; they are very zealous andfaithful where they serve, and look upon it as their business to fightfor you upon all occasions. Of this I had a very pleasant instance ina village on this side Philipopolis, where we were met by our domesticguard. I happened to bespeak pigeons for my supper, upon which one ofmy janissaries went immediately to the Cadi (the chief civil officerof the town), and ordered him to send in some dozens. The poor mananswered that he had already sent about, but could get none. Myjanissary, in the height of his zeal for my service, immediatelylocked him up prisoner in his room, telling him he deserved death forhis 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, andaccordingly, came very gravely to me, to ask what should be done tohim; adding, by way of compliment, that if I pleased he would bring mehis head. This may give you some idea of the unlimited power of thesefellows, who are all sworn brothers, and bound to revenge the injuriesdone to one another, whether at Cairo, Aleppo, or any part of theworld; and this inviolable league makes them so powerful, that thegreatest man at court never speaks to them but in a flatteringtone; and in Asia, any man that is rich is forced to enrol himself ajanissary, to secure his estate. 

But I have already said enough; and I dare swear, dear madam, that, bythis time, 'tis a very comfortable reflection to you that there is nopossibility of your receiving such a tedious letter but once insix months; 'tis that consideration has given me the assurance toentertain you so long, and will, I hope, plead the excuse of, dearmadam, &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 Englishcorrespondents, by the last ship, and only Heaven can tell when Ishall have another opportunity of sending to you; but I cannot forbearwriting, though perhaps my letter may lie upon my hands this twomonths. To confess the truth, my head is so full of my entertainmentyesterday, that 'tis absolutely necessary for my own repose to give itsome vent. Without farther preface, I will then begin my story. I wasinvited to dine with the Grand Vizier's lady, and it was with a greatdeal of pleasure I prepared myself for an entertainment which wasnever given before to any Christian. I thought I should very littlesatisfy her curiosity (which I did not doubt was a considerablemotive to the invitation) by going in a dress she was used to see, andtherefore dressed myself in the court habit of Vienna, which is muchmore magnificent than ours. However, I chose to go _incognita_, toavoid any disputes about ceremony, and went in a Turkish coach, onlyattended by my woman that held up my train, and the Greek lady who wasmy interpretress. I was met at the court door by her black eunuch, who helped me out of the coach with great respect, and conducted methrough several rooms, where her she-slaves, finely dressed, wereranged on each side. In the innermost I found the lady sitting on hersofa, in a sable vest. She advanced to meet me, and presented me halfa dozen of her friends with great civility. She seemed a very goodwoman, near fifty years old. I was surprised to observe so littlemagnificence in her house, the furniture being all very moderate; andexcept the habits and number of her slaves, nothing about her thatappeared expensive. She guessed at my thoughts, and told me thatshe was no longer of an age to spend either her time or money insuperfluities; that her whole expense was in charity, and her wholeemployment praying to God. There was no affectation in this speech;both she and her husband are entirely given up to devotion. He neverlooks upon any other woman; and, what is much more extraordinary, touches no bribes, notwithstanding the example of all hispredecessors. He is so scrupulous on this point, he would not acceptMr. Wortley's present, till he had been assured over and over thatit was a settled perquisite of his place at the entrance of everyambassador. 

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 finelydressed after their manner, which I do not think so bad as you haveperhaps heard it represented. I am a very good judge of their eating, having lived three weeks in the house of an _effendi_ at Belgrade, whogave us very magnificent dinners, dressed by his own cooks, which thefirst week pleased me extremely; but I own I then began to grow wearyof it, and desired our own cook might add a dish or two after ourmanner. But I attribute this to custom. I am very much inclined tobelieve an Indian, that had never tasted of either, would prefer theircookery to ours. Their sauces are very high, all the roast very muchdone. They use a great deal of rich spice. The soup is served for thelast dish; and they have at least as great variety of ragouts as wehave. I was very sorry I could not eat of as many as the good ladywould have had me, who was very earnest in serving me of everything. The treat concluded with coffee and perfumes, which is a high markof respect; two slaves kneeling censed my hair, clothes, andhandkerchief. After this ceremony, she commanded her slaves to playand dance, which they did with their guitars in their hands; andshe excused to me their want of skill, saying she took no care toaccomplish them in that art. 

I returned her thanks, and soon after took my leave. I was conductedback in the same manner I entered; and would have gone straight to myown house; but the Greek lady with me earnestly solicited me to visitthe _Kiyàya's_ lady, saying, he was the second officer in the empire, and ought indeed to be looked upon as the first, the Grand Vizierhaving only the name, while he exercised the authority. I had found solittle 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 Iwas so complaisant. 

All things here were with quite another air than at the GrandVizier's; and the very house confessed the difference between an olddevotee and a young beauty. It was nicely clean and magnificent. Iwas met at the door by two black eunuchs, who led me through a longgallery between two ranks of beautiful young girls, with their hairfinely plaited, almost hanging to their feet, all dressed in finelight damasks, brocaded with silver. I was sorry that decency did notpermit me to stop to consider them nearer. But that thought was lostupon my entrance into a large room, or rather pavilion, built roundwith gilded sashes, which were most of them thrown up, and the treesplanted near them gave an agreeable shade, which hindered the sun frombeing troublesome. The jessamines and honeysuckles that twisted roundtheir trunks, shedding a soft perfume, increased by a white marblefountain playing sweet water in the lower part of the room, which fellinto three or four basins with a pleasing sound. The roof was paintedwith all sort of flowers, falling out of gilded baskets, that seemedtumbling down. On a sofa, raised three steps, and covered with finePersian carpets, sat the _Kiyàya's_ lady, leaning on cushions of whitesatin, embroidered; and at her feet sat two young girls, the eldestabout twelve years old, lovely as angels, dressed perfectly rich, andalmost covered with jewels. But they were hardly seen near the fairFatima (for that is her name), so much her beauty effaced every thingI have seen, all that has been called lovely either in Englandor Germany, and must own that I never saw any thing so gloriouslybeautiful, nor can I recollect a face that would have been takennotice of near hers. She stood up to receive me, saluting me aftertheir fashion, putting her hand upon her heart with a sweetnessfull of majesty, that no court breeding could ever give. She orderedcushions 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 hadbefore given me a great opinion of her beauty, I was so struck withadmiration, that I could not for some time speak to her, being whollytaken up in gazing. That surprising harmony of features! that charmingresult of the whole! that exact proportion of body! that lovely bloomof complexion unsullied by art! the unutterable enchantment of hersmile!--But her eyes!--large and black, with all the soft languishmentof the blue! every turn of her face discovering some new charm. 

After my first surprise was over, I endeavoured, by nicely examiningher face, to find out some imperfection, without any fruit of mysearch, but being clearly convinced of the error of that vulgarnotion, that a face perfectly regular would not be agreeable: naturehaving done for her with more success, what Apelles is said to haveessayed, by a collection of the most exact features, to form a perfectface, and to that, a behaviour, so full of grace and sweetness, sucheasy motions, with an air so majestic, yet free from stiffness oraffectation, that I am persuaded, could she be suddenly transportedupon the most polite throne of Europe, nobody would think her otherthan born and bred to be a queen, though educated in a country we callbarbarous. To say all in a word, our most celebrated English beautieswould vanish near her. 

She was dressed in a _caftán_ of gold brocade, flowered with silver, very well fitted to her shape, and shewing to advantage the beautyof her bosom, only shaded by the thin guaze of her shift. Herdrawers were pale pink, green and silver, her slippers white, finelyembroidered; her lovely arms adorned with bracelets of diamonds, andher broad girdle set round with diamonds; upon her head a rich Turkishhandkerchief of pink and silver, her own fine black hair hanging agreat length in various tresses, and on one side of her head somebodkins of jewels. I am afraid you will accuse me of extravagancein this description. I think I have read somewhere that women alwaysspeak in rapture when they speak of beauty, but I cannot imagine whythey should not be allowed to do so. I rather think it virtue to beable to admire without any mixture of desire or envy. The gravestwriters have spoken with great warmth of some celebrated picturesand statues. The workmanship of Heaven certainly excels all our weakimitations, and, I think, has a much better claim to our praise. Forme, I am not ashamed to own I took more pleasure in looking on thebeauteous Fatima, than the finest piece of sculpture could have givenme. 

She told me the two girls at her feet were her daughters, though sheappeared too young to be their mother. Her fair maids were rangedbelow the sofa, to the number of twenty, and put me in mind of thepictures of the ancient nymphs. I did not think all nature could havefurnished such a scene of beauty. She made them a sign to play anddance. Four of them immediately began to play some soft airs oninstruments between a lute and a guitar, which they accompaniedwith their voices, while the others danced by turns. This dancewas very different from what I had seen before. Nothing couldbe more artful. . . . The tunes so soft!--the motions solanguishing!--accompanied with pauses and dying eyes! half-fallingback, and then recovering themselves in so artful a manner. . . . Isuppose you may have read that the Turks have no music but what isshocking to the ears; but this account is from those who never heardany, but what is played in the streets, and is just as reasonable asif a foreigner should take his ideas of the English music from thebladder and string, and marrowbone and cleavers. I can assure you thatthe music is extremely pathetic; 'tis true I am inclined to prefer theItalian, but perhaps I am partial. I am acquainted with a Greek ladywho sings better than Mrs. Robinson, and is very well skilled in both, who gives the preference to the Turkish. 'Tis certain they have veryfine natural voices; these were very agreeable. When the dance wasover, four fair slaves came into the room with silver censers in theirhands, and perfumed the room with amber, aloes-wood, and other scents. After this they served me coffee upon their knees in the finest japanchina, with _soucoupes_ of silver, gilt. The lovely Fatima entertainedme all this while in the most polite agreeable manner, calling meoften _Guzél sultanum_, or the beautiful sultana, and desiring myfriendship with the best grace in the world, lamenting that she couldnot entertain me in my own language. 

When I took my leave, two maids brought in a fine silver basket ofembroidered handkerchiefs; she begged I would wear the richest for hersake, and gave the others to my woman and interpretress. I returnedthrough the same ceremonies as before, and could not help fancying Ihad been some time in Mahomet's paradise, so much I was charmed withwhat 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 dearsister 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 ofyour eldest daughter. I am particularly pleased to hear she is a goodarithmetician; it is the best proof of understanding: the knowledge ofnumbers is one of the chief distinctions between us and the brutes. If there is anything in blood, you may reasonably expect your childrenshould be endowed with an uncommon share of good sense. Mr. Wortley'sfamily and mine have both produced some of the greatest men that havebeen born in England: I mean Admiral Sandwich, and my grandfather, who was distinguished by the name of Wise William. I have heard LordBute's father mentioned as an extraordinary genius, though he had notmany opportunities of showing it; and his uncle, the present Duke ofArgyll, has one of the best heads I ever knew. I will thereforespeak to you as supposing Lady Mary not only capable, but desirousof learning: in that case by all means let her be indulged in it. Youwill tell me I did not make it a part of your education: your prospectwas very different from hers. As you had no defect either in mindor person to hinder, and much in your circumstances to attract thehighest offers, it seemed your business to learn how to live in theworld, as it is hers to know how to be easy out of it. It is thecommon error of builders and parents to follow some plan they thinkbeautiful (and perhaps is so), without considering that nothing isbeautiful that is displaced. Hence we see so many edifices raised thatthe raisers can never inhabit, being too large for their fortunes. Vistas are laid open over barren heaths, and apartments contrivedfor a coolness very agreeable in Italy, but killing in the north ofBritain: thus every woman endeavours to breed her daughter a finelady, qualifying her for a station in which she will never appear, andat the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which sheis destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not onlymake her contented, but happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap asreading, 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 thisamusement extensive, she should be permitted to learn the languages. I have heard it lamented that boys lose so many years in mere learningof words: this is no objection to a girl, whose time is not soprecious: she cannot advance herself in any profession, and hastherefore more hours to spare; and as you say her memory is good, shewill be very agreeably employed this way. There are two cautions tobe given on this subject: first, not to think herself learned whenshe can read Latin, or even Greek. Languages are more properly to becalled vehicles of learning than learning itself, as may be observedin many schoolmasters, who, though perhaps critics in grammar, are themost ignorant fellows upon earth. True knowledge consists in knowingthings, not words. I would wish her no further a linguist than toenable her to read books in their originals, that are often corrupted, and always injured, by translations. Two hours' application everymorning will bring this about much sooner than you can imagine, andshe will have leisure enough besides to run over the English poetry, which is a more important part of a woman's education than it isgenerally supposed. Many a young damsel has been ruined by a fine copyof verses, which she would have laughed at if she had known it hadbeen stolen from Mr. Waller. I remember, when I was a girl, I savedone of my companions from destruction, who communicated to me anepistle 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, buthad more thought and spirit than any of theirs. She was wonderfullydelighted with such a demonstration of her lover's sense and passion, and not a little pleased with her own charms, that had force enoughto inspire such elegancies. In the midst of this triumph I showedher that they were taken from Randolph's poems, and the unfortunatetranscriber was dismissed with the scorn he deserved. To say truth, the poor plagiary was very unlucky to fall into my hands; thatauthor being no longer in fashion, would have escaped any one of lessuniversal reading than myself. You should encourage your daughter totalk over with you what she reads; and, as you are very capable ofdistinguishing, take care she does not mistake pert folly for witand humour, or rhyme for poetry, which are the common errors of youngpeople, and have a train of ill consequences. The second caution tobe given her (and which is most absolutely necessary) is to concealwhatever learning she attains, with as much solicitude as she wouldhide crookedness or lameness; the parade of it can only serve to drawon her the envy, and consequently the most inveterate hatred, of allhe and she fools, which will certainly be at least three parts in fourof all her acquaintance. The use of knowledge in our sex, besides theamusement of solitude, is to moderate the passions, and learn to becontented with a small expense, which are the certain effects of astudious life; and it may be preferable even to that fame which menhave engrossed to themselves, and will not suffer us to share. You will tell me I have not observed this rule myself; but youare mistaken: it is only inevitable accident that has given me anyreputation that way. I have always carefully avoided it, and everthought it a misfortune. The explanation of this paragraph wouldoccasion a long digression, which I will not trouble you with, itbeing my present design only to say what I think useful for theinstruction of my granddaughter, which I have much at heart. If shehas the same inclination (I should say passion) for learning that Iwas born with, history, geography, and philosophy will furnish herwith materials to pass away cheerfully a longer life than is allottedto mortals. I believe there are few heads capable of making Sir I. Newton's calculations, but the result of them is not difficult to beunderstood by a moderate capacity. Do not fear this should make heraffect the character of Lady----, or Lady----, or Mrs. ----: thosewomen are ridiculous, not because they have learning, but because theyhave it not. One thinks herself a complete historian, after readingEchard's Roman History; another a profound philosopher, having gotby heart some of Pope's unintelligible essays; and a third an abledivine, on the strength of Whitefield's sermons: thus you hear themscreaming politics and controversy. 

It is a saying of Thucydides, ignorance is bold, and knowledgereserved. Indeed, it is impossible to be far advanced in it withoutbeing more humbled by a conviction of human ignorance than elated bylearning. At the same time I recommend books, I neither exclude worknor drawing. I think it as scandalous for a woman not to know how touse a needle, as for a man not to know how to use a sword. I was onceextremely fond of my pencil, and it was a great mortification tome when my father turned off my master, having made a considerableprogress for a short time I learnt. My over-eagerness in the pursuitof it had brought a weakness on my eyes, that made it necessary toleave it off; and all the advantage I got was the improvement of myhand. 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 oraffairs make it troublesome to you to write yourself; and custom willmake it an agreeable amusement to her. She cannot have too many forthat station of life which will probably be her fate. The ultimate endof your education was to make you a good wife (and I have the comfortto hear that you are one): hers ought to be, to make her happy ina virgin state. I will not say it is happier; but it is undoubtedlysafer than any marriage. In a lottery, where there are (at the lowestcomputation) ten thousand blanks to a prize, it is the most prudentchoice not to venture. I have always been so thoroughly persuaded ofthis truth, that, notwithstanding the flattering views I had for you(as I never intended you a sacrifice to my vanity), I thought I owedyou the justice to lay before you all the hazards attending matrimony:you may recollect I did so in the strongest manner. Perhaps you mayhave more success in the instructing your daughter: she has so muchcompany at home, she will not need seeking it abroad, and will morereadily take the notions you think fit to give her. As you were alonein my family, it would have been thought a great cruelty to sufferyou no companions of your own age, especially having so many nearrelations, and I do not wonder their opinions influenced yours. I wasnot sorry to see you not determined on a single life, knowing it wasnot your father's intention, and contented myself with endeavouring tomake 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 togive 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 tosend; but I can scarce say whether my pleasure or disappointment wasgreatest. I was much pleased to see before me a fund of amusement, butheartily vexed to find your letter consisting only of three linesand a half. Why will you not employ Lady Mary as secretary, if it istroublesome to you to write? I have told you over and over, you may atthe same time oblige your mother and improve your daughter, bothwhich I should think very agreeable to yourself. You can never wantsomething to say. The history of your nursery, if you had no othersubject to write on, would be very acceptable to me. I am such astranger to everything in England, I should be glad to hear moreparticulars relating to the families I am acquainted with: ifMiss Liddel marries the Lord Euston I knew, or his nephew, who hassucceeded him; if Lord Berkeley has left children; and several triflesof that sort, that would be a satisfaction to my curiosity. I amsorry for H. Fielding's death, not only as I shall read no more of hiswritings, but I believe he lost more than others, as no man enjoyedlife more than he did, though few had less reason to do so, thehighest of his preferment being raking in the lowest sinks of vice andmisery. I should think it a nobler and less nauseous employment tobe one of the staff officers that conduct the nocturnal weddings. His happy constitution (even when he had, with great pains, halfdemolished it) made him forget everything when he was before a venisonpasty, or over a flask of champagne; and I am persuaded he has knownmore happy moments than any prince upon earth. His natural spiritsgave him rapture with his cook-maid, and cheerfulness when he wasstarving in a garret. There was a great similitude between hischaracter and that of Sir Richard Steele. He had the advantage bothin learning, and, in my opinion, genius: they both agreed in wantingmoney in spite of all their friends, and would have wanted it, iftheir hereditary lands had been as extensive as their imagination;yet each one of them so formed for happiness, it is a pity he was notimmortal. . . . This Richardson is a strange fellow. I heartilydespise him, and eagerly read him, nay, sob over his works in a mostscandalous manner. The first two tomes of _Clarissa_ touched me, asbeing very resembling to my maiden days; and I find in the pictures ofSir Thomas Grandison and his lady, what I have heard of my mother, andseen 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 verywell satisfied. I know or have heard of no Mr. St. Maurice here; andyoung Pain, whom I have made an ensign, was here upon the spot, aswere 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. Idesire that you will particularly attend to the graceful motion ofyour arms; which with the manner of putting on your hat, and givingyour hand, is all that a gentleman need attend to. Dancing isin itself a very trifling, silly thing; but it is one of thoseestablished follies to which people of sense are sometimes obligedto conform; and then they should be able to do it well. And though Iwould not have you a dancer, yet when you do dance, I would have youdance well; as I would have you do everything you do, well. There isno one thing so trifling, but which (if it is to be done at all) oughtto be done well; and I have often told you that I wish you evenplayed at pitch, and cricket, better than any boy at Westminster. Forinstance, dress is a very foolish thing; and yet it is a very foolishthing for a man not to be well dressed, according to his rank andway of life; and it is so far from being a disparagement to any man'sunderstanding, that it is rather a proof of it, to be as well dressedas those whom he lives with: the difference in this case between a manof sense and a fop is, that the fop values himself upon his dress; andthe man of sense laughs at it, at the same time that he knows he mustnot 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; butdo not tell them so. 

It is a very fortunate thing for Sir Charles Hotham, to have falleninto the hands of one of your age, experience, and knowledge of theworld: 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 suchreal concern, that it will be the object of this, and I believe ofmany more letters. I congratulate both you and myself that I wasinformed of it (as I hope) in time to prevent it; and shall ever thinkmyself, as hereafter you will, I am sure, think yourself, infinitelyobliged to Sir Charles Williams, for informing me of it. Good God!if this ungraceful and disagreeable manner of speaking had, eitherby your negligence or mine, become habitual to you, as in a couple ofyears more it would have been, what a figure would you have made incompany, 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 Quintiliansay of enunciation, and see what a stress they lay on the gracefulnessof it; nay, Cicero goes farther, and even maintains that a good figureis necessary for an orator, and particularly that he must not be_vastus_; that is, overgrown and clumsy. He shows by it that heknew mankind well, and knew the powers of an agreeable figure and agraceful manner. Men, as well as women, are much oftener led by theirhearts, than by their understandings. The way to the heart is throughthe senses; please their eyes and their ears, and the work is halfdone. I have frequently known a man's fortune decided for ever by hisfirst address. If it is pleasing, people are hurried involuntarilyinto persuasion that he has a merit, which possibly he has not; as, onthe other hand, if it is ungraceful, they are immediately prejudicedagainst him, and unwilling to allow him the merit which it may behe has. Nor is this sentiment so unjust and unreasonable as at firstsight it may seem; for if a man has parts, he must know of whatinfinite consequence it is to him to have a graceful manner ofspeaking, and a genteel and pleasing address: he will cultivate andimprove them to the utmost. Your figure is a good one; you have nonatural defects in the organs of speech; your address may be engaging, and your manner of speaking graceful, if you will; so that, if theyare not so, neither I nor the world can ascribe it to anything butyour want of parts. What is the constant and just observation as toall the actors upon the stage? Is it not, that those who have the bestsense always speak the best, though they may not happen to have thebest voices? They will speak plainly, distinctly, and with the properemphasis, be their voices ever so bad. Had Roscius spoken quick, thick, and ungracefully, I will answer for it, that Cicero would nothave thought him worth the oration which he made in his favour. Wordswere given us to communicate our ideas by, and there must be somethinginconceivably absurd in uttering them in such a manner, as that eitherpeople cannot understand them, or will not desire to understand them. I tell you truly and sincerely, that I shall judge of your parts byyour speaking gracefully or ungracefully. If you have parts, you willnever be at rest till you have brought yourself to a habit of speakingmost gracefully: for I aver, that it is in your power. You will desireMr. Harte, that you may read aloud to him every day, and that he willinterrupt and correct you every time that you read too fast, do notobserve the proper stops, or lay a wrong emphasis. You will take careto open your teeth when you speak; to articulate very distinctly; andto beg of Mr. Harte, Mr. Eliot, or whomever you speak to, to remindand stop you, if ever you fall into the rapid and unintelligiblemutter. You will even read aloud to yourself, and tune your utteranceto 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 fasterthan you ought. In short, if you think right, you will make it yourbusiness, your study, and your pleasure to speak well. Therefore, whatI have said in this and in my last, is more than sufficient, if youhave sense; and ten times more would not be sufficient if you havenot: 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 formy present, as you call it, exceed the value of the present; but theuse which you assure me that you will make of it, is the thanks whichI desire to receive. Due attention to the inside of books, and duecontempt for the outside, is the proper relation between a man ofsense and his books. 

Now that you are going a little more into the world, I will take thisoccasion to explain my intentions as to your future expenses, thatyou may know what you have to expect from me, and make your planaccordingly. I shall neither deny nor grudge you any money that maybe necessary for either your improvement or pleasures; I mean thepleasures of a rational being. Under the head of improvement I meanthe best books, and the best masters, cost what they will; I alsomean all the expense of lodgings, coach, dress, servants, &c. , which, according to the several places where you may be, shall berespectively necessary to enable you to keep the best company. Underthe head of rational pleasures I comprehend, first, proper charitiesto real and compassionate objects of it; secondly, proper presents tothose 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 inpublic spectacles, your share of little entertainments, a few pistolesat games of mere commerce, and other incidental calls of good company. The only two articles which I will never supply are, the profusion oflow riot, and the idle lavishness of negligence and laziness. A foolsquanders away, without credit or advantage to himself, more than aman of sense spends with both. The latter employs his money as he doeshis time, and never spends a shilling of the one, nor a minute of theother, but in something that is either useful or rationally pleasingto himself or others. The former buys whatever he does not want, anddoes not pay for what he does want. He cannot withstand the charmsof a toy-shop; snuff-boxes, watches, heads of canes, etc. , arehis destruction. His servants and tradesmen conspire with his ownindolence to cheat him, and in a very little time he is astonished, inthe midst of all the ridiculous superfluities, to find himself in wantof all the real comforts and necessaries of life. Without care andmethod the largest fortune will not, and with them almost the smallestwill, supply all necessary expenses. As far as you can possibly, payready money for everything you buy, and avoid bills. Pay that moneytoo yourself, and not through the hands of any servant, who alwayseither 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, becauseit is cheap; or from a silly pride, because it is dear. Keep anaccount 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 runsout. I do not mean that you should keep an account of the shillingsand half-crowns which you may spend in chair-hire, operas, etc. Theyare unworthy of the time, and of the ink that they would consume;leave such _minutiae_ to dull, penny-wise fellows; but remember ineconomy, as well as in every other part of life, to have the properattention to proper objects, and the proper contempt for little ones. A strong mind sees things in their true proportion; a weak one viewsthem through a magnifying medium, which, like the microscope, makes anelephant of a flea; magnifies all little objects, but cannot receivegreat ones. I have known many a man pass for a miser, by saving apenny, and wrangling for two-pence, who was undoing himself at thesame time, by living above his income, and not attending to essentialarticles, which were above his _portée_. The sure characteristic of asound and strong mind is, to find in everything those certain bounds, _quos ultra citrave nequit consistere rectum_. These boundaries aremarked out by a very fine line, which only good sense and attentioncan discover; it is much too fine for vulgar eyes. In manners, thisline is good-breeding; beyond it, is troublesome ceremony; short ofit, is unbecoming negligence and inattention. In morals, it dividesostentatious puritanism from criminal relaxation; in religion, superstition from impiety; and, in short, every virtue from itskindred vice or weakness. I think you have sense enough to discoverthe line; keep it always in your eye, and learn to walk upon it; restupon 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, thanupon the slack-rope; and, therefore, a good performer shines so muchthe more. . . . 

Remember to take the best dancing-master at Berlin, more to teach youto 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 willdo, what however few people at your age do, exert it, for your ownsake, in the search of truth and sound knowledge. I will confess (forI am not unwilling to discover my secrets to you) that it is not manyyears since I have presumed to reflect for myself. Till sixteen orseventeen I had no reflection, and for many years after that I made nouse of what I had. I adopted the notions of the books I read, or thecompany I kept, without examining whether they were just or not; and Irather chose to run the risk of easy error, than to take the time andtrouble of investigating truth. Thus, partly from laziness, partlyfrom dissipation, and partly from the _mauvaise honte_ of rejectingfashionable notions, I was (as I since found) hurried away byprejudices, instead of being guided by reason; and quietly cherishederror, instead of seeking for truth. But since I have taken thetrouble of reasoning for myself, and have had the courage to own thatI 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 Iformerly viewed them through the deceitful medium of prejudice orauthority. Nay, I may possibly still retain many errors, which, fromlong habit, have perhaps grown into real opinions; for it is verydifficult 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 andwomen, such as hobgoblins, ghosts, dreams, spilling salt, &c. ) was myclassical enthusiasm, which I received from the books I read, and themasters who explained them to me. I was convinced there had been nocommon sense nor common honesty in the world for these last fifteenhundred years; but that they were totally extinguished with theancient Greek and Roman governments. Homer and Virgil could have nofaults, because they were ancient; Milton and Tasso could have nomerit, because they were modern. And I could almost have said, withregard to the ancients, what Cicero, very absurdly and unbecominglyfor a philosopher, says with regard to Plato, _Cum quo errare malimquam cum aliis recte sentire_. Whereas now, without any extraordinaryeffort of genius, I have discovered that nature was the same threethousand years ago as it is at present; that men were but men then aswell as now; that modes and customs vary often, but that human natureis always the same. And I can no more suppose, that men were better, braver, or wiser, fifteen hundred or three thousand years ago, than Ican suppose that the animals or vegetables were better then thanthey are now. I dare assert too, in defiance of the favourers of theancients, 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 indefence of it, because he had quarrelled with Agamemnon about a--; andthen afterwards, animated by private resentment only, he went aboutkilling people basely, I will call it, because he knew himselfinvulnerable; and yet, invulnerable as he was, he wore the strongestarmour in the world; which I humbly apprehend to be a blunder; for ahorseshoe 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 ofMilton's poem: his plan, which he lays, pursues, and at last executes, being the subject of the poem. From all which considerations Iimpartially conclude that the ancients had their excellencies andtheir defects, their virtues and their vices, just like the moderns:pedantry and affectation of learning clearly decide in favour ofthe former; vanity and ignorance, as peremptorily, in favour of thelatter. Religious prejudices kept pace with my classical ones; andthere was a time when I thought it impossible for the honestest man inthe world to be saved, out of the pale of the Church of England: notconsidering that matters of opinion do not depend upon the will;and that it is as natural, and as allowable, that another man shoulddiffer in opinion from me, as that I should differ from him; and that, if we are both sincere, we are both blameless, and should consequentlyhave mutual indulgences for each other. 

The next prejudices I adopted were those of the _beau monde_, inwhich, as I was determined to shine, I took what are commonly calledthe genteel vices to be necessary. I had heard them reckoned so, andwithout further inquiry, I believed it; or at least should have beenashamed to have denied it, for fear of exposing myself to the ridiculeof those whom I considered as the models of fine gentlemen. But now Iam neither ashamed nor afraid to assert, that those genteel vices, asthey are falsely called, are only so many blemishes in the characterof even a man of the world, and what is called a fine gentleman, anddegrade him in the opinion of those very people, to whom he hopes torecommend himself by them. Nay, this prejudice often extends so far, that I have known people pretend to vices they had not, instead ofcarefully concealing those they had. 

Use and assert your own reason; reflect, examine, and analyzeeverything, in order to form a sound and mature judgement; let no[Greek: outos epha] impose upon your understanding, mislead youractions, 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 humanreason is not infallible; but it will prove the least erring guidethat you can follow. Books and conversation may assist it; but adoptneither, blindly and implicitly: try both by that best rule which Godhas 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 writtenone single word, without giving myself at least one moment's time toconsider, whether it was a good one or a bad one, and whether I couldnot 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, fora good degree of pleasing sound. I will freely and truly own to you, without either vanity or false modesty, that whatever reputation Ihave acquired as a speaker, is more owing to my constant attention tomy diction than to my matter, which was necessarily just the same asother people's. When you come into parliament, your reputation as aspeaker will depend much more upon your words, and your periods thanupon the subject. The same matter occurs equally to everybody ofcommon sense, upon the same question: the dressing it well, is whatexcites the attention and admiration of the audience. 

It is in parliament that I have set my heart upon your making afigure; 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 goodspeaker there; I use the word _must_, because I know you may if youwill. The vulgar, who are always mistaken, look upon a speaker and acomet with the same astonishment and admiration, taking them both forpreternatural phenomena. This error discourages many young men fromattempting that character; and good speakers are willing to have theirtalent considered as something very extraordinary, if not a peculiargift of God to his elect. But, let you and I analyze and simplify thisgood speaker; let us strip him of those adventitious plumes with whichhis own pride and the ignorance of others have decked him; and weshall find the true definition of him to be no more than this: aman of good common sense, who reasons justly, and expresses himselfelegantly, on that subject upon which he speaks. There is, surely, nowitchcraft in this. A man of sense, without a superior and astonishingdegree of parts, will not talk nonsense upon any subject; nor will he, if he has the least taste or application, talk inelegantly. What thendoes all this mighty art and mystery of speaking in parliament amountto? Why, no more than this, that the man who speaks in the Houseof Commons, speaks in that house, and to four hundred people, thatopinion upon a given subject which he would make no difficulty ofspeaking in any house in England, round the fire, or at table, toany fourteen people whatsoever; better judges, perhaps, and severercritics of what he says, than any fourteen gentlemen of the House ofCommons. 

I have spoken frequently in parliament, and not always without someapplause; and therefore I can assure you, from my experience, thatthere is very little in it. The elegancy of the style and the turn ofthe periods make the chief impression upon the hearers. Give them butone or two round and harmonious periods in a speech, which they willretain and repeat, and they will go home as well satisfied as peopledo from an opera, humming all the way one or two favourite tunes thathave struck their ears, and were easily caught. Most people have ears, but few have judgement; tickle those ears, and, depend upon it, youwill catch their judgements, such as they are. 

Cicero, conscious that he was at the top of his profession (for inhis time eloquence was a profession), in order to set himself off, defines, in his treatise _de Oratore_, an orator to be such a man asnever was, or never will be; and, by this fallacious argument, saysthat he must know every art and science whatsoever, or how shall hespeak upon them? But with submission to so great an authority, mydefinition of an orator is extremely different from, and I believemuch 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, theobjects of eloquence; and therefore I humbly conceive that a man maybe a very fine speaker, and yet know nothing of geometry, algebra, chemistry, or anatomy. The subjects of all parliamentary debates aresubjects of common sense singly. 

Thus I write whatever occurs to me, that I think may contribute eitherto 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 foryou. 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, anddiscovered the new actors together with some of the old ones. I do notname them to you, because to-morrow's Gazette will do it full as wellas I could. Mr. Pitt, who had _carte blanche_ given him, named everyone of them: but what would you think he named himself for? Lord PrivySeal; and (what will astonish you, as it does every mortal here) Earlof Chatham. The joke here is, that he has had _a fall upstairs_, andhas done himself so much hurt, that he will never be able to standupon his legs again. Everybody is puzzled how to account for thisstep; though it would not be the first time that great abilities havebeen duped by low cunning. But be it what it will, he is now certainlyonly 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 hisambition, from the House of Commons, (which procured him his power, and which could alone ensure it to him) and to go into that hospitalof incurables, the House of Lords, is a measure so unaccountable, thatnothing but proof positive could have made me believe it: but true itis. Hans Stanley is to go ambassador to Russia; and my nephew, Ellis, to Spain, decorated with the red ribband. Lord Shelburne is yoursecretary of state, which I suppose he has notified to you this postby a circular letter. Charles Townshend has now the sole management ofthe House of Commons; but how long he will be content to be only LordChatham's viceregent there, is a question which I will not pretendto decide. There is one very bad sign for Lord Chatham in his newdignity; which is, that all his enemies, without exception, rejoice atit; and all his friends are stupefied and dumb-founded. If I mistakenot much, he will in the course of a year enjoy perfect _otium cumdignitate_. Enough of politics. 

Is the fair, or at least the fat Miss C---- with you still? It mustbe confessed that she knows the art of courts, to be so received atDresden and so connived at in Leicester-fields. 

There never was so wet a summer as this has been, in the memory ofman; 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 beencold. 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 whichthey do not commit; your own elegance of manners, and punctuality ofcomplaisance, did not suffer you to impute to me that negligenceof which I was guilty, and [for] which I have not since atoned. I received both your letters, and received them with pleasureproportioned to the esteem which so short an acquaintance stronglyimpressed, and which I hope to confirm by nearer knowledge, though Iam afraid that gratification will be for a time withheld. 

I have, indeed, published my book, of which I beg to know yourfather's judgment, and yours; and I have now stayed long enough towatch its progress in the world. It has, you see, no patrons, andI think has yet had no opponents, except the critics of thecoffee-house, whose outcries are soon dispersed into the air, and arethought on no more. From this, therefore, I am at liberty, and thinkof taking the opportunity of this interval to make an excursion, andwhy not then into Lincolnshire? or, to mention a stronger attraction, why not to dear Mr. Langton? I will give the true reason, which I knowyou will approve:--I have a mother more than eighty years old, who hascounted 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 thiswill not deprive me of your esteem, I beg it may not lessen yourkindness. I have very seldom received an offer of friendship which Iso earnestly desire to cultivate and mature. I shall rejoice to hearfrom you, till I can see you, and will see you as soon as I can; forwhen the duty that calls me to Lichfield is discharged, my inclinationwill carry me to Langton. I shall delight to hear the ocean roar, orsee the stars twinkle, in the company of men to whom Nature does notspread her volumes or utter her voice in vain. 

Do not, dear sir, make the slowness of this letter a precedentfor delay, or imagine that I approved the incivility that I havecommitted; for I have known you enough to love you, and sincerely towish a further knowledge; and I assure you once more, that to live ina house that contains such a father and such a son, will be accounteda very uncommon degree of pleasure by, dear sir, your most obliged andmost 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 bestmother. If she were to live again, surely I should behave better toher. 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 willefface them. I return you and all those that have been good to hermy sincerest thanks, and pray God to repay you all with infiniteadvantage. Write to me and comfort me, dear child. I shall be gladlikewise, if Kitty will write to me. I shall send a bill of twentypounds 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 muchmore. 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, thatI have passed all this time without writing to my Baretti. I gavea letter to Mr. Beauclerk, who, in my opinion, and in his own, washastening to Naples for the recovery of his health; but he has stoppedat 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 goodor ill success of battles and embassies extends itself to a very smallpart of domestic life: we all have good and evil, which we feel moresensibly than our petty part of public miscarriage or prosperity. I amsorry for your disappointment, with which you seem more touched thanI should expect a man of your resolution and experience to have been, did I not know that general truths are seldom applied to particularoccasions; so that the fallacy of our self-love extends itself as wideas our interest and affections. Every man believes that mistresses areunfaithful, and patrons capricious; but he excepts his own mistressand his own patron. We have all learned that greatness is negligentand contemptuous, and that in courts, life is often languished away inungratified expectation; but he that approaches greatness, or glittersin a court, imagines that destiny has at last exempted him from thecommon lot. 

Do not let such evils overwhelm you as thousands have suffered andthousands have surmounted; but turn your thoughts with vigour tosome other plan of life, and keep always in your mind that, with duesubmission to Providence, a man of genius has been seldom ruined butby himself. Your patron's weakness or insensibility will finally doyou little hurt, if he is not assisted by your own passions. Of yourlove I know not the propriety, nor can estimate the power; but inlove, as in every other passion, of which hope is the essence, weought always to remember the uncertainty of events. There is indeednothing that so much seduces reason from her vigilance, as the thoughtof passing life with an amiable woman; and if all would happen thata lover fancies, I know not what other terrestrial happiness woulddeserve pursuit. But love and marriage are different states. Those whoare to suffer the evils together, and to suffer often for the sakes ofone another, soon lose that tenderness of look and that benevolenceof mind which arose from the participation of unmingled pleasure andsuccessive amusement. A woman we are sure will not be always fair, we are not sure she will always be virtuous; and man cannot retainthrough life that respect and assiduity by which he pleases for a dayor for a month. I do not however pretend to have discovered that lifehas 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 yourhopes of preferment and bridal raptures to try once more the fortuneof literature and industry, the way through France is now open. Weflatter ourselves that we shall cultivate with great diligence thearts of peace; and every man will be welcome among us who can teachus anything we do not know. For your part, you will find all your oldfriends 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 somethingevery day, which I may the more easily do, as a cold makes me now toodeaf to take the usual pleasure in conversation. Lady Macleod is verygood to me, and the place at which we now are, is equal in strength ofsituation, in the wildness of the adjacent country, and in the plentyand elegance of the domestic entertainment, to a castle in Gothicromances. The sea with a little island is before us; cascades playwithin view. Close to the house is the formidable skeleton of an oldcastle probably Danish, and the whole mass of building stands upona protuberance of rock, inaccessible till of late but by a pair ofstairs on the sea side, and secure in ancient times against any enemythat was likely to invade the kingdom of Skye. 

Macleod has offered me an island; if it were not too far off I shouldhardly refuse it: my island would be pleasanter than Brighthelmstone, if you and my master could come to it; but I cannot think it pleasantto live quite alone. 

 Oblitusque meorum, obliviscendus et illis. 

That I should be elated by the dominion of an island to forgetfulnessof my friends at Streatham I cannot believe, and I hope never todeserve that they should be willing to forget me. 

It has happened that I have been often recognised in my journeywhere I did not expect it. At Aberdeen I found one of my acquaintanceprofessor of physic; turning aside to dine with a country gentleman, Iwas 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 theislands to pick up curiosities; and I had once in London attracted thenotice of Lady Macleod. I will now go on with my account. 

The Highland girl made tea, and looked and talked not inelegantly; herfather was by no means an ignorant or a weak man; there were books inthe 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 oldopinions. He was going to America, because his rent was raised beyondwhat he thought himself able to pay. 

At night our beds were made, but we had some difficulty in persuadingourselves 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 GlenMorrison, amidst the rocks and mountains. Next morning our landlordliked 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 hundredpounds a year for near one hundred square miles or sixty thousandacres. He let us know that he had forty head of black cattle, anhundred goats, and an hundred sheep, upon a farm that he rememberedlet at five pounds a year, but for which he now paid twenty. He toldus some stories of their march into England. At last he left us, and we went forward, winding among mountains, sometimes green andsometimes naked, commonly so steep as not easily to be climbed bythe greatest vigour and activity: our way was often crossed by littlerivulets, and we were entertained with small streams trickling fromthe rocks, which after heavy rains must be tremendous torrents. 

