LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER A VISIT TO BURNS’S COUNTRYThere is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,Where patriot Battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,Where Mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green;There is a Joy in every spot made known by times of old,New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the heart,More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,When weary steps forget themselves, upon a pleasant turf,Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,Toward the Castle, or the Cot, where long ago was bornOne who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the sun may hear his Lay;Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks;Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in Caves and weedy creeks;Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the Air;Ring-doves may fly convuls’d across to some high-cedar’d lair;But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,As Palmer’s, that, with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found.At such a time the Soul’s a child, in childhood is the brain;Forgotten is the worldly heart—alone, it beats in vain.—Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a healthful dayTo tell his forehead’s swoon and faint when first began decay,He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forthTo find a Bard’s low cradle-place about the silent North.Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of Care,Beyond the sweet and bitter world,—beyond it unaware!Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stayWould bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way:O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember’d face,Of Brother’s eyes, of Sister’s brow—constant to every place;Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portraiture intense;More warm than those heroic tints that pain a Painter’s sense,When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old,Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and passions manifold.No No, that horror cannot be, for at the cable’s lengthMan feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength:—One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall,But in the very next he reads his soul’s Memorial:—He reads it on the mountain’s height, where chance he may sit downUpon rough marble diadem—that hill’s eternal Crown.Yet be his Anchor e’er so fast, room is there for a prayerThat man may never lose his Mind on Mountains black and bare;That he may stray league after league some Great birthplace to findAnd keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER A VISIT TO BURNS’S COUNTRY
There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,Where patriot Battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,Where Mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green;There is a Joy in every spot made known by times of old,New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the heart,More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,When weary steps forget themselves, upon a pleasant turf,Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,Toward the Castle, or the Cot, where long ago was bornOne who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the sun may hear his Lay;Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks;Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in Caves and weedy creeks;Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the Air;Ring-doves may fly convuls’d across to some high-cedar’d lair;But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,As Palmer’s, that, with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found.At such a time the Soul’s a child, in childhood is the brain;Forgotten is the worldly heart—alone, it beats in vain.—Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a healthful dayTo tell his forehead’s swoon and faint when first began decay,He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forthTo find a Bard’s low cradle-place about the silent North.Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of Care,Beyond the sweet and bitter world,—beyond it unaware!Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stayWould bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way:O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember’d face,Of Brother’s eyes, of Sister’s brow—constant to every place;Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portraiture intense;More warm than those heroic tints that pain a Painter’s sense,When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old,Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and passions manifold.No No, that horror cannot be, for at the cable’s lengthMan feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength:—One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall,But in the very next he reads his soul’s Memorial:—He reads it on the mountain’s height, where chance he may sit downUpon rough marble diadem—that hill’s eternal Crown.Yet be his Anchor e’er so fast, room is there for a prayerThat man may never lose his Mind on Mountains black and bare;That he may stray league after league some Great birthplace to findAnd keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.
Dun an cullen,[77]Island of Mull [July 23, 1818].
My dear Tom—Just after my last had gone to the Post, in came one of the Men with whom we endeavoured to agree about going to Staffa—he said what a pity it was we should turn aside and not see the curiosities. So we had a little talk, and finally agreed that he should be our guide across the Isle of Mull. We set out, crossed two ferries—one to the Isle of Kerrara, of little distance; the other from Kerrara to Mull 9 Miles across—we did itin forty minutes with a fine Breeze. The road through the Island, or rather the track, is the most dreary you can think of—between dreary Mountains, over bog and rock and river with our Breeches tucked up and our Stockings in hand. About 8 o’Clock we arrived at a shepherd’s Hut, into which we could scarcely get for the Smoke through a door lower than my Shoulders. We found our way into a little compartment with the rafters and turf-thatch blackened with smoke, the earth floor full of Hills and Dales. We had some white Bread with us, made a good supper, and slept in our Clothes in some Blankets; our Guide snored on another little bed about an Arm’s length off. This morning we came about sax Miles to Breakfast, by rather a better path, and we are now in by comparison a Mansion. Our Guide is I think a very obliging fellow—in the way this morning he sang us two Gaelic songs—one made by a Mrs. Brown on her husband’s being drowned, the other a jacobin one on Charles Stuart. For some days Brown has been enquiring out his Genealogy here—he thinks his Grandfather came from long Island. He got a parcel of people about him at a Cottage door last Evening, chatted with ane who had been a Miss Brown, and who I think from a likeness, must have been a Relation—he jawed with the old Woman—flattered a young one—kissed a child who was afraid of his Spectacles and finally drank a pint of Milk. They handle his Spectacles as we do a sensitive leaf.
[Oban,] July 26th.
Well—we had a most wretched walk of 37 Miles across the Island of Mull and then we crossed to Iona or Icolmkill—from Icolmkill we took a boat at a bargain to take us to Staffa and land us at the head of Loch Nakgal,[78]whence we should only have to walk half the distance to Oban again and on a better road. All this is well passed and done, with this singular piece of Luck, that there was an interruption in the badWeather just as we saw Staffa at which it is impossible to land but in a tolerable Calm sea. But I will first mention Icolmkill—I know not whether you have heard much about this Island; I never did before I came nigh it. It is rich in the most interesting Antiquities. Who would expect to find the ruins of a fine Cathedral Church, of Cloisters Colleges Monasteries and Nunneries in so remote an Island? The Beginning of these things was in the sixth Century, under the superstition of a would-be-Bishop-saint, who landed from Ireland, and chose the spot from its Beauty—for at that time the now treeless place was covered with magnificent Woods. Columba in the Gaelic is Colm, signifying Dove—Kill signifies church, and I is as good as Island—so I-colm-kill means the Island of Saint Columba’s Church. Now this Saint Columba became the Dominic of the barbarian Christians of the north and was famed also far south—but more especially was reverenced by the Scots the Picts the Norwegians the Irish. In a course of years perhaps the Island was considered the most holy ground of the north, and the old Kings of the aforementioned nations chose it for their burial-place. We were shown a spot in the Churchyard where they say 61 Kings are buried 48 Scotch from Fergus II. to Macbeth 8 Irish 4 Norwegians and 1 French—they lie in rows compact. Then we were shown other matters of later date, but still very ancient—many tombs of Highland Chieftains—their effigies in complete armour, face upwards, black and moss-covered—Abbots and Bishops of the island always of one of the chief Clans. There were plenty Macleans and Macdonnels; among these latter, the famous Macdonel Lord of the Isles. There have been 300 Crosses in the Island but the Presbyterians destroyed all but two, one of which is a very fine one, and completely covered with a shaggy coarse Moss. The old Schoolmaster, an ignorant little man but reckoned very clever, showed us these things. He is a Maclean, and as much above 4 foot as he is under 4 foot threeinches. He stops at one glass of whisky unless you press another and at the second unless you press a third—
