"July 24, 1800.
My dear sir,
I find your letter on my arrival at Grasmere, namely, dated on the 29th
of June, since which time to the present, with the exception of the last
few days, I have been more unwell than I have ever been since I left
school. For many days I was forced to keep my bed, and when released from
that incarceration, I suffered most grievously from a brace of swollen
eyelids, and a head into which, on the least agitation, the blood was
felt as rushing in and flowing back again, like the raking of the tide on
a coast of loose stones. However, thank God, I am now coming about again.
That Tom receives such pleasure from natural scenery strikes me as it
does you. The total incapability which I have found in myself to
associate any but the most languid feelings, with the God-like objects
which have surrounded me, and the nauseous efforts to impress my
admiration into the service of nature, has given me a sympathy with his
former state of health, which I never before could have had. I wish, from
the bottom of my soul, that he may be enjoying similar pleasures with
those which I am now enjoying with all that newness of sensation; that
voluptuous correspondence of the blood and flesh about me with breeze and
sun-heat, which makes convalescence more than repay one for disease.
I parted from Poole with pain and dejection, for him, and for myself in
him. I should have given Stowey a decided preference for a residence. It
was likewise so conveniently situated, that I was in the way of almost
all whom I love and esteem. But there was no suitable house, and no
prospect of a suitable house.
... These things would have weighed as nothing, could I have remained at
Stowey, but now they come upon me to diminish my regret. Add to this,
Poole's determination to spend a year or two on the continent, in case of
a peace and his mother's death. God in heaven bless her! I am sure she
will not live long. This is the first day of my arrival at Keswick. My
house is roomy, situated on an eminence, a furlong from the town; before
it an enormous garden, more than two-thirds of which is rented is a
garden for sale articles; but the walks are ours. Completely behind the
house are shrubberies, and a declivity planted with flourishing trees of
ten or fifteen years' growth, at the bottom of which is a most delightful
shaded walk, by the river Greta, a quarter of a mile in length. The room
in which I sit commands from one window the Bassenthwaite lake, woods,
and mountains. From the opposite, the Derwentwater and fantastic
mountains of Borrowdale. Straight before is a wilderness of mountains,
catching and streaming lights and shadows at all times. Behind the house,
and entering into all our views, is Skiddaw.
My acquaintances here are pleasant, and at some distance is Sir Guilfred
Lawson's seat, with a very large and expensive library, to which I have
every reason to hope that I shall have free access. But when I have been
settled here a few days longer, I will write you a minute account of my
situation. Wordsworth lives twelve miles distant. In about a year's time
he will probably settle at Keswick likewise. It is no small advantage
here, that for two-thirds of the year we are in complete retirement. The
other third is alive and swarms with tourists of all shapes, and sizes,
and characters. It is the very place I would recommend to a novelist or
farce writer. Besides, at that time of the year there is always hope that
a friend may be among the number and miscellaneous crowd, whom this place
attracts. So much for Keswick.
Have you seen my translation of Wallenstein. It is a dull heavy play, but
I entertain hopes that you will think the language for the greater part,
natural, and good common sense English; to which excellence, if I can lay
fair claim in any work of poetry or prose, I shall be a very singular
writer, at least. I am now working at my 'Introduction of the Life of
Lessing,' which I trust will be in the press before Christmas, that is,
the 'Introduction,' which will be published first. God bless you,
S. T. Coleridge.