About noon we came to a small glen, so they call a valley, whichcompared with other places appeared rich and fertile; here our guidesdesired us to stop, that the horses might graze, for the journeywas very laborious, and no more grass would be found. We made nodifficulty of compliance, and I sat down to take notes on a greenbank, with a small stream running at my feet, in the midst of savagesolitude, with mountains before me, and on either hand covered withheath. 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 haveproduced some reflections among us, either poetical or philosophical, for though _solitude be the nurse of woe_, conversation is often theparent of remarks and discoveries. 

In about an hour we remounted, and pursued our journey. The lake bywhich we had travelled for some time ended in a river, which we passedby 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 earththere are great levels in Scotland which they call mosses. Moss inScotland is bog in Ireland, and moss-trooper is bog-trotter: therewas, however, one hut built of loose stones, piled up with greatthickness into a strong though not solid wall. From this house weobtained 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 ifwe had not had Highlanders with us, they might have caused more alarmthan pleasure; they are called the Clan of Macrae. 

We had been told that nothing gratified the Highlanders so much assnuff and tobacco, and had accordingly stored ourselves with both atFort Augustus. Boswell opened his treasure, and gave them each a pieceof tobacco roll. We had more bread than we could eat for the present, and were more liberal than provident. Boswell cut it in slices, andgave them an opportunity of tasting wheaten bread for the first time. I then got some halfpence for a shilling, and made up the deficienciesof Boswell's distribution, who had given some money among thechildren. We then directed that the mistress of the stone house shouldbe asked what we must pay her: she, who perhaps had never beforesold anything but cattle, knew not, I believe, well what to ask, andreferred herself to us: we obliged her to make some demand, and one ofthe Highlanders settled the account with her at a shilling. One of themen advised her, with the cunning that clowns never can be without, toask more; but she said that a shilling was enough. We gave her halfa crown, and she offered part of it again. The Macraes were so wellpleased with our behaviour, that they declared it the best day theyhad 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 histroublesome kindness, has informed this family and reminded me thatthe 18th of September is my birthday. The return of my birthday, if Iremember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the generalcare of humanity to escape. I can now look back upon three scoreand four years, in which little has been done, and little has beenenjoyed; a life diversified by misery, spent part in the sluggishnessof penury, and part under the violence of pain, in gloomy discontentor importunate distress. But perhaps I am better than I should havebeen if I had been less afflicted. With this I will try to be content. 

In proportion as there is less pleasure in retrospectiveconsiderations, the mind is more disposed to wander forward intofuturity; but at sixty-four what promises, however liberal, ofimaginary good can futurity venture to make? Yet something will bealways promised and some promises will always be credited. I am hopingand I am praying that I may live better in the time to come, whetherlong or short, than I have yet lived, and in the solace of thathope endeavour to repose. Dear Queeny's day is next, I hope she atsixty-four will have less to regret. . . . 

You will now expect that I should give you some account of the Isle ofSkye, of which, though I have been twelve days upon it, I have littleto say. It is an island perhaps fifty miles long, so much indented byinlets of the sea that there is no part of it removed from the watermore than six miles. No part that I have seen is plain; you are alwaysclimbing or descending, and every step is upon rock or mire. A walkupon ploughed ground in England is a dance upon carpets compared tothe toilsome drudgery of wandering in Skye. There is neither town norvillage in the island, nor have I seen any house but Macleod's, thatis not much below your habitation at Brighthelmstone. In the mountainsthere are stags and roebucks, but no hares, and few rabbits; nor haveI 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 andthe busy world into regions of peace and pastoral felicity, and amenjoying the relics of the golden age; that I am surveying nature'smagnificence from a mountain, or remarking her minuter beauties on theflowery bank of a winding rivulet; that I am invigorating myself inthe sunshine, or delighting my imagination with being hidden fromthe invasion of human evils and human passions in the darkness of athicket; that I am busy in gathering shells and pebbles on the shore, or contemplative on a rock, from which I look upon the water, andconsider how many waves are rolling between me and Streatham. 

The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, andinstead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are. Hereare mountains which I should once have climbed, but to climb stepsis now very laborious, and to descend them dangerous; and I am nowcontent with knowing, that by scrambling up a rock, I shall only seeother rocks, and a wider circuit of barren desolation. Of streams, wehave here a sufficient number, but they murmur not upon pebbles, butupon rocks. Of flowers, if Chloris herself were here, I could presenther only with the bloom of heath. Of lawns and thickets, he must readthat would know them, for here is little sun and no shade. On the seaI look from my window, but am not much tempted to the shore; for sinceI 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 itsmagnificence, for the sea is here so broken into channels that thereis not a sufficient volume of water either for lofty surges or a loudroar. . . . 

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_, thattwo papers, in which my _Dictionary_ is recommended to the public, areby your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour, which, beingvery little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well howto receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. 

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, Iwas overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of youraddress, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself _levainqueur du vainqueur de la terre_;--that I might obtain that regardfor which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance solittle encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me tocontinue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, Ihad exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtlyscholar can possess. I had done all I could; and no man is wellpleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. 

Seven years, my lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outwardrooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have beenpushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless tocomplain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smileof favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patronbefore. 

The shepherd in _Virgil_ grew at last acquainted with Love, and foundhim a native of the rocks. 

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a manstruggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased totake of my labours, had it been early had been kind; but it hasbeen delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I amsolitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. Ihope it is no very cynical asperity, not to confess obligations, where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the publicshould consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence hasenabled me to do for myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to anyfavourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I shallconclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been longwakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with somuch 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 toeach other? I expected to have heard from you when you came home; Iexpected afterwards. I went into the country and returned, and yetthere is no letter from Mr. Boswell. No ill, I hope, has happened; andif ill should happen, why should it be concealed from him who lovesyou? Is it a fit of humour, that has disposed you to try who can holdout longest without writing? If it be, you have the victory. But I amafraid of something bad; set me free from my suspicions. 

My thoughts are at present employed in guessing the reason of yoursilence; you must not expect that I should tell you anything, if I hadanything to tell. Write, pray write to me, and let me know what is orwhat 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 waywith little inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening I felt myselflight 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, thathowever he might afflict my body, he would spare my understanding. This prayer, that I might try the integrity of my faculties, I made inLatin verse. The lines were not very good, but I knew them not to bevery good: I made them easily, and concluded myself to be unimpairedin 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 littledejection in this dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered that perhaps death itself, when it should come, wouldexcite less horror than seems now to attend it. 

In order to rouse the vocal organs, I took two drams. Wine has beencelebrated for the production of eloquence. I put myself into violentmotion, 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 tocontrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, he left memy hands; I enjoyed a mercy which was not granted to my dear friendLawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me as I am writing, and rejoicesthat I have what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to myservant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend whyhe 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 occasionshould 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. Taylorto come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden: and I sent to Dr. Brocklesby, who is my neighbour. My physicians are very friendly, and give megreat hopes; but you may imagine my situation. I have so far recoveredmy vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's Prayer with no very imperfectarticulation. My memory, I hope, yet remains as it was! but such anattack 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 itslooks, or if I think the roses or jessamines smell as sweet as whenyou left it. Alas! everything has now lost its relish and look! Thehour you left D'Estella I took to my bed. I was worn out with feversof all kinds, but most by that fever of the heart with which thouknowest well I have been wasting these two years--and shall continuewasting till you quit S----. The good Miss S----, from the forebodingsof the best of hearts, thinking I was ill, insisted upon my going toher. What can be the cause, my dear L. , that I never have been able tosee 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 burstinto tears a dozen different times, and in such affectionate gusts ofpassion, that she was constrained to leave the room, and sympathizein her dressing-room. I have been weeping for you both, said she, ina tone of the sweetest pity--for poor L. 's heart, I have long knownit--her anguish is as sharp as yours--her heart as tender--herconstancy as great--her virtues as heroic--Heaven brought you nottogether to be tormented. I could only answer her with a kind look, and a heavy sigh, and returned home to your lodgings (which I havehired till your return) to resign myself to misery. Fanny had preparedme 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 themoment she began to spread my little table, my heart fainted withinme. One solitary plate, one knife, one fork, one glass! I gave athousand pensive, penetrating looks at the chair thou hadst so oftengraced, in those quiet and sentimental repasts, then laid down myknife and fork, and took out my handkerchief, and clapped it acrossmy 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 wordL----. O thou! blessed in thyself, and in thy virtues, blessed to allthat know thee--to me most so, because more do I know of thee than allthy 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 thisworld together. This, my friend, is the plain and simple magic, bywhich I told Miss ---- I have won a place in that heart of thine, onwhich I depend so satisfied, that time, or distance, or change ofeverything which might alarm the hearts of little men, create nouneasy suspense in mine. Wast thou to stay in S---- these sevenyears, thy friend, though he would grieve, scorns to doubt, or to bedoubted--'tis the only exception where security is not the parent ofdanger. 

I told you poor Fanny was all attention to me since yourdeparture--contrives every day bringing in the name of L. She toldme last night (upon giving me some hartshorn), she had observed myillness began the very day of your departure for S----; that I hadnever held up my head, had seldom, or scarce ever, smiled, had fledfrom all society; that she verily believed I was broken-hearted, forshe had never entered the room, or passed by the door, but she heardme sigh heavily; that I neither eat, or slept, or took pleasure inanything as before. Judge then, my L. , can the valley look so well, or the roses and jessamines smell so sweet as heretofore? Ah me! butadieu--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 hasbeen here some time with Miss Poyntz, and is at this moment settingout for your metropolis; so I snatch the opportunity of writing to youand my kind friend Mrs. Garrick. I see nothing like her here, and yetI have been introduced to one half of their best Goddesses, and in amonth more shall be admitted to the shrines of the other half; but Ineither worship or fall (much) on my knees before them; but, on thecontrary, have converted many unto Shandeism; for be it known, IShandy it away fifty times more than I was ever wont, talk morenonsense than ever you heard me talk in your days--and to all sortsof people. _Qui le diable est cet homme-là_--said Choiseul t'otherday--_ce chevalier Shandy_? You'll think me as vain as a devil, was Ito tell you the rest of the dialogue; whether the bearer knows it orno, 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, asthose great characters in the hands of Garrick! but I forgot Iam writing to the man himself. The devil take (as he will) thesetransports of enthusiasm! Apropos, the whole city of Paris is_bewitched_ with the comic opera, and if it was not for the affairof the Jesuits, which takes up one half of our talk, the comic operawould have it all. It is a tragical nuisance in all companies as itis, and was it not for some sudden starts and dashes of Shandeism, which now and then either break the thread, or entangle it so, thatthe devil himself would be puzzled in winding it off, I should die amartyr--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 actscarce in anything but tragedies--and the Clairon is great, and Mile. Dumesnil, in some places, still greater than her; yet I cannot bearpreaching--I fancy I got a surfeit of it in my younger days. Thereis a tragedy to be damned to-night--peace be with it, and the gentlebrain which made it! I have ten thousand things to tell you I cannotwrite, I do a thousand things which cut no figure, _but in thedoing_--and as in London, I have the honour of having done and said athousand 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 notwrite faster than I do, having five letters more to dispatch by thesame gentleman; he is going into another section of the globe, andwhen he has seen you, will depart in peace. 

The Duke of Orleans has suffered my portrait to be added to the numberof some odd men in his collection; and a gentleman who lives with himhas taken it most expressively, at full length: I purpose to obtain anetching 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 morethan 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 downrightoverthrows, stops, and delays, we have arrived in three weeks atToulouse, and are now settled in our houses with servants, &c. , aboutus, and look as composed as if we had been here seven years. Inour journey we suffered so much from the heats, it gives me pain toremember it; I never saw a cloud from Paris to Nismes half as broad asa twenty-four sols piece. Good God! we were toasted, roasted, grilled, stewed and carbonaded on one side or other all the way; and being alldone enough (_assez cuits_) in the day, we were eat up at night bybugs, and other unswept-out vermin, the legal inhabitants (if lengthof possession gives right) of every inn we lay at. Can you conceivea worse accident than that in such a journey, in the hottest day andhour of it, four miles from either tree or shrub which could cast ashade of the size of one of Eve's fig leaves, that we should break ahind wheel into ten thousand pieces, and be obliged in consequenceto sit five hours on a gravelly road, without one drop of water, orpossibility of getting any? To mend the matter, my two postillionswere two dough-hearted fools, and fell a-crying. Nothing was to bedone! By heaven, quoth I, pulling off my coat and waistcoat, somethingshall 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 devilsto the next post for a cart to carry my baggage, and a wheel tocarry ourselves. Our luggage weighed ten quintals. It was the fairof Baucaire, all the world was going, or returning; we were asked byevery 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, mesamis_. . . . 

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, helaid his most serene commands upon me to write to Mr. West, and saidhe thought it for his glory, that I should draw up an inventory of allhis most serene possessions for the said West's perusal. Imprimis, a house, being in circumference a quarter of a mile, two feet and aninch; 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 seventhditto; 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 tooparticular, we shall pass over. The said rooms contain nine chairs, two tables, five stools and a cricket. From whence we shall proceedto the garden, containing two millions of superfine laurel hedges, a clump of cypress trees, and half the river Teverone. --Finis. DameNature 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 builthere three or four little mountains, and laid them out in an irregularsemi-circle; from certain others behind, at a greater distance, shehas 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 herfour hills, and there she has left it to its own disposal; which shehas no sooner done, but, like a heedless chit, it tumbles headlongdown a declivity fifty feet perpendicular, breaks itself all toshatters, and is converted into a shower of rain, where the sun formsmany a bow, red, green, blue, and yellow. To get out of our metaphorswithout 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 thousandirregular craggs, and to a vast depth. In this channel it goes boilingalong with a mighty noise till it comes to another steep, where yousee it a second time come roaring down (but first you must walktwo miles farther) a greater height than before, but not with thatquantity of waters; for by this time it has divided itself, beingcrossed and opposed by the rocks, into four several streams, each ofwhich, in emulation of the great one, will tumble down too; and itdoes tumble down, but not from an equally elevated place; so that youhave at one view all these cascades intermixed with groves of oliveand little woods, the mountains rising behind them, and on the top ofone (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, onthe brink of the precipice, stands the Sybil's temple, the remainsof a little rotunda, surrounded with its portico, above half of whosebeautiful Corinthian pillars are still standing and entire; all thison one hand. On the other, the open Campagna of Rome, here and therea little castle on a hillock, and the city itself at the very brink ofthe horizon, indistinctly seen (being eighteen miles off) except thedome of St. Peter's; which, if you look out of your window, whereveryou are, I suppose, you can see. I did not tell you that a littlebelow the first fall, on the side of the rock, and hanging over thattorrent, are little ruins which they show you for Horace's house, acurious 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 ahouse (which they also carry one to see) so situated that it seesnothing at all of the matter, and for anything he knew there might beno such river in the world. Horace had another house on the other sideof the Teverone, opposite to Maecenas's; and they told us there wasa bridge of communication, by which _andava il detto Signor pertrastullarsi coll' istesso Orazio_. In coming hither we crossed theAquae Albulae, a vile little brook that stinks like a fury, and theysay it has stunk so these thousand years. I forgot the Piscina ofQuintilius Varus, where he used to keep certain little fishes. Thisis very entire, and there is a piece of the aqueduct that supplied ittoo; 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; theysay 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 Leucocholyfor the most part; which, though it seldom laughs or dances, nor everamounts to what one called Joy or Pleasure, yet is a good easy sortof a state, and _ça ne laisse que de s'amuser. _ The only fault is itsinsipidity; which is apt now and then to give a sort of Ennui, whichmakes one form certain little wishes that signify nothing. But thereis another sort, black indeed, which I have now and then felt, thathas somewhat in it like Tertullian's rule of faith, _Credo quiaimpossibile est_; for it believes, nay, is sure of everything that isunlikely, so it be but frightful; and on the other hand excludes andshuts its eyes to the most possible hopes, and everything that ispleasurable; from this the Lord deliver us! for none but he andsunshiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoying this kind of weatherI am going into the country for a few weeks, but shall be never thenearer any society; so, if you have any charity, you will continue towrite. My life is like Harry the Fourth's supper of Hens, 'Poulets àla broche, Poulets en Ragoût, Poulets en Hâchis, Poulets en Fricassées'. Reading here, Reading there; nothing but books with differentsauces. Do not let me lose my desert then; for though that be Readingtoo, yet it has a very different flavour. The May seems to be comesince your invitation; and I propose to bask in her beams and dress mein her roses. 

 Et caput in verna semper habere rosa. 

I shall see Mr. ---- and his Wife, nay, and his Child, too, for he hasgot a Boy. Is it not odd to consider one's Cotemporaries in the gravelight of Husband and Father? There is my lords Sandwich and Halifax, they are Statesmen: Do not you remember them dirty boys playing atcricket? As for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, northe 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 acompliment of condolence, it would be a sensible satisfaction tome (before I testify my sorrow, and the sincere part I take in yourmisfortune) to know for certain, who it is that I lament. I knew Zaraand Selima (Selima, was it? or Fatima?) or rather I knew both of themtogether; for I cannot justly say which was which. Then as to yourhandsome Cat, the name you distinguished her by, I am no less at aloss, as well knowing one's handsome cat is always the cat one likesbest; or if one be alive and the other dead, it is usually the latterthat is the handsomest. Besides, if the point were never so clear, Ihope you do not think me so ill-bred or so imprudent as to forfeit allmy 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 sadaccident. Till this affair is a little better determined, you willexcuse 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 rejoicewith you on your new honours. This is only a beginning; I reckon nextweek 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 havevery little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be the better forit; I do not mean you, but your Cat, feuë Mademoiselle Selime, whom Iam 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 assistme, I believe, to get out of it as well as I can. Yesterday I hadthe misfortune of receiving a letter from certain gentlemen (as theirbookseller 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 notat all disposed to be either so indulgent, or so correspondent, asthey desire, I have but one bad way left to escape the honour theywould inflict upon me; and, therefore, am obliged to desire you wouldmake Dodsley print it immediately (which may be done in less than aweek's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form ismost convenient for him, but on his best paper and character; he mustcorrect the press himself, and print it without any interval betweenthe stanzas, because the sense is in some places continuedbeyond them; and the title must be, --_Elegy, written in a CountryChurchyard_. If he would add a line or two to say it came intohis 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 togive yourself this trouble on my account, which you have taken of yourown accord before now. If Dodsley do not do this immediately, he mayas 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 troubleI would have done. The description of a road, which your coach wheelshave so often honoured, it would be needless to give you; sufficeit that I arrived safe at my uncle's, who is a great hunter inimagination; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forcedto stand at this present writing; and though the gout forbids himgalloping after them in the field, yet he continues to regale his earsand nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me mightycheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, and reading whenI should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, that I have at thedistance of half a mile, through a green lane, a forest (the vulgarcall it a common) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy nohuman thing in it but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains andprecipices; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above theclouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover Cliff; butjust such hills as people who love their necks as well as I do mayventure to climb, and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as ifthey were more dangerous. Both vale and hill are covered with mostvenerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like mostother ancient people, are always dreaming out their old stories to thewinds. 

 _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 theregrow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timorous hare and sportivesquirrel 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 istalk 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 isentirely 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 bothof sack and silver, yet if any great man would say to me, 'I make youRat-catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of £300 a-year and two buttsof the best Malaga; and though it has been usual to catch a mouse ortwo, for form's sake, in public once a year, yet to you, sir, we shallnot stand on these things, ' I cannot say I should jump at it; nay, ifthey would drop the very name of the office, and call me Sinecureto the King's Majesty, I should feel a little awkward, and thinkeverybody I saw smelt a rat about me; but I do not pretend to blameany one else that has not the same sensations; for my part, I wouldrather be serjeant trumpeter or pinmaker to the palace. NeverthelessI interest myself a little in the history of it, and rather wishsomebody may accept it who will retrieve the credit of the thing, ifit be retrieveable, or ever had any credit. Rowe was, I think, thelast 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 personof great hopes in his youth, though at last he turned out a drunkenperson. Dryden was as disgraceful to the office from his character, as the poorest scribbler could have been from his verses. The officeitself has always humbled the professor hitherto (even in an age whenkings were somebody), if he were a poor writer by making him moreconspicuous, and if he were a good one by setting him at war with thelittle fry of his own profession, for there are poets little enough toenvy 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 nowhereoftener, or with more pleasure, than to Old Park. I hope you have mademy peace with Miss Deborah. It is certain, whether her name were inmy letter or not, she was as present to my memory as the rest of thelittle family; and I desire you would present her with two kissesin my name, and one a piece to all the others; for I shall take theliberty 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 shortintervals till the beginning of this month, and quite effaced thesummer from the year, I made a shift to pass May and June, notdisagreeably, in Kent. I was surprised at the beauty of the roadto Canterbury, which (I know not why) had not struck me in the samemanner before. The whole country is a rich and well cultivated garden;orchards, cherry grounds, hop grounds, intermixed with corn andfrequent villages, gentle risings covered with wood, and everywherethe Thames and Medway breaking in upon the landscape, with all theirnavigation. It was indeed owing to the bad weather that the wholescene was dressed in that tender emerald green, which one usually seesonly for a fortnight in the opening of Spring; and this continued tillI left the country. My residence was eight miles east of Canterbury, in a little quiet valley on the skirts of Barham Down; in these partsthe whole soil is chalk, and whenever it holds up, in half an hourit is dry enough to walk out. I took the opportunity of three or fourdays fine weather to go into the Isle of Thanet, saw Margate (whichis Bartholomew Fair by the seaside), Ramsgate, and other places there;and so came by Sandwich, Deal, Dover, Folkestone, and Hythe, backagain. The coast is not like Hartlepool, there are no rocks, butonly chalky cliffs, of no great height, till you come to Dover. Thereindeed they are noble and picturesque, and the opposite coasts ofFrance begin to bound your view, which was left before to rangeunlimited by anything but the horizon; yet it is by no means a_shipless_ sea, but everywhere peopled with white sails and vessels ofall sizes in motion; and take notice (except in the Isle, which is allcorn fields, and has very little enclosure), there are in all placeshedgerows and tall trees, even within a few yards of the beach, particularly Hythe stands on an eminence covered with wood. I shallconfess we had fires of a night (aye and a day too) several times evenin June: but don't go too far and take advantage of this, for it wasthe most untoward year that ever I remember. 

Your friend Rousseau (I doubt) grows tired of Mr. Davenport andDerbyshire; he has picked a quarrel with David Hume, and writeshim letters of fourteen pages folio, upbraiding him with all his_noirceurs_; take one only as a specimen. He says, that at Calaisthey chanced to sleep in the same room together, and that he overheardDavid talking in his sleep, and saying, '_Ah! je le tiens, ceJean-Jacques là_. ' In short (I fear), for want of persecution andadmiration (for these are his real complaints), he will go back to theContinent. 

What shall I say to you about the ministry? I am as angry as acommon council man of London about my Lord Chatham; but a little morepatient, and will hold my tongue till the end of the year. In themeantime I do mutter in secret, and to you, that to quit the House ofCommons, his natural strength, to sap his own popularity and grandeur(which no one but himself could have done) by assuming a foolishtitle; and to hope that he could win by it, and attach to him a courtthat hate him, and will dismiss him as soon as ever they dare, was theweakest thing that ever was done by so great a man. Had it not beenfor this, I should have rejoiced at the breach between him and LordTemple, and at the union between him and the Duke of Grafton andMr. Conway: but patience! we shall see! Stonehewer perhaps is in thecountry (for he hoped for a month's leave of absence), and if you seehim 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. Onmy conscience, I believe 'tis three months since you wrote to eitherGray or me. If you had been ill, Ashton would have said so; and ifyou had been dead, the gazettes would have said it. If you had beenangry, --but that's impossible; how can one quarrel with folks threethousand miles off? We are neither divines nor commentators, andconsequently have not hated you on paper. 'Tis to show that my charityfor 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; andwhen emperors and czarinas are dying all up and down Europe, one can'tpretend to tell you of anything that happens within our sphere. Notbut that we have our accidents too. If you have had a great wind inEngland, we have had a great water at Florence. We have been tryingto set out every day, and pop upon you[1] . . . It is fortunate thatwe stayed, for I don't know what had become of us! Yesterday, withviolent rains, there came flouncing down from the mountains such aflood that it floated the whole city. The jewellers on the Old Bridgeremoved their commodities, and in two hours after the bridge wascracked. The torrent broke down the quays and drowned severalcoach-horses, which are kept here in stables under ground. We weremoated into our house all day, which is near the Arno, and had themiserable spectacles of the ruins that were washed along with thehurricane. There was a cart with two oxen not quite dead, and four menin it drowned: but what was ridiculous, there came tiding along afat hay-cock, with a hen and her eggs, and a cat. The torrent isconsiderably abated; but we expect terrible news from the country, especially from Pisa, which stands so much lower, and nearer thesea. There is a stone here, which, when the water overflows, Pisa isentirely flooded. The water rose two ells yesterday above that stone. Judge!

For this last month we have passed our time but dully, all diversionssilenced on the Emperor's death, and everybody out of town. I haveseen nothing but cards and dull pairs of cicisbeos. I have literallyseen so much of love and pharaoh since being here, that I believe Ishall never love either again so long as I live. Then I am got intoa horrid lazy way of a morning. I don't believe I should know seveno'clock in the morning again if I was to see it. But I am returning toEngland, 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 suchformidable ideas of the good people of England that we are alreadynourishing great black eyebrows and great black beards, and teasingour 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 totell you, I can't help scribbling a line to you to-night, as I amgoing to Mr. Rigby's for a week or ten days, and must thank you firstfor 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 youplease, Elizabeth Castle shall be Mr. Müntz's performance: indeed Isee nothing of you in it. I do reconnoitre you in the Hercules andNessus; but in both, your colours are dirty, carelessly dirty: inyour distant hills you are improved, and not hard. The figures are toolarge--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 shemost improperly sorrowful. However, I am pleased enough to beg youwould continue. As soon as Mr. Müntz returns from the Vine, you shallhave a good supply of colours. In the meantime why give up the goodold 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: youwould if you knew the real pleasure you can give me. I have beenstudying all your drawings; and next to architecture and trees, Idetermine that you succeed in nothing better than animals. Now (asthe newspapers say) the late ingenious Mr. Seymour is dead, I wouldrecommend horses and greyhounds to you. I should think you capable ofa landscape or two with delicious bits of architecture. I have knownyou execute the light of a torch or lanthorn so well, that if itwas called Schalken, a housekeeper at Hampton Court or Windsor, ora Catherine at Strawberry Hill, would show it, and say it cost tenthousand pounds. Nay, if I could believe that you would ever executeany more designs I proposed to you, I would give you a hint for apicture that struck me t'other day in Péréfixe's _Life of Henry IV_. He says, the king was often seen lying upon a common straw-bed amongthe soldiers, with a piece of brown bread in one hand, and a bitof charcoal in t'other, to draw an encampment, or town that he wasbesieging. If this is not character and a picture, I don't know whatis. 

I dined to-day at Garrick's: there were the Duke of Grafton, Lord andLady Rochford, Lady Holderness, the crooked Mostyn, and Dabreu theSpanish minister; two regents, of which one is lord chamberlain, theother groom of the stole; and the wife of a secretary of state. Thisis being _sur un assez bon ton_ for a player! Don't you want to ask mehow 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 mimicryand burlesque. I am very ungrateful, for he flatters me abundantly;but unluckily I know it. I was accustomed to it enough when my fatherwas 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, whois all disputation; with Sir Charles Williams, who has no time fromflattering himself; with Gray, who does not hate to find fault withme; 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 doesflatter me; but I should be a cormorant for praise, if I could swallowit whole as he gives it me. 

Sir William Yonge, who has been extinct so long, is at last dead; andthe war, which began with such a flirt of vivacity, is I think gone tosleep. General Braddock has not yet sent over to claim the surname ofAmericanus. But why should I take pains to show you in how many ways Iknow nothing?--Why; I can tell it you in one word--why, Mr. Cambridgeknows 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 ofgreat merit to a man of great taste. Your Lordship's approbation isconclusive, and it stamps a disgrace on the age, who have not giventhemselves the trouble to see any beauties in these _Odes_ of Mr. Gray. They have cast their eyes over them, found them obscure, andlooked no further, yet perhaps no compositions ever had more sublimebeauties than are in each. I agree with your Lordship in preferringthe last upon the whole; the three first stanzas and half, down to_agonizing King_, are in my opinion equal to anything in any languageI understand. Yet the three last of the first Ode please me very nearas much. The description of Shakespeare is worthy Shakespeare: theaccount of Milton's blindness, though perhaps not strictly defensible, is very majestic. The character of Dryden's poetry is as animated aswhat it paints. I can even like the epithet _Orient_; as the last isthe empire of fancy and poesy, I would allow its livery to be erectedinto a colour. I think _blue-eyed Pleasures_ is allowable: when Homergave eyes of what hue he pleased to his Queen-Goddesses, sure Mr. Graymay tinge those of their handmaids. 

In answer to your Lordship's objection to _many-twinkling_, in thatbeautiful epode, I will quote authority to which you will yield. AsGreek as the expression is, it struck Mrs. Garrick, and she says, onthat whole picture, that Mr. Gray is the only poet who ever understooddancing. 

These faults I think I can defend, and can excuse others; even thegreat obscurity of the latter, for I do not see it in the first; thesubject of it has been taken for music, --it is the Power and Progressof Harmonious Poetry. I think his objection to prefixing a title to itwas wrong--that Mr. Cooke published an ode with such a title. If theLouis the Great, whom Voltaire has discovered in Hungary, had notdisappeared from history himself, would not Louis Quatorze haveannihilated him? I was aware that the second would have darknesses, and prevailed for the insertion of what notes there are, and wouldhave had more. Mr. Gray said, whatever wanted explanation did notdeserve it, but that sentence was never so far from being an axiom asin the present case. Not to mention how he had shackled himself withstrophe, antistrophe, and epode (yet acquitting himself nobly), the nature of prophecy forbade him naming his kings. To me they areapparent enough--yet I am far from thinking either piece perfect, though with what faults they have, I hold them in the first rank ofgenius and poetry. The second strophe of the first Ode is inexcusable, nor do I wonder your Lordship blames it; even when one does understandit, perhaps the last line is too turgid. I am not fond of theantistrophe that follows. In the second Ode he made some correctionsfor the worse. _Brave Urion_ was originally _stern_: brave is insipidand commonplace. In the third antistrophe, _leave me unblessed, unpitied_, stood at first, _leave your despairing Caradoc_. But thecapital faults in my opinion are these--what punishment was it toEdward I to hear that his grandson would conquer France? or is socommon an event as Edward III being deserted on his death-bed, worthyof being made part of a curse that was to avenge a nation? I can'tcast my eye here, without crying out on those beautiful lines thatfollow, _Fair smiles the morn_? Though the images are extremelycomplicated, what painting in the whirlwind, likened to a lion lyingin ambush for his evening prey, _in grim repose_. Thirst and hungermocking 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 hehas faithfully copied from Speed, in the passage where she humbled thePolish Ambassador, I admire. I can even allow that image of Rapturehovering like an ancient grotesque, though it strictly has littlemeaning: but there I take my leave--the last stanza has no beautiesfor me. I even think its obscurity fortunate, for the allusions toSpenser, Shakespeare, Milton, are not only weak, but the two lastreturning again, after appearing so gloriously in the first Ode, andwith so much fainter colours, enervate the whole conclusion. 

Your Lordship sees that I am no enthusiast to Mr. Gray: his greatlustre has not dazzled me, as his obscurity seems to have blinded hiscontemporaries. 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 moremasterly execution have defects, yet not to admire them is total wantof taste. I have an aversion to tame poetry; at best, perhaps the artis the sublimest of the _difficiles nugae_; to measure or rhyme proseis 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 toocontemptible to be recorded by anybody but journalists, gazetteers, and such historians! The ordinary of Newgate, or Mr. ----, who writefor their monthly half-crown, and who are indifferent whether LordBute, Lord Melcombe, or Maclean is their hero, may swear theyfind diamonds on dunghills; but you will excuse _me_, if I let ourcorrespondence lie dormant rather than deal in such trash. I am forcedto send Lord Hertford and Sir Horace Mann such garbage, becausethey are out of England, and the sea softens and makes palatable anypotion, as it does claret; but unless I can divert _you_, I had ratherwait till we can laugh together; the best employment for friends, who do not mean to pick one another's pockets, nor make a property ofeither's frankness. Instead of politics, therefore, I shall amuse youto-day with a fairy tale. 

I was desired to be at my Lady Suffolk's on New Year's morn, where Ifound Lady Temple and others. On the toilet Miss Hotham spied a smallround box. She seized it with all the eagerness and curiosity ofeleven years. In it was wrapped up a heart-diamond ring, and a paperin which, in a hand as small as Buckinger's, who used to write theLord's Prayer in the compass of a silver penny, were the followinglines:

 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 wewere delighted with the genteelness of the thought and execution. Thechild, you may imagine, was less transported with the poetry than thepresent. Her attention, however, was hurried backwards and forwardsfrom the ring to a new coat, that she had been trying on when sent fordown; impatient to revisit her coat, and to show the ring to her maid, she whisked upstairs; when she came down again, she found a lettersealed, and lying on the floor--new exclamations! Lady Suffolk badeher 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 isprettily excused afterwards. The next day my Lady Suffolk desired Iwould write her a patent for appointing Lady Temple poet laureate tothe 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 likea poet laureate, than for making one; however, I was going home todinner alone, and at six I sent her some lines, which you ought tohave seen how sick I was, to excuse; but first, I must tell you mytale methodically. The next morning by nine o'clock Miss Hotham (shemust forgive me twenty years hence for saying she was eleven, for Irecollect she is but ten) arrived at Lady Temple's, her face and neckall spotted with saffron, and limping. 'Oh, madam!' said she, 'I amundone for ever if you do not assist me!' 'Lord, child, ' cried my LadyTemple, 'what is the matter?' thinking she had hurt herself, or lostthe 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 Templeprotests the child acted her part so well as to deceive her. 'What canI do for you?' 'Dear madam, take this load from my back; nobody butyou can. ' Lady Temple turned her round, and upon her back was tied achild's waggon. In it were three tiny purses of blue velvet; in one ofthem a silver cup, in another a crown of laurel, and in the thirdfour new silver pennies, with the patent, signed at top, 'OberonImperator'; and two sheets of warrants strung together with blue silkaccording to form; and at top an office seal of wax and a chaplet ofcut 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 wholeplan and execution of the second act was laid and adjusted by myLady Suffolk herself and Will. Chetwynd, Master of the Mint, LordBolingbroke'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, andwas actually then in misery, and had been without sleep. Whatspirits, and cleverness, and imagination, at that age, and under thoseafflicting circumstances! You reconnoitre her old court knowledge, howcharmingly she has applied it! Do you wonder I pass so many hours andevenings with her? Alas! I had like to have lost her this morning!They had poulticed her feet to draw the gout downwards, and began tosucceed yesterday, but to-day it flew up into her head, and she wasalmost in convulsions with the agony, and screamed dreadfully; proofenough how ill she was, for her patience and good breeding make herfor ever sink and conceal what she feels. This evening the gout hasbeen driven back to her foot, and I trust she is out of danger. Herloss would be irreparable to me at Twickenham, where she is by far themost 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 myfaults towards your ladyship, as to have been guilty of any neglect. It is scandalous, at my age, to have been carried backwards andforwards to balls and suppers and parties by very young people, asI was all last week. My resolutions of growing old and staid areadmirable: I wake with a sober plan, and intend to pass the day withmy friends--then comes the Duke of Richmond, and hurries me down toWhitehall to dinner--then the Duchess of Grafton sends for me to tooin Upper Grosvenor Street--before I can get thither, I am beggedto step to Kensington, to give Mrs. Anne Pitt my opinion abouta bow-window--after the loo, I am to march back to Whitehall tosupper--and after that, am to walk with Miss Pelham on the terracetill two in the morning, because it is moonlight and her chair is notcome. All this does not help my morning laziness; and by the time Ihave breakfasted, fed my birds and my squirrels, and dressed, there isan auction ready. In short, Madam, this was my life last week, andis I think every week, with the addition of forty episodes. --Yet, ridiculous as it is, I send it to your ladyship, because I hadrather you should laugh at me than be angry. I cannot offend you inintention, but I fear my sins of omission are equal to a good manyChristian's. Pray forgive me. I really will begin to be between fortyand fifty by the time I am fourscore: and I truly believe I shallbring my resolutions within compass; for I have not chalked out anyparticular business that will take me above forty years more; so that, if I do not get acquainted with the grandchildren of all the presentage, 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 isdead! I wish to God you may be able to tell me it is not true! Yetin this painful uncertainty I must rest some days! None of myacquaintance 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 detailis exact;--a second paper arrived by the same post, and does notcontradict it--and what is worse, I saw him but four or fivedays before I came hither; he had been to Kensington for the air, complained of gout flying about him, of sensations of it in hisstomach, and indeed, thought him changed, and that he lookedill--still I had not the least idea of his being in danger. --I startedup from my chair, when I read the paragraph--a cannon-ball couldnot have surprised me more! The shock but ceased, to give way to myconcern; and my hopes are too ill founded to mitigate it. If nobodyhas the charity to write to me, my anxiety must continue till the endof the month, for I shall set out on my return on the 26th; and unlessyou receive this time enough for your answer to leave London on the20th, in the evening, I cannot meet it, till I find it in ArlingtonStreet, 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 everythingthat 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 anopportunity of expressing what I feel for him. Methinks, as we growold, our only business here is to adorn the graves of our friends, orto 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 whichyou submit your papers to my correction? But if you are friendly, Imust be just. I am so far from being dissatisfied, that I must beg toshorten your pen, and in that respect only would I wish, with regardto myself, to alter your text. I am conscious that in the beginning ofthe differences between Gray and me, the fault was mine. I wasyoung, too fond of my own diversions; nay, I do not doubt, too muchintoxicated by indulgence, vanity, and the insolence of my situation, as a prime minister's son, not to have been inattentive to thefeelings 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 superiorin 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. Ireproached him with the difference between us, when he acted from theconviction of knowing that he was my superior. I often disregardedhis wish of seeing places, which I would not quit my own amusements tovisit, 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 Iwill confess to you that he acted a most friendly part, had I had thesense to take advantage of it. He freely told me my faults. I declaredI did not wish to hear them, nor would correct them. You will notwonder, that with the dignity of his spirit, and the obstinatecarelessness of mine, the breach must have widened till we becameincompatible. 

After this confession, I fear you will think I fall short in thewords I wish to have substituted for some of yours. If you think theminadequate to the state of the case, as I own they are, preserve thisletter, and let some future Sir John Dalrymple produce it to load mymemory; but I own I do not desire that any ambiguity should aid hisinvention to forge an account for me. If you have no objection, Iwould propose your narrative should run thus . . . And contain no more, till a proper time shall come for publishing the truth, as I havestated it to you. While I am living, it is not pleasant to see myprivate 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 wretchedcomedy? Dr. Goldsmith's _She Stoops to Conquer_. Stoops indeed!--soshe does, that is the Muse; she is draggled up to the knees, and hastrudged, I believe, from Southwark fair. The whole view of thepiece is low humour, and no humour is in it. All the merit is in thesituations, which are comic; the heroine has no more modesty than LadyBridget, and the author's wit is as much _manqué_ as the lady's; butsome of the characters are well acted, and Woodward speaks a poorprologue, written by Garrick, admirably. 

You perceive, Madam, that I have boldly sallied to a play; but theheat of the house and of this sultry March half killed me, yet I limpabout as if I was young and pleased. From the play I travelledto Upper Grosvenor Street, to Lady Edgecumbe's, supped at LadyHertford's. That Maccaroni rake, Lady Powis, who is just come to herestate and spending it, calling in with news of a fire in the Strandat past one in the morning, Lady Hertford, Lady Powis, Mrs. Howe, andI, set out to see it, and were within an inch of seeing the Adelphibuildings burnt to the ground. I was to have gone to the Oratorionext night for Miss Linley's sake, but, being engaged to the Frenchambassador's ball afterwards, I thought I was not quite Herculesenough for so many labours, and declined the former. 

The house was all arbours and bowers, but rather more approaching toCalcutta, where so many English were stewed to death; for as the Queenwould not dis-Maid of Honour herself of Miss Vernon till after theOratorio, the ball-room was not opened till she arrived, and we werepenned together in the little hall till we could not breathe. Thequadrilles were very pretty: Mrs. Darner, Lady Sefton, Lady Melbourne, and the Princess Czartoriski in blue satin, with blond and _colletsmontés à 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 Ducde Lauzun, and George Damer, all in white, the men with black hats andwhite feathers napping behind, danced another quadrille, and then bothquadrilles joined; after which Mrs. Hobart, all in gauze and spangles, like a spangle-pudding, a Miss I forget, Lord Edward Bentinck, anda Mr. Corbet, danced a _pas-de-quatre_, in which Mrs. Hobart indeedperformed admirably. 

The fine Mrs. Matthews in white, trimmed down all the neck andpetticoat with scarlet cock's feathers, appeared like a new macawbrought from Otaheite; but of all the pretty creatures next to theCarrara (who was not there) was Mrs. Bunbury; so that with her I wasin love till one o'clock, and then came home to bed. The Duchess ofQueensberry had a round gown of rose-colour, with a man's cape, which, with the stomacher and sleeves, was all trimmed with mother-of-pearlearrings. This Pindaric gown was a sudden thought to surprise theDuke, with whom she had dined in another dress. Did you ever see sogood a joke?. . . 

