Unwin a present of a snuff-box--a silver one; the purchase was
made in London by a friend; it is of a size and form that make it
more fit for masculine than feminine use.
made in London by a friend; it is of a size and form that make it
more fit for masculine than feminine use.
Selection of English Letters
My dear sir, give me some account about poor Jenny.
Yet her
husband loves her: if so, she cannot be unhappy.
I know not whether I should tell you--yet why should I conceal those
trifles, or indeed anything from you? There is a book of mine will be
published in a few days: the life of a very extraordinary man; no less
than the great Voltaire. You know already by the title that it is no
more than a catch-penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the whole
performance, for which I received twenty pounds. When published, I
shall take some method of conveying it to you, unless you may think
it dear of the postage, which may amount to four or five shillings.
However, I fear you will not find an equivalent of amusement.
Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short; you should have given me
your opinion of the design of the heroi-comical poem which I sent you.
You remember I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in
a paltry ale-house. You may take the following specimen of the manner,
which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies
may be described somewhat this way:
The window, patched with paper, lent a ray
That feebly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sandy floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The game of goose was there exposed to view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold: he views with keen desire
A rusty grate, unconscious of a fire;
An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board.
And now imagine after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his
appearance in order to dun him for the reckoning:
Not with that face, so servile and so gay,
That welcomes every stranger that can pay:
With sulky eye he smoked the patient man,
Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began, &c.
All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of
Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with whom they
do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies
as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeable
species of composition than prose; and, could a man live by it, it
were not unpleasant employment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave no
space, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you very
well know already, I mean that I am
Your most affectionate friend and brother.
WILLIAM COWPER
1731-1800
TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON
_Escapade of Puss_
21 Aug. 1780.
The following occurrence ought not to be passed over in silence, in
a place where so few notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednesday
night, while we were at supper, between the hours of eight and nine, I
heard an unusual noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares was
entangled, and endeavouring to disengage herself. I was just going to
rise from table, when it ceased. In about five minutes, a voice on the
outside of the parlour door inquired if one of my hares had got
away. I immediately rushed into the next room, and found that my
poor favourite Puss had made her escape. She had gnawed in sunder the
strings of a lattice work, with which I thought I had sufficiently
secured the window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind,
because it admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened to the
kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me,
that having seen her, just after she had dropped into the street, he
attempted to cover her with his hat, but she screamed out, and leaped
directly over his head. I then desired him to pursue as fast as
possible, and added Richard Coleman to the chase, as being nimbler,
and carrying less weight than Thomas; not expecting to see her again,
but desirous to learn, if possible, what became of her. In something
less than an hour, Richard returned, almost breathless, with the
following account. That soon after he began to run, he left Tom
behind him, and came in sight of a most numerous hunt of men, women,
children, and dogs; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, and
presently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputed
between himself and Puss;--she ran right through the town, and down
the lane that leads to Dropshort; a little before she came to the
house, he got the start and turned her; she pushed for the town
again, and soon after she entered it, sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's
tanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's harvest men were
at supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There she
encountered the tanpits full of water; and while she was struggling
out of one pit, and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one of
the men drew her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then well
washed in a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and brought home
in a sack at ten o'clock.
This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe we did not
grudge a farthing of it. The poor creature received only a little hurt
in one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is now almost as well
as ever.
