herself, ill-favoured, wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan'd,
tallow-faced, have a swoln juglers platter face, or a thin, lean,
chitty face, have clouds in her face, be crooked, dry, bald,
goggle-ey'd, blear-ey'd or with staring eys, she looks like a squis'd
cat, hold her head still awry, heavy, dull, hollow-mouthed, Persean
hook-nosed, have a sharp Jose nose, a red nose, China flat, great
nose, _nare simo patuloque_, a nose like a promontory, gubber-tushed,
rotten teeth, black, uneven, brown teeth, beetle browed, a witches
beard, her breath stink all over the room, her nose drop winter and
summer with a Bavarian poke under her chin, a sharp chin, lave eared,
with a long cranes neck, which stands awry too, _pendulis mammis, her
dugs like two double jugs_, or else no dugs in the other extream,
bloody faln fingers, she have filthy long unpaired nails, scabbed
hands or wrists, a tan'd skin, a rotten carkass, crooked back, she
stoops, is lame, splea-footed, _as slender in the middle as a cow in
the waste_, gowty legs, her ankles hang over her shooes, her feet
stink, she breed lice, a mere changeling, a very monster, an aufe
imperfect, her whole complexion savours, an harsh voyce, incondite
gesture, vile gait, a vast virago, or an ugly tit, a slug, a fat
fustilugs, a truss, a long lean rawbone, a skeleton, a sneaker (_si
qua latent meliora puta_), and to thy judgment looks like a Mard in a
lanthorn, whom thou couldst not fancy for a world, but hatest,
lothest, and wouldst have spit in her face, or blow thy nose in her
bosome, _remedium amoris_ to another man, a dowdy, a slut, a scold, a
nasty, rank, rammy, filthy, beastly quean, dishonest peradventure,
obscene, base, beggerly, rude, foolish, untaught, peevish, Irus'
daughter, Thersite's sister, Grobian's schollar; if he love her once,
he admires her for all this, he takes no notice of any such errors,
or imperfections of body or minde."
There's a dose for you. Fire!! I would give my favourite leg to have
written this as a speech in a play. With what effect could Matthews
pop-gun it at the pit! This I think will amuse you more than so much
poetry. Of that I do not like to copy any, as I am afraid it is too mal a
propos for you at present; and yet I will send you some, for by the time
you receive it, things in England may have taken a different turn. When I
left Mr. Abbey on Monday evening, I walked up Cheapside, but returned to
put some letters in the post, and met him again in Bucklesbury. We walked
together through the Poultry as far as the baker's shop he has some
concern in--He spoke of it in such a way to me, I thought he wanted me to
make an offer to assist him in it. I do believe if I could be a hatter I
might be one. He seems anxious about me. He began blowing up Lord Byron
while I was sitting with him: "However, may be the fellow says true now
and then," at which he took up a magazine, and read me some extracts from
Don Juan (Lord Byron's last flash poem), and particularly one against
literary ambition. I do think I must be well spoken of among sets, for
Hodgkinson is more than polite, and the coffee German endeavoured to be
very close to me the other night at Covent Garden, where I went at half
price before I tumbled into bed. Every one, however distant an
acquaintance, behaves in the most conciliating manner to me. You will see
I speak of this as a matter of interest. On the next sheet I will give you
a little politics.
In every age there has been in England, for two or three centuries,
subjects of great popular interest on the carpet, so that however great
the uproar, one can scarcely prophecy any material change in the
Government, for as loud disturbances have agitated the country many times.