Lord Chesterfield was dead before my last letter that foretold hisdeath 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 quarrelin Spitalfields, and even that Mrs. F[itzroy] struck Miss P[oole], hesaid, I always thought Mrs. F. A _striking_ beauty. '

Thus, having given away all his wit to the last farthing, he has leftnothing but some poor witticisms in his will, tying up his heir byforfeitures and jokes from going to Newmarket. 

I wrote this letter at Strawberry, and find nothing new in town to addbut 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 youwill 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 seehim;. . . But he is so dull that he would only be troublesome--andbesides, you know I shun authors, and would never have been onemyself, if it obliged me to keep such bad company. They are alwaysin earnest, and think their profession serious, and will dwell upontrifles, and reverence learning. I laugh at all these things, andwrite only to laugh at them, and divert myself. None of us are authorsof any consequence; and it is the most ridiculous of all vanities tobe vain of being _mediocre_. A page in a great author humbles meto the dust; and the conversation of those that are not superiorto myself, reminds me of what will be thought of myself. I blush toflatter them, or to be flattered by them, and should dread lettersbeing published some time or other, in which they would relate ourinterviews, and we should appear like those puny conceited witlingsin Shenstone's and Hughes's _Correspondence_, who give themselves airsfrom being in possession of the soil of Parnassus for the time being;as peers are proud, because they enjoy the estates of great men whowent before them. Mr. Gough is very welcome to see Strawberry Hill; orI would help him to any scraps in my possession, that would assisthis publications; though he is one of those industrious who areonly re-burying the dead--but I cannot be acquainted with him. It iscontrary to my system and my humour; and besides, I know nothingof barrows, and Danish intrenchments, and Saxon barbarisms, andPhoenician characters--in short, I know nothing of those ages thatknew nothing--how then should I be of use to modern litterati? All theScotch metaphysicians have sent me their works. I did not read one ofthem, because I do not understand what is not understood by those thatwrite 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 wroteLord Buckhorse, or with the author of the _Heroic Epistle_--I have nothirst to know the rest of my contemporaries, from the absurd bombastof Dr. Johnson down to the silly Dr. Goldsmith; though the latterchangeling has had bright gleams of parts, and though the former hadsense, till he changed it for words, and sold it for a pension. Don'tthink me scornful. Recollect that I have seen Pope, and lived withGray. 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 onethousand. I lament that the summer is over; not because of itsiniquity, but because you two made it so delightful to me, that sixweeks of gout could not sour it. Pray take care of yourselves--notfor your own sakes, but for mine; for, as I have just had my quota ofgout, I may, possibly, expect to see another summer; and, as you allowthat I do know my own, and when I wish for anything and have it, amentirely satisfied, you may depend upon it that I shall be as happywith 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 asociety that I perfectly like; and at last there dropped out of theclouds into Lady Herries's room two young gentlewomen, who I so littlethought were sent thither on purpose for me, that when I was told theywere the charming Miss Berrys, I would not even go to the side of thechamber where they sat. But, as Fortune never throws anything at one'shead without hitting one, I soon found out that the charming Berryswere precisely _ce qu'il me fallait_; and that though young enough tobe my great-grand-daughters, lovely enough to turn the heads of allour youths, and sensible enough, if said youths have any brains, toset all their heads to rights again. Yes, sweet damsels, I have foundthat you can bear to pass half your time with an antediluvian, withoutdiscovering any _ennui_ or disgust; though his greatest merit towardsyou is, that he is not one of those old fools who fancy they are inlove in their dotage. I have no such vagary; though I am notsorry that some folks think I am so absurd, since it frets theirselfishness. 

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 befully 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 higherthan Fiddleback, into cash, took my passage in a ship bound forAmerica, and, at the same time, paid the captain for my freight andall the other expenses of my voyage. But it so happened that the winddid not answer for three weeks; and you know, mother, that I could notcommand the elements. My misfortune was, that, when the wind served, Ihappened to be with a party in the country, and my friend the captainnever inquired after me, but set sail with as much indifference as ifI had been on board. The remainder of my time I employed in the cityand its environs, viewing everything curious; and you know no one canstarve while he has money in his pocket. 

Reduced, however, to my last two guineas, I began to think of mydear mother and friends whom I had left behind me, and so boughtthat generous beast Fiddleback, and made adieu to Cork with only fiveshillings in my pocket. This, to be sure, was but a scanty allowancefor man and horse towards a journey of above a hundred miles; but Idid not despair, for I knew I must find friends on the road. 

I recollected particularly an old and faithful acquaintance I made atcollege, who had often and earnestly pressed me to spend a summerwith him, and he lived but eight miles from Cork. This circumstanceof vicinity he would expatiate on to me with peculiar emphasis. 'Weshall, ' says he, 'enjoy the delights of both city and country, and youshall command my stable and my purse. '

However, upon the way, I met a poor woman all in tears, who told meher husband had been arrested for a debt he was not able to pay, andthat his eight children must now starve, bereaved as they were of hisindustry, which had been their only support. I thought myself at home, being not far from my good friend's house, and therefore parted witha moiety of all my store; and pray, mother, ought I not to have givenher the other half-crown, for what she got would be of little use toher? However, I soon arrived at the mansion of my affectionate friend, guarded by the vigilance of a huge mastiff, who flew at me, andwould have torn me to pieces but for the assistance of a woman, whosecountenance was not less grim than that of the dog; yet she with greathumanity relieved me from the jaws of this Cerberus, and was prevailedon to carry up my name to her master. 

Without suffering me to wait long, my old friend, who was thenrecovering from a severe fit of sickness, came down in his nightcap, nightgown, and slippers, and embraced me with the most cordialwelcome, showed me in, and after giving me a history of hisindisposition, assured me that he considered himself peculiarlyfortunate in having under his roof the man he most loved on earth, andwhose stay with him must, above all things, contribute to his perfectrecovery. I now repented sorely I had not given the poor woman theother half-crown, as I thought all my bills of humanity would bepunctually answered by this worthy man. I revealed to him my wholesoul; I opened to him all my distresses; and freely owned that Ihad but one half-crown in my pocket; but that now, like a ship afterweathering out the storm, I considered myself secure in a safe andhospitable harbour. He made no answer, but walked about the room, rubbing his hands as one in deep study. This I imputed to thesympathetic feelings of a tender heart, which increased my esteem forhim, and as that increased, I gave the most favourable interpretationto his silence. I construed it into delicacy of sentiment, as if hedreaded 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 nobreakfast, and as my spirits were raised, my appetite for dinner grewuncommonly keen. At length the old woman came into the room with twoplates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth which she laid upon the table. This appearance, without increasing my spirits, did not diminish myappetite. My protectress soon returned with a small bowl of sago, asmall porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, andthe heel of an old cheese all over crawling with mites. My friendapologized that his illness obliged him to live on slops, and thatbetter fare was not in the house; observing, at the same time, thata milk diet was certainly the most healthful; and at eight o'clock heagain recommended a regular life, declaring that for his part he wouldlie down with the lamb and rise with the lark. My hunger was at thistime 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 assoon as possible; accordingly, next morning, when I spoke of going, he did not oppose my resolution; he rather commended my design, addingsome very sage counsel upon the occasion. 'To be sure, ' said he, 'thelonger you stay away from your mother, the more you will grieve herand your other friends; and possibly they are already afflicted athearing of this foolish expedition you have made. ' Notwithstanding allthis, and without any hope of softening such a sordid heart, I againrenewed the tale of my distress, and asking 'how he thought I couldtravel above a hundred miles upon one half-crown?' I begged to borrowa 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 foryou. ' To which he firmly answered, 'Why, look you, Mr. Goldsmith, thatis neither here nor there. I have paid you all you ever lent me, andthis sickness of mine has left me bare of cash. But I have bethoughtmyself of a conveyance for you; sell your horse, and I will furnishyou with a much better one to ride on. ' I readily grasped at hisproposal, and begged to see the nag; on which he led me to hisbedchamber, 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 youto your mother's with more safety than such a horse as you ride. ' Iwas in doubt, when I got it into my hand, whether I should not in thefirst place apply it to his pate; but a rap at the street-doormade the wretch fly to it, and when I returned to the parlour, he introduced me, as if nothing of the kind had happened, to thegentleman who entered, as Mr. Goldsmith, his most ingenious and worthyfriend, of whom he had so often heard him speak with rapture. I couldscarcely compose myself; and must have betrayed indignation in my miento the stranger, who was a counsellor-at-law in the neighbourhood, aman of engaging aspect and polite address. 

After spending an hour, he asked my friend and me to dine with him athis house. This I declined at first, as I wished to have no furthercommunication with my hospitable friend; but at the solicitation ofboth I at last consented, determined as I was by two motives; one, that I was prejudiced in favour of the looks and manner of thecounsellor; and the other, that I stood in need of a comfortabledinner. And there, indeed, I found everything that I could wish, abundance without profusion, and elegance without affectation. In theevening, when my old friend, who had eaten very plentifully at hisneighbour's table, but talked again of lying down with the lamb, madea motion to me for retiring, our generous host requested I should takea bed with him, upon which I plainly told my old friend that he mightgo home and take care of the horse he had given me, but that I shouldnever re-enter his doors. He went away with a laugh, leaving me toadd this to the other little things the counsellor already knew of hisplausible neighbour. 

And now, my dear mother, I found sufficient to reconcile me to allmy follies; for here I spent three whole days. The counsellor hadtwo sweet girls to his daughters, who played enchantingly on theharpsichord; and yet it was but a melancholy pleasure I felt the firsttime I heard them: for that being the first time also that either ofthem had touched the instrument since their mother's death, I sawthe tears in silence trickle down their father's cheeks. I every dayendeavoured to go away, but every day was pressed and obliged to stay. On my going, the counsellor offered me his purse, with a horse andservant to convey me home; but the latter I declined, and only took aguinea 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 tellhow I wrote a long letter on my first coming hither, and seem vastlyangry at my not receiving an answer; I might allege that business(with business you know I was always pestered) had never given metime to finger a pen--but I suppress those and twenty more equallyplausible, and as easily invented, since they might be attended witha slight inconvenience of being known to be lies. Let me then speaktruth. An hereditary indolence (I have it from the mother's side) hashitherto prevented my writing to you, and still prevents my writingat least twenty-five letters more, due to my friends in Ireland. Noturnspit dog gets up into his wheel with more reluctance than I sitdown to write; yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns betterthan 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 theirvalleys scarce able to feed a rabbit? Man alone seems to be the onlycreature who has arrived to the natural size in this poor soil. Everypart of the country presents the same dismal landscape. No grove, norbrook, lend their music to cheer the stranger, or make the inhabitantsforget their poverty. Yet with all these disadvantages, enough tocall him down to humility, the Scotchman is one of the proudest thingsalive. The poor have pride ever ready to relieve them. If mankindshould happen to despise them, they are masters of their ownadmiration; and _that_ they can plentifully bestow upon themselves. 

From their pride and poverty, as I take it, results one advantage thiscountry enjoys; namely, the gentlemen here are much better bred thanamongst us. No such characters here as our fox-hunters; and they haveexpressed great surprise when I informed them that some men in Irelandof one thousand pounds a-year spend their whole lives in running aftera hare, and drinking to be drunk; and truly, if such a being, equippedin his hunting dress, came among a circle of Scotch gentry, they wouldbehold him with the same astonishment that a countryman would KingGeorge on horseback. 

The men here have generally high cheek-bones, and are lean andswarthy, fond of action, dancing in particular. Though now I mentiondancing, let me say something of their balls, which are very frequenthere. When a stranger enters the dancing-hall, he sees one end ofthe room taken up with the ladies, who sit dismally in a group bythemselves; on the other end stand their pensive partners that are tobe; but no more intercourse between the sexes than there is betweentwo countries at war. The ladies indeed may ogle, and the gentlemensigh; but an embargo is laid on any closer commerce. At length, tointerrupt hostilities, the lady directress, or intendant, or what youwill, pitches on a gentleman and lady to walk a minuet; which theyperform with a formality that approaches to despondence. After fiveor six couple have thus walked the gauntlet, all stand up to countrydances; each gentleman furnished with a partner from the aforesaidlady directress; so they dance much and say nothing, and thusconcludes our assembly. I told a Scotch gentleman that such profoundsilence resembled the ancient procession of the Roman matrons inhonour of Ceres; and the Scotch gentleman told me (and, faith, Ibelieve 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, andeverything that belongs to so charming a country, I insist on it, andwill give him leave to break my head that denies it--that the Scotchladies are ten thousand times handsomer and finer than the Irish. Tobe sure, now, I see your sisters Betty and Peggy vastly surprised atmy partiality, but tell them flatly, I don't value them, or their fineskins, or eyes, or good sense, or--, a potato; for I say it, and willmaintain 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 lessserious; where will you find a language so pretty become a prettymouth as the broad Scotch? and the women here speak it in its highestpurity; for instance, teach one of their young ladies to pronounce'Whoar wull I gong?' with a becoming wideness of mouth, and I'll laymy life they will wound every hearer. 

We have no such character here as a coquet, but alas! how many enviousprudes! Some days ago I walked into my Lord Kilcoubry's (don't besurprised, my lord is but a glover), when the Duchess of Hamilton(that fair who sacrificed her beauty to ambition, and her inward peaceto a title and gilt equipage) passed by in her chariot; her batteredhusband, 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 satwith me, to find faults in her faultless form. --'For my part, ' saysthe first, 'I think what I always thought, that the Duchess has toomuch red in her complexion. ' 'Madam, I'm of your opinion, ' says thesecond; 'I think her face has a palish cast too much on the delicateorder. ' 'And let me tell you, ' adds the third lady, whose mouth waspuckered 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 ifgoing to pronounce the letter P. 

But how ill, my Bob, does it become me to ridicule women with whomI have scarce any correspondence! There are, 'tis certain, handsomewomen here; and 'tis as certain there are handsome men to keep themcompany. An ugly and a poor man is society for himself; and suchsociety the world lets me enjoy in great abundance. Fortune has givenyou circumstances, and nature a person to look charming in the eyes ofthe fair world. Nor do I envy my dear Bob such blessings, while I maysit down and laugh at the world and at myself, the most ridiculousobject in it. But I begin to grow splenetic, and perhaps the fit maycontinue till I receive an answer to this. I know you can't send newsfrom Ballymahon, but such as it is, send it all; everything you writewill be agreeable and entertaining to me. 

Has George Conway put up a sign yet; or John Finecly left off drinkingdrams; or Tom Allen got a new wig? But I leave to your own choice whatto write. While Oliver Goldsmith lives, know you have a friend. 

PS. --Give my sincere respects (not compliments, do you mind) to youragreeable 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 herstill. 

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 believeme, Sir, when I say, that till now I had not an opportunity of sittingdown with that ease of mind which writing required. You may see by thetop of the letter that I am at Leyden; but of my journey hither youmust be informed. Some time after the receipt of your last, I embarkedfor Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship called the _St. Andrews_, Capt. John Wall, master. The ship made a tolerable appearance, and asanother inducement, I was let to know that six agreeable passengerswere to be my company. Well, we were but two days at sea when a stormdrove us into a city of England called Newcastle-upon-Tyne. We allwent ashore to refresh us after the fatigue of our voyage. Seven menand I were one day on shore, and on the following evening as we wereall very merry, the room door bursts open, enters a sergeant andtwelve grenadiers with their bayonets screwed, and puts us all underthe King's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the Frenchservice, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for the Frencharmy. I endeavoured all I could to prove my innocence; however, Iremained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty gotoff even then. Dear Sir, keep this all a secret, or at least say itwas for debt; for if it were once known at the University, I shouldhardly get a degree. But hear how Providence interposed in my favour;the ship was gone on to Bordeaux before I got from prison, and waswrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew weredrowned. It happened the last great storm. There was a ship at thattime ready for Holland. I embarked, and in nine days, thank my God, Iarrived safe at Rotterdam; whence I travelled by land to Leyden; andwhence I now write. 

You may expect some account of this country, and though I am not wellqualified for such an undertaking, yet shall I endeavour to satisfysome part of your expectations. Nothing surprised me more than thebooks 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 withas much inattention as his _valet de chambre_; and consequently nothaving a fund himself to fill a volume, he applies to those who wrotebefore him, and gives us the manners of a country, not as he must haveseen them, but such as they might have been fifty years before. Themodern Dutchman is quite a different creature from him of formertimes; he in everything imitates a Frenchman but in his easydisengaged air, which is the result of keeping polite company. The Dutchman is vastly ceremonious, and is perhaps exactly what aFrenchman might have been in the reign of Louis XIV. Such are thebetter-bred. But the downright Hollander is one of the oddest figuresin nature. Upon a head of lank hair he wears a half-cocked narrow hatlaced with black ribbon: no coat, but seven waistcoats, and nine pairsof breeches; so that his hips reach almost up to his armpits. Thiswell-clothed vegetable is now fit to see company, or make love. Butwhat a pleasing creature is the object of his appetite? Why, shewears a large fur cap with a deal of Flanders lace: for every pair ofbreeches he carries, she puts on two petticoats. 

A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phlegmatic admirer but histobacco. You must know, Sir, every woman carries in her hand astove with coals in it, which, when she sits, she snugs under herpetticoats; and at this chimney dozing Strephon lights his pipe. Itake it that this continual smoking is what gives the man the ruddyhealthful complexion he generally wears, by draining his superfluousmoisture, while the woman, deprived of this amusement, overflows withsuch viscidities as tint the complexion, and give that paleness ofvisage which low fenny grounds and moist air conspire to cause. ADutch woman and Scotch will well bear an opposition. 

The one is pale and fat, the other lean and ruddy: the one walks as ifshe were straddling after a go-cart, and the other takes too masculinea stride. I shall not endeavour to deprive either country of its shareof beauty; but must say, that of all objects on this earth, an Englishfarmer's daughter is most charming. Every woman there is a completebeauty, while the higher class of women want many of the requisites tomake them even tolerable. Their pleasures here are very dull, thoughvery various. You may smoke, you may doze; you may go to theItalian comedy, as good an amusement as either of the former. Thisentertainment always brings in Harlequin, who is generally a magician, and in consequence of his diabolical art performs a thousand tricks onthe rest of the persons of the drama, who are all fools. I have seenthe pit in a roar of laughter at this humour, when with his sword hetouches the glass from which another was drinking. 'Twas not his facethey laughed at, for that was masked. They must have seen somethingvastly queer in the wooden sword, that neither I, nor you, Sir, wereyou there, could see. 

In winter, when their canals are frozen, every house is forsaken, andall people are on the ice; sleds, drawn by horses, and skating, are atthat time the reigning amusements. They have boats here that slideon the ice, and are driven by the winds. When they spread all theirsails, they go more than a mile and a half a minute, and their motionis so rapid the eye can scarcely accompany them. Their ordinary mannerof travelling is very cheap and very convenient: they sail in coveredboats drawn by horses; and in these you are sure to meet people of allnations. Here the Dutch slumber, the French chatter, and the Englishplay at cards. Any man who likes company may have them to his taste. For my part I generally detached myself from all society, and waswholly taken up in observing the face of the country. Nothing canequal its beauty; wherever I turn my eye, fine houses, elegantgardens, statues, grottos, vistas, presented themselves; but when youenter their towns you are charmed beyond description. No misery is tobe seen here; every one is usefully employed. 

Scotland and this country bear the highest contrast. There hills androcks intercept every prospect; here 'tis all a continued plain. Thereyou might see a well-dressed duchess issuing from a dirty close; andhere a dirty Dutchman inhabiting a palace. The Scotch may be comparedto a tulip planted in dung; but I never see a Dutchman in his ownhouse, but I think of a magnificent Egyptian temple dedicated to anox. Physic is by no means here taught so well as in Edinburgh; andin all Leyden there are but four British students, owing to allnecessaries being so extremely dear, and the professors so very lazy(the chemical professor excepted), that we don't much care to comehither. I am not certain how long my stay here may be; however, Iexpect to have the happiness of seeing you at Kilmore, if I can, nextMarch. 

Direct to me, if I am honoured with a letter from you, to MadamDiallion's at Leyden. 

Thou best of men, may Heaven guard and preserve you, and those youlove. 

TO HIS BROTHER HENRY

_Family matters_

1759. 

. . . Imagine to yourself a pale, melancholy visage, with two greatwrinkles between the eyebrows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and abig 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 knewyou a child. 

Since I knew what it was to be a man, this is a pleasure I have notknown. I have passed my days among a parcel of cool, designing beings, and have contracted all their suspicious manner in my own behaviour. Ishould actually be as unfit for the society of my friends at home, asI detest that which I am obliged to partake of here. I can now neitherpartake of the pleasure of a revel, nor contribute to raise itsjollity. I can neither laugh nor drink; have contracted a hesitating, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-natureitself; in short, I have thought myself into a settled melancholy, andan utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence this romanticturn that all our family are possessed with? Whence this love forevery place and every country but that in which we reside--for everyoccupation but our own? this desire of fortune, and yet this eagernessto dissipate? I perceive, my dear sir, that I am at intervalsfor 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 scholarare judicious and convincing; I should, however, be glad to know forwhat particular profession he is designed. If he be assiduous anddivested of strong passions (for passions in youth always lead topleasure), he may do very well in your college; for it must be ownedthat the industrious poor have good encouragement there, perhapsbetter than in any other in Europe. But if he has ambition, strongpassions, and an exquisite sensibility of contempt, do not send himthere, unless you have no other trade for him except your own. It isimpossible to conceive how much may be done by a proper educationat home. A boy, for instance, who understands perfectly well Latin, French, Arithmetic, and the principles of the Civil Law, and canwrite a fine hand, has an education that may qualify him for anyundertaking; 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 paintbeauty in colours more charming than nature, and describe happinessthat man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive are thosepictures of consummate bliss! They teach the youthful mind to sighafter beauty and happiness that never existed; to despise the littlegood which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting more than sheever gave; and, in general, take the word of a man who has seenthe world and who has studied human nature more by experience thanprecept; take my word for it, that books teach us very little of theworld. The greatest merit in a state of poverty would only serve tomake the possessor ridiculous--may distress, but cannot relieve him. Frugality, and even avarice, in the lower orders of mankind, aretrue ambition. These afford the only ladder for the poor to rise topreferment. Teach then, my dear sir, to your son thrift and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. Ihad learned from books to be disinterested and generous, before Iwas taught from experience the necessity of being prudent. I hadcontracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, while I wasexposing myself to the insidious approaches of cunning: and often bybeing, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgotthe rules of justice, and placed myself in the very situation of thewretch who thanked me for my bounty. When I am in the remotest part ofthe 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 theutmost inclination to return home, under such circumstances I couldnot, for to behold her in distress without a capacity of relieving herfrom it, would add much too to my splenetic habit. Your last letterwas much too short; it should have answered some queries I had madein my former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward until you havefilled all your paper. It requires no thought, at least from the easewith 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 thewhole. Pray give my love to Bob Bryanton, and entreat him from me notto drink. My dear sir, give me some account about poor Jenny. Yet herhusband loves her: if so, she cannot be unhappy. 

I know not whether I should tell you--yet why should I conceal thosetrifles, or indeed anything from you? There is a book of mine will bepublished in a few days: the life of a very extraordinary man; no lessthan the great Voltaire. You know already by the title that it is nomore than a catch-penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the wholeperformance, for which I received twenty pounds. When published, Ishall take some method of conveying it to you, unless you may thinkit 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 meyour 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 ina paltry ale-house. You may take the following specimen of the manner, which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he liesmay 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 hisappearance 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 ofMontaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with whom theydo not care how much they play the fool. Take my present folliesas instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeablespecies of composition than prose; and, could a man live by it, itwere not unpleasant employment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave nospace, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you verywell 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, ina place where so few notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednesdaynight, while we were at supper, between the hours of eight and nine, Iheard an unusual noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares wasentangled, and endeavouring to disengage herself. I was just going torise from table, when it ceased. In about five minutes, a voice on theoutside of the parlour door inquired if one of my hares had gotaway. I immediately rushed into the next room, and found that mypoor favourite Puss had made her escape. She had gnawed in sunder thestrings of a lattice work, with which I thought I had sufficientlysecured the window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind, because it admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened to thekitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me, that having seen her, just after she had dropped into the street, heattempted to cover her with his hat, but she screamed out, and leapeddirectly over his head. I then desired him to pursue as fast aspossible, 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 somethingless than an hour, Richard returned, almost breathless, with thefollowing account. That soon after he began to run, he left Tombehind 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, andpresently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputedbetween himself and Puss;--she ran right through the town, and downthe lane that leads to Dropshort; a little before she came to thehouse, he got the start and turned her; she pushed for the townagain, and soon after she entered it, sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff'stanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's harvest men wereat supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There sheencountered the tanpits full of water; and while she was strugglingout of one pit, and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one ofthe men drew her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then wellwashed in a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and brought homein a sack at ten o'clock. 

This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe we did notgrudge a farthing of it. The poor creature received only a little hurtin one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is now almost as wellas ever. 

I do not call this an answer to your letter, but such as it is I sendit, presuming upon that interest which I know you take in my minutestconcerns, which I cannot express better than in the words of Terence alittle 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 twoor three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the worldlaughs, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous initself, and quaintly told, as we have. --Well--they do not always laughso innocently, or at so small an expense--for in a world like this, abounding with subjects for satire, and with satirical wits to markthem, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least the grace of novelty torecommend it. Swift's darling motto was, _Vive la bagatelle_--a goodwish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater part of whosewisdom, whencesoever it came, most certainly came not from above. _Labagatelle_ 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, thatnothing else so effectually disperses, engages me sometimes in thearduous task of being merry by force. And, strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddestmood, and, but for that saddest mood, perhaps had never been writtenat all. To say truth, it would be but a shocking vagary, shouldthe mariners on board a ship buffeted by a terrible storm, employthemselves in fiddling and dancing; yet sometimes much such a part actI. . . . 

To THE REV. JOHN NEWTON

_Village politicians_

_26 Jan. 1783. _

MY DEAR FRIEND, It is reported among persons of the best intelligence at Olney--thebarber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered atthis place, --that the belligerent powers are at last reconciled, thearticles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door. I sawthis morning, at nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures veryclosely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon the same subject. The scene of consultation was a blacksmith's shed, very comfortablyscreened from the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. Someheld their hands behind them, some had them folded across their bosom, and others had thrust them into their breeches pockets. Every man'sposture bespoke a pacific turn of mind; but the distance being toogreat for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing, however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long, and thatyou and I, equally interested in the event, though not, perhaps, equally well-informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice inthe completion of it. The powers of Europe have clashed with eachother to a fine purpose; that the Americans, at length declaredindependent, may keep themselves so, if they can; and that what theparties, who have thought proper to dispute upon that point, havewrested from each other in the course of the conflict, may be, in theissue of it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be guilty ofa conduct that would render an individual infamous for ever; andyet carry their heads high, talk of their glory, and despise theirneighbours. Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, arenot exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon this subjectthan I have always done. England, more, perhaps, through the fault ofher generals, than her councils, has in some instances acted with aspirit of cruel animosity she was never chargeable with till now. Butthis is the worst that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans, who, if they had contented themselves with a struggle for lawfulliberty, would have deserved applause, seem to me to have incurredthe guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by making her ruintheir favourite object, and by associating themselves with her worstenemy, for the accomplishment of their purpose. France, and of courseSpain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They have stolenAmerica from England, and whether they are able to possess themselvesof that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless what they intended. Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of them. Theyquarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led themby the nose, and the English have threshed them for suffering it. My views of the contest being, and having been always such, I haveconsequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some timesince seemed to justify. She is the only injured party. America may, perhaps, call her the aggressor; but if she were so, America hasnot only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, ifperfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition can prove their cause tohave been a rotten one, those proofs are found upon them. I think, therefore, that whatever scourge may be prepared for England, on somefuture day, her ruin is not yet to be expected. Acknowledge, now, thatI am worthy of a place under the shed I described, and that I shouldmake 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 thedamage is said to amount to eleven thousand pounds, and another, ata 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 aguard in many parts of it, several nights past. Some madman or somedevil has broke loose, who it is to be hoped will pay dear for theseeffusions of his malignity. Since our conflagration here, we have senttwo women and a boy to the justice, for depredation; Sue Riviss, forstealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intendedto take care of. This lady, whom you will remember, escaped for wantof evidence; not that evidence was indeed wanting, but our men ofGotham judged it unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman Imentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of profession, but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude of conduct ratherinconsistent with it, having filled her apron with wearing apparel, which she likewise intended to take care of. She would have gone tothe 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 whoaccompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. Hehad stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs, the butcher. Beingconvicted, he was ordered to be whipt, which operation he underwentat the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and backagain. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an impositionupon the public. The beadle, who performed, had filled his left handwith red ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lashof his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but inreality not hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr. ConstableHinschcomb, who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without anysuch management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too mercifulexecutioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The beadlecould by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked theconstable to still harder; and this double flogging continued, till alass of Silverend, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under thehands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, and placingherself immediately behind the latter, seized him by his capillaryclub, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapt his face with amost Amazonian fury. This concatenation of events has taken up more ofmy paper than I intended it should, but I could not forbear to informyou how the beadle thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle, and the lady the constable, and how the thief was the only one whosuffered nothing. Mr. Teedon has been here, and is gone again. He cameto thank me for an old pair of breeches. In answer to our inquiriesafter his health, he replied that he had a slow fever, which madehim take all possible care not to inflame his blood. I admittedhis prudence, but in his particular instance could not very clearlydiscern the need of it. Pump water will not heat him much; and, tospeak 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 onfire yesterday, and the flames not extinguished when the bearer of thetidings left it. 

Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why the preacher iselevated always above his hearers, that let the crowd be as great asit will below, there is always room enough overhead. If the Frenchphilosophers can carry their art of flying to the perfection theydesire, 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 isvery delightful. I dreamt, a night or two since, that I drove myselfthrough the upper regions in a balloon and pair, with the greatestease and security. Having finished the tour I intended, I made a shortturn, and, with one flourish of my whip, descended; my horses prancingand curvetting with an infinite share of spirit, but without the leastdanger, either to me or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is athand, and seems to be prognosticated by my dream, when these airyexcursions will be universal, when judges will fly the circuit, and bishops their visitations; and when the tour of Europe will beperformed with much greater speed, and with equal advantage, by allwho travel merely for the sake of having it to say that they have madeit. 

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 anotheropportunity to write before he dissolves the parliament, I availmyself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your last, which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinarygazette, at a time when it was not expected. 

As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way intocreeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches, in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even atOrchard-side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the politicalelement, as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally depositedin some hollow beyond the water mark, by the usual dashing of thewaves. We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies andmyself, very composedly, and without the least apprehension of anysuch intrusion in our snug parlour, one lady knitting, the othernetting, and the gentleman winding worsted, when to our unspeakablesurprise a mob appeared before the window; a smart rap was heard atthe door, the boys halloo'd, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville. Puss was unfortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, withall his good friends at his heels, was refused admittance at the grandentry, and referred to the back door, as the only possible way ofapproach. Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts, and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window, than be absolutelyexcluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlour, werefilled. Mr. Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand witha degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he andas many more as could find chairs, were seated, he began to open theintent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readilygave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was notequally 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 bepossessed of such a treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirmmy first assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at aloss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus endedthe conference. Mr. Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissedthe ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-heartedgentlemen. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which notbeing sufficient as it should seem for the many nice and difficultpurposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he wore suspended bya 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 ashort time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to bethus interrupted more. I thought myself, however, happy in being ableto 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 thedispute 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 ofno consequence in a world where one cannot exercise any withoutdisobliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be much at hisservice, and if he be equally successful throughout the country, hewill undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner perhaps was a littlemortified, because it was evident that I owed the honour of this visitto his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought properto assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I should not I supposehave 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 Ireceived it, and which I now sit down to answer two days sooner thanthe post will serve me; I thank you for it, and with a warmth forwhich I am sure you will give me credit, though I do not spendmany words in describing it. I do not seek _new_ friends, not beingaltogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakablepleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that now ourcorrespondence has suffered its last interruption, and that we shallgo down together to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily assuch a scene of things as this will permit. 

I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My volume has afforded meno such pleasure at any time, either while I was writing it, or sinceits publication, as I have derived from yours and my uncle's opinionof it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiarquickness of taste, with which you both relish what you like, andafter all drawbacks upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich inthe measure of your approbation that still remains. But above all, I honour _John Gilpin_, since it was he who first encouraged you towrite. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purposewell; but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisitionthan all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of myintercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent andgenerous Cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, and givendelicately to understand that the inquirer was ready to supply allmy occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively, declined thefavour. I neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such inconveniencesas I had not much rather endure than come under obligations of thatsort to a person comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But toyou I answer otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the liberality ofyour disposition, and have that consummate confidence in thesincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkwardconstraint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you, therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoever, and in whatmanner-soever you please; and add moreover, that my affection for thegiver is such as will increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that Ishall have in receiving. It is necessary, however, that I should letyou a little into the state of my finances, that you may not supposethem more narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin andI have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse, although during thewhole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine. Her revenues indeed are now in some measure reduced, and do not muchexceed my own; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced todeny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able toafford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well-beingof 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 myconnexions demanded that I should, had it not been combined with abetter than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I hadfull proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time by the help of good management, and a clear notion ofeconomical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, my beloved Cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as itstands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for thereis no need of it, but indulge yourself in communicating (no matterwhat) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing youwill be sure to add to the comforts of my life one of the sweetestthat I can enjoy--a token and proof of your affection. 

I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwithstanding all thattime may have done: there is not a feature of your face, could I meetit 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 herchin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, Iam a very smart youth of my years; I am not indeed grown grey so muchas I am grown bald. No matter: there was more hair in the world thanever had the honour to belong to me; accordingly having found justenough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a littleof my own that still hangs behind, I appear, if you see me in anafternoon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguishedfrom my natural growth, which being worn with a small bag, and a blackriband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, even onthe 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 twofollowing 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), ofwriting all my letters in the same terms: always thanks, thanks atthe beginning, and thanks at the end. It is however, I say, a pleasantemployment when those thanks are indeed the language of the heart: andI can truly add, that there is no person on earth whom I thank withso much affection as yourself. You insisted that I should give you mygenuine opinion of the wine. By the way, it arrived without the leastdamage or fracture, and I finished the first bottle of it this veryday. It is excellent, and though the wine which I had been used todrink was not bad, far preferable to that. The bottles will be in townon Saturday. I am enamoured of the desk and its contents before I seethem. They will be most entirely welcome. A few years since I madeMrs. Unwin a present of a snuff-box--a silver one; the purchase wasmade in London by a friend; it is of a size and form that make itmore fit for masculine than feminine use. She therefore with pleasureaccepts the box which you have sent--I should say with the greatestpleasure. And I, discarding the leathern trunk that I have used solong, shall succeed to the possession of hers. She says, Tell LadyHesketh that I truly love and honour her. Now, my Cousin, you maydepend upon it, as a most certain truth, that these words from herlips are not an empty sound. I never in my life heard her profess aregard for any one that she felt not. She is not addicted to the useof such language upon ordinary occasions; but when she speaks it, speaks from the heart. She has baited me this many a day, even as abear is baited, to send for Dr. Kerr. But, as I hinted to you upona former occasion, I am as mulish as most men are, and have hithertomost ungallantly refused; but what is to be done now?--If it wereuncivil not to comply with the solicitations of one lady, to beunmoved by the solicitations of two would prove me to be a bearindeed. I will, therefore, summon him to consideration of saidstomach, and its ailments, without delay, and you shall know theresult. --I have read Goldsmith's _Traveller_ and his _DesertedVillage_, and am highly pleased with them both, as well for the mannerin which they are executed, as for their tendency, and the lessonsthat they inculcate. 

Mrs. Unwin said to me a few nights since, after supper, 'I have twofine fowls in feeding, and just fit for use; I wonder whether I shouldsend them to Lady Hesketh?' I replied, Yes, by all means! and I willtell you a story that will at once convince you of the propriety ofdoing 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 wasreading by the fireside, I heard a prodigious lumbering at the door. Iopened it, and beheld a most rural figure, with very dirty boots, anda great coat as dirty. Supposing that my great fame as a barrister haddrawn upon me a client from some remote region, I desired him to walkin. He did so, and introduced himself to my acquaintance by telling methat he was the farmer with whom my brother lodged at Orpington. After this preliminary information he unbuttoned his great coat, and Iobserved a quantity of long feathers projected from an inside pocket. He thrust in his hand, and with great difficulty extricated a greatfat capon. He then proceeded to lighten the other side of him, bydragging out just such another, and begged my acceptance of both. I sent them to a tavern, where they were dressed, and I with two orthree friends, whom I invited to the feast, found them incomparablybetter 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 asgood as the fowls at Orpington, therefore send them; for it is notpossible to make so good a use of them in any other way . . . Adieu, myfaithful, 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 toyou 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 yousupposed it either at Olney or on its way thither, and that youexpected nothing so much as that my next would inform you of its safearrival;--therefore, where can it possibly be? I am not absolutely indespair about it, for the reasons that I mentioned last night; but tosay the truth, I stand tottering upon the verge of it. I write, andhave written these many years, upon a book of maps, which I now beginto 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, thatby increasing the number of our conveniences, we multiply our wantsexactly in the same proportion! neither can I at all doubt that if youwere to tell me that all the men in London of any fashion at all, woreblack velvet shoes with white roses, and should also tell me that youwould 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 tofoot. 

_Thursday Evening_. 

Oh that this letter had wings, that it might fly to tell you that mydesk, the most elegant, the compactest, the most commodious desk inthe 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 wasactually at Sherrington, when the wagoner's wife (for the man himselfwas not at home) croaked out her abominable _No_! yet she examined thebill of lading, but either did it so carelessly, or as poor Dick Madanused to say, with such an _ignorant eye_, that my name escaped her. Myprecious Cousin, you have bestowed too much upon me. I have nothingto render you in return, but the affectionate feelings of a heart mosttruly sensible of your kindness. How pleasant it is to write upon sucha green bank! I am sorry that I have so nearly reached the end ofmy paper. I have now however only room to say that Mrs. Unwin isdelighted with her box, and bids me do more than thank you forit. What can I do more at this distance but say that she loves youheartily, and that so do I? The pocket-book is also the completestthat 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 isthe thing that puzzles you. I do it that I may secure time for thepurpose, and may not be hurried. On this very day twenty-two years agoI 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 youagain. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon thissubject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by thelast post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormentingspecimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a letteron Monday that should distress and alarm him; I sent him anotheryesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologizedvery civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures; and hisfriend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison ofme with the original, so that, I doubt not, we shall jog on merrilytogether. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that yourkindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both! I shall see youagain. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I willshow you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its banks, everything that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of thosedays not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talknot of an inn! Mention it not for your life! We have never had so manyvisitors, but we could easily accommodate them all, though we havereceived 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 beginningof June, because before that time my greenhouse will not be ready toreceive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. Whenthe plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floorwith mats; and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at yourside, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will makeyou a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention thecountry 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 alook on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box ofmy making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my hares, andin which lodges Puss at present; but he, poor fellow, is worn out withage, and promises to die before you can see him. On the righthand stands a cupboard, the work of the same author; it was once adove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table, which I also made; but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until itbecame paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament; and allmy clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther endof 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 happyas 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 haveasked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keepshis wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never beanything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content withit, 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 hassuggested itself to you on the supposed loss of your letter. Inthe first place I choose that my Sundays, like the Sundays of otherpeople, shall be distinguished by something that shall make me lookforward to them with agreeable expectation, and for that reason desirethat 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 _inquireafter_ a letter, if it happens not to come; a circumstance of someimportance, considering how excessively careless they are at the Swan, where letters are sometimes overlooked, and do not arrive at theirdestination, if no inquiry be made, till some days have passed sincetheir arrival at Olney. It has happened frequently to me to receivea letter long after all the rest have been delivered, and the Padreassured me that Mr. Throckmorton has sent notes three several times toMrs. Marriot, complaining of this neglect. For these reasons, my dear, thou must write still on Saturdays, and as often on other days as thoupleasest. 

The screens came safe, and one of them is at this moment interposedbetween me and the fire, much to the comfort of my peepers. Theother of them being fitted up with a screw that was useless, I haveconsigned it to proper hands, that it may be made as serviceableas its brother. They are very neat, and I account them a greatacquisition. Our carpenter assures me that the lameness of the chairswas not owing to any injury received in their journey, but that themaker 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, forwhich reason we shortened the long ones. The box containing the plateand the brooms reached us yesterday, and nothing had suffered theleast damage by the way. Everything is smart, everything is elegant, and we admire them all. The short candlesticks are short enough. I amnow 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 beingnow old and patched. A parson once, as he walked across the parlour, pushed it down with his belly, and it never perfectly recovereditself. We want likewise a tea-waiter, meaning, if you please, sucha 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 ofyard-wide muslin, wherewithal to make neckcloths for my worship. Ifafter all these disbursements anything should be left at the bottomof the purse, we shall be obliged to you if you will expend it in thepurchase of silk pocket-handkerchiefs. There, my precious--I think Ihave charged thee with commissions in plenty. 