I am puzzled how to give you an Idea of Staffa. It can only be represented by a first-rate drawing. One may compare the surface of the Island to a roof—this roof is supported by grand pillars of basalt standing together as thick as honeycombs. The finest thing is Fingal’s Cave—it is entirely a hollowing out of Basalt Pillars. Suppose now the Giants who rebelled against Jove had taken a whole Mass of black Columns and bound them together like bunches of matches—and then with immense axes had made a cavern in the body of these columns—Of course the roof and floor must be composed of the broken ends of the Columns—such is Fingal’s Cave, except that the Sea has done the work of excavations, and is continually dashing there—so that we walk along the sides of the cave on the pillars which are left as if for convenient stairs. The roof is arched somewhat gothic-wise, and the length of some of the entire side-pillars is fifty feet. About the island you might seat an army of Men each on a pillar. The length of the Cave is 120 feet, and from its extremity the view into the sea, through the large Arch at the entrance—the colour of the columns is a sort of black with a lurking gloom of purple therein. For solemnity and grandeur it far surpasses the finest Cathedral. At the extremity of the Cave there is a small perforation into another cave, at which the waters meeting and buffeting each other there is sometimes produced a report as of a cannon heard as far as Iona, which must be 12 Miles. As we approached in the boat, there was such a fine swell of the sea that the pillars appeared rising immediately out of the crystal. But it is impossible to describe it—
Not Aladdin magianEver such a work began.Not the Wizard of the DeeEver such a dream could see,Not St. John in Patmos IsleIn the passion of his toilWhen he saw the churches sevenGolden-aisled built up in heavenGaz’d at such a rugged wonder.As I stood its roofing underLo! I saw one sleeping thereOn the marble cold and bare.While the surges wash’d his feetAnd his garments white did beatDrench’d about the sombre rocks,On his neck his well-grown locksLifted dry above the MainWere upon the curl again—“What is this? and what art thou?”Whisper’d I, and touch’d his brow;“What art thou? and what is this?”Whisper’d I, and strove to kissThe Spirit’s hand, to wake his eyes;Up he started in a trice:“I am Lycidas,” said he,“Fam’d in funeral Minstrelsy—This was architected thusBy the great Oceanus.Here his mighty waters playHollow Organs all the day,Here, by turns, his dolphins all,Finny palmers great and small,Come to pay devotion due—Each a mouth of pearls must strew!Many a Mortal of these daysDares to pass our sacred ways,Dares to touch, audaciouslyThis Cathedral of the sea—I have been the Pontiff-priest,Where the Waters never rest,Where a fledgy sea-bird choirSoars for ever—holy fireI have hid from Mortal Man.Proteus is my Sacristan.But the stupid eye of MortalHath pass’d beyond the Rocky portal.So for ever will I leaveSuch a taint and soon unweaveAll the magic of the place—’Tis now free to stupid face—To cutters and to fashion boats,To cravats and to Petticoats.The great Sea shall war it down,For its fame shall not be blownAt every farthing quadrille dance.”[79]So saying with a Spirit’s glanceHe dived——
I am sorry I am so indolent as to write such stuff as this. It can’t be helped. The western coast of Scotland is a most strange place—it is composed of rocks, Mountains, mountainous and rocky Islands intersected by lochs—you can go but a short distance anywhere from salt water in the highlands.
I have a slight sore throat and think it best to stay a day or two at Oban—then we shall proceed to Fort William and Inverness, where I am anxious to be on account of a Letter from you. Brown in his Letters puts down every little circumstance. I should like to do the same, but I confess myself too indolent, and besides next winter everything will come up in prime order as we verge on such and such things.
Have you heard in any way of George? I should think by this time he must have landed. I in my carelessness never thought of knowing where a letter would find him on the other side—I think Baltimore, but I am afraid of directing it to the wrong place. I shall begin some chequer work for him directly, and it will be ripe for the post by the time I hear from you next after this. I assure you I often long for a seat and a Cup o’ tea at Well Walk, especially now that mountains, castles, and Lakes are becoming common to me. Yet I would rather summer it out, for on the whole I am happier than when I have time to be glum—perhaps it may cure me. Immediately on my return I shall begin studying hard, with a peep at the theatre now and then—and depend upon it I shall be very luxurious. With respect to Women I think I shall be able to conquer my passionshereafter better than I have yet done. You will help me to talk of George next winter, and we will go now and then to see Fanny. Let me hear a good account of your health and comfort, telling me truly how you do alone. Remember me to all including Mr. and Mrs. Bentley.
Your most affectionate BrotherJohn.
Letter Findlay, August 3 [1818].
Ah mio Ben.
My dear Tom—We have made but poor progress lately, chiefly from bad weather, for my throat is in a fair way of getting quite well, so I have had nothing of consequence to tell you till yesterday when we went up Ben Nevis, the highest Mountain in Great Britain. On that account I will never ascend another in this empire—Skiddaw is nothing to it either in height or in difficulty. It is above 4300 feet from the Sea level, and Fortwilliam stands at the head of a Salt water Lake, consequently we took it completely from that level. I am heartily glad it is done—it is almost like a fly crawling up a wainscoat. Imagine the task of mounting ten Saint Pauls without the convenience of Staircases. We set out about five in the morning with a Guide in the Tartan and Cap, and soon arrived at the foot of the first ascent which we immediately began upon. After much fag and tug and a rest and a glass of whisky apiece we gained the top of the first rise and saw then a tremendous chap above us, which the guide said was still far from the top. After the first Rise our way lay along a heath valley in which there was a Loch—after about a Mile in this Valley we began upon the next ascent, more formidable by far than the last, and kept mounting with short intervals of rest until we got above all vegetation, among nothing but loose Stones which lasted us to the very top. The Guide said we had three Miles of a stony ascent—we gained thefirst tolerable level after the valley to the height of what in the Valley we had thought the top and saw still above us another huge crag which still the Guide said was not the top—to that we made with an obstinate fag, and having gained it there came on a Mist, so that from that part to the very top we walked in a Mist. The whole immense head of the Mountain is composed of large loose stones—thousands of acres. Before we had got halfway up we passed large patches of snow and near the top there is a chasm some hundred feet deep completely glutted with it.—Talking of chasms they are the finest wonder of the whole—they appear great rents in the very heart of the mountain though they are not, being at the side of it, but other huge crags arising round it give the appearance to Nevis of a shattered heart or Core in itself. These Chasms are 1500 feet in depth and are the most tremendous places I have ever seen—they turn one giddy if you choose to give way to it. We tumbled in large stones and set the echoes at work in fine style. Sometimes these chasms are tolerably clear, sometimes there is a misty cloud which seems to steam up and sometimes they are entirely smothered with clouds.