I do not call this an answer to your letter, but such as it is I send
it, presuming upon that interest which I know you take in my minutest
concerns, which I cannot express better than in the words of Terence a
little varied--_Nihil mei a te alienum putas. _
TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN
_A laugh that hurts nobody_
_18 Nov. 1782. _
MY DEAR WILLIAM,
. . . I little thought when I was writing the history of John Gilpin,
that he would appear in print--I intended to laugh, and to make two
or three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the world
laughs, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous in
itself, and quaintly told, as we have. --Well--they do not always laugh
so innocently, or at so small an expense--for in a world like this,
abounding with subjects for satire, and with satirical wits to mark
them, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least the grace of novelty to
recommend it. Swift's darling motto was, _Vive la bagatelle_--a good
wish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater part of whose
wisdom, whencesoever it came, most certainly came not from above. _La
bagatelle_ has no enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend,
nor so able a one, as it had in him. If I trifle, and merely trifle,
it is because I am reduced to it by necessity--a melancholy, that
nothing else so effectually disperses, engages me sometimes in the
arduous task of being merry by force. And, strange as it may seem,
the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest
mood, and, but for that saddest mood, perhaps had never been written
at all. To say truth, it would be but a shocking vagary, should
the mariners on board a ship buffeted by a terrible storm, employ
themselves in fiddling and dancing; yet sometimes much such a part act
I. . . .
To THE REV. JOHN NEWTON
_Village politicians_
_26 Jan. 1783. _
MY DEAR FRIEND,
It is reported among persons of the best intelligence at Olney--the
barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered at
this place,--that the belligerent powers are at last reconciled, the
articles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door. I saw
this morning, at nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures very
closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon the same subject.
The scene of consultation was a blacksmith's shed, very comfortably
screened from the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. Some
held their hands behind them, some had them folded across their bosom,
and others had thrust them into their breeches pockets. Every man's
posture bespoke a pacific turn of mind; but the distance being too
great for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing,
however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long, and that
you and I, equally interested in the event, though not, perhaps,
equally well-informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice in
the completion of it. The powers of Europe have clashed with each
other to a fine purpose; that the Americans, at length declared
independent, may keep themselves so, if they can; and that what the
parties, who have thought proper to dispute upon that point, have
wrested from each other in the course of the conflict, may be, in the
issue of it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be guilty of
a conduct that would render an individual infamous for ever; and
yet carry their heads high, talk of their glory, and despise their
neighbours. Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are
not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon this subject
than I have always done. England, more, perhaps, through the fault of
her generals, than her councils, has in some instances acted with a
spirit of cruel animosity she was never chargeable with till now. But
this is the worst that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans,
who, if they had contented themselves with a struggle for lawful
liberty, would have deserved applause, seem to me to have incurred
the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by making her ruin
their favourite object, and by associating themselves with her worst
enemy, for the accomplishment of their purpose. France, and of course
Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They have stolen
America from England, and whether they are able to possess themselves
of that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless what they intended.
Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of them. They
quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led them
by the nose, and the English have threshed them for suffering it.
My views of the contest being, and having been always such, I have
consequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some time
since seemed to justify. She is the only injured party. America may,
perhaps, call her the aggressor; but if she were so, America has
not only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, if
perfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition can prove their cause to
have been a rotten one, those proofs are found upon them. I think,
therefore, that whatever scourge may be prepared for England, on some
future day, her ruin is not yet to be expected. Acknowledge, now, that
I am worthy of a place under the shed I described, and that I should
make no small figure among the _quidnuncs_ of Olney. . . .
TO THE SAME
_Village justice_
17 _Nov_. 1783.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
. . . The country around us is much alarmed with apprehensions of fire.
Two have happened since that of Olney. One at Hitchin, where the
damage is said to amount to eleven thousand pounds, and another, at
a place not far from Hitchin, of which I have not learnt the name.