You neither must nor shall deny us the pleasure of sending to yousuch small matters as we do. As to the partridges, you may recollectpossibly, when I remind you of it, that I never eat them; they refuseto pass my stomach; and Mrs. Unwin rejoiced in receiving them onlybecause she could pack them away to you--therefore never lay us underany embargoes of this kind, for I tell you beforehand, that we areboth incorrigible. My beloved Cousin, the first thing that I open myeyes 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 onwhich I breakfast?--the chocolate that I drank at noon, and the tableat which I dine?--the everything, in short, that I possess in theshape of convenience, is it not all from you? and is it possible, think you, that we should either of us overlook an opportunity ofmaking such a tiny acknowledgement of your kindness? Assure yourselfthat never, while my name is Giles Gingerbread, will I dishonour myglorious ancestry, and my illustrious appellation, by so unworthy aconduct. I love you at my heart, and so does Mrs. U. , and we must saythank you, and send you a peppercorn when we can. So thank you, mydear, for the brawn and the chine, and for all the good things thatyou announce, and at present I will, for your sake, say no more ofthanksgiving. 

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 stillfind alive: nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to hear it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were achild, 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, andyou, 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 foryour own. The world could not have furnished you with a present soacceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. Ireceived it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation ofnerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had thedear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hungit 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 Icompleted my sixth year; yet I remember her well, and am an ocularwitness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, amultitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received from her, andwhich have endeared her memory to me beyond expression. There is inme, I believe, more of the Donne than of the Cowper; and though I loveall of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my ownname, 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 mustbe supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and my lateuncle, 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, butspeaking to _you_, I will even speak out, and say _good nature_. Addto all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, theDean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne atall 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. Totell you the truth, I made very few remarks as I rolled along, for mymind was occupied with many thoughts, and my eyes often filled withtears, when I reflected on all the dear friends I left behind; yetthe prospects could not fail to attract the attention of the mostindifferent: country seats sprinkled round on every side, some in themodern taste, some in the style of old De Coverley Hall, all smilingon the neat but humble cottage; every village as neat and compact asa bee-hive, resounding with the busy hum of industry; and inns likepalaces. 

What a contrast to our poor country, where you'll scarce find acottage ornamented with a chimney! But what pleased me most of allwas the progress of agriculture, my favourite study, and my favouritepursuit, if Providence had blessed me with a few paternal acres. 

A description of London and its natives would fill a volume. Thebuildings are very fine: it may be called the sink of vice: but itshospitals and charitable institutions, whose turrets pierce the skieslike so many electrical conductors, avert the wrath of Heaven. Theinhabitants may be divided into two classes, the _undoers_ and the_undone_; generally so, I say, for I am persuaded there are many menof honesty and women of virtue in every street. An Englishman iscold and distant at first; he is very cautious even in forming anacquaintance; he must know you well before he enters into friendshipwith you; but if he does, he is not the first to dissolve that sacredbond: in short, a real Englishman is one that performs more than hepromises; in company he is rather silent, extremely prudent in hisexpressions, even in politics, his favourite topic. The women are notquite so reserved; they consult their glasses to the best advantage;and as nature is very liberal in her gifts to their persons, and evenminds, it is not easy for a young man to escape their glances, or toshut his ears to their softly flowing accents. 

As to the state of learning in this city, you know I have not beenlong enough in it to form a proper judgement of that subject. I don'tthink, however, there is as much respect paid to a man of letters onthis side of the water as you imagine. I don't find that genius, the'rath primrose, which forsaken dies', is patronized by any of thenobility, so that writers of the first talents are left to thecapricious patronage of the public. Notwithstanding discouragement, literature is cultivated in a high degree. Poetry raises herenchanting voice to Heaven. History arrests the wings of Time in hisflight to the gulf of oblivion. Philosophy, the queen of arts, and thedaughter of Heaven, is daily extending her intellectual empire. Fancysports on airy wing like a meteor on the bosom of a summer cloud; andeven Metaphysics spins her cobwebs, and catches some flies. 

The House of Commons not unfrequently exhibits explosions of eloquencethat rise superior to those of Greece and Rome, even in theirproudest days. Yet, after all, a man will make more by the figures ofarithmetic than the figures of rhetoric, unless he can get into thetrade wind, and then he may sail secure over Pactolean sands. As tothe stage, it is sunk, in my opinion, into the lowest degree; Imean with regard to the trash that is exhibited on it; but I don'tattribute this to the taste of the audience, for when Shakespearewarbles his 'native woodnotes', the boxes, pit, and gallery, arecrowded--and the gods are true to every word, if properly winged tothe heart. 

Soon after my arrival in town I visited Westminster Abbey: themoment I entered I felt a kind of awe pervade my mind which I cannotdescribe; the very silence seemed sacred. Henry VII's chapel is a veryfine piece of Gothic architecture, particularly the roof; but I amtold that it is exceeded by a chapel in the University of Cambridge. Mrs. Nightingale's monument has not been praised beyond its merit. Theattitude and expression of the husband in endeavouring to shield hiswife from the dart of death, is natural and affecting. But I alwaysthought that the image of death would be much better represented withan extinguished torch inverted, than with a dart. Some would imaginethat all these monuments were so many monuments of folly;--I don'tthink so; what useful lessons of morality and sound philosophy dothey not exhibit! When the high-born beauty surveys her face in thepolished Parian, though dumb the marble, yet it tells her that it wasplaced to guard the remains of as fine a form, and as fair a face asher own. They show besides how anxious we are to extend our loves andfriendships beyond the grave, and to snatch as much as we can fromoblivion--such is our natural love of immortality; but it is herethat letters obtain the noblest triumphs; it is here that the swarthydaughters of Cadmus may hang their trophies on high; for when allthe pride of the chisel and the pomp of heraldry yield to the silenttouches of time, a single line, a half-worn-out inscription, remainfaithful to their trust. Blest be the man that first introduced thesestrangers into our islands, and may they never want protection ormerit! I have not the least doubt that the finest poem in theEnglish language, I mean Milton's _Il Penseroso_, was composed in thelong-resounding aisle of a mouldering cloister or ivy'd abbey. Yetafter all do you know that I would rather sleep in the southern cornerof a little country churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets. Ishould like, however, that my dust should mingle with kindred dust. The good old expression 'family burying-ground' has something pleasingin 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 favourablecause: let me add in some measure to its true cause, a great deal ofoccupation of various sorts, and some of them disagreeable enough. 

As to any reports concerning your conduct and behaviour, you may bevery sure they could have no kind of influence here; for none of usare of such a make as to trust to any one's report for the characterof a person whom we ourselves know. Until very lately, I had neverheard anything of your proceedings from others; and when I did, it wasmuch less than I had known from yourself, that you had been upon illterms with the artists and virtuosi in Rome, without much mention ofcause or consequence. If you have improved these unfortunate quarrelsto your advancement in your art, you have turned a very disagreeablecircumstance to a very capital advantage. However you may havesucceeded in this uncommon attempt, permit me to suggest to you, withthat friendly liberty which you have always had the goodness to bearfrom me, that you cannot possibly have always the same success, eitherwith regard to your fortune or your reputation. Depend upon it, thatyou will find the same competitions, the same jealousies, the samearts and cabals, the emulations of interest and of fame, and the sameagitations and passions here that you have experienced in Italy; andif they have the same effect on your temper, they will have just thesame effects upon your interest; and be your merit what it will, youwill never be employed to paint a picture. It will be the same atLondon as at Rome, and the same in Paris as in London, for the worldis pretty nearly alike in all its parts; nay, though it would perhapsbe a little inconvenient to me, I had a thousand times rather youshould fix your residence in Rome than here, as I should not then havethe mortification of seeing with my own eyes a genius of the firstrank lost to the world, himself, and his friends; as I certainly must, if you do not assume a manner of acting and thinking here, totallydifferent from what your letters from Rome have described to me. 

That you have had just subjects of indignation always, and of angeroften, I do no ways doubt; who can live in the world without sometrial of his patience? But believe me, my dear Barry, that the armswith which the ill dispositions of the world are to be combated, andthe qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and we reconciledto it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence to others, anda great deal of mistrust of ourselves; which are not qualities of amean spirit, as some may possibly think them; but virtues of agreat and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature as much as theycontribute to our repose and fortune; for nothing can be so unworthyof a well-composed soul, as to pass away life in bickerings andlitigations, 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 myfeelings must be, from my unfeigned regard, and from my wishesthat your talents might be of use, when I see what the inevitableconsequences must be, of your persevering in what has hitherto beenyour course, ever since I knew you, and which you will permit me totrace 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, andsometimes by a no less expressive silence. By degrees you will producesome of your own works. They will be variously criticized; youwill defend them; you will abuse those that have attacked you;expostulations, discussions, letters, possibly challenges, will goforward; you will shun your brethren, they will shun you. In themeantime, gentlemen will avoid your friendship, for fear of beingengaged in your quarrels; you will fall into distresses which willonly aggravate your disposition for further quarrels; you will beobliged for maintenance to do anything for anybody; your very talentswill depart for want of hope and encouragement; and you will go out ofthe world fretted, disappointed, and ruined. 

Nothing but my real regard for you could induce me to set theseconsiderations in this light before you. Remember, we are bornto serve and to adorn our country, and not to contend with ourfellow-citizens, and that in particular your business is to paint andnot to dispute. . . . 

If you think this a proper time to leave Rome (a matter which Ileave entirely to yourself), I am quite of opinion you ought to goto Venice. Further, I think it right to see Florence and Bologna; andthat you cannot do better than to take that route to Venice. In short, do everything that may contribute to your improvement, and I shallrejoice to see you what Providence intended you, a very great man. This you were, in your _ideas_, before you quitted this; you best knowhow far you have studied, that is, practised the mechanic; despisednothing till you had tried it; practised dissections with your ownhands, painted from nature as well as from the statues, and portraitas 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 fulfilall our wishes. This, let me tell you, is no small matter; for it isimpossible for you to find any persons anywhere more truly interestedfor you; to these dispositions attribute everything which may be alittle harsh in this letter. We are, thank God, all well, and all mosttruly and sincerely yours. I seldom write so long a letter. Take thisas 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 doneme in turning any part of your attention towards a dejected old man, buried in the anticipated grave of a feeble old age, forgetting andforgotten in an obscure and melancholy retreat. 

In this retreat I have nothing relative to this world to do but tostudy all the tranquillity that in the state of my mind I am capableof. To that end I find it but too necessary to call to my aid anoblivion of most of the circumstances pleasant and unpleasant of mylife; to think as little, and indeed to know as little as I can ofeverything that is doing about me; and, above all, to divert my mindfrom all presagings and prognostications of what I must (if I let myspeculations loose) consider as of absolute necessity to happen aftermy death, and possibly even before it. Your address to the publicwhich you have been so good as to send to me, obliges me to break inupon that plan, and to look a little on what is behind, and very muchon what is before me. It creates in my mind a variety of thoughts, andall 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 soundoubtedly, and we should do so still, if I had continued longerto keep the sea. In that difference you rightly observe that I havealways done justice to your skill and ability as a navigator, and toyour good intentions towards the safety of the cargo and of the ship'scompany. I cannot say now that we are on different tacks. There wouldbe no propriety in the metaphor. I can sail no longer. My vesselcannot be said to be even in port. She is wholly condemned and brokenup. To have an idea of that vessel you must call to mind what you haveoften seen on the Kentish road. Those planks of tough and hardy oakthat used for years to brave the buffets of the Bay of Biscay, arenow turned with their warped grain and empty trunnion holes into verywretched pales for the enclosure of a wretched farmyard. 

The style of your pamphlet, and the eloquence and power of compositionyou display in it, are such as do great honour to your talents; andin conveying any other sentiments would give me very great pleasure. Perhaps I do not very perfectly comprehend your purpose, and the driftof your arguments. If I do not--pray do not attribute my mistake towant of candour, but to want of sagacity. I confess your address tothe public, together with other accompanying circumstances, has filledme with a degree of grief and dismay which I cannot find words toexpress. If the plan of politics there recommended, pray excuse myfreedom, should be adopted by the King's Councils and by the goodpeople of this kingdom (as so recommended undoubtedly it will)nothing can be the consequence but utter and irretrievable ruin to theMinistry, to the Crown, to the succession, to the importance, to theindependence, to the very existence of this country. 

This is my feeble perhaps, but clear, positive, decided, long andmaturely reflected, and frequently declared opinion, from which allthe events which have lately come to pass, so far from turning me, have tended to confirm beyond the power of alteration, even by youreloquence and authority. I find, my dear Lord, that you think somepersons 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 youin that description: but pray, my Lord, recollect that very few ofthe causes which make men intemperate, can operate upon me. Sanguinehopes, vehement desires, inordinate ambition, implacable animosity, party attachments, or party interests; all these with me have noexistence. For myself or for a family (alas! I have none), I havenothing 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 ofmy dissent on seeing the politics of Mr. Fox (which while I was in theworld I combated by every instrument which God had put into my hands, and in every situation in which I had taken part), so completelyadopted in your Lordship's book: but it was with pain I broke withthat great man for ever in that cause--and I assure you, it is notwithout 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 andtempestuous passions. I feel nothing of the intemperance of mind. Itis rather sorrow and dejection than anger. 

Once more my best thanks for your very polite attention, and do me thefavour to believe me with the most perfect sentiments of respectand regard, my dear Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient and humbleservant. 

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 andmine. 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 haveto bless Providence that I do not suffer a great deal of pain. . . . Mrs. Burke has a tolerable share of health--in every respect except muchuse of her limbs. She remembers your mother's most good-naturedattentions, as I am sure I do with much gratitude. I have ever beenan admirer of your talents and virtues, and shall ever wishmost cordially for everything which can tend to your credit andsatisfaction. I therefore congratulate you very heartily on thebirth of your son; and pray remember me to the representative of yourfamily, who I hope still keeps up the school of which I have so tendera remembrance; though after so long an absence, and so many unpleasantevents of every kind that have distracted my thoughts, I hardly dareask for any one, not knowing whether they are living or dead, lest Ishould be the means of awakening unpleasant recollections. Believe meto 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 fourmonths to no purpose, and am therefore to be removed to my ownhouse at Beaconsfield to-morrow, to be nearer to a habitation morepermanent, humbly and fearfully hoping that my better part may find abetter 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 mein giving the preference to a sincere and sensible friend; and thoughyou cannot discern the full extent of his merit, you will easilybelieve that Deyverdun is the man. Perhaps two persons so perfectlyfitted to live together were never formed by nature and education. We have both read and seen a great variety of objects; the lightsand shades of our different characters are happily blended, anda friendship of thirty years has taught us to enjoy our mutualadvantages, and to support our unavoidable imperfections. In love andmarriage, some harsh sounds will sometimes interrupt the harmony, and in the course of time, like our neighbours, we must expect somedisagreeable moments; but confidence and freedom are the two pillarsof our union, and I am much mistaken, if the building be not solid andcomfortable. . . . 

In this season I rise (not at four in the morning) but a little beforeeight; at nine I am called from my study to breakfast, which I alwaysperform alone, in the English style; and, with the aid of Caplin, I perceive no difference between Lausanne and Bentinck Street. Ourmornings are usually passed in separate studies; we never approacheach other's door without a previous message, or thrice knocking; andmy apartment is already sacred and formidable to strangers. I dress athalf-past one, and at two (an early hour, to which I am not perfectlyreconciled) we sit down to dinner. . . . After dinner, and the departureof our company, one, two, or three friends, we read together someamusing book, or play at chess, or retire to our rooms, or makevisits, or go to the coffee-house. Between six and seven theassemblies begin, and I am oppressed only with their number andvariety. Whist, at shillings or half-crowns, is the game I generallyplay, and I play three rubbers with pleasure. Between nine and ten wewithdraw to our bread and cheese, and friendly converse, which sendsus to bed at eleven; but these sober hours are too often interruptedby private or numerous suppers, which I have not the courage toresist, though I practise a laudable abstinence at the best furnishedtables. 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 groundsto believe me alive and well. You have a general, and will soon have amore particular idea of my system and arrangement here. One day glidesaway after another in tranquil uniformity. Every object must havesides and moments less luminous than others; but, upon the whole, thelife and the place which I have chosen are most happily adapted to mycharacter and circumstances: and I can now repeat, at the end of threeyears, what I soon and sincerely affirmed, that never in a singleinstant have I repented of my scheme of retirement to Lausanne. . . . Andthough I truly rejoice in my approaching visit to England, Mr. Pitt, were he your friend and mine, would not find it an easy task toprevent my return. . . . 

I am building a great book, which, besides the three stories alreadyexposed to the public eye, will have three stories more before wereach the roof and battlements. You too have built or altered a greatGothic castle with baronial battlements. Did you finish it within thetime you intended? As that time drew near, did you not find a thousandnameless and unexpected works that must be performed; each of themcalling for a portion of time and labour? and had you not despised, nobly despised, the minute diligence of finishing, fitting up, andfurnishing the apartments, you would have discovered a new train ofindispensable business. Such, at least, has been my case. A long whileago when I contemplated the distant prospect of my work, I gave youand myself some hopes of landing in England last autumn; but, alas!when autumn grew near, hills began to rise on hills, Alps on Alps, andI found my journey far more tedious and toilsome than I had imagined. When I look back on the length of the undertaking, and the varietyof materials, I cannot accuse, or suffer myself to be accused ofidleness; yet it appeared that unless I doubled my diligence, anotheryear, and perhaps more, would elapse before I could embark with mycomplete manuscript. Under these circumstances I took, and am stillexecuting, a bold and meritorious resolution. The mornings in winter, and in a country of early dinners, are very concise; to them, my usualperiod of study, I now frequently add the evenings, renounce cardsand society, refuse the most agreeable evenings, or perhaps make myappearance at a late supper. By this extraordinary industry, which Inever 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; allmy materials are collected and arranged; I can exactly compute, bythe square foot, or the square page, all that remains to be done; andafter concluding text and notes, after a general review of my timeand my ground, I now can decisively ascertain the final period of the_Decline and Fall_, and can boldly promise that I will dine with youat Sheffield Place in the month of August, or perhaps of July, in thepresent year; within less than a twelvemonth of the term which I hadloosely and originally fixed; and perhaps it would not be easy tofind a work of that size and importance in which the workman hasso tolerably kept his word with himself and the public. But in thissituation, oppressed with this particular object, and stealing everyhour from my amusement, to the fatigue of the pen, and the eyes, youwill conceive, or you might conceive, how little stomach I have forthe epistolary style; and that instead of idle, though friendly, correspondence, I think it far more agreeable to employ my time inthe effectual measures that may hasten and exhilarate our personalinterview. . . . 

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 littlecurled imps who hover over us mortals, of how much flummery goes toturn the head of an authoress? Your last communication very near didmy business; for, meeting Mr. Crisp ere I had composed myself, I 'tipthim such a touch of the heroics' as he has not seen since the timewhen I was so much celebrated for dancing _Nancy Dawson_. I absolutelylonged to treat him with one of Captain Mirvan's frolics, and to flinghis wig out of the window. I restrained myself, however, from theapprehension that they would imagine I had a universal spite to thatharmless piece of goods, which I have already been known to treat withno little indignity. He would fain have discovered the reason of myskittishness; but as I could not tell it him, I was obliged to assurehim it would be lost time to inquire further into my flights, since'true no meaning puzzles more than wit', and therefore, begging thefavour 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 meetingshave been so few. 

But, Mrs. Thrale! she--she is the goddess of my idolatry! What an_éloge_ is hers!--an _éloge_ that not only delights at first, butproves more and more flattering every time it is considered!

I often think, when I am counting my laurels, what a pity it wouldhave been had I popped off in my last illness, without knowing what aperson of consequence I was!--and I sometimes think that, were I nowto have a relapse, I could never go off with so much _éclat_! I amnow 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 havenot the strength to attempt climbing them; if I move, it mustbe downwards. I have already, I fear, reached the pinnacle of myabilities, and therefore to stand still will be my best policy. 

But there is nothing under heaven so difficult to do. Creatures whoare formed for motion _must_ move, however great their inducements toforbear. The wisest course I could take, would be to bid an eternaladieu to writing; then would the cry be, 'Tis pity she does not goon!--she might do something better by and by', &c, &c. _Evelina_, asa first and a youthful publication, has been received with the utmostfavour and lenity; but would a future attempt be treated with the samemercy?--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 indulgencewould all peck at any second work; and even those who most encouragedthe first offspring might prove enemies to the second, by receivingit with expectations which it could not answer: and so, between eitherthe friends or the foes of the eldest, the second would stand anequally bad chance, and a million of flaws which were overlooked inthe former would be ridiculed as villainous and intolerable blundersin the latter. 

But, though my eyes ache as I strain them to look forward, thetemptations before me are almost irresistible; and what you havetranscribed from Mrs. Thrale may, perhaps, prove my destruction. 

So you wish to have some of the sayings of the folks here about _thebook_? I am sure I owe you all the communications I can possibly giveyou; but I have nothing new to offer, for the same strain prevailshere as in town; and no one will be so obliging to me as to put in alittle abuse: so that I fear you will be satiated with the samenessof people's remarks. Yet, what can I do? if they _will_ be sodisagreeable and tiresome as to be all of one mind, how is it tobe helped? I can only advise you to follow my example, which is, toaccommodate my philosophy to their insipidity; and in this I have sowonderfully succeeded, that I hear their commendations not merely withpatience but even with a degree of pleasure! Such, my dear Susy, isthe effect of true philosophy. 

You desire Kitty Cooke's remarks in particular. I have none to giveyou, for none can I get. To the serious part she indeed listens, andseems to think it may possibly be very fine; but she is quite lostwhen the Branghtons and Madame Duval are mentioned;--she hears theirspeeches very composedly, and as words of course; but when she hearsthem followed by loud bursts of laughter from Hetty, Mr. Crisp, Mrs. Gast, and Mr. Burney, she stares with the gravest amazement, and looksso aghast, and so distressed to know where the joke can be, that Inever dare trust myself to look at her for more than an instant. Wereshe to speak her thoughts, I am sure she would ask why such commonthings, that pass every day, should be printed? And all the derisionwith which the party in general treat the Branghtons, I can see shefeels herself, with a plentiful addition of astonishment, for the_author_!

By the way, not a human being here has the most remote suspicion ofthe fact; I could not be more secure, were I literally unknown tothem. And there is no end to the ridiculous speeches perpetually madeto 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, MissBurney?'

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 Ihave been obliged to hide the first volume ever since, for fear ofa discovery. But I don't know how it will end; for Mrs. Gast hasdeclared 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 aregreater than I can mention; sweet Mrs. Thrale hardly suffers me toleave her a moment; and Dr. Johnson is another Daddy Crisp to me, forhe has a partial goodness to your Fannikin, that has made him sink thecomparative shortness of our acquaintance, and treat and think of meas one who had long laid claim to him. 

If you knew these two you would love them, or I don't know you so wellas I think I do. Dr. Johnson has more fun, and comical humour, andlove of nonsense about him, than almost anybody I ever saw: I meanwhen with those he likes; for otherwise, he can be as severe andas bitter as report relates him. Mrs. Thrale has all that gaiety ofdisposition and lightness of heart, which commonly belong to fifteen. We are, therefore, merry enough, and I am frequently seized with thesame tittering and ridiculous fits as those with which I have so oftenamazed and amused poor Kitty Cooke. 

One thing let me not omit of this charming woman, which I believe willweigh with you in her favour; her political doctrine is so exactlylike yours, that it is never started but I exclaim, 'Dear ma'am, if myDaddy Crisp was here, I believe between you, you would croak me mad!'And this sympathy of horrible foresight not a little contributes toincline her to believe the other parts of speech with which I regaleher concerning you. She wishes very much to know you, and I am sureyou would hit it off comfortably; but I told her what a vile taste youhad for shunning all new acquaintance, and shirking almost all yourold ones. That I may never be among the latter, heartily hopes my deardaddy'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 acertain 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 samesort. 

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, andshould like to have some, she has a cock and a hen she can spare, andwill appropriate them to Mr. Lock and my dearest Fredy. 

This conclusive stroke so pleased and exhilarated me, that forthwithI said you would both be enchanted, and so forgot all the precedingparticulars. 

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 tofair purpose. 

My Susanna is just now come--so all is fair with my dearest Mr. AndMrs. 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 prettydemure lass, standing a timid auditor while her own verses were readby a kind friend, but a keen judge. And I have in my memory yourfather's person and countenance, and you may be sure that my vanityretained the compliment which he paid me in the moment when hepermitted his judgement to slip behind his good humour and desire ofgiving pleasure. Yes, I remember all who were present, and, ofall, are not you and I the only survivors? It was the day--was itnot?--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 mustask, --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 towrite, oh, very, very good!

But are you not your father's own daughter? Do you not flatter afterhis manner? How do you know the mischief that you may do in the mindof a vain man, who is but too susceptible of praise, even while he isconscious of so much to be placed against it? I am glad that you likemy verses: it would have mortified me much if you had not, for you canjudge as well as write. . . . Yours are really very admirable things; andthe morality is as pure as the literary merit is conspicuous. I am notsure that I have read all that you have given us; but what I have readhas really that rare and almost undefinable quality, genius; thatis to say, it seizes on the mind and commands attention, and on theheart, and compels its feelings. 

How could you imagine that I could be otherwise thanpleased--delighted rather--with your letter? And let me not omit thefact that I reply the instant I am at liberty, for I was enrobingmyself for church. You are a child of simplicity, I know, and do notlove robing; but you are a pupil of liberality, and look upon suchthings with a large mind, smiling in charity. Well! I was putting onthe great black gown when my servant--(you see I can be pompous, towrite of gowns and servants with such familiarity)--when he brought mea letter first directed, the words yet legible, to 'George Crabbe, at Belvoir Castle', and then by Lord Mendip to the 'Reverend' atTrowbridge; and at Trowbridge I hope again to receive these welcomeevidences of your remembrance, directed in all their simplicity, andwritten, I trust, in all sincerity. . . . 

There was a Suffolk family of Alexanders, one of whom you probablymean; and as he knew very little of me, I see no reason why he shouldnot give me a good character . . . If it means, as it generally does, that I paid my debts, and was guilty of no glaring world-defyingimmorality--why yes!--I was so far a good character. . . . 

But your motive for writing to me was your desire of knowing whethermy men and women were really existing creatures, or beings of my ownimagination? Nay, Mary Leadbeater, yours was a better motive; youthought that you should give pleasure by writing, and--yet you willthink me very vain--you felt some pleasure yourself in renewing theacquaintance 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 myfriend, --the virtuous, the worthy character whom I am addressing. 

Yes, I will tell you readily about my creatures, whom I endeavoured topaint 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 mymind the original; but I was obliged in some cases to take them fromtheir real situations, in one or two instances to change even the sex, and in many the circumstances. The nearest to real life was the proudostentatious man in _The Borough_, who disguises an ordinary mind bydoing great things; but the others approach to reality at greater orless distances. Indeed, I do not know that I could paint merelyfrom my own fancy, and there is no cause why we should. Is there notdiversity sufficient in society? And who can go, even but a little, into the assemblies of our fellow-wanderers from the way of perfectrectitude, and not find characters so varied and so pointed that heneed 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 discernthe 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 amalone now; and since my removing into a busy town among the multitude, the loneliness is but more apparent and more melancholy. But thisis only at certain times; and then I have, though at considerabledistances, 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 unfitfor it; not hardy nor grave, not knowing enough, nor sufficientlyacquainted with the every-day concerns of men. But my belovedcreatures have minds with which I can better assimilate . . . Think ofyou 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 tome--how the manners differ from those in larger societies, or inthose under different circumstances. I have observed an extraordinarydifference in village manners in England, especially between thoseplaces otherwise nearly alike, when there was and when there was nota leading man, or a squire's family, or a manufactory near, or apopulous, vitiated town, all these, and many other circumstances havegreat influence. _Your_ quiet village, with such influencing minds, I am disposed to think highly of. No one, perhaps, very rich--nonemiserably poor. No girls, from six years to sixteen, sent to afactory, where men, women, and children of all ages are continuallywith them breathing contagion. Not all, however: we are not soevil--there is a resisting power, and it is strong; but the thingitself, the congregation of so many minds, and the intercourse itoccasions, will have its powerful and visible effect. But these youhave not; yet, as you mention your schools of both kinds, you mustbe more populous and perhaps not so happy as I was giving myself tobelieve. . . . 

The world has not spoiled you, Mary, I do believe: now it has me. Ihave been absorbed in its mighty vortex, and gone into the midst ofits greatness, and joined in its festivities and frivolities, and beenintimate with its children. You may like me very well, my kind friend, while the purifying water, and your more effectual imagination, isbetween us; but come you to England, or let me be in Ireland, andplace us where mind becomes acquainted with mind--and then! Ah, MaryLeadbeater! you would have done with your friendship with me! Child ofsimplicity and virtue, how can you let yourself be so deceived? AmI not a great fat rector, living upon a mighty income, while my poorcurate starves with six hungry children upon the scraps that fall fromthe luxurious table? Do I not visit that horrible London, and enterinto its abominable dissipations? Am not I this day going to dine onvenison and drink claret? Have I not been at election dinners, andjoined the Babel-confusion of a town hall? Child of simplicity! am Ifit to be a friend to you, and to the peaceful, mild, pure, and gentlepeople 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 mebe permitted to address thee. --O my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, this isso humble that I am afraid it is vain. Well! write soon, then, andbelieve 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 Ithought it, and more convenient. It is a perfect model for cottages, and I think for palaces of magnificence, only enlarging not alteringits proportions, and adding ornaments and not principles. Nothingcan be more grand than its simplicity and usefulness. Simple withoutintricacy, it seems to be the spontaneous expression of humanity, congenial to the wants of man. No other formed house can ever pleaseme so well, nor shall I ever be persuaded, I believe, that it can beimproved either in beauty or use. 

Mr. Hayley received us with his usual brotherly affection. I havebegun to work. Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it ismore spiritual than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her goldengates: her windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestialinhabitants are more distinctly heard, and their forms more distinctlyseen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their houses. My wife andsister are both well, courting Neptune for an embrace. 

Our journey was very pleasant; and though we had a great deal ofluggage, no grumbling. All was cheerfulness and good humour on theroad, and yet we could not arrive at our cottage before half-pasteleven at night, owing to the necessary shifting of our luggage fromone chaise to another; for we had seven different chaises and as manydifferent drivers. We set out between six and seven in the morning ofThursday, with sixteen heavy boxes and portfolios full of prints. 

And now begins a new life, because another covering of earth isshaken off. I am more famed in heaven for my works than I could wellconceive. In my brain are studies and chambers filled with books andpictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of eternitybefore my mortal life; and those works are the delight and study ofarchangels. Why then should I be anxious about the riches or fame ofmortality? The Lord our Father will do for us and with us according toHis divine will, for our good. 

You, O dear Flaxman! are a sublime archangel, --my friend and companionfrom eternity. In the divine bosom is our dwelling-place. I look backinto the regions of reminiscence, and behold our ancient days beforethis earth appeared in its vegetated mortality to my mortal vegetatedeyes. I see our houses of eternity which can never be separated, though our mortal vehicles should stand at the remotest corners ofheaven from each other. 

Farewell, my best friend! Remember me and my wife in love andfriendship to our dear Mrs. Flaxman, whom we ardently desire toentertain 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 youhave said in it, called upon me for an immediate answer. But it foundmy wife and myself so ill, and my wife so very ill, that till now Ihave not been able to do this duty. The ague and rheumatism have beenalmost her constant enemies, which she has combated in vain almostever 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 alittle, 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 ourduty to God and man to take due care of His gifts; and though we oughtnot 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 sinceoccurred, and chiefly the unhealthiness of the place. Yet I do notrepent 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 meout of difficulty. But this is no easy matter to a man who, havingspiritual enemies of such formidable magnitude, cannot expect to wantnatural hidden ones. 

Your approbation of my pictures is a multitude to me, and I doubt notthat 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 atpresent, because I have enough to serve my present purpose here. Ourexpenses are small, and our income, from our incessant labour, fullyadequate to these at present. I am now engaged in engraving six smallplates for a new edition of Mr. Hayley's _Triumphs of Temper_, fromdrawings by Maria Flaxman, sister to my friend the sculptor. And itseems that other things will follow in course, if I do but copy thesewell. But patience! If great things do not turn out, it is becausesuch things depend on the spiritual and not on the natural world; andif it was fit for me, I doubt not that I should be employed in greaterthings; and when it is proper, my talents shall be properly exercisedin public, as I hope they are now in private. For till then I leave nostone unturned, and no path unexplored that leads to improvement inmy beloved arts. One thing of real consequence I have accomplished bycoming into the country, which is to me consolation enough: namely, I have re-collected all my scattered thoughts on art, and resumedmy primitive and original ways of execution in both painting andengraving, which in the confusion of London I had very much lost andobliterated from my mind. But whatever becomes of my labours, I wouldrather that they should be preserved in your greenhouse (not, as youmistakenly call it, dunghill) than in the cold gallery of fashion. Thesun may yet shine, and then they will be brought into open air. 

But you have so generously and openly desired that I will divide mygriefs with you that I cannot hide what it has now become my duty toexplain. My unhappiness has arisen from a source which, if exploredtoo narrowly, might hurt my pecuniary circumstances; as my dependenceis on engraving at present, and particularly on the engravings I havein hand for Mr. Hayley, and I find on all hands great objections tomy doing anything but the mere drudgery of business, and intimationsthat, if I do not confine myself to this, I shall not live. This hasalways pursued me. You will understand by this the source of all myuneasiness. This from Johnson and Fuseli brought me down here, andthis from Mr. Hayley will bring me back again. For that I cannot livewithout doing my duty to lay up treasures in heaven is certain anddetermined, and to this I have long made up my mind. And why thisshould be made an objection to me, while drunkenness, lewdness, gluttony, and even idleness itself, does not hurt other men, let Satanhimself explain. The thing I have most at heart--more than life, orall that seems to make life comfortable without--is the interest oftrue religion and science. And whenever anything appears to affectthat interest (especially if I myself omit any duty to my station asa soldier of Christ), it gives me the greatest of torments. I am notashamed, afraid, or averse to tell you what ought to be told--that Iam under the direction of messengers from heaven, daily and nightly. But the nature of such things is not, as some suppose, without troubleor 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 notright onwards is lost; and if our footsteps slide in clay, how can wedo otherwise than fear and tremble? But I should not have troubled youwith this account of my spiritual state, unless it had been necessaryin explaining the actual cause of my uneasiness, into which you are sokind as to inquire: for I never obtrude such things on others unlessquestioned, and then I never disguise the truth. But if we fear to dothe dictates of our angels, and tremble at the tasks set before us;if we refuse to do spiritual acts because of natural fears or naturaldesires; who can describe the dismal torments of such a state!--Itoo well remember the threats I heard!--'If you, who are organizedby Divine Providence for spiritual communion, refuse, and buryyour talent in the earth, even though you should want naturalbread, --sorrow and desperation pursue you through life, and afterdeath shame and confusion of face to eternity. Every one in eternitywill leave you, aghast at the man who was crowned with glory andhonour by his brethren, and betrayed their cause to their enemies. Youwill be called the base Judas who betrayed his friend!'--Such wordswould make any stout man tremble, and how then could I be at ease? ButI 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 stumblingwhile I keep it. 

My wife desires her kindest love to Mrs. Butts, and I have permittedher to send it to you also. We often wish that we could unite againin 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 toLondon. 

 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 shallreturn: but while clothed with the Divine mercy, we are richly clothedin spiritual, and suffer all the rest gladly. Pray, give my love toMrs. Butts and your family. 

PS. Your obliging proposal of exhibiting my two pictures likewisecalls for my thanks; I will finish the others, and then we shall judgeof 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 nearlyfinished much to my satisfaction, but not quite. You shall have itsoon. I now send the four numbers for Mr. Birch with best respects tohim. The reason the _Ballads_ have been suspended is the pressure ofother business, but they will go on again soon. 

Accept of my thanks for your kind and heartening letter. You havefaith in the endeavours of me, your weak brother and fellow-disciple;how great must be your faith in our Divine Master! You are to mea lesson of humility, while you exalt me by such distinguishingcommendations. I know that you see certain merits in me, which, byGod'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 myendeavour to live to the glory of our Lord and Saviour; and I amalso grateful to the kind hand that endeavours to lift me out ofdespondency, even if it lifts me too high. 

And now, my dear Sir, congratulate me on my return to London with thefull approbation of Mr. Hayley and with promise. But alas! now I maysay to you--what perhaps I should not dare to say to anyone else--thatI can alone carry on my visionary studies in London unannoyed, andthat I may converse with my friends in Eternity, see visions, dreamdreams, and prophesy and speak parables, unobserved, and at libertyfrom the doubts of other mortals: perhaps doubts proceeding fromkindness; but doubts are always pernicious, especially when we doubtour friends. Christ is very decided on this point: 'He who is not withme is against me. ' There is no medium or middle state; and if a man isthe enemy of my spiritual life while he pretends to be the friend ofmy corporeal, he is a real enemy; but the man may be the friend of myspiritual life while he seems the enemy of my corporeal, though notvice versa. 

What is very pleasant, every one who hears of my going to London againapplauds it as the only course for the interest of all concerned inmy works; observing that I ought not to be away from the opportunitiesLondon affords of seeing fine pictures, and the various improvementsin works of art going on in London. 

But none can know the spiritual acts of my three years' slumber on thebanks of Ocean, unless he has seen them in the spirit, or unless heshould read my long Poem descriptive of those acts; for I have inthese years composed an immense number of verses on one grand theme, similar to Homer's _Iliad_ or Milton's _Paradise Lost_; the personsand machinery entirely new to the inhabitants of earth (some of thepersons excepted). I have written this Poem from immediate dictation, twelve or sometimes twenty or thirty lines at a time, withoutpremeditation, and even against my will. The time it has taken inwriting was thus rendered nonexistent, and an immense Poem existswhich seems to be the labour of a long life, all produced withoutlabour or study. I mention this to show you what I think the grandreason of my being brought down here. 

I have a thousand and ten thousand things to say to you. My heartis full of futurity. I perceive that the sore travail which has beengiven me these three years leads to glory and honour. I rejoice andtremble: 'I am fearfully and wonderfully made. ' I had been reading theCXXXIX 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? Whyshould my heart and flesh cry out? I will go on in the strength of theLord; through Hell will I sing forth His praises: that the dragons ofthe deep may praise Him, and that those who dwell in darkness, and inthe sea coasts may be gathered into His Kingdom. Excuse my perhaps toogreat enthusiasm. Please to accept of and give our loves to Mrs. Buttsand 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 againin London with those whom we have learned to value by absence no lessperhaps than we did by presence; for recollection often surpasseseverything. Indeed, the prospect of returning to our friends issupremely delightful. Then, I am determined that Mrs. Butts shall havea good likeness of you, if I have hands and eyes left; for I am becomea likeness-taker, and succeed admirably well. But this is not to beachieved without the original sitting before you for every touch, alllikenesses from memory being necessarily very, very defective; butNature and Fancy are two things, and can never be joined, neitherought any one to attempt it, for it is idolatry, and destroys theSoul. 

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 fullyemployed in engraving for his projected works, particularly Cowper's_Milton_--a work now on foot by subscription, and I understand thatthe subscription goes on briskly. This work is to be a very elegantone, and to consist of all Milton's Poems with Cowper's Notes, andtranslations by Cowper from Milton's Latin and Italian poems. Theseworks will be ornamented with engravings from designs by Romney, Flaxman, and your humble servant, and to be engraved also bythe last-mentioned. The profits of the work are intended to beappropriated to erect a monument to the memory of Cowper in St. Paul'sor Westminster Abbey. Such is the project; and Mr. Addington and Mr. Pitt are both among the subscribers, which are already numerous and ofthe first rank. The price of the work is six guineas. Thus I hope thatall our three years' trouble ends in good-luck at last, and shall beforgot by my affections, and only remembered by my understanding, tobe a memento in time to come, and to speak to future generations by asublime allegory, which is now perfectly completed into a grand Poem. I may praise it, since I dare not pretend to be any other than thesecretary; the authors are in Eternity. I consider it as the grandestPoem that this world contains. Allegory addressed to theintellectual powers, while it is altogether hidden from the corporealunderstanding, is my definition of the most sublime Poetry. It isalso somewhat in the same manner defined by Plato. This Poem shall, by Divine assistance, be progressively printed and ornamented withprints, and given to the public. But of this work I take care to saylittle to Mr. H. , since he is as much averse to my Poetry as he is toa chapter in the Bible. He knows that I have writ it, for I have shownit to him, and he has read part by his own desire, and has looked withsufficient contempt to enhance my opinion of it. But I do not wish toimitate by seeming too obstinate in poetic pursuits. But if all theworld should set their faces against this, I have orders to set myface like a flint (Ezek. Iii. 8) against their faces, and my foreheadagainst their foreheads. 