After a little time the Mist cleared away but still there were large Clouds about attracted by old Ben to a certain distance so as to form as it appeared large dome curtains which kept sailing about, opening and shutting at intervals here and there and everywhere: so that although we did not see one vast wide extent of prospect all round we saw something perhaps finer—these cloud-veils opening with a dissolving motion and showing us the mountainous region beneath as through a loophole—these cloudy loopholes ever varying and discovering fresh prospect east, west, north and south. Then it was misty again, and again it was fair—then puff came a cold breeze of wind and bared a craggy chap we had not yet seen though in close neighbourhood. Every now and then we had overhead blue Sky clear and the sun pretty warm. I do not know whether I can give you an Idea ofthe prospect from a large Mountain top. You are on a stony plain which of course makes you forget you are on any but low ground—the horizon or rather edges of this plain being above 4000 feet above the Sea hide all the Country immediately beneath you, so that the next object you see all round next to the edges of the flat top are the Summits of Mountains of some distance off. As you move about on all sides you see more or less of the near neighbour country according as the Mountain you stand upon is in different parts steep or rounded—but the most new thing of all is the sudden leap of the eye from the extremity of what appears a plain into so vast a distance. On one part of the top there is a handsome pile of Stones done pointedly by some soldiers of artillery; I clim[b]ed on to them and so got a little higher than old Ben himself. It was not so cold as I expected—yet cold enough for a glass of Whisky now and then. There is not a more fickle thing than the top of a Mountain—what would a Lady give to change her head-dress as often and with as little trouble!—There are a good many red deer upon Ben Nevis—we did not see one—the dog we had with us kept a very sharp look out and really languished for a bit of a worry. I have said nothing yet of our getting on among the loose stones large and small sometimes on two, sometimes on three, sometimes four legs—sometimes two and stick, sometimes three and stick, then four again, then two, then a jump, so that we kept on ringing changes on foot, hand, stick, jump, boggle, stumble, foot, hand, foot (very gingerly), stick again, and then again a game at all fours. After all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 years of age and the fattest woman in all Inverness-shire who got up this Mountain some few years ago—true she had her servants—but then she had her self. She ought to have hired Sisyphus,—“Up the high hill he heaves a huge round—Mrs. Cameron.” ’Tis said a little conversation took place between the mountain and the Lady. After taking a glass of Whisky as she was tolerably seated at ease she thus began—
Mrs. C.Upon my Life Sir Nevis I am pique’dThat I have so far panted tugg’d and reek’dTo do an honor to your old bald pateAnd now am sitting on you just to bait,Without your paying me one compliment.Alas ’tis so with all, when our intentIs plain, and in the eye of all MankindWe fair ones show a preference, too blind!You Gentle man immediately turn tail—O let me then my hapless fate bewail!Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain’dThe pleasant Valleys—have I not madbrain’dDeserted all my Pickles and preservesMy China closet too—with wretched NervesTo boot—say wretched ingrate have I notLeft my soft cushion chair and caudle pot.’Tis true I had no corns—no! thank the fatesMy Shoemaker was always Mr. Bates.And if not Mr. Bates why I’m not old!Still dumb ungrateful Nevis—still so cold!
Mrs. C.
Upon my Life Sir Nevis I am pique’dThat I have so far panted tugg’d and reek’dTo do an honor to your old bald pateAnd now am sitting on you just to bait,Without your paying me one compliment.Alas ’tis so with all, when our intentIs plain, and in the eye of all MankindWe fair ones show a preference, too blind!You Gentle man immediately turn tail—O let me then my hapless fate bewail!Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain’dThe pleasant Valleys—have I not madbrain’dDeserted all my Pickles and preservesMy China closet too—with wretched NervesTo boot—say wretched ingrate have I notLeft my soft cushion chair and caudle pot.’Tis true I had no corns—no! thank the fatesMy Shoemaker was always Mr. Bates.And if not Mr. Bates why I’m not old!Still dumb ungrateful Nevis—still so cold!
Here the Lady took some more whisky and was putting even more to her lips when she dashed it to the Ground for the Mountain began to grumble—which continued for a few minutes before he thus began—
Ben Nevis.What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus daresDisturb my slumber of a thousand years?Even so long my sleep has been secure—And to be so awaked I’ll not endure.Oh pain—for since the Eagle’s earliest screamI’ve had a damn’d confounded ugly dream,A Nightmare sure. What Madam was it you?It cannot be! My old eyes are not true!Red-Crag, my Spectacles! Now let me see!Good Heavens Lady how the geminiDid you get here? O I shall split my sides!I shall earthquake——Mrs. C.Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I loveYour honest Countenance all things aboveTruly I should not like to be convey’dSo far into your Bosom—gentle MaidLoves not too rough a treatment gentle Sir—Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stirNo not a Stone or I shall go in fits—Ben Nevis.I must—I shall—I meet not such tit bits—I meet not such sweet creatures every day—By my old night cap night cap night and dayI must have one sweet Buss—I must and shall!Red Crag!—What Madam can you then repentOf all the toil and vigour you have spentTo see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose?Red Crag I say! O I must have them close!Red Crag, there lies beneath my furthest toeA vein of Sulphur—go dear Red Crag, go—And rub your flinty back against it—budge!Dear Madam I must kiss you, faith I must!I must Embrace you with my dearest gust!Block-head, d’ye hear—Block-head I’ll make her feelThere lies beneath my east leg’s northern heelA cave of young earth dragons—well my boyGo thither quick and so complete my joyTake you a bundle of the largest pinesAnd when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shinesFire them and ram them in the Dragon’s nestThen will the dragons fry and fizz their bestUntil ten thousand now no bigger thanPoor Alligators—poor things of one span—Will each one swell to twice ten times the sizeOf northern whale—then for the tender prize—The moment then—for then will Red Crag rubHis flinty back—and I shall kiss and snubAnd press my dainty morsel to my breast.Block-head make haste!O Muses weep the rest—The Lady fainted and he thought her deadSo pulled the clouds again about his headAnd went to sleep again—soon she was rous’dBy her affrighted servants—next day hous’dSafe on the lowly ground she bless’d her fateThat fainting fit was not delayed too late.
Ben Nevis.
What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus daresDisturb my slumber of a thousand years?Even so long my sleep has been secure—And to be so awaked I’ll not endure.Oh pain—for since the Eagle’s earliest screamI’ve had a damn’d confounded ugly dream,A Nightmare sure. What Madam was it you?It cannot be! My old eyes are not true!Red-Crag, my Spectacles! Now let me see!Good Heavens Lady how the geminiDid you get here? O I shall split my sides!I shall earthquake——
Mrs. C.
Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I loveYour honest Countenance all things aboveTruly I should not like to be convey’dSo far into your Bosom—gentle MaidLoves not too rough a treatment gentle Sir—Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stirNo not a Stone or I shall go in fits—
Ben Nevis.
I must—I shall—I meet not such tit bits—I meet not such sweet creatures every day—By my old night cap night cap night and dayI must have one sweet Buss—I must and shall!Red Crag!—What Madam can you then repentOf all the toil and vigour you have spentTo see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose?Red Crag I say! O I must have them close!Red Crag, there lies beneath my furthest toeA vein of Sulphur—go dear Red Crag, go—And rub your flinty back against it—budge!Dear Madam I must kiss you, faith I must!I must Embrace you with my dearest gust!Block-head, d’ye hear—Block-head I’ll make her feelThere lies beneath my east leg’s northern heelA cave of young earth dragons—well my boyGo thither quick and so complete my joyTake you a bundle of the largest pinesAnd when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shinesFire them and ram them in the Dragon’s nestThen will the dragons fry and fizz their bestUntil ten thousand now no bigger thanPoor Alligators—poor things of one span—Will each one swell to twice ten times the sizeOf northern whale—then for the tender prize—The moment then—for then will Red Crag rubHis flinty back—and I shall kiss and snubAnd press my dainty morsel to my breast.Block-head make haste!O Muses weep the rest—The Lady fainted and he thought her deadSo pulled the clouds again about his headAnd went to sleep again—soon she was rous’dBy her affrighted servants—next day hous’dSafe on the lowly ground she bless’d her fateThat fainting fit was not delayed too late.
But what surprises me above all is how this Lady got down again. I felt it horribly. ’Twas the most viledescent—shook me all to pieces. Over leaf you will find a Sonnet I wrote on the top of Ben Nevis. We have just entered Inverness. I have three Letters from you and one from Fanny—and one from Dilke. I would set about crossing this all over for you but I will first write to Fanny and Mrs. Wylie. Then I will begin another to you and not before because I think it better you should have this as soon as possible. My Sore throat is not quite well and I intend stopping here a few days.
Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loudUpon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!I look into the chasms, and a shroudVapourous doth hide them,—just so much I wistMankind do know of hell; I look o’erhead,And there is sullen mist,—even so muchMankind can tell of heaven; mist is spreadBefore the earth, beneath me,—even such,Even so vague is man’s sight of himself!Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,—Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,I tread on them,—that all my eye doth meetIs mist and crag, not only on this height,But in the world of thought and mental might!
Good-bye till to-morrow.
Your most affectionate BrotherJohn ——.
Inverness, August 6 [1818].
My dear Madam—It was a great regret to me that I should leave all my friends, just at the moment when I might have helped to soften away the time for them. I wanted not to leave my brother Tom, but more especially, believe me, I should like to have remained near you, were it but for an atom of consolation after parting with so dear a daughter. My brother George has ever been more than a brother to me; he has been my greatest friend, and I can never forget the sacrifice you have made for his happiness. As I walk along the Mountains here I amfull of these things, and lay in wait, as it were, for the pleasure of seeing you immediately on my return to town. I wish, above all things, to say a word of Comfort to you, but I know not how. It is impossible to prove that black is white; it is impossible to make out that sorrow is joy, or joy is sorrow.
Tom tells me that you called on Mr. Haslam, with a newspaper giving an account of a gentleman in a Fur cap falling over a precipice in Kirkcudbrightshire. If it was me, I did it in a dream, or in some magic interval between the first and second cup of tea; which is nothing extraordinary when we hear that Mahomet, in getting out of Bed, upset a jug of water, and, whilst it was falling, took a fortnight’s trip, as it seemed, to Heaven; yet was back in time to save one drop of water being spilt. As for Fur caps, I do not remember one beside my own, except at Carlisle: this was a very good Fur cap I met in High Street, and I daresay was the unfortunate one. I daresay that the fates, seeing but two Fur caps in the north, thought it too extraordinary, and so threw the dies which of them should be drowned. The lot fell upon Jones: I daresay his name was Jones. All I hope is that the gaunt Ladies said not a word about hanging; if they did I shall repent that I was not half-drowned in Kirkcudbright. Stop! let me see!—being half-drowned by falling from a precipice, is a very romantic affair: why should I not take it to myself? How glorious to be introduced in a drawing-room to a Lady who reads Novels, with “Mr. So-and-so—Miss So-and-so; Miss So-and-so, this is Mr. So-and-so, who fell off a precipice and was half-drowned.” Now I refer to you, whether I should lose so fine an opportunity of making my fortune. No romance lady could resist me—none. Being run under a Waggon—side-lamed in a playhouse, Apoplectic through Brandy—and a thousand other tolerably decent things for badness, would be nothing, but being tumbled over a precipice into the sea—oh! it would make my fortune—especially if you could contrive to hint, from this bulletin’s authority, thatI was not upset on my own account, but that I dashed into the waves after Jessy of Dumblane, and pulled her out by the hair. But that, alas! she was dead, or she would have made me happy with her hand—however in this you may use your own discretion. But I must leave joking, and seriously aver, that I have been very romantic indeed among these Mountains and Lakes. I have got wet through, day after day—eaten oat-cake, and drank Whisky—walked up to my knees in Bog—got a sore throat—gone to see Icolmkill and Staffa; met with wholesome food just here and there as it happened—went up Ben Nevis, and—N.B., came down again. Sometimes when I am rather tired I lean rather languishingly on a rock, and long for some famous Beauty to get down from her Palfrey in passing, approach me, with—her saddle-bags, and give me—a dozen or two capital roastbeef Sandwiches.
When I come into a large town, you know there is no putting one’s Knapsack into one’s fob, so the people stare. We have been taken for Spectacle-vendors, Razor-sellers, Jewellers, travelling linendrapers, Spies, Excisemen, and many things I have no idea of. When I asked for letters at Port Patrick, the man asked what regiment? I have had a peep also at little Ireland. Tell Henry I have not camped quite on the bare Earth yet, but nearly as bad, in walking through Mull, for the Shepherds’ huts you can scarcely breathe in, for the Smoke which they seem to endeavour to preserve for smoking on a large scale. Besides riding about 400, we have walked above 600 Miles, and may therefore reckon ourselves as set out.
I assure you, my dear Madam, that one of the greatest pleasures I shall have on my return, will be seeing you, and that I shall ever be
Yours, with the greatest respect and sincerity,John Keats.
Hampstead, August 18 [1818].
My dear Fanny—I am afraid you will think me very negligent in not having answered your Letter—I see it is dated June 12. I did not arrive at Inverness till the 8th of this Month so I am very much concerned at your being disappointed so long a time. I did not intend to have returned to London so soon but have a bad sore throat from a cold I caught in the island of Mull: therefore I thought it best to get home as soon as possible, and went on board the Smack from Cromarty. We had a nine days’ passage and were landed at London Bridge yesterday. I shall have a good deal to tell you about Scotland—I would begin here but I have a confounded toothache. Tom has not been getting better since I left London and for the last fortnight has been worse than ever—he has been getting a little better for these two or three days. I shall ask Mr. Abbey to let me bring you to Hampstead. If Mr. A. should see this Letter tell him that he still must if he pleases forward the Post Bill to Perth as I have empowered my fellow traveller to receive it. I have a few Scotch pebbles for you from the Island of Icolmkill—I am afraid they are rather shabby—I did not go near the Mountain of Cairn Gorm. I do not know the Name of George’s ship—the Name of the Port he has gone to is Philadelphia whence he will travel to the Settlement across the Country—I will tell you all about this when I see you. The Title of my last Book is Endymion—you shall have one soon.—I would not advise you to play on the Flageolet—however I will get you one if you please. I will speak to Mr. Abbey on what you say concerning school. I am sorry for your poor Canary. You shall have another volume of my first Book. My toothache keeps on so that I cannot write with any pleasure—all I can say now is that your Letter is a very nice one without fault andthat you will hear from or see in a few days if his throat will let him,
Your affectionate BrotherJohn.
Hampstead, Tuesday [August 25, 1818].
My dear Fanny—I have just written to Mr. Abbey to ask him to let you come and see poor Tom who has lately been much worse. He is better at present—sends his Love to you and wishes much to see you—I hope he will shortly—I have not been able to come to Walthamstow on his account as well as a little Indisposition of my own. I have asked Mr. A. to write me—if he does not mention anything of it to you, I will tell you what reasons he has though I do not think he will make any objection. Write me what you want with a Flageolet and I will get one ready for you by the time you come.
Your affectionate BrotherJohn ——.
Well Walk, September 1st [1818].
My dear Jane—Certainly your kind note would rather refresh than trouble me, and so much the more would your coming if as you say, it could be done without agitating my Brother too much. Receive on your Hearth our deepest thanks for your Solicitude concerning us.
I am glad John is not hurt, but gone safe into Devonshire—I shall be in great expectation of his Letter—but the promise of it in so anxious and friendly a way I prize more than a hundred. I shall be in town to-day on some business with my guardian “as was” with scarce a hope of being able to call on you. For these two last days Tom has been more cheerful: you shall hear again soon how he will be.
Remember us particularly to your Mother.
