Why did I laugh? I know this being's lease, My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads: Yet could I on this very midnight cease,[92]

And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds; Verse, fame and Beauty are intense indeed But Death intenser--Death is Life's high meed.

I went to bed and enjoyed an uninterrupted sleep. Sane I went to bed and sane I arose.

[April 15.]

This is the 15th of April--you see what a time it is since I wrote; all that time I have been day by day expecting Letters from you. I write quite in the dark. In the hopes of a Letter daily I have deferred that I might write in the light. I was in town yesterday, and at Taylor's heard that young Birkbeck had been in Town and was to set forward in six or seven days--so I shall dedicate that time to making up this parcel ready for him. I wish I could hear from you to make me "whole and general as the casing air."[93] A few days after the 19th of April[94] I received a note from Haslam containing the news of his father's death. The Family has all been well. Haslam has his father's situation. The Framptons have behaved well to him. The day before yesterday I went to a rout at Sawrey's--it was made pleasant by Reynolds being there and our getting into conversation with one of the most beautiful Girls I ever saw--She gave a remarkable prettiness to all those commonplaces which most women who talk must utter--I liked Mrs. Sawrey very well. The Sunday before last your Brothers were to come by a long invitation--so long that for the time I forgot it when I promised Mrs. Brawne to dine with her on the same day. On recollecting my engagement with your Brothers I immediately excused myself with Mrs. Brawne, but she would not hear of it, and insisted on my bringing my friends with me. So we all dined at Mrs. Brawne's. I have been to Mrs. Bentley's this morning, and put all the letters to and from you and poor Tom and me.[95] I found some of the correspondence between him and that degraded Wells and Amena. It is a wretched business; I do not know the rights of it, but what I do know would, I am sure, affect you so much that I am in two minds whether I will tell you anything about it. And yet I do not see why--for anything, though it be unpleasant, that calls to mind those we still love has a compensation in itself for the pain it occasions--so very likely to-morrow I may set about copying the whole of what I have about it: with no sort of a Richardson self-satisfaction--I hate it to a sickness--and I am afraid more from indolence of mind than anything else. I wonder how people exist with all their worries. I have not been to Westminster but once lately, and that was to see Dilke in his new Lodgings--I think of living somewhere in the neighbourhood myself.

Your mother was well by your Brothers' account. I shall see her perhaps to-morrow--yes I shall. We have had the Boys[96] here lately--they make a bit of a racket--I shall not be sorry when they go. I found also this morning, in a note from George to you and my dear sister a lock of your hair which I shall this moment put in the miniature case. A few days ago Hunt dined here and Brown invited Davenport to meet him, Davenport from a sense of weakness thought it inc.u.mbent on him to show off--and pursuant to that never ceased talking and boring all day till I was completely f.a.gged out. Brown grew melancholy--but Hunt perceiving what a complimentary tendency all this had bore it remarkably well--Brown grumbled about it for two or three days. I went with Hunt to Sir John Leicester's gallery; there I saw Northcote--Hilton--Bewick, and many more of great and Little note. Haydon's picture is of very little progress this year--He talks about finishing it next year. Wordsworth is going to publish a Poem called Peter Bell--what a perverse fellow it is! Why will he talk about Peter Bells--I was told not to tell--but to you it will not be telling--Reynolds hearing that said Peter Bell was coming out, took it into his head to write a skit upon it called Peter Bell. He did it as soon as thought on, it is to be published this morning, and comes out before the real Peter Bell, with this admirable motto from the "Bold Stroke for a Wife" "I am the real Simon Pure." It would be just as well to trounce Lord Byron in the same manner. I am still at a stand in versifying--I cannot do it yet with any pleasure--I mean, however, to look round on my resources and means, and see what I can do without poetry--To that end I shall live in Westminster--I have no doubt of making by some means a little to help on, or I shall be left in the Lurch--with the burden of a little Pride--However I look in time. The Dilkes like their Lodgings at Westminster tolerably well. I cannot help thinking what a shame it is that poor Dilke should give up his comfortable house and garden for his Son, whom he will certainly ruin with too much care. The boy has nothing in his ears all day but himself and the importance of his education. Dilke has continually in his mouth "My Boy." This is what spoils princes: it may have the same effect with Commoners. Mrs. Dilke has been very well lately--But what a shameful thing it is that for that obstinate Boy Dilke should stifle himself in Town Lodgings and wear out his Life by his continual apprehension of his Boy's fate in Westminster school, with the rest of the Boys and the Masters. Every one has some wear and tear. One would think Dilke ought to be quiet and happy--but no--this one Boy makes his face pale, his society silent and his vigilance jealous--He would I have no doubt quarrel with any one who snubb'd his Boy--With all this he has no notion how to manage him. O what a farce is our greatest cares! Yet one must be in the pother for the sake of Clothes food and Lodging. There has been a squabble between Kean and Mr. Bucke--There are faults on both sides--on Bucke's the faults are positive to the Question: Kean's fault is a want of genteel knowledge and high Policy. The former writes knavishly foolish, and the other silly bombast. It was about a Tragedy written by said Mr. Bucke which, it appears, Mr. Kean kick'd at--it was so bad--After a little struggle of Mr. Bucke's against Kean, Drury Lane had the Policy to bring it out and Kean the impolicy not to appear in it. It was d.a.m.n'd.

