to I called on Haydon, he said he would do anything I liked, but said he would rather paint a finished picture, from it, which he seems eager to do; this in a year or two will be a glorious thing for us; and it will be, for Haydon is struck with the 1st Book. I left Haydon and the next day received a letter from him, proposing to make, as he says, with all his might, a finished chalk sketch of my head, to be engraved in the first style and put at the head of my Poem, saying at the same time he had never done the thing for any human being, and that it must have considerable effect as he will put his name to it-I begin to-day to copy my 2nd Book 'thus far into the bowels of the land'- You shall hear whether it will be Quarto or non Quarto, picture or non picture. Leigh Hunt I showed my 1st Book he allows it not much merit as a whole; says it is unnatural and made ten objections to it in the mere skimming over. He says the conversation is unnatural and too high-flown for Brother and Sister says it should be simple forgetting do ye mind that they are both overshadowed by a supernatural Power, and of force could not speak like Francesca in the Rimini. He must first prove that Caliban's poetry is unnatural - This with me completely overturns his objections - the fact is he and Shelley are hurt, and perhaps justly, at my not having showed them the affair officiously and from several hints I have had they appear much disposed to dissect and anatomise any trip or slip I may have made. — But who's afraid? Ay! Tom! Demme if I am. I went last Tuesday, an hour too late, to Hazlitt's Lecture on poetry, got there just as they were coming out, when all these pounced upon me. Hazlitt, John Hunt and Son, Wells, Bewick, all the Landseers, Bob Harris, aye and more the Landseers enquired after you particularly I know not whether Wordsworth has left town But Sunday I dined with Hazlitt and Haydon, also that I took Has - I think a little change has taken place in my intellect lately I cannot bear to be uninterested or unemployed, I, who for so long a time have been addicted to passiveness. Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers. As an instance of this observe - I sat down yesterday to read King Lear once again: the thing appeared to demand the prologue of a sonnet, I wrote it, and began to read (I know you would like to see it.) [Here follows the Sonnet, for which see p. 40.] So you see I am getting at it, with a sort of determination and strength, though verily I do not feel it at this moment this is my fourth letter this morning, and I feel rather tired, and my head rather swimming so I will leave it open till tomorrow's post. I am in the habit of taking my papers to Dilke's and copying there; so I chat and proceed at the same time. I have been there at my work this evening, and the walk over the Heath takes off all sleep, so I will even proceed with you. I left off short in my last just as I began an account of a private theatrical-Well it was of the lowest order, all greasy and oily, insomuch that if they had lived in olden times, when signs were hung over the doors, the only appropriate one for that oily place would have been -a guttered Candle. They played John Bull, The Review, and it was to conclude with Bombastes Furioso - I saw from a Box the first Act of John Bull, then went to Drury and did not return till it was over - when by Wells's interest we got behind the scenes there was not a yard wide all the way round for actors, scene-shifters, and interlopers to move in - for Nota Bene' the Green Room was under the stage, and there was I threatened over and over again to be turned out by the oily scene-shifters, there did I hear a little painted Trollop own, very candidly, that she had failed in Mary, with a 'damn'd if she'd play a serious part again, as long as she lived,' and at the same time she was habited as the Quaker in the Review.There was a quarrel, and a fat goodnatured looking girl in soldiers' clothes wished she had only been a man for Tom's sake. One fellow began a song, but an unlucky finger-point from the Gallery sent him off like a shot. One chap was dressed to kill for the King in Bombastes, and he stood at the edge of the scene in the very sweat of anxiety to show himself, but Alas the thing was not played. The sweetest morsel of the night moreover was, that the musicians began pegging and fagging away at an overture -never did you see faces more in earnest, three times did they play it over, dropping all kinds of corrections and still did not the curtain go up. Well then they went into a country dance, then into a region they well knew, into the old boonsome Pothouse, and then to see how pompous o' the sudden they turned; how they looked about and chatted; how they did not care a damn; was a great treat I hope I have not tired you by this filling up of the dash in my last. Constable the bookseller has offered Reynolds ten guineas a sheet to write for his Magazine — it is an Edinburgh one, which Blackwood's started up in opposition to. Hunt said he was nearly sure that the 'Cockney School' was written by Scott so you are right Tom! -There are no more little bits of news I ran remember at present. 