Letters have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to burn the town;
and the inhabitants have been so intimidated, as to have placed a
guard in many parts of it, several nights past. Some madman or some
devil has broke loose, who it is to be hoped will pay dear for these
effusions of his malignity. Since our conflagration here, we have sent
two women and a boy to the justice, for depredation; Sue Riviss, for
stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intended
to take care of. This lady, whom you will remember, escaped for want
of evidence; not that evidence was indeed wanting, but our men of
Gotham judged it unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman I
mentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of profession,
but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude of conduct rather
inconsistent with it, having filled her apron with wearing apparel,
which she likewise intended to take care of. She would have gone to
the county gaol, had Billy Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted,
insisted on it, but he good-naturedly, though I think weakly,
interposed in her favour, and begged her off. The young gentleman who
accompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. He
had stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs, the butcher. Being
convicted, he was ordered to be whipt, which operation he underwent
at the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back
again. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an imposition
upon the public. The beadle, who performed, had filled his left hand
with red ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lash
of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but in
reality not hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr. Constable
Hinschcomb, who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any
such management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful
executioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The beadle
could by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked the
constable to still harder; and this double flogging continued, till a
lass of Silverend, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under the
hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, and placing
herself immediately behind the latter, seized him by his capillary
club, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapt his face with a
most Amazonian fury. This concatenation of events has taken up more of
my paper than I intended it should, but I could not forbear to inform
you how the beadle thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle,
and the lady the constable, and how the thief was the only one who
suffered nothing. Mr. Teedon has been here, and is gone again. He came
to thank me for an old pair of breeches. In answer to our inquiries
after his health, he replied that he had a slow fever, which made
him take all possible care not to inflame his blood. I admitted
his prudence, but in his particular instance could not very clearly
discern the need of it. Pump water will not heat him much; and, to
speak a little in his own style, more inebriating fluids are to him,
I fancy, not very attainable. He brought us news, the truth of which,
however, I do not vouch for, that the town of Bedford was actually on
fire yesterday, and the flames not extinguished when the bearer of the
tidings left it.
Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why the preacher is
elevated always above his hearers, that let the crowd be as great as
it will below, there is always room enough overhead. If the French
philosophers can carry their art of flying to the perfection they
desire, the observation may be reversed, the crowd will be overhead,
and they will have most room who stay below. I can assure you,
however, upon my own experience, that this way of travelling is
very delightful. I dreamt, a night or two since, that I drove myself
through the upper regions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest
ease and security. Having finished the tour I intended, I made a short
turn, and, with one flourish of my whip, descended; my horses prancing
and curvetting with an infinite share of spirit, but without the least
danger, either to me or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is at
hand, and seems to be prognosticated by my dream, when these airy
excursions will be universal, when judges will fly the circuit,
and bishops their visitations; and when the tour of Europe will be
performed with much greater speed, and with equal advantage, by all
who travel merely for the sake of having it to say that they have made
it.
I beg that you will accept for yourself and yours our unfeigned love,
and remember me affectionately to Mr. Bacon, when you see him.
TO THE SAME
_A candidate's visit_
29 _March_, 1784.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
It being his majesty's pleasure that I should yet have another
opportunity to write before he dissolves the parliament, I avail
myself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your last,
which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary
gazette, at a time when it was not expected.
As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way into
creeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches,
in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even at
Orchard-side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the political
element, as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally deposited
in some hollow beyond the water mark, by the usual dashing of the
waves. We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and
myself, very composedly, and without the least apprehension of any
such intrusion in our snug parlour, one lady knitting, the other
netting, and the gentleman winding worsted, when to our unspeakable
surprise a mob appeared before the window; a smart rap was heard at
the door, the boys halloo'd, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville.
Puss was unfortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, with
all his good friends at his heels, was refused admittance at the grand
entry, and referred to the back door, as the only possible way of
approach. Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts,
and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window, than be absolutely
excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlour, were
filled. Mr. Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with
a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he and
as many more as could find chairs, were seated, he began to open the
intent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily
gave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not
equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, because Mr.
Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself to me at this moment,
informed me that I had a great deal. Supposing that I could not be
possessed of such a treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm
my first assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at a
loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended
the conference. Mr. Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed
the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen,
and seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted
gentlemen. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not
being sufficient as it should seem for the many nice and difficult
purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he wore suspended by
a riband from his buttonhole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked,
Puss scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious followers,
withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the adventure, and in a
short time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to be
thus interrupted more. I thought myself, however, happy in being able
to affirm truly that I had not that influence for which he sued;
and which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of the
dispute between the Crown and the Commons, I must have refused him,
for he is on the side of the former. It is comfortable to be of
no consequence in a world where one cannot exercise any without
disobliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be much at his
service, and if he be equally successful throughout the country, he
will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner perhaps was a little
mortified, because it was evident that I owed the honour of this visit
to his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper
to assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I should not I suppose
have been bound to produce them. . . .