All civilised countries become gradually more enlightened, and there
should be a continual change for the better. Look at this country at
present, and remember it when it was even thought impious to doubt the
justice of a trial by combat. From that time there has been a gradual
change. Three great changes have been in progress: first for the better,
next for the worse, and a third for the better once more. The first was
the gradual annihilation of the tyranny of the nobles, when kings found it
their interest to conciliate the common people, elevate them, and be just
to them. Just when baronial power ceased, and before standing armies were
so dangerous, taxes were few, kings were lifted by the people over the
heads of their nobles, and those people held a rod over kings. The change
for the worse in Europe was again this: the obligation of kings to the
multitude began to be forgotten. Custom had made noblemen the humble
servants of kings. Then kings turned to the nobles as the adorners of
their power, the slaves of it, and from the people as creatures
continually endeavouring to check them. Then in every kingdom there was a
long struggle of kings to destroy all popular privileges. The English were
the only people in Europe who made a grand kick at this. They were slaves
to Henry VIII, but were freemen under William III at the time the French
were abject slaves under Louis XIV. The example of England, and the
liberal writers of France and England, sowed the seed of opposition to
this tyranny, and it was swelling in the ground till it burst out in the
French Revolution. That has had an unlucky termination. It put a stop to
the rapid progress of free sentiments in England, and gave our Court hopes
of turning back to the despotism of the eighteenth century. They have made
a handle of this event in every way to undermine our freedom. They spread
a horrid superstition against all innovation and improvement. The present
struggle in England of the people is to destroy this superstition. What
has roused them to do it is their distresses. Perhaps, on this account,
the present distresses of this nation are a fortunate thing though so
horrid in their experience. You will see I mean that the French Revolution
put a temporary stop to this third change--the change for the better--Now
it is in progress again, and I think it is an effectual one. This is no
contest between Whig and Tory, but between right and wrong. There is
scarcely a grain of party spirit now in England. Right and wrong
considered by each man abstractedly, is the fashion. I know very little of
these things. I am convinced, however, that apparently small causes make
great alterations. There are little signs whereby we may know how matters
are going on. This makes the business of Carlisle the bookseller of great
amount in my mind. He has been selling deistical pamphlets, republished
Tom Paine, and many other works held in superstitious horror. He even has
been selling, for some time, immense numbers of a work called The Deist,
which comes out in weekly numbers. For this conduct he, I think, has had
about a dozen indictments issued against him, for which he has found bail
to the amount of many thousand pounds. After all, they are afraid to
prosecute. They are afraid of his defence; it would be published in all
the papers all over the empire. They shudder at this. The trials would
light a flame they could not extinguish. Do you not think this of great
import? You will hear by the papers of the proceedings at Manchester, and
Hunt's triumphal entry into London. It would take me a whole day and a
quire of paper to give you anything like detail. I will merely mention
that it is calculated that 30,000 people were in the streets waiting for
him. The whole distance from the Angel at Islington to the Crown and
Anchor was lined with multitudes.
As I passed Colnaghi's window I saw a profile portrait of Sandt, the
destroyer of Kotzebue. His very look must interest every one in his
favour. I suppose they have represented him in his college dress. He seems
to me like a young Abelard--a fine mouth, cheek bones (and this is no
joke) full of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar nose, and plump temples.
On looking over some letters I found the one I wrote, intended for you,
from the foot of Helvellyn to Liverpool; but you had sailed, and therefore
it was returned to me. It contained, among other nonsense, an acrostic of
my sister's name--and a pretty long name it is. I wrote it in a great
hurry which you will see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought it would
ever be seen by any but yourselves.
Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
Exact in capitals your golden name,
Or sue the fair Apollo, and he will
Rouse from his heavy slumber and instil
Great love in me for thee and Poesy.
Imagine not that greatest mastery
And kingdom over all the realms of verse
Nears more to Heaven in aught than when we nurse
And surety give to love and brotherhood.
Anthropopagi in Othello's mood;
Ulysses storm'd, and his enchanted belt
Glowed with the Muse: but they are never felt
Unbosom'd so, and so eternal made,
Such tender incense in their laurel shade
To all the recent sisters of the Nine,
As this poor offering to you, sister mine.
Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;
And may its taste to you, like good old wine,
Take you to real happiness, and give
Sons, daughters, and a home like honied hive.
Foot of Helvellyn, June 27.
I sent you in my first packet some of my Scotch letters. I find I have one
kept back, which was written in the most interesting part of our tour, and
will copy part of it in the hope you will not find it unamusing. I would
give now anything for Richardson's power of making mountains of molehills.
Incipit epistola caledoniensa--
"Dunancullen."