Your sincere friendJohn Keats.
[Hampstead, September 21 1818.]
My dear Dilke—According to the Wentworth place Bulletin you have left Brighton much improved: therefore now a few lines will be more of a pleasure than a bore. I have things to say to you, and would fain begin upon them in this fourth line: but I have a Mind too well regulated to proceed upon anything without due preliminary remarks.—You may perhaps have observed that in the simple process of eating radishes I never begin at the root but constantly dip the little green head in the salt—that in the Game of Whist if I have an ace I constantly play it first. So how can I with any face begin without a dissertation on letter-writing? Yet when I consider that a sheet of paper contains room only for three pages and a half, how can I do justice to such a pregnant subject? However, as you have seen the history of the world stamped as it were by a diminishing glass in the form of a chronological Map, so will I “with retractile claws” draw this into the form of a table—whereby it will occupy merely the remainder of this first page—
Folio—Parsons, Lawyers, Statesmen, Physicians out of place—ut—Eustace—Thornton—out of practice or on their travels.Foolscap—1. Superfine—Rich or noble poets—ut Byron. 2. common ut egomet.Quarto—Projectors, Patentees, Presidents, Potato growers.Bath—Boarding schools, and suburbans in general.Gilt edge—Dandies in general, male, female, and literary.Octavo or tears—All who make use of a lascivious seal.Duodec.—May be found for the most part on Milliners’ and Dressmakers’ Parlour tables.Strip—At the Playhouse-doors, or anywhere.Slip—Being but a variation.Snip—So called from its size being disguised by a twist.
Folio—Parsons, Lawyers, Statesmen, Physicians out of place—ut—Eustace—Thornton—out of practice or on their travels.
Foolscap—1. Superfine—Rich or noble poets—ut Byron. 2. common ut egomet.
Quarto—Projectors, Patentees, Presidents, Potato growers.
Bath—Boarding schools, and suburbans in general.
Gilt edge—Dandies in general, male, female, and literary.
Octavo or tears—All who make use of a lascivious seal.
Duodec.—May be found for the most part on Milliners’ and Dressmakers’ Parlour tables.
Strip—At the Playhouse-doors, or anywhere.
Slip—Being but a variation.
Snip—So called from its size being disguised by a twist.
I suppose you will have heard that Hazlitt has on foot a prosecution against Blackwood. I dined with him a few days since at Hessey’s—there was not a word said about it, though I understand he is excessively vexed. Reynolds, by what I hear, is almost over-happy, and Rice is in town. I have not seen him, nor shall I for some time, as my throat has become worse after getting well, and I am determined to stop at home till I am quite well. I was going to Town to-morrow with Mrs. D. but I thought it best to ask her excuse this morning. I wish I could say Tom was any better. His identity presses upon me so all day that I am obliged to go out—and although I intended to have given some time to study alone, I am obliged to write and plunge into abstract images to ease myself of his countenance, his voice, and feebleness—so that I live now in a continual fever. It must be poisonous to life, although I feel well. Imagine “the hateful siege of contraries”—if I think of fame, of poetry, it seems a crime to me, and yet I must do so or suffer. I am sorry to give you pain—I am almost resolved to burn this—but I really have not self-possession and magnanimity enough to manage the thing otherwise—after all it may be a nervousness proceeding from the Mercury.
Bailey I hear is gaining his spirits, and he will yet be what I once thought impossible, a cheerful Man—I think he is not quite so much spoken of in Little Britain. I forgot to ask Mrs. Dilke if she had anything she wanted to say immediately to you. This morning look’d so unpromising that I did not think she would have gone—but I find she has, on sending for some volumes of Gibbon. I was in a little funk yesterday, for I sent in an unseal’d note of sham abuse, until I recollected, fromwhat I heard Charles say, that the servant could neither read nor write—not even to her Mother as Charles observed. I have just had a Letter from Reynolds—he is going on gloriously. The following is a translation of a line of Ronsard—
Love pour’d her beauty into my warm veins.
You have passed your Romance, and I never gave in to it, or else I think this line a feast for one of your Lovers. How goes it with Brown?
Your sincere friendJohn Keats.
[Hampstead, about September 22, 1818.]
My dear Reynolds—Believe me I have rather rejoiced at your happiness than fretted at your silence. Indeed I am grieved on your account that I am not at the same time happy—But I conjure you to think at Present of nothing but pleasure—“Gather the rose, etc.”—gorge the honey of life. I pity you as much that it cannot last for ever, as I do myself now drinking bitters. Give yourself up to it—you cannot help it—and I have a Consolation in thinking so. I never was in love—Yet the voice and shape of a Woman has haunted me these two days[80]—at such a time, when the relief, the feverous relief of Poetry seems a much less crime—This morning Poetry has conquered—I have relapsed into those abstractions which are my only life—I feel escaped from a new strange and threatening sorrow—And I am thankful for it—There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of Immortality.
Poor Tom—that woman—and Poetry were ringing changes in my senses—Now I am in comparison happy—I am sensible this will distress you—you must forgive me. Had I known you would have set out so soon Icould have sent you the ‘Pot of Basil’ for I had copied it out ready.—Here is a free translation of a Sonnet of Ronsard, which I think will please you—I have the loan of his works—they have great Beauties.
Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies,For more adornment, a full thousand years;She took their cream of Beauty’s fairest dyes,And shap’d and tinted her above all Peers:Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings,And underneath their shadow fill’d her eyesWith such a richness that the cloudy KingsOf high Olympus utter’d slavish sighs.When from the Heavens I saw her first descend,My heart took fire, and only burning pains,They were my pleasures—they my Life’s sad end;Love pour’d her beauty into my warm veins.**********
I had not the original by me when I wrote it, and did not recollect the purport of the last lines.
I should have seen Rice ere this—but I am confined by Sawrey’s mandate in the house now, and have as yet only gone out in fear of the damp night.—You know what an undangerous matter it is. I shall soon be quite recovered—Your offer I shall remember as though it had even now taken place in fact—I think it cannot be. Tom is not up yet—I cannot say he is better. I have not heard from George.
Your affectionate friendJohn Keats.
[Hampstead, October 9, 1818.]
My dear Fanny—Poor Tom is about the same as when you saw him last; perhaps weaker—were it not for that I should have been over to pay you a visit these fine days. I got to the stage half an hour before it set out and counted the buns and tarts in a Pastry-cook’s window and was just beginning with the Jellies. Therewas no one in the Coach who had a Mind to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be punctual in enquiring about next Thursday—
Your affectionate BrotherJohn.
[Hampstead, October 9, 1818.]
My dear Hessey—You are very good in sending me the letters from the Chronicle—and I am very bad in not acknowledging such a kindness sooner—pray forgive me. It has so chanced that I have had that paper every day—I have seen to-day’s. I cannot but feel indebted to those Gentlemen who have taken my part—As for the rest, I begin to get a little acquainted with my own strength and weakness.—Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own Works. My own domestic criticism has given me pain without comparison beyond what Blackwood or the Quarterly could possibly inflict—and also when I feel I am right, no external praise can give me such a glow as my own solitary reperception and ratification of what is fine. J. S. is perfectly right in regard to the slip-shod Endymion.[81]That it is so is no fault of mine. No!—though it may sound a little paradoxical. It is as good as I had power to make it—by myself—Had I been nervous about its being a perfect piece, and with that view asked advice, and trembled over every page, it would not have been written; for it is not in my nature to fumble—I will write independently.—I have written independentlywithout Judgment. I may write independently, andwith Judgment, hereafter. The Genius of Poetry must workout its own salvation in a man: It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in itself—That which is creative must create itself—In Endymion, I leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby have become better acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice. I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest—But I am nigh getting into a rant. So, with remembrances to Taylor and Woodhouse etc. I am
Yours very sincerelyJohn Keats.