To LADY HESKETH
_An acquaintance reopened_
Olney, 9 _Nov_. 1785.
MY DEAREST COUSIN,
Whose last most affectionate letter has run in my head ever since I
received it, and which I now sit down to answer two days sooner than
the post will serve me; I thank you for it, and with a warmth for
which I am sure you will give me credit, though I do not spend
many words in describing it. I do not seek _new_ friends, not being
altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakable
pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that now our
correspondence has suffered its last interruption, and that we shall
go down together to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily as
such a scene of things as this will permit.
I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My volume has afforded me
no such pleasure at any time, either while I was writing it, or since
its publication, as I have derived from yours and my uncle's opinion
of it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiar
quickness of taste, with which you both relish what you like, and
after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich in
the measure of your approbation that still remains. But above all,
I honour _John Gilpin_, since it was he who first encouraged you to
write. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose
well; but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisition
than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my
intercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and
generous Cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, and given
delicately to understand that the inquirer was ready to supply all
my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively, declined the
favour. I neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such inconveniences
as I had not much rather endure than come under obligations of that
sort to a person comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But to
you I answer otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the liberality of
your disposition, and have that consummate confidence in the
sincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkward
constraint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you,
therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what
manner-soever you please; and add moreover, that my affection for the
giver is such as will increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that I
shall have in receiving. It is necessary, however, that I should let
you a little into the state of my finances, that you may not suppose
them more narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and
I have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse, although during the
whole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine.
Her revenues indeed are now in some measure reduced, and do not much
exceed my own; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to
deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able to
afford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well-being
of life, depend upon. My own income has been better than it is,
but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my
connexions demanded that I should, had it not been combined with a
better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had
full proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon,
in which time by the help of good management, and a clear notion of
economical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth.
Now, my beloved Cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as it
stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for there
is no need of it, but indulge yourself in communicating (no matter
what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you
will be sure to add to the comforts of my life one of the sweetest
that I can enjoy--a token and proof of your affection.
I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwithstanding all that
time may have done: there is not a feature of your face, could I meet
it upon the road, by itself, that I should not instantly recollect.
I should say that is my Cousin's nose, or those are her lips and her
chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, I
am a very smart youth of my years; I am not indeed grown grey so much
as I am grown bald. No matter: there was more hair in the world than
ever had the honour to belong to me; accordingly having found just
enough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little
of my own that still hangs behind, I appear, if you see me in an
afternoon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguished
from my natural growth, which being worn with a small bag, and a black
riband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, even on
the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing too often!
PS. That the view I give you of myself may be complete, I add the two
following items--That I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat.
TO THE SAME
_The kindliness of thanks_
30 _Nov_. 1785.
My dearest cousin,
Your kindness reduces me to a necessity (a pleasant one, indeed), of
writing all my letters in the same terms: always thanks, thanks at
the beginning, and thanks at the end. It is however, I say, a pleasant
employment when those thanks are indeed the language of the heart: and
I can truly add, that there is no person on earth whom I thank with
so much affection as yourself. You insisted that I should give you my
genuine opinion of the wine. By the way, it arrived without the least
damage or fracture, and I finished the first bottle of it this very
day. It is excellent, and though the wine which I had been used to
drink was not bad, far preferable to that. The bottles will be in town
on Saturday. I am enamoured of the desk and its contents before I see
them. They will be most entirely welcome. A few years since I made
Mrs.