29 I remain, My dear Brothers, Your very affectionate Brother JOHN. - 30. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY [Hampstead,] Friday Jan 23 [1818]. MY DEAR BAILEY-Twelve days have What pass'd since your last reached me. has gone through the myriads of human minds since the 12th? We talk of the immense Number of Books, the Volumes ranged thousands by thousands- but perhaps more goes through the human intelligence in Twelve days than ever was written. How has that unfortunate family lived through the twelve? One saying of yours! shall never forget you may not recollect it it being perhaps said when you were looking on the Surface and seeming of Humanity alone, without a thought of the past or the future or the deeps of good and evil. you were at that moment estranged from speculation, and I think you have arguments ready for the Man who would utter it to you- this is a formidable preface for a simple thing-merely you said, 'Why should woman suffer?' Aye, why should she? By heavens I'd coin my very Soul, and drop my Blood for Drachmas!' These things are, and he, who feels how incompetent the most skyey Knight-errantry is to heal this bruised fairness, is like a sensitive leaf on the hot hand of thought. Your tearing, my dear friend, a spiritless and gloomy letter up, to re-write to me, is what I shall never forget it was to me a real thing - Things have happened lately of great perplexity you must have heard of them — Reynolds and Haydon retorting and recriminating and parting for ever the same thing has happened between Haydon and Hunt. It is unfortunate · Men should bear with each other: there lives not the Man who may not be cut up, aye Lashed to pieces on his weakest side. The best of Men have but a portion of good in them a kind of spiritual yeast in their frames, which creates the ferment of existence by which a Man is propelled to act, and strive, and buffet with Circumstance. The sure way, Bailey, is first to know a Man's faults, and then be passive if after that he insensibly draws you towards him then you have no power to break the link. Before I felt interested in either Reynolds or Haydon, I was well read in their faults; yet, knowing them, I have been cementing gradually with both. I have an affection for them both, for reasons almost opposite -and to both must I of necessity cling, supported always by the hope that, when a little time, a few years, shall have tried me more fully in their esteem, I may be able to bring them together. The time must come, because they have both hearts: and they will recollect the best parts of each other, when this gust is overblown. I had a message from you through a letter to Jane I think, about Cripps there can be no idea of binding until a sufficient sum is sure for him—and even then the thing should be maturely considered by all his helpers I shall try my luck upon as many fat purses as I can meet with. Cripps is improving very fast: I have the greater hopes of him because he is so slow in development. A Man of great executing powers at 20, with a look and a speech almost stupid, is sure to do something. I have just looked through the Second Side of your Letter I feel a great content at it. I was at Hunt's the other day, and he surprised me with a real authenticated lock of Milton's Hair. I know you would like what I wrote thereon, so here it is as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book: [Here follow the lines, printed above, p. 39.] I trust you and Gleig pass much fine time together. Remember me to him and Whitehead. My Brother Tom is getting stronger, but his spitting of Blood continues. I sat down to read King Lear yesterday, and felt the greatness of the thing up to the Writing of a Sonnet preparatory thereto in my next you shall have it. some miserable reports of Rice's health—I went, and lo! Master Jemmy had been to the play the night before, and was out at the time-he always comes on his legs like a Cat. I have seen a good deal of Wordsworth. Hazlitt is lecturing on Poetry at the Surrey Institution - I shall be there next Tuesday. Your most affectionate friend There were Wherein lies happiness, Peona ? fold, etc.' It appears to me the very contrary of blessed. I hope this will appear to you more eligible. 'Wherein lies Happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with Essence till we shine Full alchemised, and free of space- Behold The clear religion of Heaven-fold, ete.' You must indulge me by putting this in, for setting aside the badness of the other, such a preface is necessary to the subject. The whole thing must, I think, have appeared to you, who are a consecutive man, as a thing almost of mere words, but I assure you that, when I wrote it, it was a regular stepping of the Imagination towards a truth. My having written that argument will perhaps be of the greatest service to me of anything I ever did. It set before me the gradations of happiness, even 32. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS Hampstead, Saturday [January 31, 1818]. MY DEAR REYNOLDS - I have parcelled out this day for Letter Writing — more resolved thereon because your Letter will come as a refreshment and will have (sic parvis etc.) the same effect as a Kiss in certain situations where people become over-generous. I have read this first sentence over, and think it savours rather; however an inward innocence is like a nested dove, as the old song says. . . .30 Now I purposed to write to you a serious poetical letter, but I find that a maxim I met with the other day is a just one: "On cause mieux quand on ne dit pas causons.' I was hindered, however, from my first intention by a mere muslin Handkerchief very neatly pinned - but Hence, vain deluding,' etc. Yet I cannot write in prose; it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here goes, - 33. TO THE SAME 31 Hampstead, Tuesday [February 3, 1818]. MY DEAR REYNOLDS-I thank you for your dish of Filberts would I could get a basket of them by way of dessert every day for the sum of twopence. Would we were a sort of ethereal Pigs, and turned loose to feed upon spiritual Mast and Acorns which would be merely being a squirrel and feeding upon filberts, for what is a squirrel but an airy pig, or a filbert but a sort of archangelical acorn? About the nuts being worth cracking, all I can say is, that where there are a throng of delightful Images ready drawn, simplicity is the only thing. The first is the best on account of the first line, and the arrow, foil'd of its antler'd food,' and moreover (and this is the only word or two I find fault with, the more because I have had so much reason to shun it as a quicksand) the last has 'tender and true.' We must cut this, and not be rattlesnaked into any more of the like. It may be said that we ought to read our contemporaries, that Wordsworth, etc. should have their due from us. But, for the sake of a few fine imaginative or domestic passages, are we to be bullied into a certain Philosophy engendered in the whims of an Egotist? Every man has his speculations, but every man does not brood and peacock over them till he makes a false coinage and deceives himself. Many a man can travel to the very bourne of Heaven, and yet want confidence to put down his half-seeing. Sancho will invent a Journey heavenward as well as anybody. We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us, and, if we do not agree, seems to put its hand into its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself - but with its subject. How beautiful are the retired flowers! how would they lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway, crying out, Admire me, I am a violet! Dote upon me, I am a primrose !' Modern poets differ from the Elizabethans in this: each of the moderns like an Elector of Hanover governs his petty state and knows how many straws are swept daily from the Causeways in all his dominions, and has a continual itching that all the Housewives should have their coppers well scoured: The ancients were Emperors of vast Provinces, they had only heard of the remote ones and scarcely cared to visit them. I will cut all this - I will have no more of Wordsworth or Hunt in particular-Why should we be of the tribe of Manasseh, when we can wander with Esau ? Why should we kick against the Pricks, when we can walk on Roses? Why should we be owls, when we can be eagles? Why be teased with 'nice-eyed wagtails,' when we have in sight the Cherub Contemplation? Why with Wordsworth's 'Matthew with a bough of wilding in his hand,' when we can have Jacques 'under an oak,' etc.? The secret of the Bough of Wilding will run through your head faster than I can write it. Old Matthew spoke to him some years ago on some nothing, and because he happens in an Evening Walk to imagine the figure of the old Man, he must stamp it down in black and white, and it is henceforth sacred. I don't mean to deny Wordsworth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I mean to say we need not be teased with grandeur and merit when we can have them uncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let us have the old Poets and Robin Hood. Your letter and its sonnets gave me more pleasure than will the Fourth Book of Childe Harold and the whole of anybody's life and opinions. In return for your Dish of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins, I hope they'll look pretty. [To J. H. R. in answer to his Robin Hood Sonnets. See p. 41.] --- Hampstead, Saturday Night [February 14, 1818]. MY DEAR BROTHERS When once a man delays a letter beyond the proper time, he delays it longer, for one or two reasons - first, because he must begin in a very common-place style, that is to say, with an excuse; and secondly things and circumstances become so jumbled in his mind, that he knows not what, or what not, he has said in his last I shall visit you as soon as I have copied my poem all out, I am now much beforehand with the printer, they have done none yet, and I am half afraid they will let half the season by before the printing. I am determined they shall not trouble me when I have copied it all. Horace Smith has lent me his manuscript called 'Nehemiah Muggs, an exposure of the Methodists'— perhaps I may send you a few extracts - Hazlitt's last |