(I did not know the day of the month, for I find I have not added it.
Brown must have been asleep). "Just after my last had gone to the post"
(before I go any further, I must premise that I would send the identical
letter, instead of taking the trouble to copy it; I do not do so, for it
would spoil my notion of the neat manner in which I intend to fold these
three genteel sheets. The original is written on coarse paper, and the
soft one would ride in the post bag very uneasy. Perhaps there might be a
quarrel)[106]
* * * * *
I ought to make a large "?" here, but I had better take the opportunity of
telling you I have got rid of my haunting sore throat, and conduct myself
in a manner not to catch another.
You speak of Lord Byron and me. There is this great difference between us:
he describes what he sees--I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest
task; now see the immense difference. The Edinburgh Reviewers are afraid
to touch upon my poem. They do not know what to make of it; they do not
like to condemn it, and they will not praise it for fear. They are as shy
of it as I should be of wearing a Quaker's hat. The fact is, they have no
real taste. They dare not compromise their judgments on so puzzling a
question. If on my next publication they should praise me, and so lug in
Endymion, I will address them in a manner they will not at all relish. The
cowardliness of the Edinburgh is more than the abuse of the Quarterly.
Monday [September 20].
This day is a grand day for Winchester. They elect the mayor. It was
indeed high time the place should have some sort of excitement. There was
nothing going on--all asleep. Not an old maid's sedan returning from a
card party; and if any old women have got tipsy at christenings, they have
not exposed themselves in the street. The first night, though, of our
arrival here there was a slight uproar took place at about ten of the
clock. We heard distinctly a noise patting down the street, as of a
walking-cane of the good old dowager breed; and a little minute after we
heard a less voice observe, "What a noise the ferril made--it must be
loose." Brown wanted to call the constables, but I observed it was only a
little breeze, and would soon pass over. The side streets here are
excessively maiden-lady-like; the door-steps always fresh from the
flannel. The knockers have a very staid, serious, nay almost awful
quietness about them. I never saw so quiet a collection of lions' and
rams' heads. The doors most part black, with a little brass handle just
above the keyhole, so that you may easily shut yourself out of your own
house. He! He! There is none of your Lady Bellaston ringing and rapping
here; no thundering Jupiter-footmen, no opera-treble tattoos, but a modest
lifting up of the knocker by a set of little wee old fingers that peep
through the gray mittens, and a dying fall thereof. The great beauty of
poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting. The
palatine Venice and the abbotine Winchester are equally interesting. Some
time since I began a poem called "The Eve of St. Mark," quite in the
spirit of town quietude. I think I will give you the sensation of walking
about an old country town in a coolish evening. I know not whether I
shall ever finish it; I will give it as far as I have gone. Ut tibi
placeat--
THE EVE OF ST. MARK.
Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That call'd the folk to evening prayer;
The city streets were clean and fair
From wholesome drench of April rains;
And, when on western window panes,
The chilly sunset faintly told
Of unmatured green vallies cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
Of primroses by shelter'd rills,
And daisies on the aguish hills.
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:
The silent streets were crowded well
With staid and pious companies,
Warm from their fireside orat'ries;
And moving, with demurest air,
To even-song, and vesper prayer.
Each arched porch, and entry low,
Was fill'd with patient folk and slow,
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While play'd the organ loud and sweet.
The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun,
And Bertha had not yet half done
A curious volume, patch'd and torn,
That all day long, from earliest morn,
Had taken captive her two eyes,
Among its golden broideries;
Perplex'd her with a thousand things,--
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,
Martyrs in a fiery blaze,
Azure saints and silver rays,
Moses' breastplate, and the seven
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,
The winged Lion of St. Mark,
And the Covenantal Ark,
With its many mysteries,
Cherubim and golden mice.
Bertha was a maiden fair,
Dwelling in the old Minster-square;
From her fireside she could see,
Sidelong, its rich antiquity,
Far as the Bishop's garden-wall,
Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,
Full-leav'd the forest had outstript,
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelter'd by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and read awhile,
With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.
Again she try'd, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St. Mark.
From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin,
With aching neck and swimming eyes,
And dazed with saintly imageries.