As to Mr. H. , I feel myself at liberty to say as follows upon thisticklish subject. I regard fashion in Poetry as little as I do inPainting: so, if both Poets and Painters should alternately dislike(but I know the majority of them will not), I am not to regard itat all. But Mr. H. Approves of my Designs as little as he does of myPoems, 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 withhis genteel ignorance and polite disapprobation. I know myself bothPoet and Painter, and it is not his affected contempt that can move toanything but a more assiduous pursuit of both arts. Indeed, by my latefirmness, I have brought down his affected loftiness, and he beginsto think I have some genius: as if genius and assurance were the samething! 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 ofit. But it is a fact too true that, if I had only depended on mortalthings, both myself and my wife must have been lost. I shall leaveevery one in this country astonished at my patience and forbearanceof injuries upon injuries; and I do assure you that, if I could havereturned to London a month after my arrival here, I should have doneso. But I was commanded by my spiritual friends to bear all and besilent, and to go through all without murmuring, and, in fine, to hopetill my three years should be almost accomplished; at which time I wasset at liberty to remonstrate against former conduct, and to demandjustice and truth; which I have done in so effectual a manner that myantagonist is silenced completely, and I have compelled what shouldhave been of freedom--my just right as an artist and as a man. Andif any attempt should be made to refuse me this, I am inflexible, andwill relinquish any engagement of designing at all, unless altogetherleft 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 theconduct of others towards me, and you will see that I have labouredhard indeed, and have been borne on angels' wings. Till we meet I begof God our Saviour to be with you and me, and yours and mine. Praygive my and my wife's love to Mrs. Butts and family, and believe me toremain

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 toexpress my grateful sensations on receiving the greatest, and, alas!I fear, the last proof of that unvarying friendship with which ourever-loved, our ever-honoured friend has favoured us! I may transgressthe bounds by intruding at this awful period; but I cannot help it. Myaffection and my sorrow will be excused, I believe, for thou hast everlooked kindly and partially upon me, and so has thy beloved wife, withwhose feelings I sympathize, could that avail. This day's post broughtme thy letter of the 23rd instant, dictated and signed by thee. Suchattention, at such a time, and in such a situation! It was like EdmundBurke! It was like few others, but it is not bestowed upon hearts whodo not feel it. --I look back on that friendship formed in the preciousdays of innocent childhood, between thee and my lamented parent. --Itrace its progress, which is so imprinted on my mind, that I almostseem to myself to have been a witness to it. --I see it continueunabated, notwithstanding the different sphere of life in which youmoved, to the period of it;--and may we not hope that there is anunion of souls beyond the grave? The composure and fortitude displayedin thy letter, is the greatest consolation we could receive with thetidings it conveyed of thy health. Since thou dost not allow us tohope for its restoration, we will hope better things than is in thepower of this world to bestow. --My mother appears to decline, andlooks to the end of her race as near. All the other branches ofthis family, I believe, are well in health. My brother continuesthe school, which, I believe, was never in higher estimation than atpresent. My husband regrets very much that he never shared with usthe pleasure of a personal acquaintance with thee. We all unite incordial, unaffected love to thee. I thought I would say how we were, believing thou would be pleased to hear of our welfare, though howlong that may be continued, seems doubtful. --The general fermentationthroughout this nation, forebodes some sudden and dreadful eruption, and, however obscure or retired our situations may be, there is littleprospect 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 motherdesires thou may accept as much love as she is capable of sendingthee; her heart is full of it towards thee; and she bids me say, shehopes thou hast lived such a life, that thy end will be crowned withpeace! So be it, with my whole heart! Thy affectionate and obligedfriend. 

Our best wishes, and dear love to thy wife. 

Abraham Shackleton has the melancholy satisfaction of perusing dearEdmund 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 hisshining political talents will cease to act. New fashions of politicalsentiment 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 anentire stranger, whom most probably he does not remember to have everseen or heard of, but who cannot forget having met him at the house ofEdmund Burke, Charles Street, James's Square, in the year 1784. Iwas brought thither by my father, Richard Shackleton, the friendfrom their childhood of Edmund Burke. My dear father told thee thatGoldsmith's would now be the _deserted village_; perhaps thou dost notremember this compliment, but I remember the ingenuous modesty whichdisclaimed it. He admired '_The Village', 'The Library_, ' and '_TheNewspaper_' exceedingly, and the delight with which he read them tohis family could not but be acceptable to the author, had he knownthe sound judgement and the exquisite taste which that excellentman possessed. But he saw no more of the productions of the Muse headmired; whose originality was not the least charm. He is dead--thefriend whom he loved and honoured, and to whose character thou dost somuch justice in the preface to '_The Parish_ _Register_', is also goneto the house appointed for all living. A splendid constellation ofpoets arose in the literary horizon; I looked around for Crabbe. Whydoes 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 metwith reflections similar to my own, which introduced '_The ParishRegister_'. Oh, it was like the voice of a long-lost friend, and gladwas 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 forinformation concerning them and their author is strongly excited. 

One of our friends, Dykes Alexander, who was in Ballitore in 1810, Ithink, said he was personally acquainted with thee, and spoke highlyof thy character. I regretted I had not an opportunity of conversingwith him on this subject, as perhaps he would have been able to decidearguments which have arisen; namely, whether we owe to truth or tofiction that 'ever new delight' which thy poetry affords us. Thecharacters, however singular some of them may be, are never unnatural, and thy sentiments so true to domestic and social feelings, as well asto those of a higher nature, have the convincing power of realityover the mind, and _I_ maintain that all thy pictures _are drawn fromlife_. To inquire whether this be the case is the excuse which I maketo myself for writing this letter. I wish the excuse may be acceptedby thee, for I greatly fear I have taken an unwarrantable liberty inmaking the inquiry. Though advanced in life, yet from an education ofpeculiar simplicity, and from never having been long absent from myretired native village, I am too little acquainted with decorum. If Ihave now transgressed the rules it prescribes, I appeal to the candourand liberality of thy mind to forgive a fault caused by a strongenthusiasm. 

PS. Ballitore is the village in which Edmund Burke was educated byAbraham Shackleton, whose pupil he became in 1741, and from whoseschool he entered the college of Dublin in 1744. The school is stillflourishing. 

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 herhealth? for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will notthink 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. ' Ido not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among itsfellows--rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark orimpression, except where they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and as youand your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselvesmuch _à l'égard de moi_, I sit down to beg the continuation of yourgoodness. --I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of mysoul--I will not say, more, but so much as Lady M'Kenzie and MissChalmers. When I think of you--hearts the best, minds the noblest, ofhuman kind--unfortunate, even in the shades of life--when I think Ihave met with you, and have lived more of real life with you ineight days, than I can do with almost any body I meet with in eightyears--when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this worldagain--I could sit down and cry like a child!--If ever you honoured mewith a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert. --Iam secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas!is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, thenoblest souls; and a late, important step in my life has kindly takenme out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, howeveroverlooked 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'. Thiswas not in consequence of the attachment of romance perhaps; but Ihad a long and much-loved fellow creature's happiness or misery in mydetermination, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Norhave I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modishmanners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted withthe multiform curse of boarding-school affectation; and I have got thehandsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, andthe kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as hercreed, that I am _le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnête homme_ inthe universe; although she scarcely ever in her life, except theScriptures of the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David inmetre, spent five minutes together on either prose or verse. 

I must except also from this last, a certain late publication of Scotspoems, which she has perused very devoutly; and all the ballads inthe 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 thislady's character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of ashare in your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am buildingmy 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 beingsuffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that pennyworth I wastaught 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 _éclat_, andbind every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down, ina losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my exciseinstructions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergencyof fortune. If I could set _all_ before your view, whatever disrespectyou in common with the world, have for this business, I know you wouldapprove of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail: I knowyou and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumperyof greatness! When fellow partakers of the same nature fear the sameGod, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at every thing dishonest, and the same scorn atevery thing unworthy--if they are not in the dependance of absolutebeggary, in the name of common sense are they not EQUALS? And if thebias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why maythey 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 findyou, for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the preciousdays of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. Whereveryou are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but deliveryou from evil!

I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to anexcise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In thisI was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as theycall their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to allintents and purposes an officer of excise; there to flourish and bringforth 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 auditorynerves would have felt very delicately on this subject; but a wifeand children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting thesekind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision forwidows and orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a _poet_. For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encouragement whichI once heard a recruiting sergeant give to a numerous, if not arespectable audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. --'Gentlemen, for your further and better encouragement, I can assure you thatour regiment is the most blackguard corps under the crown, andconsequently with us an honest fellow has the surest chance forpreferment. '

You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant anddisagreeable circumstances in my business; but I am tired with anddisgusted at the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence in the most favourable situations does not abound withpleasures, and has its inconveniences and ills; capricious foolish manmistakes these inconveniences and ills as if they were the peculiarproperty of his particular situation; and hence that eternalfickleness, that love of change, which has ruined, and daily doesruin many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead; and is, almostwithout 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, Idistinctly remember only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind and bitter blastsof hail--in short, on such a night as the devil would choose to takethe air in--a farmer, or farmer's servant, was plodding and plashinghomeward, with his plough irons on his shoulder, having been gettingsome repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the Kirkof Alloway, and being rather on the anxious look-out in approachinga place so well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and thedevil's friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by discoveringthrough the horrors of the storm and stormy night a light, which, onhis nearer approach, plainly showed itself to proceed from the hauntededifice. Whether he had been fortified from above, on his devoutsupplication, as is customary with people when they suspect theimmediate presence of Satan; or whether, according to another custom, he had got courageously drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend todetermine; but so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay, into, thevery kirk. As luck would have it, his temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all out on some midnightbusiness or other, and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle orcauldron, depending from the roof over the fire, simmering some headsof unchristened children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c. , for thebusiness of the night. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, with thehonest ploughman; so, without ceremony, he unhooked the cauldron fromoff the fire, and pouring out the damnable ingredients, inverted iton his head, and carried it fairly home, where it remained long in thefamily, a living evidence of the truth of the story. 

Another story, which I can prove to be equally authentic, was asfollows: 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 abouttwo or three hundred yards further on than the said gate, had beendetained by his business, till by the time he reached Alloway it wasthe wizard hour between night and morning. 

Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yetas it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions isrunning by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advancedon his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirkyard he wassurprised and entertained through the ribs and arches of an old Gothicwindow which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches, merrily footing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who waskeeping them all alive with the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to observe them a little, could plainly descry thefaces of many old women of his acquaintance and neighbourhood. How thegentleman was dressed tradition does not say, but that the ladies wereall in their smocks; and one of them, happening unluckily to have asmock which was considerably too short to answer all the purposes ofthat piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involuntarilyburst out with a loud laugh: 'Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short sark!'and recollecting himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top ofhis speed. I need not mention the universally known fact, that nodiabolical 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, againsthe reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently themiddle of the stream, the pursuing vengeful hags were so close at hisheels, that one of them actually sprang to seize him; but it was toolate, 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 astroke of lightning; but the farmer was beyond her reach. However, theunsightly tailless condition of the vigorous steed was, to the lasthour of the noble creature's life, an awful warning to the Carrickfarmer not to stay too late in Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give you, though equally true, is not sowell identified as the two former, with regard to the scene; but asthe best authorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that nature puts on her sablesto mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belongingto a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of Alloway Kirk, had justfolded his charge and was returning home. As he passed the kirk, inthe adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men and women, whowere busy pulling stems of the plant ragwort. He observed that as eachperson pulled a ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and called out, 'Up, horsie', on which the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, through theair, with its rider. The foolish boy likewise pulled his ragwort andcried with the rest, 'Up, horsie', and, strange to tell, away he flewwith the company. The first stage at which the cavalcade stopped wasa merchant's wine-cellar in Bordeaux, where, without saying by yourleave, they quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford, untilthe morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness, threatened tothrow light on the matter, and frightened them from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger to the scene and theliquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and when the rest took horse hefell asleep, and was found so next day by some of the people belongingto the merchant. Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him what hewas, he said he was such-a-one's herd in Alloway, and by some means orother getting home again, he lived long to tell the world the wondroustale. 

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 belovedbrother. It is now just five years since, after a separation offourteen years (I may call it a separation, for we only saw him fouror five times, and by glimpses), he came to visit his sister and mein this cottage, and passed eight blessed months with us. He was thenwaiting for the command of the ship to which he was appointed when hequitted us. As you will have seen, we had little to live upon, and heas little (Lord Lonsdale being then alive). But he encouraged me topersist, 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 endeavourto do something for the world. He went to sea, as commander, withthis hope; his voyage was very unsuccessful, he having lost by itconsiderably. When he came home, we chanced to be in London, and sawhim. 'Oh!' said he, 'I have thought of you, and nothing but you; ifever of myself, and my bad success, it was only on your account. ' Hewent again to sea a second time, and also was unsuccessful; stillwith 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 sisterand myself, and my wife, whom, indeed, he loved with all a brother'stenderness. This is the end of his part of the agreement--of hisefforts 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 bondbetween 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 utmostto live in honour and worthiness. Some of the newspapers carelesslyasserted that he did not wish to survive his ship. This is false. Hewas heard by one of the surviving officers giving orders, with allpossible calmness, a very little before the ship went down; and whenhe 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 wassatisfactory for me to have it confirmed by external evidence. Do notthink our grief unreasonable. Of all human beings whom I ever knew, hewas the man of the most rational desires, the most sedate habits, andthe most perfect self-command. He was modest and gentle, and shy evento disease; but this was wearing off. In everything his judgementswere sound and original; his taste in all the arts, music and poetryin particular (for these he, of course, had had the best opportunitiesof being familiar with), was exquisite; and his eye for the beautiesof nature was as fine and delicate as ever poet or painter was giftedwith, 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 greatand 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 heis, as a poet, any great favourite of mine: I admire his talents andgenius highly, but his is not a poetical genius. The only qualitiesI can find in Dryden that are _essentially_ poetical, are a certainardour and impetuosity of mind, with an excellent ear. It may seemstrange that I do not add to this, great command of language: _that_he certainly has, and of such language too, as it is most desirablethat 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 meanthe amiable, the ennobling, or the intense passions. I do not mean tosay that there is nothing of this in Dryden, but as little, I think, as is possible, considering how much he has written. You will easilyunderstand my meaning, when I refer to his versification of _Palamonand Arcite_, as contrasted with the language of Chaucer. Dryden hadneither a tender heart nor a lofty sense of moral dignity. Wheneverhis language is poetically impassioned, it is mostly upon unpleasingsubjects, such as the follies, vices, and crimes of classes of men orof individuals, That his cannot be the language of imagination, musthave necessarily followed from this, --that there is not a single imagefrom nature in the whole body of his works; and in his translationfrom 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 byillustration, and even absolutely require it. A correct text is thefirst object of an editor, then such notes as explain difficult orobscure passages; and lastly, which is much less important, notespointing out authors to whom the poet has been indebted, not in thefiddling way of phrase here and phrase there, (which is detestable asa general practice), but where he has had essential obligations eitheras to matter or manner. 

If I can be of any use to you, do not fail to apply to me. One thingI may take the liberty to suggest, which is, when you come to thefables, might it not be advisable to print the whole of the Tales ofBoccace in a smaller type in the original language? If this shouldlook too much like swelling a book, I should certainly make suchextracts as would show where Dryden has most strikingly improved upon, or fallen below, his original. I think his translations from Boccaceare the best, at least the most poetical, of his poems. It is manyyears since I saw Boccace, but I remember that Sigismunda is notmarried by him to Guiscard (the names are different in Boccace in bothtales, I believe--certainly in Theodore, &c. ). I think Dryden has muchinjured the story by the marriage, and degraded Sigismunda's characterby it. He has also, to the best of my remembrance, degraded her stillmore, by making her love absolute sensuality and appetite; Dryden hadno other notion of the passion. With all these defects, and they arevery gross ones, it is a noble poem. Guiscard's answer, when firstreproached by Tancred, is noble in Boccace--nothing but this: _Amorpuò molto più che ne voi ne io possiamo_. This, Dryden has spoiled. Hesays first very well, 'the faults of love by love are justified, ' andthen come four lines of miserable rant, quite _à 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, tothank you for the interest you take in my poems, as evinced by yoursolicitude about their immediate reception. I write partly to thankyou for this, and to express the pleasure it has given me, and partlyto remove any uneasiness from your mind which the disappointments yousometimes meet with, in this labour of love, may occasion. I see thatyou have many battles to fight for me--more than, in the ardour andconfidence of your pure and elevated mind, you had ever thought ofbeing summoned to; but be assured that this opposition is nothing morethan what I distinctly foresaw that you and my other friends wouldhave to encounter. I say this, not to give myself credit for an eye ofprophecy, but to allay any vexatious thoughts on my account which thisopposition may have produced in you. 

It is impossible that any expectations can be lower than mineconcerning the immediate effect of this little work upon what iscalled the public. I do not here take into consideration the envy andmalevolence, and all the bad passions which always stand in the way ofa work of any merit from a living poet; but merely think of the pure, absolute, honest ignorance in which all worldlings of every rank andsituation must be enveloped, with respect to the thoughts, feelingsand images on which the life of my poems depends. The things which Ihave taken, whether from within or without, what have they to do withrouts, dinners, morning calls, hurry from door to door, from street tostreet, on foot or in carriage; with Mr. Pitt or Mr. Fox, Mr. Paulor Sir Francis Burdett, the Westminster election or the borough ofHoniton? In a word--for I cannot stop to make my way through the hurryof images that present themselves to me--what have they to do with theendless talking about things nobody cares anything for except as faras their own vanity is concerned, and this with persons they carenothing for but as their vanity or _selfishness_ is concerned?--whathave they to do (to say all at once) with a life without love? In sucha life there can be no thought; for we have no thought (save thoughtsof pain) but as far as we have love and admiration. 

It is an awful truth, that there neither is, nor can be, any genuineenjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons wholive, or wish to live, in the broad light of the world--amongthose who either are, or are striving to make themselves, people ofconsideration in society. This is a truth, and an awful one, becauseto be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is tobe without love of human nature and reverence for God. 

Upon this I shall insist elsewhere; at present let me confine myselfto my object; which is to make you, my dear friend, as easy-heartedas myself with respect to these poems. Trouble not yourself upon theirpresent reception; of what moment is that compared with what I trustis their destiny?--to console the afflicted; to add sunshine todaylight, by making the happy happier; to teach the young and thegracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and therefore, tobecome 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 awarehow far it would seem to many I overrate my own exertions, when Ispeak in this way, in direct connexion with the volume I have justmade public. 

I am not, however, afraid of such censure, insignificant as probablythe majority of those poems would appear to very respectable persons. I do not mean London wits and witlings, for these have too many foulpassions about them to be respectable, even if they had more intellectthan the benign laws of Providence will allow to such a heartlessexistence as theirs is; but grave, kindly-natured, worthy persons, who would be pleased if they could. I hope that these volumes arenot without some recommendations, even for readers of this class: buttheir imagination has slept; and the voice which is the voice of mypoetry, 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 thatI have expressed my calm confidence that these poems will live, I havesaid nothing which has a particular application to the object of it, which was to remove all disquiet from your mind on account of thecondemnation they may at present incur from that portion of mycontemporaries who are called the public. I am sure, my dear LadyBeaumont, if you attach any importance to it, it can only be from anapprehension that it may affect me, upon which I have already set youat ease; or from a fear that this present blame is ominous of theirfuture or final destiny. If this be the case, your tenderness for mebetrays you. Be assured that the decision of these persons has nothingto do with the question; they are altogether incompetent judges. Thesepeople, in the senseless hurry of their idle lives, do not _read_books, they merely snatch a glance at them, that they may talk aboutthem. And even if this were not so, never forget what, I believe, wasobserved to you by Coleridge, that every great and original writer, inproportion as he is great or original, must himself create the tasteby which he is to be relished; he must teach the art by which he is tobe seen; this, in a certain degree, even to all persons, however wiseand pure may be their lives, and however unvitiated their taste. Butfor those who dip into books in order to give an opinion of them, ortalk about them to take up an opinion--for this multitude of unhappyand misguided, and misguiding beings, an entire regeneration mustbe produced; and if this be possible, it must be a work of time. Toconclude, my ears are stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh asinsensible 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 withme an invincible confidence that my writings (and among them theselittle poems) will co-operate with the benign tendencies in humannature and society, wherever found; and that they will in their degreebe efficacious in making men wiser, better, and happier. Farewell. I will not apologize for this letter, though its length demands anapology. . . . 

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 wasmuch pleased with the sketch, and I have no doubt that the picturewill surpass it as far as a picture ought to do. I long much to seeit. I should approve of any engraver approved by you. But rememberthat no poem of mine will ever be popular; and I am afraid that thesale of _Peter_ would not carry the expense of the engraving, and thatthe poem, in the estimation of the public, would be a weight uponthe print. I say not this in modest disparagement of the poem, but insorrow for the sickly taste of the public in verse. The _people_ wouldlove the poem of _Peter Bell_, but the _public_ (a very differentbeing) will never love it. Thanks for dear Lady B. 's transcript fromyour friend's letter; it is written with candour, but I must say aword or two not in praise of it. 'Instances of what I mean, ' says yourfriend, '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 theWater_'. Is this accurately transcribed by Lady Beaumont? If itbe, what shall we think of criticism or judgement founded upon, andexemplified by, a poem which must have been so inattentively perused?My language is precise; and, therefore, it would be false modesty tocharge 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 itis possible for flowers to be _reflected_ in water when there are_waves_? They may, indeed, in _still_ water; but the very object of mypoem is the trouble or agitation, both of the flowers and the water. I must needs respect the understanding of every one honoured by yourfriendship; but sincerity compels me to say that my poems must be morenearly looked at, before they can give rise to any remarks of muchvalue, even from the strongest minds. With respect to this individualpoem, Lady B. Will recollect how Mrs. Fermor expressed herself uponit. A letter also was sent to me, addressed to a friend of mine, andby him communicated to me, in which this identical poem was singledout for fervent approbation. What then shall we say? Why, let the poetfirst consult his own heart, as I have done, and leave the restto posterity--to, I hope, an improving posterity. The fact is, theEnglish _public_ are at this moment in the same state of mind withrespect to my poems, if small things may be compared with great, asthe 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 havebeen praised, viz. , that I have not written down to the level ofsuperficial observers and unthinking minds. Every great poet isa teacher: I wish either to be considered as a teacher, or asnothing. . . . 

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 youhave ever regarded me, were I to neglect my duty so far as to omitconsulting my father and you in the most important step which Ican possibly take in life, and upon the success of which my futurehappiness must depend. It is with pleasure I think that I can availmyself of your advice and instructions in an affair of so greatimportance as that which I have at present on my hands. You willprobably guess from this preamble, that I am engaged in a matrimonialplan, which is really the case. Though my acquaintance with the younglady has not been of long standing, this circumstance is in somedegree counterbalanced by the intimacy in which we have lived, and bythe opportunities which that intimacy has afforded me of remarking herconduct and sentiments on many different occasions, some of which wererather of a delicate nature, so that in fact I have seen more of herduring the few weeks we have been together, than I could have doneafter a much longer acquaintance, shackled by the common forms ofordinary life. You will not expect from me a description of herperson, --for which I refer you to my brother, as also for a fulleraccount of all the circumstances attending the business than can becomprised in the compass of a letter. Without flying into raptures, for I must assure you that my judgement as well as my affections areconsulted upon this occasion; without flying into raptures then, Imay safely assure you, that her temper is sweet and cheerful, herunderstanding good, and what I know will give you pleasure, herprinciples of religion very serious. I have been very explicitwith her upon the nature of my expectations, and she thinks she canaccommodate herself to the situation which I should wish her to holdin society as my wife, which, you will easily comprehend, I meanshould neither be extravagant nor degrading. Her fortune, thoughpartly dependent upon her brother, who is high in office at Madras, isvery considerable--at present £500 a-year. This, however, we must, in some degree, regard as precarious, --I mean to the full extent; andindeed when you know her you will not be surprised that I regardthis circumstance chiefly because it removes those prudentialconsiderations which would otherwise render our union impossible forthe present. Betwixt her income and my own professional exertions, Ihave little doubt we will be enabled to hold the rank in society whichmy family and situation entitle me to fill. 

My dear Mother, I cannot express to you the anxiety I have that youwill not think me flighty nor inconsiderate in this business. Believeme, that experience, in one instance--you cannot fail to know to whatI allude--is too recent to permit my being so hasty in my conclusionsas the warmth of my temper might have otherwise prompted. I am alsomost anxious that you should be prepared to show her kindness, which Iknow the goodness of your own heart will prompt, more especiallywhen I tell you that she is an orphan, without relations, and almostwithout friends. Her guardian is, I should say _was_, for she is ofage, Lord Downshire, to whom I must write for his consent, a pieceof respect to which he is entitled for his care of her--and there thematter rests at present. I think I need not tell you that if I assumethe new character which I threaten, I shall be happy to find thatin that capacity, I may make myself more useful to my brothers, andespecially to Anne, than I could in any other. On the other hand, Ishall certainly expect that my friends will endeavour to show everyattention in their power to a woman who forsakes for me, prospectsmuch more splendid than what I can offer, and who comes into Scotlandwithout a single friend but myself. I find I could write a great dealmore upon this subject, but as it is late, and as I must write to myfather, 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 youropinion, your advice, and above all, your blessing; you will see thenecessity of not delaying a minute in doing so, and in keeping thisbusiness _strictly private_, till you hear farther from me, since youare not ignorant that even at this advanced period, an objection onthe part of Lord Downshire, or many other accidents, may intervene; inwhich 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 LastMinstrel_. It has great faults, of which no one can be more sensiblethan I am myself. Above all, it is deficient in that sort ofcontinuity which a story ought to have, and which, were it to writeagain, 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 seea prospect, and to the bottom of another to enjoy a shade, and whatwonder if my course has been devious and desultory, and many of myexcursions altogether unprofitable to the advance of my journey. The Dwarf Page is also an excrescence, and I plead guilty to all thecensures concerning him. The truth is, he has a history, and it isthis: The story of Gilpin Horner was told by an old gentleman toLady Dalkeith, and she, much diverted with his actually believing sogrotesque 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 herrequest, as she has more of the angel in face and temper than any onealive; so that if she had asked me to write a ballad on a broomstick Imust have attempted it. I began a few verses, to be called the GoblinPage; and they lay long by me, till the applause of some friendswhose 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 lengththe story appeared so uncouth, that I was fain to put it intothe mouth of my old minstrel--lest the nature of it should bemisunderstood, and I should be suspected of setting up a new school ofpoetry, instead of a feeble attempt to imitate the old. In the processof 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 abidethere. 

I mention these circumstances to you, and to any one whose applause Ivalue, because I am unwilling you should suspect me of trifling withthe public in _malice prepense_. As to the herd of critics, it isimpossible for me to pay much attention to them; for, as they do notunderstand what I call poetry, we talk in a foreign language to eachother. Indeed, many of these gentlemen appear to me to be a sort oftinkers, who, unable to _make_ pots and pans, set up for _menders_ ofthem, and, God knows, often make two holes in patching one. The sixthcanto is altogether redundant; for the poem should certainly haveclosed with the union of the lovers, when the interest, if any, wasat an end. But what could I do? I had my book and my page still on myhands, and must get rid of them at all events. Manage them as I would, their catastrophe must have been insufficient to occupy an entirecanto; so I was fain to eke it out with the songs of the minstrels. Iwill now descend from the confessional, which I think I have occupiedlong enough for the patience of my fair confessor. I am happy you aredisposed to give me absolution, notwithstanding all my sins. We have anew poet come forth amongst us--James Graham, author of a poem called_The Sabbath_, which I admire very much. If I can find an opportunityI 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 showingevery attention in our power to Mr. And Mrs. Morritt, and I amparticularly happy in a circumstance that at once promises me a greatdeal of pleasure in the acquaintance of your Ladyship's friends, andaffords me the satisfaction of hearing from you again. Pray don'ttriumph over me too much in the case of Lydia. I stood a veryrespectable siege; but she caressed my wife, coaxed my children, and made, by dint of cake and pudding, some impression even uponthe affections of my favourite dog: so, when all the outworkswere carried, the mere fortress had no choice but to surrender onhonourable terms. To the best of my thinking, notwithstanding thecerulean hue of her stockings, and a most plentiful stock of eccentricaffectation, she is really at bottom a good-natured woman, with muchliveliness and some talent. She is now set out to the Highlands, whereshe is likely to encounter many adventures. Mrs. Scott and I went asfar as Loch Catrine with her, from which jaunt I have just returned. We had most heavenly weather, which was peculiarly favourable to myfair companions' zeal for sketching every object that fell in theirway, from a castle to a pigeon-house. Did your Ladyship ever travelwith a _drawing_ companion? Mine drew like cart-horses, as well inlaborious zeal as in effect; for, after all, I could not help hintingthat the cataracts delineated bore a singular resemblance to haycocks, and the rocks much correspondence to large old-fashioned cabinetswith their folding-doors open. So much for Lydia, whom I left on herjourney through the Highlands, but by what route she had not resolved. I gave her three plans, and think it likely she will adopt noneof them: moreover, when the executive government of postilions, landlords, and Highland boatmen devolves upon her English servantinstead of me, I am afraid the distresses of the errant damsels willfall a little beneath the dignity of romances. All this nonsense is_entre nous_, for Miss White has been actively zealous in getting mesome Irish correspondence about Swift, and otherwise very obliging. 

It is not with my inclination that I fag for the booksellers; but whatcan I do? My poverty and not my will consents. The income of my officeis only reversionary, and my private fortune much limited. My poeticalsuccess fairly destroyed my prospects of professional success, andobliged me to retire from the bar; for though I had a competent shareof information and industry, who would trust their cause to the authorof the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_? Now, although I do allow that anauthor should take care of his literary character, yet I think theleast thing that his literary character can do in return is to takesome care of the author, who is unfortunately, like Jeremy in _Lovefor Love_, furnished with a set of tastes and appetites which woulddo honour to the income of a Duke if he had it. Besides, I go to workwith Swift _con amore_; for, like Dryden, he is an early favouriteof mine. The _Marmion_ is nearly out, and I have made one or twoalterations on the third edition, with which the press is nowgroaning. So soon as it is, it will make the number of copiespublished within the space of six months amount to eight thousand, --animmense number, surely, and enough to comfort the author's woundedfeelings, had the claws of the reviewers been able to reach himthrough 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 youlive, as Paddy says, to rule over us, and to redeem the crown ofSpenser and of Dryden to its pristine dignity. I am only discontentedwith the extent of your royal revenue, which I thought had been £400, or £300 at the very least. Is there no getting rid of that iniquitousmodus, 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 manybards would make a better figure at drinking it. I should think thatin due time a memorial might get some relief in this part of theappointment--it should be at least £100 wet and £100 dry. When youhave carried your point of discarding the ode, and my point of gettingthe sack, you will be exactly in the situation of Davy in thefarce, who stipulates for more wages, less work, and the key of theale-cellar. I was greatly delighted with the circumstances ofyour 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 tolaugh at the superstitions of a gentleman-usher, as I think you dosomewhere. 'The whirligig of Time brings about his revenges. '

Adieu, my dear Southey; my best wishes attend all that you do, and mybest congratulations every good that attends you--yea even this, thevery least of Providence's mercies, as a poor clergyman said whenpronouncing grace over a herring. I should like to know how the princereceived you; his address is said to be excellent, and his knowledgeof literature far from despicable. What a change of fortune evensince the short time when we met! The great work of retribution is nowrolling onward to consummation, yet am I not fully satisfied--_pereatiste_--there will be no permanent peace in Europe till Buonapartesleeps 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 veryentertaining letter upon your Parisian journey. I heartily wish I hadbeen of your party, for you have seen what I trust will not be seenagain in a hurry; since, to enjoy the delight of a restoration, thereis a necessity for a previous _bouleversement_ of everything that isvaluable in morals and policy which seems to have been the case inFrance since 1790. The Duke of Buccleugh told me yesterday of a verygood reply of Louis to some of his attendants, who proposed shuttingthe doors of his apartments to keep out the throng of people. 'Openthe door, ' he said, 'to John Bull; he has suffered a great deal inkeeping the door open for me. '

Now, to go from one important subject to another, I must account formy own laziness, which I do by referring you to a small anonymous sortof a novel, in three volumes, _Waverley_, which you will receive bythe mail of this day. It was a very old attempt of mine to embody sometraits of those characters and manners peculiar to Scotland, the lastremnants of which vanished during my own youth, so that few or notraces now remain. I had written great part of the first volume, andsketched other passages, when I mislaid the MS. , and only found it bythe 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 thelast two volumes were written in three weeks. I had a great deal offun in the accomplishment of this task, though I do not expect that itwill 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 anadopted Scotchman, will find some amusement in it. It has made a verystrong impression here, and the good people of Edinburgh are busied intracing the author, and in finding out originals for the portraits itcontains. In the first case, they will probably find it difficult toconvict the guilty author, although he is far from escaping suspicion. Jeffrey has offered to make oath that it is mine, and another greatcritic has tendered his affidavit _ex contrario_; so that theseauthorities have divided the Gude Town. However, the thing hassucceeded very well, and is thought highly of. I don't know if it hasgot to London yet. I intend to maintain my _incognito_. Let me knowyour opinion about it. . . . 

24 _July_. 

. . . I had just proceeded thus far when your kind favour of the21st 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 thechimney-piece, as Count Borowlaski's wife used to do with him. I ama bad hand at depicting a hero properly so called, and have anunfortunate propensity for the dubious characters of borderers, buccaneers, Highland robbers, and all others of a Robin-Hooddescription. I do not know why it should be, as I am myself, likeHamlet, indifferent honest; but I suppose the blood of the oldcattle-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. Ourfat friend being desirous to honour Literature in my unworthy person, has intimated to me, by his organ the Doctor, that, with consent ampleand unanimous of all the potential voices of all his ministers, each more happy than another of course on so joyful an occasion, heproposes to dub me Baronet. It would be easy saying a parcel of finethings about my contempt of rank, and so forth; but although I wouldnot have gone a step out of my way to have asked, or bought, orbegged, or borrowed a distinction, which to me personally will ratherbe inconvenient than otherwise, yet, coming as it does directly fromthe source of feudal honours, and as an honour, I am really gratifiedwith it;--especially as it is intimated, that it is his RoyalHighness's pleasure to heat the oven for me expressly, without waitingtill he has some new _batch_ of Baronets ready in dough. In plainEnglish, I am to be gazetted _per se_. My poor friend Carpenter'sbequest 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 grinninghonours, as Sir Walter hath. ' After all, if one must speak forthemselves, I have my quarters and emblazonments, free of all stainbut Border theft and High Treason, which I hope are gentleman-likecrimes; and I hope Sir Walter Scott will not sound worse than SirHumphry Davy, though my merits are as much under his, in point ofutility, as can well be imagined. But a name is something, and mineis the better of the two. Set down this flourish to the accountof national and provincial pride, for you must know we have moreMessieurs de Sotenville in our Border counties than anywhere else inthe 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, Ionly heard of his approach at eight o'clock in the morning, and hewas to be at Selkirk by eleven. The magistrates sent to ask me to helpthem to receive him. It occurred to me he might be coming to Melroseto see the Abbey, in which case I could not avoid asking him toAbbotsford, 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 thescream she gave on the occasion. 'What have we to offer him?'--'Wineand cake, ' said I, thinking to make all things easy; but sheejaculated, in a tone of utter despair, 'Cake!! where am I to getcake?' However, being partly consoled with the recollection that hisvisit was a very improbable incident, and curiosity, as usual, provingtoo strong for alarm, she set out with me in order not to miss a peepof the great man. James Skene and his lady were with us, and we gaveour 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 tocome to Abbotsford for an hour. New despair on the part of Mrs. Scott, who began to institute a domiciliary search for cold meat through thewhole city of Selkirk, which produced _one shoulder of cold lamb_. Inthe meanwhile, his Royal Highness received the civic honours of theBIRSE[1] very graciously. I had hinted to Bailie Lang, that it oughtonly to be licked _symbolically_ on the present occasion; so heflourished it three times before his mouth, but without touching itwith his lips, and the Prince followed his example as directed. Langmade an excellent speech, sensible, and feeling, and well delivered. The Prince seemed much surprised at this great propriety of expressionand behaviour in a magistrate, whose people seemed such a rabble, andwhose whole band of music consisted in a drum and fife. He noticed toBailie Anderson, that Selkirk seemed very populous in proportionto its extent. 'On an occasion like this it seems so, ' answered theBailie, neatly enough I thought. I question if any magistrates in thekingdom, lord mayors and aldermen not excepted, could have behavedwith more decent and quiet good-breeding. Prince Leopold repeatedlyalluded to this during the time he was at Abbotsford. I do not knowhow Mrs. Scott ultimately managed; but with broiled salmon, andblack-cock, and partridges, she gave him a very decent lunch; and Ichanced to have some very fine old hock, which was mighty germain tothe matter. 

The Prince seems melancholy, whether naturally or from habit, I do notpretend to say; but I do not remember thinking him so at Paris, whereI saw him frequently, then a much poorer man than myself; yet heshowed some humour, for alluding to the crowds that followed himeverywhere, he mentioned some place where he had gone out to shoot, but was afraid to proceed for fear of 'bagging a boy'. He saidhe really thought of getting some shooting-place in Scotland, andpromised me a longer visit on his return. If I had had a day'snotice to have _warned the waters_, we could have met him with a veryrespectable number of the gentry; but there was no time for this, andprobably he liked it better as it was. There was only young Cliftonwho could have come, and he was shy and cubbish, and would not, thoughrequested by the Selkirk people. He was perhaps ashamed to marchthrough Coventry with them. It hung often and sadly on my mind that_he_ was wanting who could and would have received him like a Princeindeed; 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 yourlordship 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 heardamongst us more than ten times a-day, is, on the whole, to the creditof my family's understanding. The piper is the only one whose brain heseems to have endangered; for, as the Prince said he preferred him toany he had heard in the Highlands--(which, by the way, shows hisRoyal Highness knows nothing of the matter), --the fellow seems to havebecome incapable of his ordinary occupation as a forester, and has cutstick 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 libraryceiling will be superb, and we have plenty of ornaments for it withoutrepeating one of those in the eating-room. The plan of shelves is alsoexcellent, and will, I think, for a long time suffice my collection. The brasses for the shelves I like--but not the price: the notchedones, after all, do very well. I have had three grand hawls since Ilast wrote to you. The pulpit, repentance-stool, King's seat, andGod knows how much of carved wainscot, from the kirk of Dunfermline, enough to coat the hall to the height of seven feet:--supposingit boarded above, for hanging guns, old portraits, intermixed witharmour, &c. --it will be a superb entrance-gallery: this is hawl thefirst. Hawl second is twenty-four pieces of the most splendid Chinesepaper, twelve feet high by four wide, a present from my cousin HughScott, enough to finish the drawing-room and two bedrooms. Hawl thirdis a quantity of what is called Jamaica cedar-wood, enough for fittingup 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 morethan oak, works much easier, and is never touched by vermin of anykind. I sent Mr. Atkinson a specimen, but it was from the plain end ofthe plank; the interior is finely waved and variegated. Your kindand unremitting exertions in our favour will soon plenish thedrawing-room. Thus we at present stand. We have a fine old Englishcabinet, with china, &c. -and two superb elbow-chairs, the gift ofConstable, carved most magnificently, with groups of children, fruit, and flowers, in the Italian taste: they came from Rome, and are muchadmired. It seems to me that the mirror you mention, being framed incarved box, would answer admirably well with the chairs, which are ofthe same material. The mirror should, I presume, be placed overthe drawing-room chimney-piece; and opposite to it I mean to put anantique table of mosaic marbles, to support Chantrey's bust. A goodsofa would be desirable, and so would the tapestry screen, if reallyfresh and beautiful; but as much of our furniture will be a littleantiquated, one would not run too much into that taste in so small anapartment. For the library I have the old oak chairs now in the littlearmoury, eight in number, and we might add one or two pair of theebony chairs you mention. I should think this enough, for many seatsin such a room must impede access to the books; and I don't meanthe library to be on ordinary occasions a public room. Perhaps thetapestry-screen would suit better here than in the drawing-room. Ihave one library table here, and shall have another made for atlasesand prints. For the hall I have four chairs of black oak. In othermatters we can make it out well enough. In fact, it is my objectrather to keep under my new accommodations at first, both to avoidimmediate outlay, and that I may leave room for pretty things whichmay occur hereafter. I would to Heaven I could take a cruise with youthrough the brokers, which would be the pleasantest affair possible, only I am afraid I should make a losing voyage of it. Mr. Atkinson hasmissed a little my idea of the oratory, fitting it up entirely asa bookcase, whereas I should like to have had recesses forcuriosities--for the Bruce's skull--for a crucifix, &c. , &c. -in short, a little cabinet instead of a book-closet. Four sides of books wouldbe perfectly sufficient; the other four, so far as not occupied bydoor or window, should be arranged tastefully for antiquities, &c. , like the inside of an antique cabinet, with drawers, and shottles, andfunny little arches. The oak screen dropped as from the clouds: it ismost acceptable; I might have guessed there was only one kind friendso ready to supply hay to my hobby-horse. You have my views in thesematters and your own taste; and I will send the _needful_ whenyou apprise me of the amount total. Where things are not quitesatisfactory, it is better to wait a while on every account, for theamusement is over when one has room for nothing more. The house iscompletely roofed, &c. , and looks worthy of Mrs. Terry's painting. Inever 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 canjudge, by a thousand minute items, of the advance you make with thepublic, just as I can of the gradual progress of my trees, because Iam 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 inadvance, without a single retrograde movement. Every one wishes toadvance rapidly, but when the desired position is gained, it is farmore easily maintained by him whose ascent has been gradual, and whosefavour is founded not on the unreasonable expectations entertainedfrom one or two seasons, but from an habitual experience of the powerof 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 adepression of spirits arising from the loss of friends (to whom Iam 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_, aScotch archer in the French King's guard, _tempore_ Louis XI, the mostpicturesque 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 asto 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 Ifeel overjoyed at losing a large sum of hard-earned money in a mostunexpected manner, for all men considered Constable's people secure asthe Bank; yet, as I have obtained an arrangement of payment convenientfor every body concerned, and easy for myself, I cannot say that Icare much about the matter. Some economical restrictions I will make;and it happened oddly that they were such as Lady Scott and myselfhad almost determined upon without this compulsion. Abbotsford willhenceforth be our only establishment; and during the time I must bein town, I will take my bed at the Albyn Club. We shall also breakoff the rather excessive hospitality to which we were exposed, and nolonger stand host and hostess to all that do pilgrimage to Melrose. Then I give up an expensive farm, which I always hated, and turnall my odds and ends into cash. I do not reckon much on my literaryexertions--I mean in proportion to former success--because populartaste may fluctuate. But with a moderate degree of the favour whichI have always had, my time my own, and my mind unplagued about otherthings, I may boldly promise myself soon to get the better of thisblow. In these circumstances, I should be unjust and ungrateful to askor accept the pity of my friends. I for one, do not see there is muchoccasion for making moan about it. My womankind will be the greatersufferers, --yet even they look cheerily forward; and, for myself, theblowing off my hat in a stormy day has given me more uneasiness. 

