The first thing I do in answering your letter is to tell you that I am
angry at your saying that your conscience pricks you for not having
written to me before. I am of that superior race of men, that are quite
content to hear themselves talk, and read their own writing. But, in
seriousness, I have such love of you, and of myself, that once every
week, at least, I feel spurred on by a sort of gathering up of feelings
to vent myself in a letter upon you: but if once I hear you say that it
makes your conscience thus uneasy till you answer, I shall give it up.
Upon my word I tell you, that I do not in the least require it. You, who
do not love writing, cannot think that any one else does: but I am sorry
to say that I have a very young-lady-like partiality to writing to those
that I love. . . . I have been reading Shakespeare's Sonnets: and I
believe I am unprejudiced when I say, I had but half an idea of him,
Demigod as he seemed before, till I read them carefully. How can Hazlitt
call Warton's the finest sonnets? There is the air of pedantry and
labour in his. But Shakespeare's are perfectly simple, and have the very
essence of tenderness that is only to be found in the best parts of his
Romeo and Juliet besides. I have truly been lapped in these Sonnets for
some time: they seem all stuck about my heart, like the ballads that used
to be on the walls of London. I have put a great many into my Paradise,
giving each a fair white sheet for himself: there being nothing worthy to
be in the same page. I could talk for an hour about them: but it is not
fit in a letter. . . .
I shall tell you of myself, that I have been better since I wrote to you.
Mazzinghi {14} tells me that November weather breeds Blue Devils--so that
there is a French proverb, 'In October, de Englishman shoot de pheasant:
in November he shoot himself.' This I suppose is the case with me: so
away with November, as soon as may be. 'Canst thou my Clora' is being
put in proper musical trim: and I will write it out for you when all is
right. I am sorry you are getting so musical: and if I take your advice
about so big a thing as Christianity, take you mine about music. I am
sure that this pleasure of music grows so on people, that many of the
hours that you would have devoted to Jeremy Taylor, etc. will be melted
down into tunes, and the idle train of thought that music puts us into. I
fancy I have discovered the true philosophy of this: but I think you must
have heard me enlarge. Therefore 'satis.'
I have gabbled on so long that there is scarce room for my quotation. But
it shall come though in a shapeless manner, for the sake of room. Have
you got in your Christian Poet, a poem by Sir H. Wotton--'How happy is he
born or taught, that serveth not another's will'? It is very beautiful,
and fit for a Paradise of any kind. Here are some lines from old Lily,
which your ear will put in the proper metre. It gives a fine description
of a fellow walking in Spring, and looking here and there, and pricking
up his ears, as different birds sing. 'What bird so sings, but doth so
wail? Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale: "Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue,"
she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who
is't now we hear? It is the lark so shrill and clear: against heaven's
gate he claps his wings, the morn not waking till he sings. Hark, too,
with what a pretty note poor Robin Redbreast tunes his throat: Hark how
the jolly cuckoos sing "Cuckoo" to welcome in the Spring: "Cuckoo" to
welcome in the Spring.' This is very English, and pleasant, I think: and
so I hope you will. I could have sent you many a more sentimental thing,
but nothing better. I admit nothing into my Paradise, but such as
breathe content, and virtue: I count 'Back and syde' to breathe both of
these, with a little good drink over.
_Wednesday_ [28 _Nov._ 1832].
P.S. I sealed up my letter yesterday, forgetting to finish. I write
thus soon 'becase I gets a frank.' You shall benefit by another bit of
poetry. I do not admit it into my Paradise, being too gloomy: but it
will please both of us. It is the prototype of the Pensieroso.
Hence all you vain delights!
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
Oh sweetest melancholy!
Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh, that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless gloves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls!
A midnight dell, a passing groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as [lovely] melancholy.
(From the _Nice Valour_, _or the Passionate Madman_, by Fletcher.)
I think these lines are quite of the finest order, and have a more
headlong melancholy than Milton's, which are distinctly copied from
these, as you must confess. And now this is a very long letter, and the
best thing you can do when you get to the end, is to Da Capo, and read
what I ordered you about answering. My dear fellow, it is a great
pleasure to me to write to you; and to write out these dear poems. . . .
Believe me that I am your very loving friend,