Unwin a present of a snuff-box--a silver one; the purchase was
made in London by a friend; it is of a size and form that make it
more fit for masculine than feminine use. She therefore with pleasure
accepts the box which you have sent--I should say with the greatest
pleasure. And I, discarding the leathern trunk that I have used so
long, shall succeed to the possession of hers. She says, Tell Lady
Hesketh that I truly love and honour her. Now, my Cousin, you may
depend upon it, as a most certain truth, that these words from her
lips are not an empty sound. I never in my life heard her profess a
regard for any one that she felt not. She is not addicted to the use
of such language upon ordinary occasions; but when she speaks it,
speaks from the heart. She has baited me this many a day, even as a
bear is baited, to send for Dr. Kerr. But, as I hinted to you upon
a former occasion, I am as mulish as most men are, and have hitherto
most ungallantly refused; but what is to be done now? --If it were
uncivil not to comply with the solicitations of one lady, to be
unmoved by the solicitations of two would prove me to be a bear
indeed. I will, therefore, summon him to consideration of said
stomach, and its ailments, without delay, and you shall know the
result. --I have read Goldsmith's _Traveller_ and his _Deserted
Village_, and am highly pleased with them both, as well for the manner
in which they are executed, as for their tendency, and the lessons
that they inculcate.
Mrs. Unwin said to me a few nights since, after supper, 'I have two
fine fowls in feeding, and just fit for use; I wonder whether I should
send them to Lady Hesketh? ' I replied, Yes, by all means! and I will
tell you a story that will at once convince you of the propriety of
doing so. My brother was curate on a time to Mr. Fawkes, of Orpington,
in Kent: it was when I lived in the Temple. One morning, as I was
reading by the fireside, I heard a prodigious lumbering at the door. I
opened it, and beheld a most rural figure, with very dirty boots, and
a great coat as dirty. Supposing that my great fame as a barrister had
drawn upon me a client from some remote region, I desired him to walk
in. He did so, and introduced himself to my acquaintance by telling me
that he was the farmer with whom my brother lodged at Orpington.
After this preliminary information he unbuttoned his great coat, and I
observed a quantity of long feathers projected from an inside pocket.
He thrust in his hand, and with great difficulty extricated a great
fat capon. He then proceeded to lighten the other side of him, by
dragging out just such another, and begged my acceptance of both.
I sent them to a tavern, where they were dressed, and I with two or
three friends, whom I invited to the feast, found them incomparably
better than any fowls we had ever tasted from the London co-ops. Now,
said I to Mrs. Unwin, it is likely that the fowls at Olney may be as
good as the fowls at Orpington, therefore send them; for it is not
possible to make so good a use of them in any other way . . . Adieu, my
faithful, kind, and consolatory friend!
TO THE SAME
_Arrival of the desk_
7 _Dec_. 1785.
My dear cousin,
At this time last night I was writing to you, and now I am writing to
you again . . . My dear, you say not a word about the desk in your last,
which I received this morning. I infer from your silence that you
supposed it either at Olney or on its way thither, and that you
expected nothing so much as that my next would inform you of its safe
arrival;--therefore, where can it possibly be? I am not absolutely in
despair about it, for the reasons that I mentioned last night; but to
say the truth, I stand tottering upon the verge of it. I write, and
have written these many years, upon a book of maps, which I now begin
to find too low and too flat, though till I expected a better desk,
I found no fault with _them_. See and observe how true it is, that
by increasing the number of our conveniences, we multiply our wants
exactly in the same proportion! neither can I at all doubt that if you
were to tell me that all the men in London of any fashion at all, wore
black velvet shoes with white roses, and should also tell me that you
would send me such, I should dance with impatience till they arrived.
Not because I care one farthing of what materials my shoes are made,
but because any shoes of your sending would interest me from head to
foot.
_Thursday Evening_.