[Hampstead, October 13 or 14, 1818.]
My dear George—There was a part in your Letter which gave me a great deal of pain, that where you lament not receiving Letters from England. I intended to have written immediately on my return from Scotland (which was two Months earlier than I had intended on account of my own as well as Tom’s health) but then I was told by Mrs. W. that you had said you would not wish any one to write till we had heard from you. This I thought odd and now I see that it could not have been so; yet at the time I suffered my unreflecting head to be satisfied, and went on in that sort of abstract careless and restless Life with which you are well acquainted. This sentence should it give you any uneasiness do not let it last for before I finish it will be explained away to your satisfaction—
I am grieved to say I am not sorry you had not Letters at Philadelphia; you could have had no good news of Tom and I have been withheld on his account from beginning these many days; I could not bring myself to say the truth, that he is no better but much worse—However it must be told; and you must my dear Brother and Sister take example from me and bear up against any Calamity formy sake as I do for yours. Our’s are ties which independent of their own Sentiment are sent us by providence to prevent the deleterious effects of one great solitary grief. I have Fanny and I have you—three people whose Happiness to me is sacred—and it does annul that selfish sorrow which I should otherwise fall into, living as I do with poor Tom who looks upon me as his only comfort—the tears will come into your Eyes—let them—and embrace each other—thank heaven for what happiness you have, and after thinking a moment or two that you suffer in common with all Mankind hold it not a sin to regain your cheerfulness—
I will relieve you of one uneasiness of overleaf: I returned I said on account of my health—I am now well from a bad sore throat which came of bog trotting in the Island of Mull—of which you shall hear by the copies I shall make from my Scotch Letters—
Your content in each other is a delight to me which I cannot express—the Moon is now shining full and brilliant—she is the same to me in Matter, what you are to me in Spirit. If you were here my dear Sister I could not pronounce the words which I can write to you from a distance: I have a tenderness for you, and an admiration which I feel to be as great and more chaste than I can have for any woman in the world. You will mention Fanny—her character is not formed, her identity does not press upon me as yours does. I hope from the bottom of my heart that I may one day feel as much for her as I do for you—I know not how it is, but I have never made any acquaintance of my own—nearly all through your medium my dear Brother—through you I know not only a Sister but a glorious human being. And now I am talking of those to whom you have made me known I cannot forbear mentioning Haslam as a most kind and obliging and constant friend. His behaviour to Tom during my absence and since my return has endeared him to me for ever—besides his anxiety about you. To-morrow I shall call on your Mother andexchange information with her. On Tom’s account I have not been able to pass so much time with her as I would otherwise have done—I have seen her but twice—once I dined with her and Charles—She was well, in good spirits, and I kept her laughing at my bad jokes. We went to tea at Mrs. Millar’s, and in going were particularly struck with the light and shade through the Gate way at the Horse Guards. I intend to write you such Volumes that it will be impossible for me to keep any order or method in what I write: that will come first which is uppermost in my Mind, not that which is uppermost in my heart—besides I should wish to give you a picture of our Lives here whenever by a touch I can do it; even as you must see by the last sentence our walk past Whitehall all in good health and spirits—this I am certain of, because I felt so much pleasure from the simple idea of your playing a game at Cricket. At Mrs. Millar’s I saw Henry quite well—there was Miss Keasle—and the good-natured Miss Waldegrave—Mrs. Millar began a long story and you know it is her Daughter’s way to help her on as though her tongue were ill of the gout. Mrs. M. certainly tells a story as though she had been taught her Alphabet in Crutched Friars. Dilke has been very unwell; I found him very ailing on my return—he was under Medical care for some time, and then went to the Sea Side whence he has returned well. Poor little Mrs. D. has had another gall-stone attack; she was well ere I returned—she is now at Brighton. Dilke was greatly pleased to hear from you, and will write a letter for me to enclose—He seems greatly desirous of hearing from you of the settlement itself—
[October 14 or 15.]
I came by ship from Inverness, and was nine days at Sea without being sick—a little Qualm now and then put me in mind of you—however as soon as you touch the shore all the horrors of Sickness are soon forgotten, as was the case with a Lady on board who could nothold her head up all the way. We had not been in the Thames an hour before her tongue began to some tune; paying off as it was fit she should all old scores. I was the only Englishman on board. There was a downright Scotchman who hearing that there had been a bad crop of Potatoes in England had brought some triumphant specimens from Scotland—these he exhibited with national pride to all the Lightermen and Watermen from the Nore to the Bridge. I fed upon beef all the way; not being able to eat the thick Porridge which the Ladies managed to manage with large awkward horn spoons into the bargain. Severn has had a narrow escape of his Life from a Typhus fever: he is now gaining strength—Reynolds has returned from a six weeks’ enjoyment in Devonshire—he is well, and persuades me to publish my pot of Basil as an answer to the attacks made on me in Blackwood’s Magazine and the Quarterly Review. There have been two Letters in my defence in the Chronicle and one in the Examiner, copied from the Alfred Exeter Paper, and written by Reynolds. I do not know who wrote those in the Chronicle. This is a mere matter of the moment—I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death. Even as a Matter of present interest the attempt to crush me in the Quarterly has only brought me more into notice, and it is a common expression among book men “I wonder the Quarterly should cut its own throat.”
It does me not the least harm in Society to make me appear little and ridiculous: I know when a man is superior to me and give him all due respect—he will be the last to laugh at me and as for the rest I feel that I make an impression upon them which insures me personal respect while I am in sight whatever they may say when my back is turned. Poor Haydon’s eyes will not suffer him to proceed with his picture—he has been in the Country—I have seen him but once since my return. I hurry matters together here because I do not know when the Mail sails—I shallenquire to-morrow, and then shall know whether to be particular or general in my letter—You shall have at least two sheets a day till it does sail whether it be three days or a fortnight—and then I will begin a fresh one for the next Month. The Miss Reynoldses are very kind to me, but they have lately displeased me much, and in this way—Now I am coming the Richardson. On my return the first day I called they were in a sort of taking or bustle about a Cousin of theirs who having fallen out with her Grandpapa in a serious manner was invited by Mrs. R. to take Asylum in her house. She is an east indian and ought to be her Grandfather’s Heir.[82]At the time I called Mrs. R. was in conference with her up stairs, and the young Ladies were warm in her praises down stairs, calling her genteel, interesting and a thousand other pretty things to which I gave no heed, not being partial to 9 days’ wonders—Now all is completely changed—they hate her, and from what I hear she is not without faults—of a real kind: but she has others which are more apt to make women of inferior charms hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, but she is at least a Charmian. She has a rich Eastern look; she has fine eyes and fine manners. When she comes into a room she makes an impression the same as the Beauty of a Leopardess. She is too fine and too conscious of herself to repulse any Man who may address her—from habit she thinks that nothingparticular. I always find myself more at ease with such a woman; the picture before me always gives me a life and animation which I cannot possibly feel with anything inferior. I am at such times too much occupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble. I forget myself entirely because I live in her. You will by this time think I am in love with her; so before I go any further I will tell you I am not—she kept me awake one Night as a tune of Mozart’s might do. I speak of the thing as a pastime and an amusement, than which I can feel none deeper than a conversation with an imperial woman,the very “yes” and “no” of whose Lips is to me a Banquet. I don’t cry to take the moon home with me in my Pocket nor do I fret to leave her behind me. I like her and her like because one has nosensations—what we both are is taken for granted. You will suppose I have by this had much talk with her—no such thing—there are the Miss Reynoldses on the look out—They think I don’t admire her because I did not stare at her.