All was gloom, and silent all,
Save now and then the still footfall
Of one returning homewards late,
Past the echoing minster-gate.
The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
Pair by pair had gone to rest,
Each in ancient belfry-nest,
Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music and the drowsy chimes.
All was silent, all was gloom,
Abroad and in the homely room:
Down she sat, poor cheated soul!
And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;
Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair
And slant book, full against the glare.
Her shadow, in uneasy guise,
Hover'd about, a giant size,
On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
The parrot's cage, and panel square;
And the warm angled winter-screen,
On which were many monsters seen,
Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice,
And legless birds of Paradise,
Macaw and tender Avadavat,
And silken-furr'd Angora cat.
Untir'd she read, her shadow still
Glower'd about, as it would fill
The room with wildest forms and shades,
As though some ghostly queen of spades
Had come to mock behind her back,
And dance, and ruffle her garments black,
Untir'd she read the legend page,
Of holy Mark, from youth to age,
On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
Rejoicing for his many pains.
Sometimes the learned eremite,
With golden star, or dagger bright,
Referr'd to pious poesies
Written in smallest crow-quill size
Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme
Was parcelled out from time to time:
"... Als writith he of swevenis,
Man han beforne they wake in bliss,
Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound
In crimped shroude farre under grounde;
And how a litling child mote be
A saint er its nativitie,
Gif that the modre (God her blesse!)
Kepen in solitarinesse,
And kissen devoute the holy croce.
Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force,--
He writith; and thinges many mo
Of swiche thinges I may not show
Bot I must tellen verilie
Somdel of Sainte Cicilie,
And chieflie what he auctorethe
Of Sainte Markis life and dethe;"
At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
At Venice,--
I hope you will like this for all its carelessness. I must take an
opportunity here to observe that though I am writing _to_ you, I am all
the while writing _at_ your wife. This explanation will account for my
speaking sometimes hoity-toity-ishly, whereas if you were alone, I should
sport a little more sober sadness. I am like a squinty gentleman, who,
saying soft things to one lady ogles another, or what is as bad, in
arguing with a person on his left hand, appeals with his eyes to one on
the right. His vision is elastic; he bends it to a certain object, but
having a patent spring it flies off. Writing has this disadvantage of
speaking--one cannot write a wink, or a nod, or a grin, or a purse of the
lips, or a _smile--O law!_ One cannot put one's finger to one's nose, or
yerk ye in the ribs, or lay hold of your button in writing; but in all the
most lively and titterly parts of my letter you must not fail to imagine
me, as the epic poets say, now here, now there; now with one foot pointed
at the ceiling, now with another; now with my pen on my ear, now with my
elbow in my mouth. O, my friends, you lose the action, and attitude is
everything, as Fuseli said when he took up his leg like a musket to shoot
a swallow just darting behind his shoulder. And yet does not the word
"mum" go for one's finger beside the nose? I hope it does. I have to make
use of the word "mum" before I tell you that Severn has got a little
baby--all his own, let us hope. He told Brown he had given up painting,
and had turned modeller. I hope sincerely 'tis not a party concern--that
no Mr. ---- or ---- is the real Pinxit and Severn the poor Sculpsit to
this work of art. You know he has long studied in the life Academy.
"Haydon--yes," your wife will say, "Here is a sum total account of Haydon
again. I wonder your brother don't put a monthly bulletin in the
Philadelphia papers about him. I won't hear--no. Skip down to the bottom,
and there are some more of his verses--skip (lullaby-by) them too."--"No,
let's go regularly through."--"I won't hear a word about Haydon--bless the
child, how rioty she is--there, go on there."
Now, pray go on here, for I have a few words to say about Haydon. Before
this chancery threat had cut off every legitimate supply of cash from me,
I had a little at my disposal. Haydon being very much in want, I lent him
L30 of it. Now in this see-saw game of life, I got nearest to the ground,
and this chancery business rivetted me there, so that I was sitting in
that uneasy position where the seat slants so abominably. I applied to him
for payment. He could not. That was no wonder; but Goodman Delver, where
was the wonder then? Why marry in this: he did not seem to care much about
it, and let me go without my money with almost nonchalance, when he ought
to have sold his drawings to supply me. I shall perhaps still be
acquainted with him, but for friendship, that is at an end. Brown has been
my friend in this. He got him to sign a bond, payable at three months.