The people in the Pit had a favourite call on the night of "Buck, Buck, rise up" and "Buck, Buck, how many horns do I hold up." Kotzebue the German Dramatist and traitor to his country was murdered lately by a young student whose name I forget--he stabbed himself immediately after crying out Germany! Germany! I was unfortunate to miss Richards the only time I have been for many months to see him.

Shall I treat you with a little extempore?--

When they were come into the Faery's Court They rang--no one at home--all gone to sport And dance and kiss and love as faerys do For Faries be as humans lovers true.

Amid the woods they were so lone and wild, Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd, And where the very brooks, as if afraid, Hurry along to some less magic shade.

'No one at home!' the fretful princess cry'd; 'And all for nothing such a dreary ride, And all for nothing my new diamond cross; No one to see my Persian feathers toss, No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool, Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule.

Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, why stand you gaping there, Burst the door open, quick--or I declare I'll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.'

The Dwarf began to tremble, and the Ape Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape, The Princess grasp'd her switch, but just in time The dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.

'O mighty Princess, did you ne'er hear tell What your poor servants know but too too well?

Know you the three great crimes in faery land?

The first, alas! poor Dwarf, I understand, I made a whipstock of a faery's wand; The next is snoring in their company; The next, the last, the direst of the three, Is making free when they are not at home.

I was a Prince--a baby prince--my doom, You see, I made a whipstock of a wand, My top has henceforth slept in faery land.

He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-up Prince, But he has never been a King's son since He fell a snoring at a faery Ball.

Your poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thing Picklock'd a faery's boudoir--now no king But ape--so pray your highness stay awhile, 'Tis sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow-- Persist and _you_ may be an ape to-morrow.'

While the Dwarf spake the Princess, all for spite, Peel'd the brown hazel twig to lilly white, Clench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apart, Try'd to look unconcern'd with beating heart.

They saw her highness had made up her mind, A-quavering like the reeds before the wind-- And they had had it, but O happy chance The Ape for very fear began to dance And grinn'd as all his ugliness did ache-- She staid her vixen fingers for his sake, He was so very ugly: then she took Her pocket-mirror and began to look First at herself and then at him, and then She smil'd at her own beauteous face again.

Yet for all this--for all her pretty face-- She took it in her head to see the place.

Women gain little from experience Either in Lovers, husbands, or expense.

The more their beauty the more fortune too-- Beauty before the wide world never knew-- So each fair reasons--tho' it oft miscarries.

She thought _her_ pretty face would please the fairies.

'My darling Ape I won't whip you to-day, Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.'

They all three wept but counsel was as vain As crying cup biddy to drops of rain.

Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth draw The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.

The Princess took it, and dismounting straight Tripp'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteously Opened--she enter'd with her servants three.

Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen But the Mule grazing on the herbage green.

End of Canto XII.

Canto the XIII.

The Mule no sooner saw himself alone Than he p.r.i.c.k'd up his Ears--and said 'well done; At least unhappy Prince I may be free-- No more a Princess shall side-saddle me.

O King of Otaheite--tho' a Mule, Aye, every inch a King'--tho' 'Fortune's fool,'

Well done--for by what Mr. Dwarfy said I would not give a sixpence for her head.'

Even as he spake he trotted in high glee To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree, And rubb'd his sides against the mossed bark Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark Except his Bridle--how get rid of that Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait.

At last it struck him to pretend to sleep, And then the thievish Monkies down would creep And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away.

No sooner thought of than adown he lay, Shamm'd a good snore--the Monkey-men descended, And whom they thought to injure they befriended.