They call her a flirt to me—What a want of knowledge! She walks across a room in such a manner that a Man is drawn towards her with a magnetic Power. This they call flirting! they do not know things. They do not know what a Woman is. I believe though she has faults—the same as Charmian and Cleopatra might have had. Yet she is a fine thing speaking in a worldly way: for there are two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of things—the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and ethereal—in the former Buonaparte, Lord Byron and this Charmian hold the first place in our Minds; in the latter, John Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child’s cradle and you my dear Sister are the conquering feelings. As a Man in the world I love the rich talk of a Charmian; as an eternal Being I love the thought of you. I should like her to ruin me, and I should like you to save me. Do not think, my dear Brother, from this that my Passions are headlong, or likely to be ever of any pain to you—
“I am free from Men of Pleasure’s cares,By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs.”
This is Lord Byron, and is one of the finest things he has said. I have no town talk for you, as I have not been much among people—as for Politics they are in my opinion only sleepy because they will soon be too wide awake. Perhaps not—for the long and continued Peace of England itself has given us notions of personal safety which are likely to prevent the re-establishment of our national Honesty.There is, of a truth, nothing manly or sterling in any part of the Government. There are many Madmen in the Country I have no doubt, who would like to be beheaded on tower Hill merely for the sake of éclat, there are many Men like Hunt who from a principle of taste would like to see things go on better, there are many like Sir F. Burdett who like to sit at the head of political dinners,—but there are none prepared to suffer in obscurity for their Country—The motives of our worst men are Interest and of our best Vanity. We have no Milton, no Algernon Sidney—Governors in these days lose the title of Man in exchange for that of Diplomat and Minister. We breathe in a sort of Officinal Atmosphere—All the departments of Government have strayed far from Simplicity which is the greatest of Strength there is as much difference in this respect between the present Government and Oliver Cromwell’s as there is between the 12 Tables of Rome and the volumes of Civil Law which were digested by Justinian. A Man now entitled Chancellor has the same honour paid to him whether he be a Hog or a Lord Bacon. No sensation is created by Greatness but by the number of Orders a Man has at his Button holes. Notwithstanding the part which the Liberals take in the Cause of Napoleon, I cannot but think he has done more harm to the life of Liberty than any one else could have done: not that the divine right Gentlemen have done or intend to do any good—no they have taken a Lesson of him, and will do all the further harm he would have done without any of the good. The worst thing he has done is, that he has taught them how to organise their monstrous armies. The Emperor Alexander it is said intends to divide his Empire as did Diocletian—creating two Czars besides himself, and continuing the supreme Monarch of the whole. Should he do this and they for a series of Years keep peaceable among themselves Russia may spread her conquest even to China—I think it a very likely thing that China itself may fall, Turkey certainly will. Meanwhile European north Russia willhold its horns against the rest of Europe, intriguing constantly with France. Dilke, whom you know to be a Godwin perfectibility Man, pleases himself with the idea that America will be the country to take up the human intellect where England leaves off—I differ there with him greatly—A country like the United States, whose greatest Men are Franklins and Washingtons will never do that. They are great Men doubtless, but how are they to be compared to those our countrymen Milton and the two Sidneys? The one is a philosophical Quaker full of mean and thrifty maxims, the other sold the very Charger who had taken him through all his Battles. Those Americans are great, but they are not sublime Man—the humanity of the United States can never reach the sublime. Birkbeck’s mind is too much in the American style—you must endeavour to infuse a little Spirit of another sort into the settlement, always with great caution, for thereby you may do your descendants more good than you may imagine. If I had a prayer to make for any great good, next to Tom’s recovery, it should be that one of your Children should be the first American Poet. I have a great mind to make a prophecy, and they say prophecies work out their own fulfilment—
’Tis the witching time of night,Orbed is the moon and bright,And the Stars they glisten, glisten,Seeming with bright eyes to listen.For what listen they?For a song and for a charm,See they glisten in alarmAnd the Moon is waxing warmTo hear what I shall say.Moon keep wide thy golden earsHearken Stars and hearken SpheresHearken thou eternal SkyI sing an infant’s Lullaby,O pretty Lullaby!Listen, Listen, listen, listenGlisten, glisten, glisten, glistenAnd hear my Lullaby!Though the Rushes that will makeIts cradle still are in the lake,Though the linen that will beIts swathe, is on the cotton tree,Though the woollen that will keepIt warm, is on the silly sheep;Listen Starlight, listen, listenGlisten, Glisten, glisten, glistenAnd hear my Lullaby!Child! I see thee! Child, I’ve found theeMidst of the quiet all around thee!Child, I see thee! Child, I spy theeAnd thy mother sweet is nigh thee!—Child, I know thee! Child no moreBut a PoetevermoreSee, See the Lyre, The LyreIn a flame of fireUpon the little cradle’s topFlaring, flaring, flaringPast the eyesight’s bearing—Awake it from its sleep,And see if it can keepIts eyes upon the blaze—Amaze, Amaze!It stares, it stares, it staresIt dares what no one daresIt lifts its little hand into the flameUnharm’d, and on the stringsPaddles a little tune and singsWith dumb endeavour sweetly!Bard art thou completely!Little ChildO’ the western wild,Bard art thou completely!—Sweetly, with dumb endeavour—A Poet now or never!Little ChildO’ the western wildA Poet now or never!
[October 16.]
This is Friday, I know not what day of the Month—I will enquire to-morrow, for it is fit you should know the time I am writing. I went to Town yesterday, and calling at Mrs. Millar’s was told that your Mother would not be found at home—I met Henry as I turned the corner—I had no leisure to return, so I left the letterswith him. He was looking very well. Poor Tom is no better to-night—I am afraid to ask him what Message I shall send from him. And here I could go on complaining of my Misery, but I will keep myself cheerful for your Sakes. With a great deal of trouble I have succeeded in getting Fanny to Hampstead. She has been several times. Mr. Lewis has been very kind to Tom all the summer, there has scarce a day passed but he has visited him, and not one day without bringing or sending some fruit of the nicest kind. He has been very assiduous in his enquiries after you—It would give the old Gentleman a great deal of pleasure if you would send him a Sheet enclosed in the next parcel to me, after you receive this—how long it will be first—Why did I not write to Philadelphia? Really I am sorry for that neglect. I wish to go on writing ad infinitum to you—I wish for interesting matter and a pen as swift as the wind—But the fact is I go so little into the Crowd now that I have nothing fresh and fresh every day to speculate upon except my own Whims and Theories. I have been but once to Haydon’s, once to Hunt’s, once to Rice’s, once to Hessey’s. I have not seen Taylor, I have not been to the Theatre. Now if I had been many times to all these and was still in the habit of going I could on my return at night have each day something new to tell you of without any stop—But now I have such a dearth that when I get to the end of this sentence and to the bottom of this page I must wait till I can find something interesting to you before I begin another. After all it is not much matter what it may be about, for the very words from such a distance penned by this hand will be grateful to you—even though I were to copy out the tale of Mother Hubbard or Little Red Riding Hood.