I envy your Brighton party, and your fine weather. When I was atAbbotsford the mercury was down at six or seven in the morning morethan once. I am hammering away at a bit of a story from the old affairof the _diablerie_ at Woodstock in the Long Parliament times. I don'tlike it much. I am obliged to hamper my fanatics greatly too muchto 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 inexactly fifteen days. To be sure, I permitted no interruptions. Butthen I took exercise, and for ten days of the fifteen attended theCourt of Session from two to four hours every day. This is nothing, however, to writing _Ivanhoe_ when I had the actual cramp in mystomach; but I have no idea of these things preventing a manfrom doing what he has a mind. My love to all the party atBrighton--fireside party I had almost said, but you scorn mywords--seaside party then be it. Lady Scott and Anne join in kindestlove. I must close my letter, for one of the consequences of ourmisfortunes is, that we dine every day at half-past four o'clock;which premature hour arises, I suppose, from sorrow being hungry aswell as thirsty. One most laughable part of our tragic comedy was, that every friend in the world came formally, just as they do herewhen a relation dies, thinking that the eclipse of _les beaux yeux dema 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 youoffer, and yet my kennel is so much changed since I had the pleasureof seeing you, that I must not accept of what I wished so sincerelyto possess. I am the happy owner of two of the noble breed, each ofgigantic size, and the gift of that sort of Highlander whom we call aHigh Chief, so I would hardly be justified in parting with them evento make room for your kind present, and I should have great doubtswhether the mountaineers would receive the Irish stranger with duehospitality. One of them I had from poor Glengarry, who, with all thewild and fierce points of his character, had a kind, honest, andwarm heart. The other from a young friend, whom Highlanders callMacVourigh, and Lowlanders MacPherson of Cluny. He is a fine spiritedboy, fond of his people and kind to them, and the best dancer of aHighland reel now living. I fear I must not add a third to Nimrod andBran, having little use for them except being pleasant companions. Asto labouring in their vocation, we have only one wolf which I knowof, kept in a friend's menagerie near me, and no wild deer. Walterhas some roebucks indeed, but Lochore is far off, and I begin tofeel myself distressed at running down these innocent and beautifulcreatures, perhaps because I cannot gallop so fast after them as todrown sense of the pain we are inflicting. And yet I suspect I am likethe sick fox; and if my strength and twenty years could come back, Iwould become again a copy of my namesake, remembered by the sobriquetof Walter _ill tae hauld_ (to hold, that is). 'But age has clawedme in its clutch, ' and there is no remedy for increasing disabilityexcept dying, which is an awkward score. 

There is some chance of my retiring from my official situation uponthe 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 betherefore _de trop_; and in these days of economy they will be betterpleased to let me retire on three parts of my salary than to keep me aClerk of Session on the whole; and small grief at our parting, as theold horse said to the broken cart. And yet, though I thought such aproposal when first made was like a Pisgah peep at Paradise, I cannothelp being a little afraid of changing the habits of a long life allof a sudden and for ever. You ladies have always your work-basket andstocking-knitting to wreak an hour of tediousness upon. The routine ofbusiness 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 dullerclerks, the routine of law proceedings, and law forms, are very unlikethe 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 begathered from other sources--that the jokes which the principal Clerksof Session have laughed at weekly for a century, and which would notmove a muscle of any other person's face, must be laid up to perishlike those of Sancho in the Sierra Morena--I don't above half likeforgetting 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 themby to be taken up and used as arguments of comfort, in case I do notslip my cable after all, which is highly possible. Lockhart and Sophiahave taken up their old residence at Chiefswood. They are very fond ofthe place; and I am glad also my grandchildren will be bred near theheather, 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 uponme 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 youranguish by any other consolation. Heaven knows that in the easiestfortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit:much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation; butin storms, like these, that shake the dwelling and make the hearttremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up ofthe whole spirit unto the guidance of faith. And surely it is a matterof joy, that your faith in Jesus has been preserved; the Comforterthat should relieve you is not far from you. But as you are aChristian, in the name of that Saviour, who was filled with bitternessand made drunken with wormwood, I conjure you to have recourse infrequent prayer to 'his God and your God'; the God of mercies, andfather of all comfort. Your poor father is, I hope, almost senselessof the calamity; the unconscious instrument of Divine Providence knowsit not, and your mother is in heaven. It is sweet to be roused froma frightful dream by the song of birds, and the gladsome rays ofthe morning. Ah, how infinitely more sweet to be awakened from theblackness and amazement of a sudden horror by the glories of Godmanifest and the hallelujahs of angels. 

As to what regards yourself, I approve altogether of your abandoningwhat you justly call vanities. I look upon you as a man called bysorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness, and a soul set apart and made peculiar to God. We cannot arrive at anyportion of heavenly bliss without in some measure imitating Christ;and they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the mostdifficult parts of His character, and, bowed down and crushed underfoot, cry in fullness of faith, 'Father, Thy will be done. '

I wish above measure to have you for a little while here--no visitantsshall blow on the nakedness of your feelings--you shall be quiet, andyour spirit may be healed. I see no possible objection, unless yourfather's helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary tohim. If this be not the case, I charge you write me that you willcome. 

I charge you, my dearest friend, not to dare to encourage gloom ordespair--you are a temporary sharer in human miseries, that you maybe an eternal partaker of the Divine nature. I charge you, if by anymeans 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 thanuncomfortable, if any but yourself had received from us the firstoffer of our tragedies, and of the volume of Wordsworth's poems. Atthe same time, we did not expect that you could with prudence andpropriety, advance such a sum as we should want at the time wespecified. In short, we both regard the publication of our tragediesas an evil. It is not impossible but that in happier times they may bebrought on the stage: and to throw away this chance for a mere trifle, would be to make the present moment act fraudulently and usuriouslytowards the future time. 

My tragedy employed and strained all my thoughts and faculties forsix or seven months; Wordsworth consumed far more time, and far morethought, and far more genius. We consider the publication of theman evil on any terms; but our thoughts were bent on a plan for theaccomplishment of which a certain sum of money was necessary, (thewhole) at that particular time, and in order to do this we resolved, although reluctantly, to part with our tragedies: that is, if wecould obtain thirty guineas for each, and at less than thirty guineasWordsworth will not part with the copyright of his volume of poems. Weshall offer the tragedies to no one, for we have determined to procurethe money some other way. If you choose the volume of poems, atthe price mentioned, to be paid at the time specified, i. E. Thirtyguineas, to be paid sometime in the last fortnight of July, you mayhave them; but remember, my dear fellow! I write to you now merely asa bookseller, and entreat you, in your answer, to consider yourselfonly; as to us, although money is necessary to our plan [that ofvisiting Germany], yet the plan is not necessary to our happiness; andif 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 entreatyou, again and again, in your answer, which must be immediate, consider yourself only. 

Wordsworth has been caballed against _so long and so loudly_, thathe has found it impossible to prevail on the tenant of the Allfoxdenestate to let him the house, after their first agreement is expired, so he must quit it at midsummer; whether we shall be able to procurehim 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 theshores would break forth into reproaches against us, if we did notstrain every nerve to keep their poet among them. Without joking, andin serious sadness, Poole and I cannot endure to think of losing him. 

At all events, come down, Cottle, as soon as you can, but beforemidsummer, and we will procure a horse easy as thy own soul, and wewill go on a roam to Lynton and Lynmouth, which, if thou comest inMay, will be in all their pride of woods and waterfalls, not to speakof its august cliffs, and the green ocean, and the vast valley ofstones, all which live disdainful of the seasons, or accept newhonours only from the winter's snow. At all events come down, andcease 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, whosehospitality and love I have abused; accept, however, my entreaties foryour forgiveness, and for your prayers. 

Conceive a poor miserable wretch, who for many years has beenattempting to beat off pain, by a constant recurrence to the vice thatreproduces it. Conceive a spirit in hell, employed in tracing out forothers the road to that heaven, from which his crimes exclude him! Inshort, conceive whatever is most wretched, helpless, and hopeless, andyou will form as tolerable a notion of my state, as it is possible fora good man to have. 

I used to think the text in St. James that 'he who offendeth in onepoint, offends in all, ' very harsh; but I now feel the awful, thetremendous truth of it. In the one crime of OPIUM, what crime haveI not made myself guilty of! Ingratitude to my Maker! and to mybenefactors--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 unqualifiednarration of my wretchedness, and of its guilty cause, may be madepublic, that, at least, some little good may be effected by thedireful 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 hadhad many with feelings like yours, 'accustomed to express themselveswarmly and (as far as the word is applicable to you), evenenthusiastically'. But alas! during the prime manhood of my intellectI had nothing but cold water thrown on my efforts. I speak not now ofmy systematic and most unprovoked maligners. On _them_ I have retortedonly by pity and by prayer. These may have, and doubtless have, joinedwith the frivolity of 'the reading public' in checking and almost inpreventing the sale of my works; and so far have done injury tomy _purse_. _Me_ they have not injured. But I have loved withenthusiastic self-oblivion those who have been so well pleased thatI should, year after year, flow with a hundred nameless rills into_their_ main stream, that they could find nothing but cold praise andeffective discouragement of every attempt of mine to roll onward in adistinct 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 theirjudgements 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 atonce nourishment and stimulus; and for sympathy _alone_ did my heartcrave. They knew, too, how long and faithfully I have acted on themaxim, never to admit the _faults_ of a work of genius to those whodenied or were incapable of feeling and understanding the _beauties_;not from wilful partiality, but as well knowing that in _saying_ truthI should, to such critics, convey falsehood. If, in one instance, inmy 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 fourteenyears successfully toiling like a second Ali to build up) had beenestablished; and secondly and chiefly, with the purpose and, I maysafely add, with the _effect_ of rescuing the necessary task fromMalignant Defamers, and in order to set forth the excellences and thetrifling proportion which the defects bore to the excellences. Butthis, my dear sir, is a mistake to which affectionate natures are tooliable, though I do not remember to have ever seen it noticed--themistaking those who are desirous and well pleased to be loved _by_you, for those who love you. Add, as a more general cause, the factthat 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 andbrief compliments, with the warm _regrets_, of the _Quarterly_? Afterall, however, I have now but one sorrow relative to the ill success ofmy literary toils (and toils they have been, _though not undelightfultoils_), and this arises wholly from the almost insurmountabledifficulties which the anxieties of to-day oppose to my completionof the great work, the form and materials of which it has been theemployment of the best and most genial hours of the last twenty yearsto mature and collect. 

If I could but have a tolerably numerous audience to my first, orfirst and second Lectures on the _History of Philosophy_, I shouldentertain a strong hope of success, because I know that these lectureswill be found by far the most interesting and _entertaining_ of anythat I have yet delivered, independent of the more permanent interestof rememberable instruction. Few and unimportant would the errors ofmen be, if they did but know, first, _what they themselves meant_;and, secondly, what the _words_ mean by which they attempt to conveytheir meaning, and I can conceive no subject so well fitted toexemplify the mode and the importance of these two points as theHistory 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, requiringonly to be put together from the loose papers and commonplace ormemorandum books, and needing no other change, whether of omission, addition, or correction, than the mere act of arranging, and theopportunity of seeing the whole collectively bring with them of course(1) Characteristics of Shakespeare's dramatic works, with a criticalreview of each play; together with a relative and comparative critiqueon the kind and degree of the merits and demerits of the dramaticworks of Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger. TheHistory of the English Drama; the accidental advantages it affordedto Shakespeare, without in the least detracting from the perfectoriginality or proper creation of the Shakespearian Drama; thecontradistinction of the latter from the Greek Drama, and its stillremaining _uniqueness_, with the causes of this, from the combinedinfluences of Shakespeare himself, as man, poet, philosopher, andfinally, by conjunction of all these, dramatic poet; and of the age, events, manners, and state of the English language. This work, withevery art of compression, amounts to three volumes of about fivehundred pages each. (2) Philosophical Analysis of the Genius and Worksof Dante, Spenser, Milton, Cervantes, and Calderon, with similar, butmore compressed criticisms on Chaucer, Ariosto, Donne, Rabelais, andothers, during the predominance of the Romantic Poetry. In one largevolume. These two works will, I flatter myself, form a complete codeof 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 consideredas a Tendency of the Human Mind to exhibit the Powers of the HumanReason, to discover by its own Strength the Origin and Laws of Man andthe World, from Pythagoras to Locke and Condillac. Two volumes. (4) Letters on the Old and New Testament, and on the Doctrineand Principles held in common by the Fathers and Founders of theReformation, addressed to a candidate for Holy Orders, includingadvice on the Plan and Subjects of Preaching, proper to a Minister ofthe Established Church. 

To the completion of these four works, I have literally nothing moreto do than to _transcribe_; but, as I before hinted, from so manyscraps and _sibylline_ leaves, including margins of books and blankpages, that, unfortunately, I must be my own scribe, and not done bymyself, they will be all but lost; or perhaps (as has been too oftenthe case already) furnish feathers for the caps of others; some forthis purpose, and some to plume the arrows of detraction, to be letfly against the luckless bird from whom they had been plucked ormoulted. 

In addition to these--of my GREAT WORK, to the preparation of whichmore than twenty years of my life have been devoted, and on whichmy hopes of extensive and permanent utility, of fame, in the noblestsense 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 myPoems, and these I can exclude in part only) are introductory andpreparative; and the result of which (if the premises be, as I, withthe most tranquil assurance, am convinced they are--insubvertible, the deductions legitimate, and the conclusions commensurate, and onlycommensurate, with both) must finally be a revolution of all that hasbeen called _philosophy_ or metaphysics in England and France, sincethe era of the commencing predominance of the mechanical system atthe restoration of our second Charles, and with this the presentfashionable views, not only of religion, morals, and politics buteven of the modern physics and physiology. You will not blame theearnestness of my expressions, nor the high importance which I attachto this work: for how, with less noble objects, and less faith intheir attainment, could I stand acquitted of folly, and abuse of time, talents, and learning in a labour of three-fourths of my intellectuallife? Of this work, something more than a volume has been dictatedby me, so as to exist fit for the press, to my friend and enlightenedpupil, Mr. Green; and more than as much again would have been evolvedand delivered to paper, but that, for the last six or eight months, I have been compelled to break off our weekly meeting, from thenecessity of writing (alas! alas! of attempting to write) forpurposes, and on the subjects, of the passing day. Of my poetic worksI would fain finish the _Christabel_! Alas! for the proud time when Iplanned, when I had present to my mind, the materials, as well asthe scheme, of the Hymns entitled _Spirit_, _Sun_, _Earth_, _Air_, _Water_, _Fire_ and _Man_; and the Epic Poem on what still appearsto me the one only fit subject remaining for an epic poem--Jerusalembesieged 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 weekpast--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 mydreams through any of Swedenborg's Hells _modérés_; but arose thismorning lighter and with a sense of _relief_. . . . 

I shall make you smile, as I did dear Mary Lamb, when I say that yousometimes mistake my position. As individual to individual, frommy childhood, I do not remember feeling myself either superior orinferior to any human being; except by an act of my own will in casesof real or imagined moral or intellectual superiority. In regard toworldly rank, from eight years old to nineteen, I was habituated, nay, naturalised, to look up to men circumstanced as you are, as mysuperiors--a large number of our governors, and almost _all_ of thosewhom we regarded as greater men still, and whom we saw most of, _viz. _our committee governors, were such--and as neither awake nor asleephave I any other feelings than what I had at Christ's Hospital, I distinctly remember that I felt a little flush of pride andconsequence--just like what we used to feel at school when the boyscame running to us--'Coleridge! here's your friends want you--they arequite _grand_, ' or 'It is quite a _lady_'--when I first heard who youwere, and laughed at myself for it with that pleasurable sensationthat, spite of my sufferings at that school, still accompanies anysudden reawakening of our school-boy feelings and notions. And oh, from sixteen to nineteen what hours of Paradise had Allen and I inescorting the Miss Evanses home on a Saturday, who were then at amilliner's whom we used to think, and who I believe really was, sucha nice lady;--and we used to carry thither, of a summer morning, thepillage of the flower gardens within six miles of town, with Sonnetor Love Rhyme wrapped round the nose-gay. To be feminine, kind, andgenteelly (what I should now call neatly) dressed, these were the onlythings to which my head, heart, or imagination had any polarity, andwhat 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, setyour heart at rest on that subject. It ought to be at rest. These wereyours, fairly bought, and fairly sold. You bought them on the chanceof their success, which no London bookseller would have done; and hadthey not been bought, they could not have been published at all. Nay, if you had not purchased _Joan of Arc_, the poem never would haveexisted, nor should I, in all probability, ever have obtained thatreputation which is the capital on which I subsist, nor that powerwhich enables me to support it. 

But this is not all. Do you suppose, Cottle, that I have forgottenthose true and most essential acts of friendship which you showed mewhen I stood most in need of them? Your house was my house when I hadno other. The very money with which I bought my wedding-ring, and paidmy marriage fees, was supplied by you. It was with your sisters I leftEdith during my six months' absence, and for the six months after myreturn it was from you that I received, week by week, the little onwhich we lived, till I was enabled to live by other means. It is notthe settling of a cash account that can cancel obligations like these. You are in the habit of preserving your letters, and if you werenot, I would entreat you to preserve _this_, that it might be seenhereafter. Sure I am, there never was a more generous or a kinderheart than yours; and you will believe me when I add, that there doesnot live that man upon earth, whom I remember with more gratitudeand more affection. My heart throbs and my eyes burn with theserecollections. Good night! my dear old friend and benefactor. 

TO JOHN MAY

_Waterloo_

Liège, 6 _Oct. _ 1815. Six p. M. 

My dear friend, I have a happy habit of making the best of all things; and being justat this time as uncomfortable as the dust and bustle, and all thedisagreeables of an inn in a large filthy manufacturing city can makeme, I have called for pen, ink, and paper, and am actually writing inthe bar, the door open to the yard opposite to this unwiped table, thedoors open to the public room, where two men are dining, and talkingFrench, and a woman servant at my elbow is lighting a fire for ourparty. Presently the folding-doors are to be shut, the ladies are todescend from their chambers, the bar will be kept appropriated to ourhouse, the male part of the company will get into good humour, dinnerwill be ready, and then I must lay aside the grey goose-quill. As apreliminary to these promised comforts, the servant is mopping thehearth, which is composed (like a tesselated pavement) of littlebricks about two inches long by half an inch wide, set within a broadblack stone frame. The fuel is of fire-balls, a mixture of pulverizedcoal 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 hardto do it; but I minute down short notes in my pencil-book with allpossible care, and hope, in the end, to lose nothing. . . . 

Flanders is a most interesting country. Bruges, the most striking cityI have ever seen, an old city in perfect preservation. It seems as ifnot a house had been built during the last two centuries, and not ahouse suffered to pass to decay. The poorest people seem to be welllodged, and there is a general air of sufficiency, cleanliness, industry, and comfort, which I have never seen in any other place. Thecities have grown worse as we advanced. At Namur we reached a dirtycity, situated in a romantic country; the Meuse there reminded me ofthe Thames from your delightful house, an island in size and shaperesembling that upon which I have often wished for a grove of poplars, coming just in the same position. From thence along the river to thisabominable place, the country is, for the greater part, as lovely ascan be imagined. . . . 

Our weather hitherto has been delightful. This was especiallyfortunate at Waterloo and at Ligny, where we had much ground to walkover. It would surprise you to see how soon nature has recovered fromthe injuries of war. The ground is ploughed and sown, and grain andflowers and seeds already growing over the field of battle, which isstill strewn with vestiges of the slaughter, caps, cartridges, boxes, hats, &c. We picked up some French cards and some bullets, and wepurchased a French pistol and two of the eagles which the infantrywear upon their caps. What I felt upon this ground, it would bedifficult to say; what I saw, and still more what I heard, there is notime at present for saying. In prose and in verse you shall some dayhear the whole. At Les Quatre Bras, I saw two graves, which probablythe dogs or the swine had opened. In the one were the ribs of a humanbody, projecting through the mould; in the other, the whole skeletonexposed. Some of our party told me of a third, in which the worms wereat work, but I shrunk from the sight. You will rejoice to hear thatthe English are as well spoken of for their deportment in peace as inwar. It is far otherwise with the Prussians. Concerning them there isbut 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 isthe inevitable consequence. This very day we passed a party on theirway towards France--some hundred or two. Two gentlemen and two ladiesof the country, in a carriage, had come up with them; and theseruffians would not allow them to pass, but compelled them to wait andfollow the slow pace of foot soldiers! This we ourselves saw. Next tothe 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, thathaving finished the first two volumes, he thought it advisable to seeif 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 hadpromised much for his second volume, but the hope of literary Europehad been again deceived, for this second volume, so emphaticallypromised, had not appeared. I dare say no person regrets this delayso much as M. Beauchamp, he having stolen the whole of his two firstvolumes, 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 hisown authorities (MSS. And all), and he has committed blunders whichprove, beyond all doubt, that he does not understand Portuguese. Ihave been much diverted by this fellow's impudence. 

The table is laid, and the knives and forks rattling a pleasant noteof preparation, as the woman waiter arranges them. 

God bless you! I have hurried through the sheet, and thus pleasantlybeguiled 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 thedisadvantage of speaking French ill, and understanding it by the earworse. Nevertheless, I speak it without remorse, make myself somehowor other understood, and get at what I want to know. Once more, Godbless you, my dear friend. 

To HENRY TAYLOR

_Anastasius Hope_

Keswick, 15 _July_, 1831. 

. . . Have you seen the strange book which Anastasius Hope leftfor publication, and which his representatives, in spite of alldissuasion, have published? His notion of immortality and heaven is, that at the consummation of all things he, and you, and I, and JohnMurray, and Nebuchadnezzar, and Lambert the fat man, and the livingskeleton, 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 ancestorsand all his posterity--yea, all men and all women, and all childrenthat have ever been or ever shall be, saints and sinners alike--areall to be put together, and made into one great celestial eternalhuman being. He does not seem to have known how nearly this approachesto Swedenborg's fancy. I do not like the scheme. I don't like thenotion of being mixed up with Hume, and Hunt, and Whittle Harvey, andPhilpotts, and Lord Althorpe, and the Huns, and the Hottentots, andthe Jews, and the Philistines, and the Scotch, and the Irish. Godforbid! I hope to be I myself; I, in an English heaven, with youyourself--you, and some others, without whom heaven would be no heavento 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 ofCowper to reply to your inquiries concerning poor Lamb sooner. Hisacquaintance with Coleridge began at Christ's Hospital; Lamb wassome two years, I think, his junior. Whether he was ever one of the_Grecians_ there, might be ascertained, I suppose, by inquiring. Myown impression is, that he was not. Coleridge introduced me to himin the winter of 1794-5, and to George Dyer also, from whom, if hismemory has not failed, you might probably learn more of Lamb's earlyhistory than from any other person. Lloyd, Wordsworth, and Hazlittbecame known to him through their connexion with Coleridge. 

When I saw the family (one evening only, and at that time), they werelodging somewhere near Lincoln's Inn, on the western side (I forgetthe street), and were evidently in uncomfortable circumstances. Thefather and mother were both living; and I have some dim recollectionof the latter's invalid appearance. The father's senses had failed himbefore that time. He published some poems in quarto. Lamb showed meonce an imperfect copy: the _Sparrow's Wedding_ was the title of thelongest piece, and this was the author's favourite; he liked, in hisdotage, to hear Charles read it. 

His most familiar friend, when I first saw him, was White, who heldsome office at Christ's Hospital, and continued intimate with him aslong as he lived. You know what Elia says of him. He and Lamb werejoint 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 blankverse with Lloyd (1798). Lamb, Lloyd, and White were inseparable in1798; the two latter at one time lodged together, though no two mencould be imagined more unlike each other. Lloyd had no drollery in hisnature; White seemed to have nothing else. You will easily understandhow Lamb could sympathize with both. 

Lloyd, who used to form sudden friendships, was all but a strangerto me, when unexpectedly he brought Lamb down to visit me at a littlevillage (Burton) near Christchurch, in Hampshire, where I was lodgingin a very humble cottage. This was in the summer of 1797, and then, orin the following year, my correspondence with Lamb began. I saw moreof him in 1802 than at any other time, for I was then six monthsresident 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 toLloyd 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 learnsomething of his boyhood. 

Cottle has a good likeness of Lamb, in chalk, taken by an artist namedRobert Hancock, about the year 1798. It looks older than Lamb was atthat time; but he was old-looking. 

Coleridge introduced him to Godwin, shortly after the first numberof the _Anti-Jacobin Magazine and Review_ was published, with acaricature of Gillray's, in which Coleridge and I were introduced withasses' heads, and Lloyd and Lamb as toad and frog. Lamb got warmedwith whatever was on the table, became disputatious, and said thingsto Godwin which made him quietly say, 'Pray, Mr. Lamb, are you toador frog?' Mrs. Coleridge will remember the scene, which was to hersufficiently uncomfortable. But the next morning S. T. C. Called onLamb, and found Godwin breakfasting with him, from which time theirintimacy began. 

His angry letter to me in the _Magazine_ arose out of a notion thatan 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 servethe book, and very well remember how the offence happened. I hadwritten that it wanted nothing to render it altogether delightful buta _saner_ religious feeling. _This_ would have been the proper word ifany other person had written the book. Feeling its extreme unfitnessas soon as it was written, I altered it immediately for the first wordwhich came into my head, intending to remodel the sentence when itshould come to me in the proof; and that proof never came. There canbe no objection to your printing all that passed upon the occasion, beginning with the passage in the _Quarterly Review_, and giving hisletter. 

I have heard Coleridge say that, in a fit of derangement, Lamb fanciedhimself to be young Norval. He told me this in relation to one of hispoems. 

If you will print my lines to him upon his _Album Verses_, I willsend you a corrected copy. You received his letters, I trust, whichCuthbert 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 whatI have told were of more value. But it is from such fragments ofrecollection, and such imperfect notices, that the materials forbiography 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 throughat Bristol. My life has been somewhat diversified of late. The sixweeks that finished last year and began this, your very humble servantspent very agreeably in a madhouse, at Hoxton. I am got somewhatrational now, and don't bite anyone. But mad I was! And many a vagarymy imagination played with me, enough to make a volume, if all weretold. My sonnets I have extended to the number of nine since I sawyou, and will some day communicate to you. I am beginning a poemin blank verse, which, if I finish, I publish. . . . Coleridge! it mayconvince you of my regards for you when I tell you my head ran on youin my madness, as much almost as on another person, who I am inclinedto 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 Ishall be so delighted as what I have heard yourself repeat. You cameto town, and I saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleedingwith recent wounds. Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointedhope. 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 pleasanton the sense. When I read in your little volume your nineteentheffusion, 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 smokyroom at the _Salutation and Cat_, where we have sat together throughthe winter nights, beguiling the cares of life with Poesy. When youleft 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 withye the path could I have trod of quiet life!' In your conversation youhad blended so many pleasant fancies that they cheated me of my grief. But in your absence the tide of melancholy rushed in again, and didits worst mischief by overwhelming my reason. I have recovered, butfeel a stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears ofthis 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. Acorrespondence, opening with you, has roused me a little from mylethargy, and made me conscious of existence. Indulge me in it: I willnot be very troublesome! At some future time I will amuse you withan account, as full as my memory will permit, of the strange turn myfrenzy 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. Dreamnot, Coleridge, of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness offancy till you have gone mad! All now seems to me vapid, comparativelyso. 

TO THE SAME

_The tragedy_

27 _Sept_. 1796. 

MY DEAREST FRIEND, White, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time mayhave informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen onour family. I will only give you the outlines: My poor dear, dearestsister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of our own mother. Iwas at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. Sheis at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be moved toan hospital. God has preserved to me my senses; I eat, and drink, andsleep, and have my judgement, I believe, very sound. My poor fatherwas 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 wehave no other friend; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, andable to do the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter aspossible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. With me 'theformer things are passed away', and I have something more to do thanto feel. 

God Almighty have us in His keeping!

Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of pastvanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publishmine (I give free leave) without name or initial, and never send me abook, I charge you. 

Your own judgement will convince you not to take any notice of thisyet to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have reasonand strength left to take care of mine. I charge you, don't think ofcoming to see me. Write. I will not see you if you come. God Almightylove 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 intoCumberland. With you and your sister I could gang anywhere; but I amafraid 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 Inever 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 ofyou mountaineers can have done with dead Nature. The lighted shops ofthe Strand and Fleet Street; the innumerable trades, tradesmen, andcustomers, coaches, waggons, playhouses; all the bustle and wickednessround about Covent Garden; the very women of the Town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles;--life awake, if you awake, at all hours ofthe night; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining uponhouses and pavements, the printshops, the old book-stalls, parsonscheapening books, coffee-houses, steams of soups from kitchens, thepantomimes--London itself a pantomime and a masquerade--all thesethings work themselves into my mind, and feed me, without a powerof satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me often intonight-walks about her crowded streets, and I often shed tears in themotley Strand from fullness of joy at so much life. All theseemotions must be strange to you; so are your rural emotions to me. Butconsider, what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lentgreat portions of my heart with usury to such scenes?

My attachments are all local, purely local. I have no passion (or havehad none since I was in love, and then it was the spurious engenderingof poetry and books) to groves and valleys. The rooms where I wasborn, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, abook-case which has followed me about like a faithful dog, (onlyexceeding him in knowledge, ) wherever I have moved, old chairs, old tables, streets, squares, where I have sunned myself, my oldschool, --these are my mistresses, --have I not enough, without yourmountains? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know thatthe 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 inmore venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry andtapers, where I might live with handsome visible objects. I considerthe clouds above me but as a roof beautifully painted, but unable tosatisfy the mind: and at last, like the pictures of the apartment ofa connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a pleasure. So fadingupon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of Nature, as they havebeen confinedly called; so ever fresh, and green, and warm are all theinventions of men, and assemblies of men in this great city. I shouldcertainly have laughed with dear Joanna. 

Give my kindest love, and my sister's, to D. And yourself; and a kissfrom 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 strongdesire seized me of visiting remote regions. My first impulse was togo and see Paris. It was a trivial objection to my aspiring mind, thatI did not understand a word of the language, since I certainly intendsome time in my life to see Paris, and equally certainly intend neverto 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) beforeI could have set out. I believe Stoddart promising to go with meanother year prevented that plan. My next scheme (for to my restless, ambitious mind London was become a bed of thorns) was to visit thefar-famed peak in Derbyshire, where the Devil sits, they say, withoutbreeches. _This_ my purer mind rejected as indelicate. And my finalresolve was a tour to the Lakes. I set out with Mary to Keswick, without giving Coleridge any notice, for my time, being precious, didnot 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. Hedwells upon a small hill by the side of Keswick, in a comfortablehouse, quite enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains: greatfloundering bears and monsters they seemed, all couchant and asleep. We got in in the evening, travelling in a post-chaise from Penrith, inthe midst of a gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountainsinto 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 nomore fine sunsets); and we entered Coleridge's comfortable study justin the dusk, when the mountains were all dark with clouds upon theirheads. Such an impression I never received from objects of sightbefore, nor do I suppose I can ever again. Glorious creatures, fineold fellows, Skiddaw, &c. I shall never forget ye, how ye lay aboutthat night, like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed for thenight, but promising that ye were to be seen in the morning. Coleridgehad got a blazing fire in his study; which is a large, antique, ill-shaped room, with an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, bigenough for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an Aeolian harp, andan old sofa, half bed, &c. And all looking out upon the last fadingview of Skiddaw, and his broad-breasted brethren: what a night! Herewe stayed three full weeks, in which time I visited Wordsworth'scottage, where we stayed a day or two with the Clarksons (good people, and most hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day and night), andsaw Lloyd. The Wordsworths were gone to Calais. They have since beenin London, and passed much time with us: he is now gone into Yorkshireto 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, overthe 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 satisfiedmyself that there is such a thing as that which tourists call_romantic_, which I very much suspected before: they make such aspluttering about it, and toss their splendid epithets around them, till they give as dim a light as at four o'clock next morning thelamps do after an illumination. Mary was excessively tired when shegot about half-way up Skiddaw, but we came to a cold rill (than whichnothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold stones), and withthe reinforcement of a draught of cold water, she surmounted it mostmanfully. Oh, its fine black head, and the bleak air atop of it, witha prospect of mountains all about and about, making you giddy; andthen Scotland afar off, and the border countries so famous in song andballad! 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 threeweeks; I was a month out), and you cannot conceive the degradationI felt at first, from being accustomed to wander free as air amongmountains, and bathe in rivers without being controlled by any one, tocome home and _work_. I felt very _little_. I had been dreaming I wasa very great man. But that is going off, and I find I shall conformin 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 tolive in for good and all than amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back tothose great places where I wandered about, participating in theirgreatness. After all, I could not _live_ in Skiddaw. I could spenda year, two, three years among them, but I must have a prospect ofseeing Fleet Street at the end of that time, or I should mope and pineaway, I know. Still, Skiddaw is a fine creature. 

My habits are changing, I think, i. E. From drunk to sober. WhetherI shall be happier or not remains to be proved. I shall certainly bemore happy in a morning; but whether I shall not sacrifice thefat, and the marrow, and the kidneys, i. E. The night, glorious, care-drowning night, that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into ourmortifications, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to brightand brilliant!--O Manning, if I should have formed a diabolicalresolution, by the time you come to England, of not admitting anyspirituous liquors into my house, will you be my guest on suchshame-worthy terms? Is life, with such limitations, worth trying? Thetruth is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly harpies aboutmy 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 andchildren into the country. Fell, my other drunken companion (that hasbeen: _nam hic caestus artemque repono_), is turned editor of a NavalChronicle. Godwin continues a steady friend, though the same facilitydoes not remain of visiting him often. X. Has detached Marshall fromhis house; Marshall, the man who went to sleep when the _AncientMariner_ was reading; the old, steady, unalterable friend of theProfessor. Holcraft is not yet come to town. I expect to see him, andwill deliver your message. Things come crowding in to say, and noroom for 'em. Some things are too little to be told, i. E. To have apreference; 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 sameacquiescent being. Farewell. Write again quickly, for I shall notlike 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'tthink any more of 'Independent Tartary'. What are you to do among suchEthiopians? Is there no _lineal descendant_ of Prester John? Is thechair empty? Is the sword unswayed?--depend upon it they'll nevermake you their king, as long as any branch of that great stockis remaining. I tremble for your Christianity. . . . Read Sir JohnMandeville's Travels to cure you, or come over to England. There isa Tartar-man now exhibiting at Exeter Change. Come and talk with him, and hear what he says first. Indeed, he is no very favourable specimenof 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 yourselfevery night, after you have said your prayers, the words, IndependentTartary, Independent Tartary, two or three times, and associate withthem the _idea_ of _oblivion_ ('tis Hartley's method with obstinatememories), or say, Independent, Independent, have I not already gotan _independence_? That was a clever way of the old Puritans, pun-divinity. My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be tobury 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 _coolmalignity_ of mustard and vinegar! I am afraid 'tis the reading ofChaucer has misled you; his foolish stories about Cambuscan, and thering, and the horse of brass. Believe me, there are no such things, 'tis all the poet's _invention_; but if there were such darling thingsas 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 withbirds! The Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchy set. You'llbe sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Pray _try_ and cureyourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas none of mythought _originally_). Shave yourself oftener. Eat no saffron, forsaffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like yellow. Pray, to avoidthe fiend. Eat nothing that gives the heart-burn. _Shave the upper__lip_. Go about like an European. Read no books of voyages (they arenothing but lies), only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy_under_. Above all, don't go to any sights of _wild beasts. Thathas been your ruin_. Accustom yourself to write familiar letters, oncommon subjects, to your friends in England, such as are of a moderateunderstanding. And think about common things more. . . . I supped lastnight with Rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who pleaseshimself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite in the O. Language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakespeare he liked, becausehe was so _much of the gentleman_. Rickman is a man 'absolute in allnumbers'. I think I may one day bring you acquainted, if you do notgo to Tartary first; for you'll never come back. Have a care, my dearfriend, of Anthropophagi! their stomachs are always craving. 'Tisterrible to be weighed out at five pence a-pound. To sit at table (thereverse of fishes in Holland), not as a guest, but as a meat. 