They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough And off he went run, trot, or anyhow--

Brown is gone to bed--and I am tired of rhyming--there is a north wind blowing playing young gooseberry with the trees--I don't care so it helps even with a side wind a Letter to me--for I cannot put faith in any reports I hear of the Settlement; some are good and some bad. Last Sunday I took a Walk towards Highgate and in the lane that winds by the side of Lord Mansfield's park I met Mr. Green our Demonstrator at Guy's in conversation with Coleridge--I joined them, after enquiring by a look whether it would be agreeable--I walked with him at his alderman-after-dinner pace for near two miles I suppose. In those two Miles he broached a thousand things--let me see if I can give you a list--Nightingales--Poetry--on Poetical Sensation--Metaphysics--Different genera and species of Dreams--Nightmare--a dream accompanied by a sense of touch--single and double touch--a dream related--First and second consciousness--the difference explained between will and Volition--so say metaphysicians from a want of smoking the second consciousness--Monsters-- the Kraken--Mermaids--Southey believes in them--Southey's belief too much diluted--a Ghost story--Good morning--I heard his voice as he came towards me--I heard it as he moved away--I had heard it all the interval--if it may be called so. He was civil enough to ask me to call on him at Highgate. Good-night!

[Later, April 16 or 17.]

It looks so much like rain I shall not go to town to-day: but put it off till to-morrow. Brown this morning is writing some Spenserian stanzas against Mrs., Miss Brawne and me; so I shall amuse myself with him a little: in the manner of Spenser--

He is to weet a melancholy Carle Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair As hath the seeded thistle when in parle It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom No brush had touch'd his chin or razor sheer No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom.

Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl, And sauces held he worthless as the chaff He 'sdeign'd the swineherd at the wa.s.sail bowl Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul Panted, and all his food was woodland air Though he would ofttimes feast on gilliflowers rare--

The slang of cities in no wise he knew _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; He sipp'd no olden Tom or ruin blue Or nantz or cherry brandy drunk full meek By many a Damsel hoa.r.s.e and rouge of cheek Nor did he know each aged Watchman's beat-- Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.

This character would ensure him a situation in the establishment of patient Griselda. The servant has come for the little Browns this morning--they have been a toothache to me which I shall enjoy the riddance of--Their little voices are like wasps' stings--Sometimes am I all wound with Browns.[97] We had a claret feast some little while ago. There were Dilke, Reynolds, Skinner, Mancur, John Brown, Martin, Brown and I. We all got a little tipsy--but pleasantly so--I enjoy Claret to a degree.

[Later, April 18 or 19.]

I have been looking over the correspondence of the pretended Amena and Wells this evening--I now see the whole cruel deception. I think Wells must have had an accomplice in it--Amena's letters are in a Man's language and in a Man's hand imitating a woman's. The instigations to this diabolical scheme were vanity, and the love of intrigue. It was no thoughtless hoax--but a cruel deception on a sanguine Temperament, with every show of friendship. I do not think death too bad for the villain.

The world would look upon it in a different light should I expose it--they would call it a frolic--so I must be wary--but I consider it my duty to be prudently revengeful. I will hang over his head like a sword by a hair. I will be opium to his vanity--if I cannot injure his interests--He is a rat and he shall have ratsbane to his vanity--I will harm him all I possibly can--I have no doubt I shall be able to do so--Let us leave him to his misery alone, except when we can throw in a little more. The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and more--it is that one in which he meets with Paolo and Francesca. I had pa.s.sed many days in rather a low state of mind, and in the midst of them I dreamt of being in that region of h.e.l.l. The dream was one of the most delightful enjoyments I ever had in my life. I floated about the whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were joined as it seemed for an age--and in the midst of all this cold and darkness I was warm--even flowery tree-tops sprung up, and we rested on them, sometimes with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind blew us away again. I tried a sonnet upon it--there are fourteen lines, but nothing of what I felt in it--O that I could dream it every night--

As Hermes once took to his feathers light When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, So on a delphic reed my idle spright So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft The Dragon world of all its hundred eyes; And seeing it asleep, so fled away;-- Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved that day; But to that second circle of sad h.e.l.l Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw Of Rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw, Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form I floated with about that melancholy storm.

I want very very much a little of your wit, my dear Sister--a Letter or two of yours just to bandy back a pun or two across the Atlantic, and send a quibble over the Floridas. Now you have by this time crumpled up your large Bonnet, what do you wear--a cap? do you put your hair in papers of a night? do you pay the Miss Birkbecks a morning visit--have you any tea? or do you milk-and-water with them--What place of Worship do you go to--the Quakers, the Moravians, the Unitarians, or the Methodists? Are there any flowers in bloom you like--any beautiful heaths--any streets full of Corset Makers? What sort of shoes have you to fit those pretty feet of yours? Do you desire Compliments to one another? Do you ride on Horseback?

What do you have for breakfast, dinner, and supper? without mentioning lunch and bever,[98] and wet and snack--and a bit to stay one's stomach?