[Later.]
I have been over to Dilke’s this evening—there with Brown we have been talking of different and indifferent Matters—of Euclid, of Metaphysics, of the Bible, ofShakspeare, of the horrid System and consequences of the fagging at great schools. I know not yet how large a parcel I can send—I mean by way of Letters—I hope there can be no objection to my dowling up a quire made into a small compass. That is the manner in which I shall write. I shall send you more than Letters—I mean a tale—which I must begin on account of the activity of my Mind; of its inability to remain at rest. It must be prose and not very exciting. I must do this because in the way I am at present situated I have too many interruptions to a train of feeling to be able to write Poetry. So I shall write this Tale, and if I think it worth while get a duplicate made before I send it off to you.
[October 21.]
This is a fresh beginning the 21st October. Charles and Henry were with us on Sunday, and they brought me your Letter to your Mother—we agreed to get a Packet off to you as soon as possible. I shall dine with your Mother to-morrow, when they have promised to have their Letters ready. I shall send as soon as possible without thinking of the little you may have from me in the first parcel, as I intend, as I said before, to begin another Letter of more regular information. Here I want to communicate so largely in a little time that I am puzzled where to direct my attention. Haslam has promised to let me know from Capper and Hazlewood. For want of something better I shall proceed to give you some extracts from my Scotch Letters—Yet now I think on it why not send you the letters themselves—I have three of them at present—I believe Haydon has two which I will get in time. I dined with your Mother and Henry at Mrs. Millar’s on Thursday, when they gave me their Letters. Charles’s I have not yet—he has promised to send it. The thought of sending my Scotch Letters has determined me to enclose a few more which I have received and which will give you the best cue to how I am going on, better than you could otherwise know. Your Motherwas well, and I was sorry I could not stop later. I called on Hunt yesterday—it has been always my fate to meet Ollier there—On Thursday I walked with Hazlitt as far as Covent Garden: he was going to play Racquets. I think Tom has been rather better these few last days—he has been less nervous. I expect Reynolds to-morrow.
[Later, about October 25.]
Since I wrote thus far I have met with that same Lady again, whom I saw at Hastings and whom I met when we were going to the English Opera. It was in a street which goes from Bedford Row to Lamb’s Conduit Street.—I passed her and turned back: she seemed glad of it—glad to see me, and not offended at my passing her before. We walked on towards Islington, where we called on a friend of hers who keeps a Boarding School. She has always been an enigma to me—she has been in a Room with you and Reynolds, and wishes we should be acquainted without any of our common acquaintance knowing it. As we went along, sometimes through shabby, sometimes through decent Streets, I had my guessing at work, not knowing what it would be, and prepared to meet any surprise. First it ended at this House at Islington: on parting from which I pressed to attend her home. She consented, and then again my thoughts were at work what it might lead to, though now they had received a sort of genteel hint from the Boarding School. Our Walk ended in 34 Gloucester Street, Queen Square—not exactly so, for we went upstairs into her sitting-room, a very tasty sort of place with Books, Pictures, a bronze Statue of Buonaparte, Music, æolian Harp, a Parrot, a Linnet, a Case of choice Liqueurs, etc. etc. She behaved in the kindest manner—made me take home a Grouse for Tom’s dinner. Asked for my address for the purpose of sending more game.... I expect to pass some pleasant hours with her now and then: in which I feel I shall be of service to her in matters of knowledge and taste: if I can I will.... She and yourGeorge are the only women à peu près de mon age whom I would be content to know for their mind and friendship alone.—I shall in a short time write you as far as I know how I intend to pass my Life—I cannot think of those things now Tom is so unwell and weak. Notwithstanding your Happiness and your recommendation I hope I shall never marry. Though the most beautiful Creature were waiting for me at the end of a Journey or a Walk; though the Carpet were of Silk, the Curtains of the morning Clouds; the chairs and Sofa stuffed with Cygnet’s down; the food Manna, the Wine beyond Claret, the Window opening on Winander mere, I should not feel—or rather my Happiness would not be so fine, as my Solitude is sublime. Then instead of what I have described, there is a sublimity to welcome me home—The roaring of the wind is my wife and the Stars through the window pane are my Children. The mighty abstract Idea I have of Beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness—an amiable wife and sweet Children I contemplate as a part of that Beauty, but I must have a thousand of those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. I feel more and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone but in a thousand worlds—No sooner am I alone than shapes of epic greatness are stationed around me, and serve my Spirit the office which is equivalent to a King’s bodyguard—then “Tragedy with sceptred pall comes sweeping by.” According to my state of mind I am with Achilles shouting in the Trenches, or with Theocritus in the Vales of Sicily. Or I throw my whole being into Troilus, and repeating those lines, “I wander like a lost Soul upon the stygian Banks staying for waftage,” I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so delicate that I am content to be alone. These things, combined with the opinion I have of the generality of women—who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar Plum than my time, form a barrier against Matrimony which I rejoice in.
I have written this that you might see I have my share of the highest pleasures, and that though I may choose to pass my days alone I shall be no Solitary. You see there is nothing spleenical in all this. The only thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one short passing day, is any doubt about my powers for poetry—I seldom have any, and I look with hope to the nighing time when I shall have none. I am as happy as a Man can be—that is, in myself I should be happy if Tom was well, and I knew you were passing pleasant days. Then I should be most enviable—with the yearning Passion I have for the beautiful, connected and made one with the ambition of my intellect. Think of my Pleasure in Solitude in comparison of my commerce with the world—there I am a child—there they do not know me, not even my most intimate acquaintance—I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child. Some think me middling, others silly, others foolish—every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will, when in truth it is with my will—I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so great a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room and eclipse from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet. I hope I am not here playing tricks ‘to make the angels weep’: I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species, and though it may sound paradoxical, my greatest elevations of soul leave me every time more humbled—Enough of this—though in your Love for me you will not think it enough.
[Later, October 29 or 31.]
Haslam has been here this morning and has taken all the Letters except this sheet, which I shall send him by the Twopenny, as he will put the Parcel in the Boston post Bag by the advice of Capper and Hazlewood, who assure him of the safety and expedition that way—the Parcel will be forwarded to Warder and thence to you all the same.There will not be a Philadelphia ship for these six weeks—by that time I shall have another Letter to you. Mind you I mark this Letter A. By the time you will receive this you will have I trust passed through the greatest of your fatigues. As it was with your Sea Sickness I shall not hear of them till they are past. Do not set to your occupation with too great an anxiety—take it calmly—and let your health be the prime consideration. I hope you will have a Son, and it is one of my first wishes to have him in my Arms—which I will do please God before he cuts one double tooth. Tom is rather more easy than he has been: but is still so nervous that I cannot speak to him of these Matters—indeed it is the care I have had to keep his Mind aloof from feelings too acute that has made this Letter so short a one—I did not like to write before him a Letter he knew was to reach your hands—I cannot even now ask him for any Message—his heart speaks to you. Be as happy as you can. Think of me, and for my sake be cheerful.