God bless you: do come to England. Air and exercise may do greatthings. 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. Mysister should more properly have done it, but she having failed, Iconsider myself answerable for her debts. I am now trying to do itin the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems moreready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia, cardemoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses andfriendly 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'sdouble-animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united inthe system of its first creation, than I sometimes do to be but fora 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 neverso. I cannot walk home from office but some officious friend offershis unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. All the morning I ampestered. I could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, orcompare sum with sum, and write 'paid' against this, and 'unpaid'against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind 'somedarling 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'ssinging, or a gleam of Fanny Kelly's divine plain face. The twooperations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, asthe sun's two motions (earth's, I mean), or, as I sometimes turnround till I am giddy, in my back parlour, while my sister is walkinglongitudinally in the front; or, as the shoulder of veal twists roundwith the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. But there area set of amateurs of the Belles Lettres--the gay science--who come tome as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of BritishInstitutions, Lalla Rookhs, &c. --what Coleridge said at the lecturelast night--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possibleuse reading can be to them, but to talk of, might as well have beenAnte-Cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an Egyptianhieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they shouldfind it. These pests worrit me at business, and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time atthe fire, puzzling my paragraphs if I take a newspaper, cramming inbetween my own free thoughts and a column of figures, which had cometo an amicable compromise but for them. Their noise ended, one ofthem, as I said, accompanies me home, lest I should be solitary fora 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 burythem in the agreeable abstraction of mastication; knock at the door, in comes Mr. ----, or Mr. ----, or Demi-gorgon, or my brother, orsomebody, to prevent my eating alone--a process absolutelynecessary to my poor wretched digestion. O, the pleasure of eatingalone!--eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. But in theycome, and make it absolutely necessary that I should open a bottle oforange--for my meat turns into stone when anyone dines with me, if Ihave not wine. Wine can mollify stones; then _that_ wine turns intoacidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters--(Godbless 'em! I love some of 'em dearly), and with the hatred, a stillgreater aversion to their going away. Bad is the dead sea they bringupon me, choking and deadening, but worse is the deader dry sand theyleave me on, if they go before bed-time. Come never, I would say tothese spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go! The fact is, this interruption does not happen very often; but every time it comesby surprise, that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all itsdreary stifling consequences, follows. Evening company I should alwayslike had I any mornings, but I am saturated with human faces (_divine_forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in aweek would be as much as I should covet to be in company, but Iassure you that is a wonderful week in which I can get two, or one, tomyself. I am never C. L. , but always C. L. & Co. He who thought itnot good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigiousmonstrosity of being never by myself! I forget bed-time, but eventhere these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. Once a week, generally some singular evening that, being alone, I go to bed at thehour I ought always to be a-bed; just close to my bed-room window isthe club-room of a public-house, where a set of singers, I take themto 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 theplay-houses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by Bishop, orsome cheap composer, arranged for choruses, that is, to be sung all inchorus. 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 furybeing quench'd'--the howl I mean--a burden succeeds of shouts andclapping, and knocking of the table. At length overtasked nature dropsunder it, and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweetsilent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows atcockcrow. 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 wayof 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. Notthat I have any animosity against the good creatures that are soanxious to drive away the harpy solitude from me. I like 'em, andcards, and a cheerful glass; but I mean merely to give you an ideabetween office confinement and after-office society, how little timeI can call my own. I mean only to draw a picture, not to make aninference. I would not that I know of have it otherwise. I only wishsometimes I could exchange some of my faces and voices for the facesand voices which a late visitation brought most welcome, and carriedaway, leaving regret, but more pleasure, even a kind of gratitude, atbeing so often favoured with that kind northern visitation. My Londonfaces and noises don't hear me--I mean no disrespect, or I shouldexplain myself, that instead of their return 220 times a year, andthe return of W. W. , &c. , seven times in 104 weeks, some more equaldistribution might be found. I have scarce room to put in Mary's kindlove, and my poor name . . . --goes on lecturing. . . . I mean to hear someof the course, but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever thelecturer may be. If _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't thinkwhy you are brought together to hear a man read his works, which youcould read so much better at leisure yourself; if delivered extempore, I am always in pain, lest the gift of utterance should suddenly failthe orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honourof 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 thelakes once more, which never can be realised. Between us there is agreat gulf, not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, Ihope, as there seemed to be between me and that gentleman concernedin the Stamp Office, that I so strangely recoiled from at Haydon's. Ithink I had an instinct that he was the head of an office. I hate allsuch people--accountants' deputy accountants. The dear abstract notionof the East India Company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, ratherpoetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of suchbeasts, I loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-herof 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 whichheads of offices, those true liberty-haters, can go. They are thetyrants; not Ferdinand, nor Nero. By a decree passed this week, theyhave abridged us of the immemorially-observed custom of going at oneo'clock of a Saturday, the little shadow of a holiday left us. DearW. 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 sowell: they are such interesting creatures at a certain age. What apity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! Youhad all some of the crackling and brain sauce. Did you remember to rubit with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis?Did the eyes come away kindly with no Oedipean avulsion? Was thecrackling the colour of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no complement ofboiled 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 canform the remotest guess what part Owen could play in the business. Inever knew him give anything away in my life. He would not begin withstrangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me; but at theunlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went roundto Highgate. To confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those thingswhich I could never think of sending away. Teal, widgeon, snipes, barn-door fowls, ducks, geese--your tame villatic things--Welshmutton, collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your pottedchar, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early grapes, muscadines, I impartas freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self extended, but pardon me if I stop somewhere. Where the fine feeling ofbenevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there myfriends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, andI myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, I should think it anaffront, an undervaluing done to Nature who bestowed such a boon uponme, if in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. One of thebitterest pangs of remorse I ever felt was when a child--when my kindold aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpennywhole plum-cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough I met avenerable old man, not a mendicant, but thereabouts; a look-beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught charity Igave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of anEvangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossedme; the sum it was to her; the pleasure she had a right to expectthat I--not the old impostor--should take in eating her cake; theingratitude by which, under the colour of a Christian virtue, I hadfrustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it toheart so grievously, that I think I never suffered the like; and I wasright. It was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and it proved a lessonto me ever after. The cake has long been masticated, consigned tothe dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. But whenProvidence, who is better to us than all our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temptation and my fall, I shall endeavour to acttowards 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 consolatoryminutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live acentury in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. They areTurks and Tartars when they have poor authors at their beck. Hithertoyou have been at arm's length from them. Come not within their grasp. I have known many authors want for bread, some repining, othersenvying the blessed security of a counting-house, all agreeing theyhad rather have been tailors, weavers--what not? rather than thethings they were. I have known some starved, some to go mad, one dearfriend literally dying in a workhouse. You know not what a rapacious, dishonest set these booksellers are. Ask even Southey, who (a singlecase almost) has made a fortune by book-drudgery, what he has foundthem. Oh, you know not, may you never know, the miseries of subsistingby authorship! 'Tis a pretty appendage to a situation like yours ormine; but a slavery, worse than all slavery, to be a bookseller'sdependant, to drudge your brains for pots of ale, and breasts ofmutton, _to change your_ FREE THOUGHTS _and_ VOLUNTARY NUMBERS _forungracious_ TASK-WORK. Those fellows hate _us_. The reason I take tobe, that contrary to other trades, in which the master gets all thecredit (a jeweller or silversmith for instance, ) and the journeyman, who really does the fine work, is in the background: in _our_ workthe world gives all the credit to us, whom _they_ consider as _their_journeymen, and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, and oppressus, and would wring the blood of us out, to put another sixpence intheir mechanic pouches!. . . 

Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. Trust not to thepublic; you may hang, starve, drown yourself, for anything that worthy_personage_ cares. I bless every star, that Providence, not seeinggood to make me independent, has seen it next good to settle me uponthe stable foundation of Leadenhall. Sit down, good B. B. , in thebanking-office: what! is there not from six to eleven p. M. Six daysin the week, and is there not all Sunday? Fie, what a superfluityof 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 unluckywight who must draw upon it for daily sustenance! Henceforth I retractall my fond complaints of mercantile employment; look upon them aslover's quarrels. I was but half in earnest. Welcome dead timberof the desk, that makes me live. A little grumbling is a wholesomemedicine for the spleen, but in my inner heart do I approve andembrace this our close, but unharassing way of life. I am quiteserious. If you can send me Fox, I will not keep it _six weeks_, andwill return it, with warm thanks to yourself and friend, without blotor 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 insurmountableday-mare, --'a whoreson lethargy', Falstaff calls it, --an indispositionto do anything, or to be anything, --a total deadness and distaste, --asuspension of vitality, --an indifference to locality, --a numb, soporifical, good-for-nothingness, --an ossification all over, --anoyster-like insensibility to the passing events, --a mind-stupor, --abrawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience? Did youever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit towater-gruel processes? This has been for many weeks my lot, and myexcuse; my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking itis 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 thananother; 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 whenthe actors are off it; a cipher, an O! I acknowledge life at all, onlyby an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic painin the chest. I am weary of the world; life is weary of me. My day isgone 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; nothinginterests me. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Thurtell is just now coming outupon the New Drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleevesto do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan ora moral reflection. If you told me the world will be at an endto-morrow, I should just say, 'Will it?' I have not volition enoughleft to dot my _i's_, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes areset in my head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation inMoorflelds, and they did not say when they'd come back again; my skullis a Grub Street attic to let--not so much as a joint stool left init; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about alittle, 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; painis life--the sharper, the more evidence of life; but this apathy, thisdeath! Did you ever have an obstinate cold, --a six or seven weeks'unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, andevery thing? Yet do I try all I can to cure it; I try wine, andspirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they allonly 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 findany visible amendment!. . . 

It is just fifteen minutes after twelve; Thurtell is by this timea good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps; Ketch isbargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; the Jew demurs at first atthree half-crowns, but, on consideration that he may get somewhat byshowing '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 ofthose letters 'in which I live, or have no life at all'. What isbecome of you? Are you married, hearing that I was dead (for so it hasbeen reported)? Or are you gone into a nunnery? Or are you fallen inlove with some of the amorous heroes of Boccaccio? Which of them isit? 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, thelover of Isabella, whom her three brethren hated (as your brother doesme), who was a merchant's clerk? Or with Federigo Alberigi, an honestgentleman, who ran through his fortune, and won his mistress bycooking a fair falcon for her dinner, though it was the only means hehad left of getting a dinner for himself? This last is the man; andI am the more persuaded of it, because I think I won your good likingmyself by giving you an entertainment--of sausages, when I had nomoney to buy them with. Nay now, never deny it! Did I not ask yourconsent that very night after, and did you not give it? Well, I shouldbe confoundedly jealous of those fine gallants, if I did not know thata 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 womenwho are so delicious. I almost wish I had lived in those times, andhad 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 beenheroes and angels, and the women nothing at all. Isn't there sometruth in that? Talking of departed loves, I met my old flame the otherday 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 twomonths 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 hadsent 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 somefresh-looking, rural swain; so that you cannot think how surprisedand pleased I was to find them all done. I liked your note as well orbetter than the extracts; it is just such a note as such a nice rogueas you ought to write after the _provocation_ you had received. Iwould not give a pin for a girl 'whose cheeks never tingle', nor formyself if I could not make them tingle sometimes. Now, though I amalways 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 aday), 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 todinner on a boiled scrag-end of mutton, and hot potatoes. You pleasemy fancy more then than when I think of you in--no, you would neverforgive me if I were to finish the sentence. Now I think of it, whatdo you mean to be dressed in when we are married? But it does not muchmatter! I wish you would let your hair grow; though perhaps nothingwill be better than 'the same air and look with which at first myheart was took'. But now to business. I mean soon to call upon yourbrother _in form_, namely, as soon as I get quite well, which I hopeto do in about another _fortnight_; and then I hope you will come upby the coach as fast as the horses can carry you, for I long mightilyto be in your ladyship's presence--to vindicate my character. I thinkyou had better sell the small house, I mean that at 4. 10, and I willborrow £100. So that we shall set off merrily in spite of all theprudence 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 willatone for or overcome an original distaste. It will only increase fromintimacy; and if you are to live separate, it is better not to cometogether. There is no use in dragging a chain through life, unlessit binds one to the object we love. Choose a mistress from among yourequals. You will be able to understand her character better, and shewill be more likely to understand yours. Those in an inferior stationto yourself will doubt your good intentions, and misapprehend yourplainest expressions. All that you swear is to them a riddle ordownright nonsense. You cannot by any possibility translate yourthoughts into their dialect. They will be ignorant of the meaning ofhalf you say, and laugh at the rest. As mistresses, they will have nosympathy with you; and as wives, you can have none with them. 

Women care nothing about poets, or philosophers, or politicians. Theygo by a man's looks and manner. Richardson calls them 'an eye-judgingsex'; 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 pointabout your head or your heart, you will repent it too late. . . . 

If I were to name one pursuit rather than another, I should wish youto be a good painter, if such a thing could be hoped. I have failed inthis myself, and should wish you to be able to do what I have not--topaint like Claude, or Rembrandt, or Guido, or Vandyke, if it werepossible. Artists, I think, who have succeeded in their chief object, live to be old, and are agreeable old men. Their minds keep aliveto the last. Cosway's spirits never flagged till after ninety; andNollekens, though nearly blind, passed all his mornings in givingdirections about some group or bust in his workshop. You have seen Mr. Northcote, that delightful specimen of the last age. With what avidityhe takes up his pencil, or lays it down again to talk of numberlessthings! His eye has not lost its lustre, nor 'paled its ineffectualfire'. His body is but a shadow: he himself is a pure spirit. There isa kind of immortality about this sort of ideal and visionary existencethat dallies with Fate and baffles the grim monster, Death. If Ithought you could make as clever an artist, and arrive at such anagreeable old age as Mr. Northcote, I should declare at once for yourdevoting yourself to this enchanting profession; and in that reliance, should feel less regret at some of my own disappointments, and littleanxiety 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 wasbetter 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'swaiting-maid could ever have doubted this, though I alone said it tenyears ago. It might be impolicy then and now for what I know, for theworld stick to an opinion in appearance long after they have given itup in reality. I should like to know whether the preface is thoughtimpolitic by some one who agrees with me in the main point, or by someone who differs with me and makes this excuse not to have his opinioncontradicted? In Paris (_jubes regina renovare dolorem_) the prefacewas thought a masterpiece, the best and only possible defence ofBuonaparte, and quite new _there_! It would be an impertinence in meto write a Life of Buonaparte after Sir W. Without some such object asthat expressed in the preface. After all, I do not care a _damn_ aboutthe preface. It will get me on four pages somewhere else. Shall Iretract my opinion altogether, and forswear my own book? Rayner isright to cry out: I think I have tipped him fair and foul copy, a leanrabbit and a fat one. The remainder of vol. Ii will be ready to go onwith, but not the beginning of the third. The appendixes had betterbe at the end of the second vol. Pray get them if you can: you have mySieyes, have you not? One of them is there. I have been nearly in theother world. My regret was 'to die and leave the world "rough" copy'. Otherwise I had thought of an epitaph and a good end. Hic jacentreliquiae mortales Gulielmi Hazlitt, auctoris non intelligibilis:natus Maidstoniae in comi [ta] tu Cantiae, Apr. 10, 1778. ObiitWinterslowe, Dec. , 1827. I think of writing an epistle to C. Lamb, Esq. , to say that I have passed near the shadowy world, and have hadnew impressions of the vanity of this, with hopes of a better. Don'tyou think this would be good policy? Don't mention it to the severeauthor of the '_Press_', a poem, but me thinks the idea _arridet_Hone. He would give sixpence to see me floating, upon a pair ofborrowed wings, half way between heaven and earth, and edifyingthe good people at my departure, whom I shall only scandalize byremaining. At present my study and contemplation is the leg of astewed fowl. I have behaved like a saint, and been obedient to orders. 

_Non fit pugil_, &c. , I got a violent spasm by walking fifteen milesin the mud, and getting into a coach with an old lady who would havethe window open. Delicacy, moderation, complaisance, the _suaviter inmodo_, whisper it about, my dear Clarke, these are my faults and havebeen 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; andthis is the principal cause; for, besides what I have been told aboutletters in Italy, I remember his telling me upon one occasion that, inhis sick moments, he never wished to receive another letter, or everto see another face, however friendly. But still I should have writtento you, had I not been almost at death's door myself. You will imaginehow ill I have been, when you hear that I have but just begun writingagain for the _Examiner_ and _Indicator_, after an interval ofseveral months, during which my flesh wasted from me with sicknessand melancholy. Judge how often I thought of Keats, and with whatfeelings. Mr. Brown tells me he is comparatively calm now, or ratherquite so. If he can bear to hear of us, pray tell him; but he knows italready, and can put it in better language than any man. I hear thathe does not like to be told that he may get better; nor is it tobe wondered at, considering his firm persuasion that he shall notsurvive. He can only regard it as a puerile thing, and an insinuationthat he shall die. But if his persuasion should happen to be no longerso strong, or if he can now put up with attempts to console him, ofwhat I have said a thousand times, and what I still (upon my honour)think always, that I have seen too many instances of recovery fromapparently desperate cases of consumption not to be in hope to thevery last. If he still cannot bear this, tell him--tell that greatpoet and noble-hearted man--that we shall all bear his memory in themost precious part of our hearts, and that the world shall bow theirheads to it, as our loves do. Or if this, again, will trouble hisspirit, tell him that we shall never cease to remember and love him;and that, Christian or infidel, the most sceptical of us has faithenough in the high things that nature puts into our heads, to thinkall who are of one accord in mind or heart are journeying to one andthe same place, and shall unite somewhere or other again, face toface, mutually conscious, mutually delighted. Tell him he is onlybefore us on the road, as he is in everything else; or, whether youtell him the latter or no, tell him the former, and add that we shallnever forget that he was so, and that we are coming after him. Thetears are again in my eyes, and I must not afford to shed them. Thenext letter I write shall be more to yourself, and more refreshing toyour spirits, which we are very sensible must have been greatly taxed. But whether your friend dies or not, it will not be among the leastlofty of your recollections by-and-by that you helped to smooth thesick-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 newsthey bring. 

 Surgit _amici_ aliquid, quod in ipsis _nubibus_ _ardet_. 

But I confess your latter ones have greatly relieved me on the subjectyou 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 tobe with his father, --sharp in his very limbs. We have secured a ship, the _David Walter_, which will call for us here, and sets sailfrom London in a fortnight. I have written by to-day's post withintelligence of it to Mrs. Fletcher, enclosing her the letter, andgiving her the option of going on board in London, or here. I need notsay we shall attend to her comforts in every respect. The same postalso carries a letter to Mr. Gisborne, stating your wishes, andwonders respecting _Adonais_. If it is not published before I leaveEngland, I will publish my criticism upon the Pisa copy, --a criticismwhich I think you will like. I take the opportunity of showing thepublic why Gifford's review spoke so bitterly of _Prometheus_, andwhy it pretends that the most metaphysical passage of your mostmetaphysical poem is a specimen of the clearness of your generalstyle. The wretched priest-like cunning and undertoned malignity ofthat review of _Prometheus_ is indeed a homage paid to qualities whichcan so provoke it. The _Quarterly_ pretends now, that it never meddleswith you personally, --of course it never did! For this, _Blackwood_cries out upon it, contrasting its behaviour in those delicate matterswith its own! This is better and better, and the public seem to thinkso; for these things, depend upon it, are getting better understoodevery day, and shall be better and better understood every day tocome. One circumstance which helps to reconcile me to having beendetained on this coast, is the opportunity it has given me to makeyour works speak for themselves wherever I could; and you are in highlustre, I assure you, with the most intelligent circles in Plymouth, [Greek: astaer epsos]. I have, indeed, been astonished to findhow well prepared people of intelligence are to fall in with youraspirations, and despise the mistakes and rascally instincts of yourcalumniators. This place, for instance, abounds in _schoolmasters_, who appear, to a man, to be liberal to an extreme and esotericaldegree. And such, there is reason to believe, is the case over thegreater part of the kingdom, greatly, no doubt, owing to politicalcauses. Think of the consequences of this with the rising generation. I delight in _Adonais_. It is the most Delphic poetry I have seena long while; full of those embodyings of the most subtle and airyimaginations, --those arrestings and explanations of the most shadowyyearnings of our being--which are the most difficult of all thingsto put into words, and the most delightful when put. I do not knowwhether you are aware how fond I am of your song on the Skylark; butyou 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 twentiethpart of what I ought to have done to make your writings properlyappreciated. But I intended to do more every day, and now that I amcoming to you, I shall be _totus_ in you and yours! For all good, andhealthy, and industrious things, I will do such wonders, that I shallbegin to believe I make some remote approach to something like areturn for your kindness. Yet how can that be? At all events, I hopewe shall all be the better for one another's society. Marianne, poordear girl, is still very ailing and weak, but stronger upon the whole, she thinks, than when she first left London, and quite prepared andhappy to set off on her spring voyage. She sends you part of her bestlove. I told her I supposed I must answer Marina's letter for her, butshe 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 letterfor many months. Ask Marina if she will be charitable, and write oneto me. I will undertake to answer it with one double as long. But whatam I talking about, when the captain speaks of sailing in a fortnight?I was led astray by her delightful letter to Marianne about walks, andduets, and violets, and ladies like violets. Am I indeed to see andbe in the midst of all these beautiful things, ladies like lilies notexcepted? And do the men in Italy really leave ladies to walk in thosevery amiable dry ditches by themselves? Oh! for a few strides, likethose 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 hasbefallen us here will have been broken to you by report, otherwise Ishall come upon you with a most painful abruptness; but Shelley, mydivine-minded friend, your friend, the friend of the universe, he hasperished at sea. He was in a boat with his friend Captain Williams, going from Leghorn to Lerici, when a storm arose, and it is supposedthe boat must have foundered. It was on the 8th instant, about fouror five in the evening, they guess. A fisherman says he saw the boata few minutes before it went down: he looked again and it was gone. Hesaw the boy they had with them aloft furling one of the sails. We hopehis story is true, as their passage from life to death will then havebeen short; and what adds to the hope is, that in S's pocket (for thebodies were both thrown on shore some days afterwards, --conceive ourhorrible certainty, after trying all we could to hope!) a copy ofKeats's last volume, which he had borrowed of me to read on hispassage, was found _open_ and doubled back as if it had been thrustin, in the hurry of a surprise. God bless him! I cannot help thinkingof him as if he were alive as much as ever, so unearthly he alwaysappeared to me, and so seraphical a thing of the elements; and thisis what all his friends say. But what we all feel, your own heart willtell you. . . . 

It has been often feared that Shelley and Captain Williams would meetwith some accident, they were so hazardous; but when they set out onthe 8th, in the morning it was fine. Our dear friend was passionatelyfond of the sea, and has been heard to say he should like it to be hisdeath-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 madeif 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 getconfused on the road. Do you know your letter brought the tears intomy eyes? I hardly know why, unless it was that I saw Procter had beenpouring his kind heart into yours, and you said:--'We must have himhere instead of the coffee-house, and plant him by the fire, and warmhim like a stray bird till he sings. ' But indeed a kind word affectsme where many a hard thump does not. Nevertheless, you must not tellthis, except to the very masculine or feminine; though if you do nottake it as a compliment to yourself, --I mean the confession ofmy weakness, --why, you are not Procter's wife, nor Mrs. Montagu'sdaughter, nor she who wrote the letter this morning to a poor batteredauthor. 

PS. I eat any plain joint, of the plainer order, beef or mutton:--andyou 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 legalexpenses incurred by the _Examiner_, with the _whole_ of them. Thatportion only amounted to £750, the whole being £1500. Of this £750 outof my pocket (which was quite enough), £250 went to pay forexpenses (counsel, &c. ) attendant on the _failure_ of two Governmentprosecutions, --one for saying (_totidem verbis_) that 'of all monarchssince the Revolution, the successor of George III would have thefinest 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 tothe other day in the _Daily News_. (Think, now, this moment, of beingprosecuted for _That_!) The £500 fine and two years' imprisonment wasfor ludicrously contrasting the _Morning Post's_ picture of the Regentas an 'Adonis', &c. With the old and real fat state of the case, andfor adding that his Royal Highness had lived for 'upwards of halfa century without doing anything to deserve the admiration of hiscontemporaries or the gratitude of posterity'. Words to that effect, and I believe better, --but I do not quite remember them. They might beeasily ascertained by reference to Peel's Coffee-house, and the wordsof the _Post_, too. 

Besides the fine, my imprisonment cost me several hundred pounds (Ican't exactly say how many) in monstrous _douceurs_ to the gaolerfor _liberty to walk in the garden_, for help towards getting mepermission to fit up rooms in the sick hospital, and for fittingup said rooms, or rather converting them from sorts ofwashhouses, hitherto uninhabited and unfloored, into comfortableapartments, --which I did too expensively, --at least as far as paperingthe sitting-room with a trellis of roses went, and having my ceilingpainted to imitate an out-of-door sky. No notice, however, couldbe taken, I suppose, of any of _this_ portion of the expenses, governments having nothing to do with the secret corruptions ofgaolers or the pastorals of incarcerated poets: otherwise theprosecutions cost me altogether a good bit beyond a thousand pounds. 

But perhaps it might be mentioned that I went to prison from all buta sick bed, having been just ordered by the physician _to go to theseaside_, and _ride_ for the benefit of my health (pleasing dramaticcontrast to the _verdict_!). I also declined, as I told you, to tryavoiding the imprisonment by the help of Perry's offer of the famoussecret '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, ofcourse, in the guarded, though obvious manner in which such offers areconveyed), to drop the prosecution, provided we would agree todrop all future hostile mention of the Regent. But of this, too, governments could not be expected to take notice--perhaps would regardit as an addition to the offence. This, however, I must add, that thewhole attack on the Regent was owing, not merely to the nonsense ofthe _Post_, but to his violation of those promises of conceding theCatholic claims, to which his princely word stood pledged. The subjectof the article was the '_Dinner on St. Patrick's day_'. All the Whigworld was indignant at that violation; so were the Irish, of course, _vehemently_; and it was on the spur of this publicly indignantmovement that I wrote what I did, --as angrily and as much in earnestin 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 calledanti-monarchical. I didn't know Cobbett, or Henry Hunt, or anydemagogue, _even by sight_, except Sir Francis Burdett, and himby sight alone. Nor did I ever see, or speak a word with them, afterwards. I knew nothing, in fact, of politics themselves, except insome of those large and, as it appeared to me, obvious phases, which, at all events, _have since become obvious to most people_, and infighting for which (if a man can be said to fight for a 'phase'!) Isuffered all that Tories could inflict upon me, --by expenses in lawand calumnies in literature;--reform, Catholic claims, freetrade, abolition of flogging, right of free speech, as opposed byattorneys-general. I was, in fact, all the while nothing but a poeticstudent, appearing in politics once a week, but given up entirely toletters almost all the rest of it, and loving nothing so much as abook and a walk in the fields. I was precisely the sort of person, inthese respects, which I am at this moment. As to George the Fourth, Iaided, years afterwards, in publicly wishing him well--'years havingbrought the philosophic mind'. I believe I even expressed regret atnot 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 hisContemporaries_); _and when I consider that Moore has been pensioned, not only in spite of all his libels on him, but perhaps by very reasonof their Whig partisanship, I should think it hard to be refused apension purely because I openly suffered for what I had earnestlysaid_. I knew George the Fourth's physician, Sir William Knighton, who had been mine before I was imprisoned (it was _not_ he who was theroyal agent alluded to); and, if my memory does not deceive me, SirWilliam told me that George had been gratified by the book abovementioned. Perhaps he had found out, by Sir William's help, that I wasnot an ill-natured man, or one who could not outlive what wasmistaken in himself or resentful in others. As to my opinions aboutGovernments, the bad conduct of the Allies, and of Napoleon, and theold Bourbons, certainly made them waver as to what might be ultimatelybest, monarchy or republicanism; but they ended in favour of theirold predilections; and no man, for a long while, has been less arepublican than myself, monarchies and courts appearing to me salutaryfor the good and graces of mankind, and Americanisms anything buteither. But nobody, I conceive, that knew my writings, or heard of metruly from others, ever took me for a republican. William the Fourthsaw or heard nothing of me to hinder his letting Lord Melbourne giveme £200 out of the Royal Fund. Queen Victoria gave me another, through the same kind friend. She also went twice to see my play; andeverybody knows how I praise and love her. _I do not think, therefore, in reference to the pension, that the public would care twopence aboutGeorge the Fourth, one way or the other; or that if any remembered thecase at all, they would connect the pension in the least with anythingabout him, but attribute it solely to the Queen's and Minister'sgoodness, and the wants of a sincere and not undeserving man ofletters, distinguished for his loyal attachment_. I certainly thinkthe £500 fine ought not to have been taken out of my pocket, or theother two £125 either; and I think also, that a liberal Whig ministermight reasonably and _privately_ think some compensation on thoseaccounts due to me. _I have been fighting his own fight from first tolast, and helping to prepare matters for his triumph_. But still theabove, in my opinion, is what the public would think of the matter, _and my friends of the press could lay it entirely to the literaryaccount_. 

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 marvelloussights, palaces, convents, &c. , --which, being to be heard in my friendHobhouse's forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate bysmuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private and clandestinemanner. I must just observe, that the village of Cintra in Estremadurais the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world. 

I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talks bad Latinto the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own, --and I goesinto society (with my pocket pistols), and I swims in the Tagusall across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swearsPortuguese, 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_!'--thegreat oath of the grandees, that very well supplies the place of'Damme!'--and when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I pronouncehim '_Ambra di merdo_'. With these two phrases, and a third, '_Avrabouro_', which signifieth 'Get an ass', I am universally understood tobe a person of degree and a master of languages. How merrily welives that travellers be!--if we had food and raiment. But, in sobersadness, anything is better than England, and I am infinitely amusedwith 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 findme, or to be forwarded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury andDwyer, and all the Ephesians you encounter. I am writing with Butler'sdonative pencil, which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility. 

Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths and defeats and capitalcrimes and the misfortunes of one's friends; and let us hear ofliterary matters, and the controversies and the criticisms. All thiswill be pleasant--'_Suave mari magno_, &c. ' Talking of that, I havebeen 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 usuallyhopes the rest will follow. My mother of the Gracchi (that _are_ tobe), _you_ think too strait-laced for me, although the paragon of onlychildren, and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men', andfull of 'most blest conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss Milbankeis the lady, and I have her father's invitation to proceed there in myelect capacity, --which, however, I cannot do until I have settled somebusiness in London, and got a blue coat. 

She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know nothingcertainly, and shall not inquire. But I do know, that she has talentsand excellent qualities; and you will not deny her judgement, afterhaving refused six suitors and taken me. 

Now, if you have anything to say against this, pray do; my mind'smade up, positively fixed, determined, and therefore I will listen toreason, because now it can do no harm. Things may occur to break itoff, but I will hope not. In the meantime I tell you (a _secret_, bythe by, --at least till I know she wishes it to be public) that I haveproposed 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, ofcourse, reform thoroughly; and, seriously, if I can contribute toher happiness, I shall secure my own. She is so good a personthat--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, infour packets, two of four, and two of three sheets each, containingin all two hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. But I willpermit 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 youplease, you may publish _anonymously_; it will perhaps be better; butI 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 tryno such thing; I hate tasks. And then 'seven or eight years'! God sendus all well this day three months, let alone years. If one's yearscan't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man had better be aditcher. And works, too!--is _Childe Harold_ nothing? You have so many'_divine_' poems, is it nothing to have written a _human_ one? withoutany of your worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could have spun thethoughts of the four cantos of that poem into twenty, had I wanted tobook-make, and its passion into as many modern tragedies. Since youwant _length_, you shall have enough of _Juan_, for I'll make fiftycantos. . . . 

Besides, I mean to write my best work in _Italian_, and it will takeme nine years more thoroughly to master the language; and then if myfancy exist, and I exist too, I will try what I _can_ do _really_. Asto the estimation of the English which you talk of, let themcalculate what it is worth, before they insult me with their insolentcondescension. 

I have not written for their pleasure. If they are pleased, it is thatthey chose to be so; I have never flattered their opinions, nor theirpride; nor will I. Neither will I make 'Ladies' books' '_al dilettarle 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 havehad more of it; and if I chose to swerve into their paths, I couldretain it, or resume it. But I neither love ye, nor fear ye; andthough I buy with ye and sell with ye, and talk with ye, I willneither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. They made me, without my search, a species of popular idol; they, without reason orjudgement, beyond the caprice of their good pleasure, threw down theimage from its pedestal; it was not broken with the fall, and theywould, it seems, again replace it, --but they shall not. 

You ask about my health: about the beginning of the year I was in astate of great exhaustion . . . And I was obliged to reform my 'way oflife', which was conducting me from the 'yellow leaf' to the ground, with all deliberate speed. I am better in health and morals, and verymuch yours, &c. --

PS. I have read Hodgson's '_Friends_'. He is right in defending Popeagainst the bastard pelicans of the poetical winter day, who addinsult to their parricide, by sucking the blood of the parent ofEnglish _real_ poetry, --poetry without fault, --and then spurning thebosom which fed them. 

TO THE SAME

_The cemetery at Bologna_

Bologna, 7 _June_, 1819. 

. . . I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous Domenichinoand Guido, both of which are superlative. I afterwards went to thebeautiful cemetery of Bologna, beyond the walls, and found, besidesthe superb burial-ground, an original of a Custode, who reminded meof 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 bestfriends. I begged his head of his brethren after his decease, and theygave it me. I put it in lime, and then boiled it. Here it is, teethand all, in excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverestfellow I ever knew. Wherever he went, he brought joy; and whenever anyone was melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerfulagain. He walked so actively, you might have taken him for adancer--he joked--he laughed--oh! he was such a Frate as I never sawbefore, nor ever shall again!'

He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in thecemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his deadpeople; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons. In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl oftwenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Bartorini, dead twocenturies ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had foundher hair complete, and 'as yellow as gold'. Some of the epitaphs atFerrara 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 canbe said or sought: the dead had had enough of life; all they wantedwas rest, and this they _implore_! There is all the helplessness, and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from thegrave--'_implora pace_'. I hope, whoever may survive me, and shallsee me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within thefortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, and no more, putover me. I trust they won't think of 'pickling, and bringing me hometo Clod or Blunderbuss Hall'. I am sure my bones would not rest inan English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. Ibelieve the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed, could I supposethat any of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcass backto 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, whodied 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 fromme, but address yours to Venice, as usual. I know nothing of my ownmovements; 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 isgrowing 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 myMycenae. . . . But there will come a day of reckoning, even if I shouldnot live to see it. . . . What a long letter I have scribbled!

PS. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers on the tombs. I saw aquantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, scattered over the gravesat 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 forpublication, addressed to the buffoon Roberts, who has thought properto tie a canister to his own tail. It was written off-hand, and in themidst of circumstances not very favourable to facetiousness, so thatthere may, perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort ofsmall acid punch:--you will tell me. Keep the _anonymous_, in anycase: it helps what fun there may be. But if the matter grow seriousabout _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 hisminister--each being on his own coals. 

I wish that I had been in better spirits; but I am out of sorts, outof nerves, and now and then (I begin to fear) out of my senses. Allthis Italy has done for me, and not England: I defy all you, and yourclimate to boot, to make me mad. But if ever I do really become aBedlamite, and wear a strait waistcoat, let me be brought back amongyou: 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 presentpleasures or plagues are as Italian as the opera. And, after all, theyare but trifles; for all this arises from my 'Dama's' being in thecountry for three days (at Capofiume). But as I could never live butfor one human being at a time (and, I assure you, _that one_ has neverbeen _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 ina garden, under a purple canopy of grapes, and sit by a fountain, andtalk 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 theparty, and, I think, talks best of the three. Then I revisit the CampoSanto, and my old friend, the sexton, has two--but _one_ the prettiestdaughter imaginable; and I amuse myself with contrasting her beautifuland innocent face of fifteen with the skulls with which he has peopledseveral cells, and particularly with that of one skull, dated 1766, which was once covered (the tradition goes) by the most lovelyfeatures of Bologna--noble and rich. When I look at these, and atthis girl--when I think of what _they were_, and what she must be--whythen, my dear Murray, I won't shock you by saying what I think. It islittle matter what becomes of us 'bearded men', but I don't like thenotion of a beautiful woman's lasting less than a beautiful tree--thanher own picture--her own shadow, which won't change so to the sunas her face to the mirror. I must leave off, for my head achesconsumedly. I have never been quite well since the night of therepresentation 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 andfavourable. It is gratifying to me that you and Mrs. Shelley do notdisapprove 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 fromyou essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhorall unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on thehighest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poorfellow! though with such inordinate self-love he would probablyhave not been very happy. I read the review of _Endymion_ in the_Quarterly_. It was severe, --but surely not so severe as many reviewsin 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 nordespair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in thisworld of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of _resistance_ before he goesinto 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. Youalso 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 beenwith yours. 

I have not yet got your _Prometheus_, which I long to see. I haveheard nothing of mine, and do not know that it is yet published. Ihave published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will notlike. Had I known that Keats was dead--or that he was alive and sosensitive--I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I was provoked by his _attack_ upon _Pope_, and mydisapprobation of _his own_ style of writing. 

You want me to undertake a great poem--I have not the inclination northe power. As I grow older, the indifference--_not_ to life, for welove it by instinct--but to the stimuli of life, increases. Besides, this late failure of the Italians has latterly disappointed me formany reasons, --some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. 

PS. Could not you and I contrive to meet this summer? Could not youtake 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 softand pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve yearsold, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta'spossession, taken at that age. But it don't curl, --perhaps from itsbeing let grow. 

I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name, and I willtell you why;--I believe that they are the only two or three words ofyour handwriting in my possession. For your letters I returned; andexcept the two words, or rather the one word, 'Household', writtentwice in an old account book, I have no other. I burnt your lastnote, for two reasons:--firstly, it was written in a style notvery agreeable; and, secondly, I wished to take your word withoutdocuments, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people. 

I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada'sbirthday--the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meetingher;--perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by businessor otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance ornearness;--every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long aperiod, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have onerallying-point as long as our child exists, which I presume we bothhope will be long after either of her parents. 

The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerablymore than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much longerone of our prior acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake; but nowit is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my part, and afew 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 asto 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, notwithstandingeverything, I considered our reunion as not impossible for more thana year after the separation;--but then I gave up the hope entirely andfor ever. But this very impossibility of reunion seems to me at leasta reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can arisebetween us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much ofits kindness as people who are never to meet may preserve perhaps moreeasily than nearer connexions. For my own part, I am violent, but notmalignant; for only fresh provocations can awaken my resentments. Toyou, who are colder and more concentrated, I would just hint, thatyou may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and aworse feeling for duty. I assure you that I bear you _now_ (whateverI may have done) no resentment whatever. Remember, that _if you haveinjured me_ in aught, this forgiveness is something; and that, if Ihave _injured you_, it is something more still, if it be true, as themoralists say, that the most offending are the least forgiving. 

Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or onyours 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 meetagain. I think if you also consider the two corresponding points withreference 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 youwill assure him from me, that I have done and am doing all I can toreunite the Greeks with the Greeks. 

I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country-house (as for allother kindness) in case that my health should require my removal; butI cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of any (evensupposed) utility:--there is a stake worth millions such as I am, andwhile 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 anddefects of the Greeks themselves; but allowance must be made for themby all reasonable people. 

My chief, indeed _nine-tenths_ of my expenses here are solely inadvances to or on behalf of the Greeks, and objects connected withtheir independence. 

[_Enclosure, translated_]

To S. R. PARRUCA

10 _March_, 1824. 

_Sir_, --I have the honour of answering your letter. My first wish hasalways been to bring the Greeks to agree among themselves. I came hereby the invitation of the Greek Government, and I do not think that Iought to abandon Roumelia for the Peloponnesus until that Governmentshall desire it; and the more so, as this part is exposed in a greaterdegree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my presence can really be of anyassistance in uniting two or more parties, I am ready to go anywhere, either as a mediator, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these affairsI have neither private views, nor private dislike of any individual, but the sincere wish of deserving the name of the friend of yourcountry, 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 persecutedher in a most horrible way, by endeavouring to compel her to go toschool. She asked my advice: resistance, was the answer, at the sametime that I essayed to mollify Mr. W. In vain! And in consequence ofmy advice _she_ has thrown herself upon _my_ protection. 

I set off for London on Monday. How flattering a distinction!--I amthinking of ten million things at once. 

What have I said? I declare, quite _ludicrous_. I advised her toresist. She wrote to say that resistance was useless, but that shewould fly with me, and threw herself upon my protection. We shall have£200 a year; when we find it run short, we must live, I suppose, uponlove! Gratitude and admiration, all demand that I should love her_for ever. _ We shall see you at York. I will hear your arguments formatrimonialism, by which I am now almost convinced. I can get lodgingsat York, I suppose. Direct to me at Graham's, 18, Sackville Street, Piccadilly. 

Your inclosure of £10 has arrived; I am now indebted to you £30. In spite of philosophy, I am rather ashamed of this unceremoniousexsiccation of your financial river. But indeed, my dear friend, thegratitude which I owe you for your society and attachment ought so farto overbalance this consideration as to leave me nothing but that. Imust, however, pay you when I can. 

I suspect that the _strain_ is gone for ever. This letter willconvince 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 nearyou, as Mr. Peyton. 

Ever your most faithful friend. 

I shall be at 18, Sackville Street; at least direct there. Do not sendmore 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 thinkerswould call a liberty; it is, however, a liberty which, although notsanctioned by custom, is so far from being reprobated by reason, thatthe dearest interests of mankind imperiously demand that a certainetiquette of fashion should no longer keep 'man at a distance fromman', or impose its flimsy fancies between the free communication ofintellect. 

The name of Godwin has been used to excite in me feelings of reverenceand admiration. I have been accustomed to consider him a luminarytoo dazzling for the darkness which surrounds him. From the earliestperiod of my knowledge of his principles, I have ardently desiredto share, on the footing of intimacy, that intellect which I havedelighted to contemplate in its emanations. 

Considering, then, these feelings, you will not be surprised at theinconceivable emotions with which I learned your existence and yourdwelling. 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 thisearth 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 myfeelings and my reasonings correspond with what yours were. My coursehas been short, but eventful. I have seen much of human prejudice, suffered much from human persecution, yet I see no reason henceinferable which should alter my wishes for their renovation. Theill-treatment I have met with has more than ever impressed the truthof my principles on my judgement. I am young, I am ardent in the causeof philanthropy and truth; do not suppose that this is vanity; I amnot conscious that it influences this portraiture. I imagine myselfdispassionately describing the state of my mind. I am young; youhave gone before me--I doubt not, are a veteran to me in the years ofpersecution. Is it strange that, defying prejudice as I have done; Ishould outstep the limits of custom's prescription, and endeavour tomake 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 leasthumanely employed in the experiment. I may mistake your residence;certain feelings, of which I may be an inadequate arbiter, may induceyou to desire concealment; I may not, in fine, have an answer to thisletter. If I do not, when I come to London, I shall seek for you. I amconvinced I could represent myself to you in such terms as not to bethought wholly unworthy of your friendship; at least, if desire foruniversal happiness has any claim upon your preference, that desire Ican 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 tyrannyof the sentence pronounced on Hunt and his brother; and it is on thissubject that I write to you. Surely the seal of abjectness and slaveryis indelibly stamped upon the character of England. 

Although I do not retract in the slightest degree my wish for asubscription for the widows and children of those poor men hung atYork, yet this £1000 which the Hunts are sentenced to pay is an affairof 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 partthe great debt of obligation which they owe the champion of theirliberties and virtues; or are they dead, cold, stone-hearted, andinsensible--brutalized by centuries of unremitting bondage?However that may be, they surely may be excited into some slightacknowledgement of his merits. Whilst hundreds of thousands are sentto the tyrants of Russia, he pines in a dungeon, far from all that canmake life desired. 

Well, I am rather poor at present; but I have £20 which is notimmediately wanted. Pray, begin a subscription for the Hunts; put downmy name for that sum, and, when I hear that you have complied with myrequest, I will send it you. Now, if there are any difficulties inthe 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 ofEngland!

_Queen Mab_ is finished and transcribed. I am now preparing the notes, which shall be long and philosophical. You will receive it with theother poems. I think that the whole should form one volume; but ofthat we can speak hereafter. 

As to the French _Encyclopédie_, it is a book which I amdesirous--very desirous--of possessing, and if you could get me a fewmonths' credit (being at present rather low in cash), I should verymuch desire to have it. 

My dear sir, excuse the earnestness of the first part of my letter. Ifeel warmly on this subject, and I flatter myself that so long as yourown independence and liberty remain uncompromised, you are inclined tosecond my desires. 