Do you get any Spirits--now you might easily distill some whiskey--and going into the woods, set up a whiskey shop for the Monkeys--Do you and the Miss Birkbecks get groggy on anything--a little so-soish so as to be obliged to be seen home with a Lantern? You may perhaps have a game at puss in the corner--Ladies are warranted to play at this game though they have not whiskers. Have you a fiddle in the Settlement--or at any rate a Jew's harp--which will play in spite of one's teeth--When you have nothing else to do for a whole day I tell you how you may employ it--First get up and when you are dressed, as it would be pretty early with a high wind in the woods, give George a cold Pig with my Compliments. Then you may saunter into the nearest coffee-house, and after taking a dram and a look at the Chronicle--go and frighten the wild boars upon the strength--you may as well bring one home for breakfast, serving up the hoofs garnished with bristles and a grunt or two to accompany the singing of the kettle--then if George is not up give him a colder Pig always with my Compliments--When you are both set down to breakfast I advise you to eat your full share, but leave off immediately on feeling yourself inclined to anything on the other side of the puffy--avoid that, for it does not become young women--After you have eaten your breakfast keep your eye upon dinner--it is the safest way--You should keep a Hawk's eye over your dinner and keep hovering over it till due time then pounce taking care not to break any plates. While you are hovering with your dinner in prospect you may do a thousand things--put a hedgehog into George's hat--pour a little water into his rifle--soak his boots in a pail of water--cut his jacket round into shreds like a Roman kilt or the back of my grandmother's stays--Sew _off_ his b.u.t.tons--

[Later, April 21 or 22.]

Yesterday I could not write a line I was so fatigued, for the day before I went to town in the morning, called on your Mother, and returned in time for a few friends we had to dinner. These were Taylor, Woodhouse, Reynolds: we began cards at about 9 o'clock, and the night coming on, and continuing dark and rainy, they could not think of returning to town--So we played at Cards till very daylight--and yesterday I was not worth a sixpence. Your Mother was very well but anxious for a Letter. We had half an hour's talk and no more, for I was obliged to be home. Mrs. and Miss Millar were well, and so was Miss Waldegrave. I have asked your Brothers here for next Sunday. When Reynolds was here on Monday he asked me to give Hunt a hint to take notice of his Peter Bell in the Examiner--the best thing I can do is to write a little notice of it myself, which I will do here, and copy out if it should suit my Purpose--

_Peter Bell._ There have been lately advertised two Books both Peter Bell by name; what stuff the one was made of might be seen by the motto--"I am the real Simon Pure." This false Florimel has hurried from the press and obtruded herself into public notice, while for aught we know the real one may be still wandering about the woods and mountains. Let us hope she may soon appear and make good her right to the magic girdle. The Pamphleteering Archimage, we can perceive, has rather a splenetic love than a downright hatred to real Florimels--if indeed they had been so christened--or had even a pretention to play at bob cherry with Barbara Lewthwaite: but he has a fixed aversion to those three rhyming Graces Alice Fell, Susan Gale and Betty Foy; and now at length especially to Peter Bell--fit Apollo. It may be seen from one or two Pa.s.sages in this little skit, that the writer of it has felt the finer parts of Mr.

Wordsworth, and perhaps expatiated with his more remote and sublimer muse.

This as far as it relates to Peter Bell is unlucky. The more he may love the sad embroidery of the Excursion, the more he will hate the coa.r.s.e Samplers of Betty Foy and Alice Fell; and as they come from the same hand, the better will he be able to imitate that which can be imitated, to wit Peter Bell--as far as can be imagined from the obstinate Name. We repeat, it is very unlucky--this real Simon Pure is in parts the very Man--there is a pernicious likeness in the scenery, a 'pestilent humour' in the rhymes, and an inveterate cadence in some of the Stanzas, that must be lamented. If we are one part amused with this we are three parts sorry that an appreciator of Wordsworth should show so much temper at this really provoking name of Peter Bell--![99]

This will do well enough--I have copied it and enclosed it to Hunt. You will call it a little politic--seeing I keep clear of all parties. I say something for and against both parties--and suit it to the tune of the Examiner--I meant to say I do not unsuit it--and I believe I think what I say, nay I am sure I do--I and my conscience are in luck to-day--which is an excellent thing. The other night I went to the Play with Rice, Reynolds, and Martin--we saw a new dull and half-d.a.m.n'd opera call'd the 'Heart of Midlothian,' that was on Sat.u.r.day--I stopt at Taylor's on Sunday with Woodhouse--and pa.s.sed a quiet sort of pleasant day. I have been very much pleased with the Panorama of the Ship at the North Pole--with the icebergs, the Mountains, the Bears, the Wolves--the seals, the Penguins--and a large whale floating back above water--it is impossible to describe the place--

Wednesday Evening [April 28].

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O what can ail thee Knight at arms Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the Lake And no birds sing!

O what can ail thee Knight at arms So haggard, and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast Withereth too--