Haslam has assisted me with the return of part of the money you lent him.
Hunt--"there," says your wife, "there's another of those dull folk! Not a
syllable about my friends? Well, Hunt--What about Hunt? You little thing,
see how she bites my finger! My! is not this a tooth?" Well when you have
done with the tooth, read on. Not a syllable about your friends! Here are
some syllables. As far as I could smoke things on the Sunday before last,
thus matters stood in Henrietta Street. Henry was a greater blade then
ever I remember to have seen him. He had on a very nice coat, a becoming
waistcoat, and buff trousers. I think his face has lost a little of the
Spanish-brown, but no flesh. He carved some beef exactly to suit my
appetite, as if I had been measured for it. As I stood looking out of the
window with Charles, after dinner, quizzing the passengers,--at which I am
sorry to say he is too apt,--I observed that this young son of a gun's
whiskers had begun to curl and curl, little twists and twists, all down
the sides of his face, getting properly thickest on the angles of the
visage. He certainly will have a notable pair of whiskers. "How shiny your
gown is in front," says Charles. "Why don't you see? 'tis an apron," says
Henry; whereat I scrutinised, and behold your mother had a purple stuff
gown on, and over it an apron of the same colour, being the same cloth
that was used for the lining. And furthermore to account for the shining,
it was the first day of wearing. I guessed as much of the gown--but that
is entre nous. Charles likes England better than France. They've got a
fat, smiling, fair cook as ever you saw; she is a little lame, but that
improves her; it makes her go more swimmingly. When I asked "Is Mrs. Wylie
within?" she gave me such a large five-and-thirty-year-old smile, it made
me look round upon the fourth stair--it might have been the fifth; but
that's a puzzle. I shall never be able, if I were to set myself a
recollecting for a year, to recollect. I think I remember two or three
specks in her teeth, but I really can't say exactly. Your mother said
something about Miss Keasle--what that was is quite a riddle to me now,
whether she had got fatter or thinner, or broader or longer, straiter, or
had taken to the zigzags--whether she had taken to or had left off asses'
milk. That, by the bye, she ought never to touch. How much better it would
be to put her out to nurse with the wise woman of Brentford. I can say no
more on so spare a subject. Miss Millar now is a different morsel, if one
knew how to divide and subdivide, theme her out into sections and
subsections, lay a little on every part of her body as it is divided, in
common with all her fellow-creatures, in Moor's Almanack. But, alas, I
have not heard a word about her, no cue to begin upon: there was indeed a
buzz about her and her mother's being at old Mrs. So and So's, _who was
like to die_, as the Jews say. But I dare say, keeping up their dialect,
_she was not like to die_. I must tell you a good thing Reynolds _did_.
'Twas the best thing he ever _said_. You know at taking leave of a party
at a doorway, sometimes a man dallies and foolishes and gets awkward, and
does not know how to make off to advantage. Good-bye--well, good-bye--and
yet he does not go; good-bye, and so on,--well, good bless you--you know
what I mean. Now Reynolds was in this predicament, and got out of it in a
very witty way. He was leaving us at Hampstead. He delayed, and we were
pressing at him, and even said "be off," at which he put the tails of his
coat between his legs and sneak'd off as nigh like a spaniel as could be.
He went with flying colours. This is very clever. I must, being upon the
subject, tell you another good thing of him. He began, for the service it
might be of to him in the law, to learn French; he had lessons at the
cheap rate of 2s. 6d. per fag, and observed to Brown, "Gad," says he, "the
man sells his lessons so cheap he must have stolen 'em." You have heard of
Hook, the farce writer. Horace Smith said to one who asked him if he knew
Hook, "Oh yes, Hook and I are very intimate." There's a page of wit for
you, to put John Bunyan's emblems out of countenance.
Tuesday [September 21].