PS. If no other way can be devised for this subscription, will youtake the trouble on yourself of writing an appropriate advertisementfor the papers, inserting, by way of stimulant, my subscription?

On second thoughts, I enclose the £20. 

To MR. OLLIER

_An article by Southey_

Florence, 15 _Oct_. 1819. 

DEAR SIR, The droll remarks of the _Quarterly_, and Hunt's kind defence, arrivedas 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 haveprinted in Italy; which you will have to pay four or five pounds dutyupon, 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 itspublication, _until the arrival of which directions, I request thatyou would have the kindness not_ to open the box, _or, if by necessityit is opened, to abstain from observing yourself or permitting othersto observe, what it contains_. I trust this confidently to you, itbeing of consequence. Meanwhile, assure yourself that this work has noreference, direct or indirect, to politics, or religion, or personalsatire, and that this precaution is merely literary. 

The _Prometheus_, a poem in my best style, whatever that may amountto, will arrive with it, but in MS. , which you can print and publishin the season. It is the most perfect of my productions. 

Southey wrote the article in question, I am well aware. Observe theimpudence of the man in speaking of himself. The only remark worthnotice in this piece is the assertion that I imitate Wordsworth. It may as well be said that Lord Byron imitates Wordsworth, or thatWordsworth imitates Lord Byron, both being great poets, and derivingfrom the new springs of thought and feeling, which the great eventsof our age have exposed to view, a similar tone of sentiment, imagery, and expression. A certain similarity all the best writers of anyparticular age inevitably are marked with, from the spirit of that ageacting on all. This I had explained in my _Preface_, which thewriter was too disingenuous to advert to. As to the other trash, andparticularly that lame attack on my personal character, which wasmeant so ill, and which I am not the man to feel, 'tis all nothing. Iam glad, with respect to that part of it which alludes to Hunt, thatit should so have happened that I dedicate, as you will see, a workwhich has all the capacities for being popular to that excellentperson. I was amused, too, with the finale; it is like the end of thefirst act of an opera, when that tremendous concordant discord setsup from the orchestra, and everybody talks and sings at once. Itdescribes the result of my battle with their Omnipotent God; hispulling me under the sea by the hair of my head, like Pharaoh; mycalling out like the devil who was _game_ to the last; swearing andcursing in all comic and horrid oaths, like a French postilion onMount Cenis; entreating everybody to drown themselves; pretending notto be drowned myself when I _am_ drowned; and lastly, _being_ drowned. 

You would do me a particular kindness if you would call on Hunt, andask him when my parcel went, the name of the ship, and the name of thecaptain, and whether he has any bill of lading, which, if he has, youwould 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 tome. At least it promises me a letter from you, and you know with whatpleasure we receive, and with what anxiety we expect intelligence fromyou--almost the only friends who now remain to us. 

I am afraid that the strict system of expense to which you are limitedannoys you all very much, and that Hunt's health suffers both fromthat and from the incredible exertions which I see by the _Indicators_and the _Examiners_ that he is making. Would to Heaven that I had thepower of doing you some good! but when you are sure that the wish issincere, the bare expression of it may help to cheer you. 

The Gisbornes are arrived, and have brought news of you, and somebooks, the principal part of which, however, are yet to arrive bysea. Keats's new volume has arrived to us, and the fragment called_Hyperion_ promises for him that he is destined to become one of thefirst writers of the age. His other things are imperfect enough, and, what is worse, written in the bad sort of style which is becomingfashionable among those who fancy that they are imitating Hunt andWordsworth. But of all these things nothing is worse than ----, inspite of Hunt's extracting the only good stanzas, with his usual goodnature. Indeed, _I_ ought not to complain of Hunt's good nature, forno one owes so much to it. Is not the vulgarity of these wretchedimitations of Lord Byron carried to a pitch of the sublime? Hisindecencies, too, both against sexual nature, and against humannature in general, sit very awkwardly upon him. He only affects thelibertine: he is, really, a very amiable, friendly, and agreeableman, I hear. But is not this monstrous? In Lord Byron all this hasan analogy with the general system of his character, and the wit andpoetry which surround hide with their light the darkness of the thingitself. They contradict it even; they prove that the strength andbeauty of human nature can survive and conquer all that appears mostinconsistent with it. But for a writer to be at once filthy and dullis a crime against gods, men, and columns. For Heaven's sake do notshow this to any one but Hunt, for it would irritate the wasp's nestof the irritable race of poets. 

Where is Keats now? I am anxiously expecting him in Italy, when Ishall take care to bestow every possible attention on him. I considerhis a most valuable life, and I am deeply interested in his safety. Iintend to be the physician both of his body and his soul, to keepthe 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 Serchiohas broken its banks, and all the country about is under water. An oldfriend and fellow-townsman of mine, Captain Medwin, is on a visit tous at present, and we anxiously expect Keats, to whom I would write ifI knew where to address. 

Adieu, my dear Marianne. Write soon; kiss all the babes for me, andtell 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 atRavenna. The result of this visit was a determination, on his part, tocome 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 messagewhich he desires me to give you, and which, I think, ought to addto your determination--for such a one I hope you have formed--ofrestoring 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 thecontracting parties should publish all their original compositions andshare the profits. He proposed it to Moore, but for some reason it wasnever brought to bear. There can be no doubt that the _profits_ ofany scheme in which you and Lord Byron engage, must, from various, yet co-operating reasons, be very great. As for myself, I am for thepresent only a sort of link between you and him, until you can knoweach other, and effectuate the arrangement; since (to entrust you witha secret which, for your sake, I withhold from Lord Byron) nothingwould induce me to share in the profits, and still less, in theborrowed splendour of such a partnership. You and he, in differentmanners, would be equal, and would bring, in a different manner, butin the same proportion, equal stocks of reputation and success. Do notlet my frankness with you, nor my belief that you deserve it more thanLord Byron, have the effect of deterring you from assuming a stationin modern literature which the universal voice of my contemporariesforbids 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 yourjourney; because there are men, however excellent, from whom we wouldnever receive an obligation, in the worldly sense of the word; and Iam as jealous for my friend as for myself. But I suppose that I shallat last make up an impudent face, and ask Horace Smith to add to themany 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_; italmost reconciles me to translations. In another sense I still demur. You might have written another such a poem as the _Nymphs_, with noaccess of efforts. I am full of thoughts and plans, and should dosomething, if the feeble and irritable frame which incloses it waswilling to obey the spirit. I fancy that then I should do greatthings. Before this you will have seen _Adonais_. Lord Byron, Isuppose from modesty, on account of his being mentioned in it, didnot say a word of _Adonais_, though he was loud in his praise of_Prometheus_, and, what you will not agree with him in, censure ofthe _Cenci_. Certainly, if _Marino Faliero_ is a drama, the _Cenci_is not--but that between ourselves. Lord Byron is reformed, as faras gallantry goes, and lives with a beautiful and sentimental Italianlady, who is as much attached to him as may be. I trust greatly to hisintercourse with you, for his creed to become as pure as he thinks hisconduct is. He has many generous and exalted qualities, but the cankerof 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 continualinquiries from the time we saw his tomb at Dumfries. His name, ofcourse, is known all about: his great reputation among the ploddingpeople is, 'that he wrote a good _mony_ sensible things'. One of thepleasantest means of annulling self is approaching such a shrine asthe Cottage of Burns: we need not think of his misery--that is allgone, bad luck to it! I shall look upon it hereafter with unmixedpleasure, as I do my Stratford-on-Avon day with Bailey. I shall fillthis sheet for you in the Bardie's country, going no further thanthis, till I get to the town of Ayr, which will be a nine miles' walkto tea. 

We were talking on different and indifferent things, when, on asudden, we turned a corner upon the immediate country of Ayr. Thesight was as rich as possible. I had no conception that the nativeplace 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 acold hill--Oh, prejudice!--It was as rich as Devon. I endeavouredto drink in the prospect, that I might spin it out to you, as thesilkworm makes silk from mulberry leaves. I cannot recollect it. Besides all the beauty, there were the mountains of Arran Isle, blackand huge over the sea. We came down upon everything suddenly; therewere in our way the 'bonny Doon', with the brig that Tam o' Shantercrossed, Kirk Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr. First we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon, surrounded by everyphantasy 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 asummer's evening; there was one stretching along behind the trees. 

I wish I knew always the humour my friends would be in at openinga letter of mine, to suit it to them as nearly as possible. I couldalways find an egg-shell for melancholy, and, as for merriment, awitty humour will turn anything to account. My head is sometimes insuch a whirl in considering the million likings and antipathies of ourmoments, that I can get into no settled strain in my letters. My wig!Burns and sentimentality coming across you and Frank Floodgate in theoffice. Oh, Scenery, that thou shouldst be crushed between two puns!As for them, I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch region. I hopeBrown does not put them in his journal: if he does, I must sit on thecutty-stool all next winter. We went to Kirk Alloway. 'A prophet isno prophet in his own country. ' We went to the Cottage and took somewhisky. I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of writing some lines underthe roof: they are so bad I cannot transcribe them. The man at thecottage was a great bore with his anecdotes. I hate the rascal. Hislife consists in fuzy, fuzzy, fuzziest. He drinks glasses, five forthe quarter, and twelve for the hour; he is a mahogany-faced oldjackass who knew Burns: he ought to have been kicked for having spokento him. He calls himself 'a curious old bitch', but he is a flatold dog. I should like to employ Caliph Vathek to kick him. Oh, theflummery of a birthplace! Cant! cant! cant! It is enough to givea spirit the guts-ache. Many a true word, they say, is spoken injest--this may be because his gab hindered my sublimity: the flat dogmade me write a flat sonnet. My dear Reynolds, I cannot write aboutscenery and visitings. Fancy is indeed less than a present palpablereality, but it is greater than remembrance. You would lift your eyesfrom Homer only to see close before you the real Isle of Tenedos. Youwould rather read Homer afterwards than remember yourself. One songof Burns's is of more worth to you than all I could think for a wholeyear in his native country. His misery is a dead weight upon thenimbleness of one's quill; I tried to forget it--to drink toddywithout any care--to write a merry sonnet--it won't do--he talked, hedrank 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'sspies. . . . 

TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE

_The poetic character_

Hampstead, 27 _Oct_. 1818. 

MY DEAR WOODHOUSE, Your letter gave me great satisfaction, more on account of itsfriendliness than any relish of that matter in it which is accountedso acceptable in the _genus irritabile_. The best answer I cangive you is in a clerklike manner to make some observations on twoprincipal points which seem to point like indices into the midst ofthe 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; thatsort distinguished from the Wordsworthian, or egotistical sublime;which is a thing _per se_, and stands alone), it is not itself--it hasno self--it is everything and nothing--it has no character--it enjoyslight 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 conceivingan Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher delightsthe chameleon poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark sideof things, any more than from its taste for the bright one, becausethey both end in speculation. A poet is the most unpoetical ofanything in existence, because he has no identity; he is continuallyin for, and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, the sea, andmen and women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and haveabout 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 shouldsay I would write no more? Might I not at that very instant have beencogitating on the characters of Saturn and Ops? It is a wretched thingto confess, but it is a very fact, that not one word I ever utter canbe 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 theroom begins to press upon me, [so] that I am in a very little timeannihilated--not only among men; it would be the same in a nursery ofchildren. I know not whether I make myself wholly understood: I hopeenough so to let you see that no dependence is to be placed on what Isaid that day. 

In the second place, I will speak of my views, and of the life Ipurpose to myself. I am ambitious of doing the world some good: ifI should be spared, that may be the work of maturer years--in theinterval I will assay to reach to as high a summit in poetry as thenerve bestowed upon me will suffer. The faint conceptions I have ofpoems to come bring the blood frequently into my forehead. All Ihope is, that I may not lose all interest in human affairs--thatthe solitary indifference I feel for applause, even from the finestspirits, will not blunt any acuteness of vision I may have. I do notthink it will. I feel assured I should write from the mere yearningand fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's laboursshould be burnt every morning, and no eye ever shine upon them. But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself, but from somecharacter 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 amind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of theletter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart toprophesy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end tome, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I must eithervoyage 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 soothedthat, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in onespot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. Iam glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, which I would willinglytake the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so much as Ihave done about reputation. I received a copy of the _Cenci_, as fromyourself, from Hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of--thepoetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays isconsidered 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 yourmagnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of yoursubject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like coldchains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for sixmonths together. And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of_Endymion_, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am pickedup and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am itsmonk. I am in expectation of _Prometheus_ every day. Could I have myown wish effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be butnow putting an end to the second act. I remember you advising me notto publish my first blights, on Hampstead Heath. I am returning adviceupon your hands. Most of the poems in the volume I send you have beenwritten above two years, and would never have been published but for ahope 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 mysincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley. In hope of soon seeingyou--

To CHARLES BROWN

_A despairing cry_

Naples, 1 _Nov_. [1820. ]

MY DEAR BROWN, Yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during which my healthsuffered more from bad air and the stifled cabin than it had done thewhole voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I am wellenough this morning to write to you a short calm letter;--if that canbe called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I wouldfainest dwell upon. As I have gone thus far into it, I must go ona little;--perhaps it may relieve the load of _wretchedness_ whichpresses upon me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will killme. My dear Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and Ishould have remained well. I can bear to die--I cannot bear to leaveher. Oh, God! God! God! Everything I have in my trunks that remindsme of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in mytravelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vividabout her--I see her--I hear her. There is nothing in the world ofsufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the casewhen I was in England: I cannot recollect, without shuddering, thetime that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyesfixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeingher again--Now!--O that I could be buried near where she lives! Iam afraid to write to her--to receive a letter from her--to see herhandwriting would break my heart--even to hear of her anyhow, to seeher name written, would be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, whatam I to do? Where can I look for consolation or ease? If I had anychance of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through thewhole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, thisfever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which youwill do immediately, write to Rome (_poste restante_)--if she is welland 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. Severnis very well. If I were in better health I would urge your coming toRome. I fear there is no one can give me any comfort. Is there anynews of George? O that something fortunate had ever happened to me ormy brothers!--then I might hope, --but despair is forced upon me as ahabit. My dear Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. Icannot say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in thethousand novelties around me. I am afraid to write to her. I shouldlike her to know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown, I have coals offire in my breast. It surprises me that the human heart is capable ofcontaining and bearing so much misery. Was I born for this end? Godbless 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 Imay review it in the _New Monthly_? Is it really likely to be readyas advertised? I aim this at Devonshire Place, supposing you to bereturned, for with these winds 'tis no fit time for the coast. Butyour bones are not so weather unwise (for ignorance _is_ bliss) asmine. I should have asked this by word of mouth in Devonshire Place, but the weather has kept me indoors. It is no fiction that thecomplaint, derived from Dutch malaria seven years ago, is revived byEasterly winds. Otherwise I have been better than usual, and 'neversay die'. Don't forget about the Yankee Notes. I never had but oneAmerican friend, and lost him through _a good crop of pears_. He paidus a visit in England; whereupon in honour of him, a pear tree, whichhad never borne fruit to speak of within memory of man, was loadedwith ninety dozen of brown somethings. Our gardener said they werea _keeping_ sort, and would be good at Christmas; whereupon, as ourJonathan was on the eve of sailing for the States, we sent him a fewdozens to dessert him on the voyage. Some he put at the bottom of atrunk (he wrote to us) to take to America; but he could not have beengone above a day or two, when all _our_ pears began to rot! _His_would, of course, by sympathy, and I presume spoilt his linen orclothes, for I have never heard of him since. Perhaps he thought I had_done_ him on purpose, and for sartin the tree, my accomplice, neverbore any more pears, good or bad, after that supernatural crop. 

Pray present my respects for me to Mrs. Dickens. How she must enjoybeing at home and discovering her children, after her Columbusing, andonly 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 isheartily at your service, with my best wishes for the prosperity ofthe Manchester Athenaeum, and my warmest approval of the objects ofthat Institution. 

I have elsewhere recorded my own deep obligations to Literature--thata natural turn for reading, and intellectual pursuits, probablypreserved me from the moral shipwreck so apt to befall those who aredeprived in early life of the paternal pilotage. At the very least mybooks kept me aloof from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and thesaloons, with their degrading orgies. For the closet associate of Popeand Addison, the mind accustomed to the noble, though silent discourseof Shakespeare and Milton, will hardly seek, or put up with lowcompany and slang. The reading animal will not be content with thebrutish wallowings that satisfy the unlearned pigs of the world. Later experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing thatliterature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow; how powerfullyintellectual pursuits can help in keeping the head from crazing, andthe heart from breaking; nay, not to be too grave, how generous mentalfood can even atone for a meagre diet; rich fare on the paper, forshort commons on the cloth. 

Poisoned by the malaria of the Dutch marshes, my stomach for manymonths resolutely set itself against fish, flesh, or fowl; my appetitehad no more edge than the German knife placed before me. But luckilythe mental palate and digestion were still sensible and vigorous; andwhilst I passed untasted every dish at the Rhenish table-d'-hôte, I could still enjoy my _Peregrine Pickle_, and the feast after themanner of the Ancients. There was no yearning towards calf's head_à la tortue_, or sheep's heart; but I could still relish Head _à laBrunnen_, and the _Heart of Mid-Lothian. _ Still more recently it wasmy misfortune, with a tolerable appetite, to be condemned to Lentenfare, like Sancho Panza, by my physician, to a diet, in fact, lowerthan any prescribed by the Poor-Law Commissioners, all animal food, from a bullock to a rabbit, being strictly interdicted, as well asall fluids stronger than that which lays dust, washes pinafores, andwaters polyanthus. But the feast of reason and the flow of soul werestill mine!

Denied beef, I had Bulwer and Cowper; forbidden mutton, there wasLamb; and in lieu of pork, the great Bacon, or Hogg. Then as tobeverage; 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 ChoiceSpirits from Tom Browne to Tom Moore. Thus though confined physicallyto the drink that drowns kittens, I quaffed mentally, not merely thebest of our own home-made, but the rich, racy, sparkling growths ofFrance and Italy, of Germany and Spain; the champagne of Molière, theMonte Pulciano of Boccaccio, the hock of Schiller, and the sherry ofCervantes. Depressed bodily by the fluid that damps everything, I gotintellectually elevated with Milton, a little merry with Swift, orrather jolly with Rabelais, whose Pantagruel, by the way, is equal tothe best gruel with rum in it. 

So far can Literature palliate, or compensate, for gastronomicalprivations. 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 'gangaglee', 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 lightenedby 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 theyleft behind them an orphan kitten, which, true to its breed, began toeat itself up, till it was diverted from the operation by a mouse. Nowthe 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 betterfor the purpose than a book. For example, one of Defoe's; for who, in reading his thrilling _History of the Great Plague_, would not bereconciled to a few little ones?

Many, many a dreary weary hour have I got over--many a gloomymisgiving postponed--many a mental and bodily annoyance forgotten byhelp of the tragedies, and comedies, of our dramatists and novelists!Many a trouble has been soothed by the still small voice of the moralphilosopher; many a dragon-like care charmed to sleep by the sweetsong of the poet! For all which I cry incessantly, not aloud, but inmy heart, 'Thanks and honour to the glorious masters of the pen, andthe great inventors of the press!' Such has been my own experience ofthe 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 tohis 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 abottle from a ship water-logged, and on the brink of foundering, beingin the last stage of dropsical debility; but though suffering in body, serene in mind. So without reversing my union-jack, I await my lastlurch. 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 bymyself, I am only kept alive by frequent instalments of mulled portwine. In this extremity I feel a comfort, for which I cannot refrainfrom 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 raceas an author is run. My physical debility finds no tonic virtue ina steel pen, otherwise I would have written one more paper--aforewarning one--against an evil, or the danger of it, arising froma literary movement in which I have had some share, a one-sidedhumanity, opposite to that Catholic Shakespearian sympathy, whichfelt with King as well as Peasant, and duly estimated the mortaltemptations of both stations. Certain classes at the poles of Societyare already too far asunder; it should be the duty of our writers todraw them nearer by kindly attraction, not to aggravate the existingrepulsion, and place a wider moral gulf between Rich and Poor, withHate on the one side and Fear on the other. But I am too weak for thistask, the last I had set myself; it is death that stops my pen, yousee, and not the pension. 

God bless you, Sir, and prosper all your measures for the benefit ofmy 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 youperhaps. So understand that you gave us more delight at once than wecould bear, that was the beginning of the waiting to recover spiritand try and do one's feeling a little less injustice. But soonfollowed unexpected sorrows to us and to you, and the expression ofeven gratitude grew hard again. Certainly all this while your letterhas been laid before our very eyes, and we have waited for a brighterday than ever came till we left Florence two months ago and more, thenwe brought it to 'answer' among the chestnut trees; but immediatelyon our arrival a friend was attacked by fever, and we were kept inanxiety about him for six weeks. At last he recovered sufficiently toleave for Florence, and (just think) our little boy became ill, for the first time in his life, and gave us solicitude enough for afortnight: it is nothing now that it is over; he is going about nowalmost as well as before, and we go away to-morrow, as I said. But Iwill try and get one, at least, of the joys I came to find here, andreally write to you from this place, as I meant to do. '_I_'--youknow it is my wife that I write for, though you entangle and distracteither of us by the reverberations (so to speak) of pleasures over andabove the pleasure you give us. I intend to say, that you praise thatpoem, and mix it up with praise of her very self, and then give it tome directly, and then give it to _her_ with the pride you have justgiven me, and then it somehow comes back to me increased so far, tillthe effect is just as you probably intended. I wish my wife may knowyou more: I wish you may see and know her more, but you cannot liveby her eleven years, as I have done--or yes, what cannot you do, beingthe man, the poet you are? This last word, I dare think, I have aright to say; I _have_ always venerated you as a poet; I believe yourpoetry to be sure of its eventual reward; other people, not unlikely, may feel like me, that there has been no need of getting into feverishhaste to cry out on what is; yet you, who wrote it, can leave it andlook 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 ableto see it all; my wife used to write it, and lay it down to hear ourchild spell, or when a visitor came, --it was thrust under the cushionthen. At Paris, a year ago last March, she gave me the first six booksto 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, inone sense, that I had written and she had read it. . . . I shall commendmyself to you by telling you this. Indeed, the proper acknowledgementof your letter seems to be that one should do something, not saysomething. If you were here, I might quite naturally begin repeating_Giaffar_ or _Solomon_, and the rest. You would see whether I was notcapable of getting all the good out of your praise. 

While I write, there is a strange thing that happened last nightimpossible to get out of my thoughts. It may give you pain to tell youof it, yet if with the pain come triumphant memories and hopes, as Iexpect there will, you may choose the pain with them. What decides meto tell it is that I heard you years ago allude to the destruction ofa volume of _Lamia, Isabella, &c. , to be restored to you yet_--now youremember; also, I think, of your putting my name near Shelley's in theend of your letter, where you say 'since I lost Shelley'. Is it notstrange 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 tellthe present possessor of them--to whom they were given by CaptainRoberts--_what_ the poem _was, and that it had been published_! It ispreserved religiously; but the characters are all but illegible, andI needed a good magnifying-glass to be quite sure of such of them asremain. The end is that I have rescued three or four variations in thereading of that divine little poem, as one reads it, at least, in the_Posthumous Poems_. It is headed the _Indian_ _Serenade_ (not _Linesto an Indian Air_). In the first stanza the seventh line is 'Hath ledme'; 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, theseventh line was, 'Oh, press it to thine own again. ' Are not all thesebetter readings? (even to the 'Hath' for 'Has'. ) There, I give themyou 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 surethat you forgive. Now let my wife say the remainder. All I havewished to do--know how little likely it was that I should succeed inthat--was to assure you of my pride and affectionate gratitude. --Godbless you ever, R. B. 

Dear friend, I will say; for I feel it must be something as good asfriendship that can forgive and understand this silence, so much likethe veriest human kind of ingratitude. When I look back and think--allthis time after that letter, and not a sign made--I wonder. Yet, if you knew! First of all, we were silent because we waited forinformation which you seemed to desire. . . . Then there were sadderreasons. Poor _Aurora_, that you were so more than kind to (oh, howcan I think of it?), has been steeped in tears, and some of them of avery bitter sort. Your letter was addressed to my husband, you knowingby your delicate true instinct where your praise would give mostpleasure; but I believe Robert had not the heart to write when I feltthat 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 andcheerfulness from the sight of the mountains, we said to ourselvesthat we would speak to you at ease--instead of which the word wastaken from our own mouth, and we have done little but sit by sick bedsand meditate on gastric fevers. So disturbed we have been--so sad! ourdarling precious child the last victim. To see him lying still on hisgolden curls, with cheeks too scarlet to suit the poor patient eyes, looking so frightfully like an angel! It was very hard. But this isover, I do thank God, and we are on the point of carrying back ourtreasure with us to Florence to-morrow, quite recovered, if a littlethinner and weaker, and the young voice as merry as ever. You areaware that that child I am more proud of than twenty _Auroras_, evenafter Leigh Hunt has praised them. He is eight years old, has neverbeen '_crammed_', but reads English, Italian, French, German, andplays 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 notunhappy. ' Who could not be unhappy, I wonder?

I never saw your book called the _Religion of the Heart. _ It's theonly book of yours I never saw, and I mean to wipe out that reproachon the soonest day possible. I receive more dogmas, perhaps (my'perhaps' being in the dark rather), than you do. I believe in thedivinity of Jesus Christ in the intensest sense--that he was Godabsolutely. 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, agreat many churchmen wouldn't; in fact, churches do all of them, as atpresent constituted, seem too narrow and low to hold true Christianityin its proximate developments. I, at least, cannot help believing themso. 

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 Godbless 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 (thatfirst), then for Milton's hair, and then for the memory I have ofour visit to you, when you sat in that chair and spoke so mildly anddeeply at once. 

Let me be ever affectionately yours, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

CHARLOTTE BRONTË

1816-1855

TO A FRIEND

_Trials of a governess_

_July_ 1839. 

I cannot procure ink, without going into the drawing-room, where I donot wish to go. . . . I should have written to you long since, and toldyou every detail of the utterly new scene into which I have latelybeen cast, had I not been daily expecting a letter from yourself, andwondering and lamenting that you did not write; for you will rememberit was your turn. I must not bother you too much with my sorrows, ofwhich, I fear, you have heard an exaggerated account. If you were nearme, perhaps I might be tempted to tell you all, to grow egotistical, and pour out the long history of a private governess's trials andcrosses in her first situation. As it is, I will only ask you toimagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like me, thrown at once intothe midst of a large family--proud as peacocks and wealthy as Jews--ata time when they were particularly gay--when the house was filled withcompany--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 wellas to instruct. I soon found that the constant demand on my stockof animal spirits reduced them to the lowest state of exhaustion; attimes I felt--and, I suppose, seemed--depressed. To my astonishment, I was taken to task on the subject by Mrs. ----, with a sternness ofmanner and a harshness of language scarcely credible; like a fool, Icried most bitterly. I could not help it; my spirits quite failed meat first. I thought I had done my best--strained every nerve to pleaseher; and to be treated in that way, merely because I was shy andsometimes melancholy, was too bad. At first I was for giving all upand going home. But, after a little reflection, I determined to summonwhat energy I had, and to weather the storm. I said to myself, 'I havenever yet quitted a place without gaining a friend; adversity isa good school; the poor are born to labour, and the dependent toendure. ' I resolved to be patient, to command my feelings, and to takewhat came; the ordeal, I reflected, would not last many weeks, and Itrusted it would do me good. I recollected the fable of the willow andthe oak; I bent quietly, and now, I trust, the storm is blowing overme. Mrs. ---- is generally considered an agreeable woman; so she is, Idoubt not, in general society. Her health is sound, her animal spiritsgood, consequently she is cheerful in company; but oh! does thiscompensate for the absence of every fine feeling--of every gentle anddelicate sentiment? She behaves somewhat more civilly to me now thanshe did at first, and the children are a little more manageable; butshe 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, exceptby 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 Iam not so much attached to this but that I can give it up withoutmuch distress. No doubt, if I had gone on, I should have made quitea Richardsonian concern of it. . . . I had materials in my head forhalf-a-dozen volumes. . . . Of course, it is with considerable regret Irelinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched. It isvery edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants, who are so many Melchisedecs, and haveno father nor mother but your own imagination. . . . I am sorry I didnot exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the _Ladies' Magazine_ wasflourishing like a green bay tree. In that case, I make no doubt, myaspirations after literary fame would have met with due encouragement, and I should have had the pleasure of introducing Messrs. Percy andWest into the very best society, and recording all their sayings anddoings in double-columned close-printed pages. . . . I recollect, when Iwas a child, getting hold of some antiquated volumes, and readingthem by stealth with the most exquisite pleasure. You give a correctdescription of the patient Grisels of those days. My aunt was one ofthem; and to this day she thinks the tales of the _Ladies' Magazine_infinitely superior to any trash of modern literature. So do I; forI read them in childhood, and childhood has a very strong faculty ofadmiration, but a very weak one of criticism. . . . I am pleased thatyou cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney's clerk or anovel-reading dressmaker. I will not help you at all in the discovery;and as to my handwriting, or the ladylike touches in my style andimagery, you must not draw any conclusion from that--I may employ anamanuensis. Seriously, sir, I am very much obliged to you for yourkind and candid letter. I almost wonder you took the trouble to readand notice the novelette of an anonymous scribe, who had not even themanners 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 timeof life I am a school-girl, and, on the whole, very happy in thatcapacity. It felt very strange at first to submit to authority insteadof exercising it--to obey orders instead of giving them; but I likethat state of things. I returned to it with the same avidity that acow, that has long been kept on dry hay, returns to fresh grass. Don'tlaugh at my simile. It is natural to me to submit, and very unnaturalto command. 

This is a large school, in which there are about forty externes, orday-pupils, and twelve pensionnaires, or boarders. Madame Héger, the head, is a lady of precisely the same cast of mind, degree ofcultivation, and quality of intellect as Miss ----. I think the severepoints are a little softened, because she has not been disappointed, and consequently soured. In a word, she is a married instead of amaiden lady. There are three teachers in the school--MademoiselleBlanche, Mademoiselle Sophie, and Mademoiselle Marie. The two firsthave no particular character. One is an old maid, and the other willbe one. Mademoiselle Marie is talented and original, but of repulsiveand arbitrary manners, which have made the whole school, except myselfand Emily, her bitter enemies. No less than seven masters attend, toteach the different branches of education--French, Drawing, Music, Singing, Writing, Arithmetic, and German. All in the house areCatholics except ourselves, one other girl, and the gouvernanteof Madame's children, an Englishwoman, in rank something between alady's-maid and a nursery governess. The difference in country andreligion makes a broad line of demarcation between us and all therest. We are completely isolated in the midst of numbers. Yet I thinkI am never unhappy; my present life is so delightful, so congenial tomy own nature, compared to that of a governess. My time, constantlyoccupied, passes too rapidly. Hitherto both Emily and I have had goodhealth, and therefore we have been able to work well. There is oneindividual of whom I have not yet spoken--M. Héger, the husband ofMadame. He is professor of rhetoric, a man of power as to mind, butvery choleric and irritable in temperament. He is very angry with mejust at present, because I have written a translation which he choseto stigmatize as '_peu correcte_'. He did not tell me so, but wrotethe word on the margin of my book, and asked, in brief stern phrase, how it happened that my compositions were always better than mytranslations? adding that the thing seemed to him inexplicable. Thefact is, some weeks ago, in a high-flown humour, he forbade me to useeither dictionary or grammar in translating the most difficult Englishcompositions into French. This makes the task rather arduous, andcompels me every now and then to introduce an English word, whichnearly plucks the eyes out of his head when he sees it. Emily and hedon't draw well together at all. Emily works like a horse, and she hashad great difficulties to contend with--far greater than I havehad. Indeed, those who come to a French school for instruction oughtpreviously to have acquired a considerable knowledge of the Frenchlanguage, otherwise they will lose a great deal of time, for thecourse of instruction is adapted to natives and not to foreigners;and in these large establishments they will not change their ordinarycourse for one or two strangers. The few private lessons that M. Hégerhas vouchsafed to give us, are, I suppose, to be considered a greatfavour; and I can perceive they have already excited much spite andjealousy in the school. 

You will abuse this letter for being short and dreary, and there are ahundred things which I want to tell you, but I have not time. Brusselsis a beautiful city. The Belgians hate the English. Their externalmorality is more rigid than ours. To lace the stays without ahandkerchief on the neck is considered a disgusting piece ofindelicacy. 

To A FRIEND

_Curates to tea_

[1845. ]

You thought I refused you coldly, did you? It was a queer sort ofcoldness, when I would have given my ears to say Yes, and was obligedto say No. Matters, however, are now a little changed. Anne is comehome, 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 mustcome. Mention the week and the day. Have the kindness also to answerthe following queries, if you can. How far is it from Leeds toSheffield? Can you give me a notion of the cost? Of course, when Icome, you will let me enjoy your own company in peace, and not drag meout a-visiting. I have no desire at all to see your curate. I think hemust be like all the other curates I have seen; and they seem to mea self-seeking, vain, empty race. At this blessed moment, we have noless than three of them in Haworth parish--and there is not one tomend 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 behavedquietly and decently, I would have served them out their tea in peace;but they began glorifying themselves, and abusing Dissenters in sucha manner, that my temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a fewsentences sharply and rapidly, which struck them all dumb. Papa wasgreatly 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 withthe sense of double content I express my gratitude, because I am nowsure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive. You were not severeon _Jane Eyre_; you were very lenient. I am glad you told me my faultsplainly in private, for in your public notice you touch on them solightly, I should perhaps have passed them over, thus indicated, withtoo little reflection. 

I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake newworks; my stock of materials is not abundant, but very slender; andbesides, neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers, aresufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a frequent writer. Itell you this, because your article in _Fraser_ left in me an uneasyimpression that you were disposed to think better of the author of_Jane Eyre_ than that individual deserved; and I would rather you hada correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though I should neversee you. 

If I ever _do_ write another book, I think I will have nothing of whatyou call 'melodrama'; I _think_ so, but I am not sure. I _think_, too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out ofMiss Austen's 'mild eyes', 'to finish more and be more subdued'; butneither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or at least, whenthey write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them, whichbecomes their master--which will have its own way--putting out of viewall behests but its own, dictating certain words, and insistingon 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 andadopting new ones. 

Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence? Can weindeed 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 andPrejudice_, or _Tom Jones_, than any of the Waverley Novels?

I had not seen _Pride and Prejudice_ till I read that sentence ofyours, 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; butno glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no freshair, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live withher ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. Theseobservations will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk. 

Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I never sawany of her works which I admired throughout (even _Consuelo_, whichis the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couplestrange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp ofmind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect;she is sagacious and profound;--Miss Austen is only shrewd andobservant. 

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 youthink 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 troubleyou 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 shouldbe; I recognize the wisdom of your rules for its regulation. . . . 

What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I mustfamiliarize my mind with the fact, that 'Miss Austen is not a poetess, has no "sentiment"' (you scornfully enclose the word in invertedcommas), 'no eloquence, none of the ravishing enthusiasm ofpoetry', --and then you add, I _must_ 'learn to acknowledge her as _oneof the greatest artists, of the greatest painters of human character_, and one of the writers with the nicest sense of means to an end thatever 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--cannotbe destitute of the divine gift. But by _poetry_, I am sure, youunderstand something different to what I do, as you do by 'sentiment'. It is _poetry_, as I comprehend the word, which elevates thatmasculine George Sand, and makes out of something coarse, somethingGodlike. It is 'sentiment', in my sense of the term--sentimentjealously hidden, but genuine, which extracts the venom from thatformidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive poison intopurifying elixir. 

If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for hiskind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe, he wishesonly 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 notquestioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass overme. 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 allMiss Austen's works, as you recommend. . . . You must forgive me fornot always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, Yoursgratefully. 

TO A FRIEND

_Illness and death of Emily Brontë_

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 impressionwould be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspectI have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues; the breathing afterthe least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompaniedby pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowedit to be felt, was found to beat 115 per minute. In this state sheresolutely refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation ofher feelings, she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is, and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. Godonly knows how all this is to terminate. More than once, I have beenforced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable. But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I thinkEmily 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 interestsme the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I hardlyknow what to think myself. Hope and fear fluctuate daily. The pain inher side and chest is better; the cough, the shortness of breath, theextreme emaciation, continue. I have endured, however, such torturesof uncertainty on this subject that, at length, I could endure itno longer; and as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continuesimmutable, --as she declares 'no poisoning doctor' shall come nearher, --I have written, unknown to her, to an eminent physician inLondon, giving as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as Icould draw up, and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a dayor two. I am thankful to say that my own health at present is verytolerable. It is well such is the case; for Anne, with the best willin 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 alsopretty 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 tosay; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician's opinionwas expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine, whichshe would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. Ipray 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 suffermore in this world. She is gone, after a hard, short conflict. Shedied on _Tuesday_, the very day I wrote to you. I thought it verypossible she might be with us still for weeks; and a few hoursafterwards, she was in eternity. Yes; there is no Emily in time oron earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietlyunder the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why should webe otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over; the spectacleof the pains of death is gone by; the funeral day is past. We feel sheis at peace. No need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keenwind. Emily does not feel them. She died in a time of promise. We sawher taken from life in its prime. But it is God's will, and the placewhere she is gone is better than that she has left. 

God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, through such agonyas I had not conceived. I now look at Anne, and wish she were well andstrong; but she is neither; nor is papa. Could you now come to us fora few days? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tell me if youcould come next week, and by what train. I would try to send a gig foryou to Keighley. You will, I trust, find us tranquil. Try to come. Inever so much needed the consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure, of course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what yourkind 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; andI so seldom now express my sense of kindness that, for once, you mustpermit me, without rebuke, to thank you for a pleasure so rare andspecial. Yet I am not going to praise either Mr. Thackeray or hisbook. I have read, enjoyed, been interested, and after all, feel fullas much ire and sorrow as gratitude and admiration. And still onecan never lay down a book of his without the two last feelings havingtheir part, be the subject or treatment what it may. In the first halfof the book, what chiefly struck me was the wonderful manner in whichthe writer throws himself into the spirit and letters of the timeswhereof he treats; the allusions, the illustrations, the style, all seem to me so masterly in their exact keeping, their harmoniousconsistency, their nice, natural truth, their pure exemption fromexaggeration. No second-rate imitator can write in that way; no coarsescene-painter can charm us with an allusion so delicate and perfect. But what bitter satire, what relentless dissection of diseasedsubjects! Well, and this, too, is right, or would be right, ifthe savage surgeon did not seem so fiercely pleased with his work. Thackeray likes to dissect an ulcer or an aneurism; he has pleasurein putting his cruel knife or probe into quivering, living flesh. Thackeray would not like all the world to be good; no great satiristwould like society to be perfect. 

As usual, he is unjust to women; quite unjust. There is hardly anypunishment he does not deserve for making Lady Castlewood peep througha 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 exasperatedme as I read; but then, again, came passages so true, so deeplythought, so tenderly felt, one could not help forgiving andadmiring. . . . 

But I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on thepolitical or religious intrigues of the times. Thackeray, in hisheart, does not value political or religious intrigues of any age ordate. He likes to show us human nature at home, as he himself dailysees it; his wonderful observant faculty likes to be in action. In himthis faculty is a sort of captain and leader; and if ever any passagein his writings lacks interest, it is when this master-faculty is fora time thrust into a subordinate position. I think such is the case inthe former half of the present volume. Towards the middle, he throwsoff restraint, becomes himself, and is strong to the close. Everythingnow depends on the second and third volumes. If, in pith and interest, they fall short of the first, a true success cannot ensue. If thecontinuation be an improvement upon the commencement, if the streamgather force as it rolls, Thackeray will triumph. Some people havebeen in the habit of terming him the second writer of the day; it justdepends on himself whether or not these critics shall be justified intheir 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 believeme--&c. 

TO THE SAME

'_Esmond' again_

10 _Nov_. 1852. 

. . . I have read the third volume of _Esmond. _ I found it bothentertaining and exciting to me; it seems to possess an impetus andexcitement beyond the other two, --that movement and brilliancy itspredecessors sometimes wanted, never fails here. In certain passages, I thought Thackeray used all his powers; their grand, serious forceyielded a profound satisfaction. 'At last he puts forth his strength, 'I could not help saying to myself. No character in the book strikesme as more masterly than that of Beatrix; its conception is fresh, and its delineation vivid. It is peculiar; it has impressions of anew kind--new at least, to me. Beatrix is not, in herself, all bad. Somuch does she sometimes reveal of what is good and great as to suggestthis feeling--you would think she was urged by a Fate. You would thinkthat some antique doom presses on her house, and that once in somany generations its brightest ornament was to become its greatestdisgrace. At times, what is good in her struggles against thisterrible destiny, but the Fate conquers. Beatrix cannot be an honestwoman and a good man's wife. She 'tries, and she _cannot_'. Proud, beautiful, and sullied, she was born what she becomes, a king'smistress. 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 deemingit a notice tame, cold, and insufficient? With all its professedfriendliness, 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 effectthat Blanche Amory and Beatrix are identical--sketched from the sameoriginal! To me they are about as identical as a weazel and a royaltigress of Bengal; both the latter are quadrupeds, --both the former, women.