Oh that this letter had wings, that it might fly to tell you that my
desk, the most elegant, the compactest, the most commodious desk in
the world, and of all the desks that ever were or ever shall be,
the desk that I love the most, is safe arrived. Nay, my dear, it was
actually at Sherrington, when the wagoner's wife (for the man himself
was not at home) croaked out her abominable _No_! yet she examined the
bill of lading, but either did it so carelessly, or as poor Dick Madan
used to say, with such an _ignorant eye_, that my name escaped her. My
precious Cousin, you have bestowed too much upon me. I have nothing
to render you in return, but the affectionate feelings of a heart most
truly sensible of your kindness. How pleasant it is to write upon such
a green bank! I am sorry that I have so nearly reached the end of
my paper. I have now however only room to say that Mrs. Unwin is
delighted with her box, and bids me do more than thank you for
it. What can I do more at this distance but say that she loves you
heartily, and that so do I? The pocket-book is also the completest
that I ever saw, and the watch-chain the most brilliant.
Adieu for a little while. Now for Homer.
N. B. --I generally write the day before the post sets out, which is
the thing that puzzles you. I do it that I may secure time for the
purpose, and may not be hurried. On this very day twenty-two years ago
I left London.
TO THE SAME
_Anticipations of a visit_
Olney, 9 _Feb_. 1786.
MY DEAREST COUSIN,
I have been impatient to tell you that I am impatient to see you
again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon this
subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the
last post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormenting
specimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a letter
on Monday that should distress and alarm him; I sent him another
yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologized
very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures; and his
friend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison of
me with the original, so that, I doubt not, we shall jog on merrily
together. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that your
kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both! I shall see you
again. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will
show you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its banks,
everything that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of those
days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk
not of an inn! Mention it not for your life! We have never had so many
visitors, but we could easily accommodate them all, though we have
received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son all at once.
My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or beginning
of June, because before that time my greenhouse will not be ready to
receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. When
the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor
with mats; and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at your
side, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will make
you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention the
country will not be in complete beauty.
And I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance.
Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a
look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of
my making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my hares, and
in which lodges Puss at present; but he, poor fellow, is worn out with
age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right
hand stands a cupboard, the work of the same author; it was once a
dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table,
which I also made; but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it
became paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament; and all
my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end
of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour,
into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs.
Unwin, unless we should meet her before, and where we will be as happy
as the day is long. Order yourself, my Cousin, to the Swan at Newport,
and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney.
My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have
asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keeps
his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be
anything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content with
it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too.
Adieu! my dearest, dearest Cousin.
TO THE SAME
_Commissions and thanks_
The Lodge, 24 _Dec_. 1786.
You must by no means, my dearest Coz, pursue the plan that has
suggested itself to you on the supposed loss of your letter. In
the first place I choose that my Sundays, like the Sundays of other
people, shall be distinguished by something that shall make me look
forward to them with agreeable expectation, and for that reason desire
that they may always bring me a letter from you. In the next place,
if I know when to _expect_ a letter, I know likewise when to _inquire
after_ a letter, if it happens not to come; a circumstance of some
importance, considering how excessively careless they are at the Swan,
where letters are sometimes overlooked, and do not arrive at their
destination, if no inquiry be made, till some days have passed since
their arrival at Olney. It has happened frequently to me to receive
a letter long after all the rest have been delivered, and the Padre
assured me that Mr. Throckmorton has sent notes three several times to
Mrs. Marriot, complaining of this neglect. For these reasons, my dear,
thou must write still on Saturdays, and as often on other days as thou
pleasest.
The screens came safe, and one of them is at this moment interposed
between me and the fire, much to the comfort of my peepers. The
other of them being fitted up with a screw that was useless, I have
consigned it to proper hands, that it may be made as serviceable
as its brother. They are very neat, and I account them a great
acquisition. Our carpenter assures me that the lameness of the chairs
was not owing to any injury received in their journey, but that the
maker never properly finished them. They were not high when they came,
and in order to reduce them to a level, we have lowered them an inch.
Thou knowest, child, that the short foot could not be lengthened, for
which reason we shortened the long ones. The box containing the plate
and the brooms reached us yesterday, and nothing had suffered the
least damage by the way. Everything is smart, everything is elegant,
and we admire them all. The short candlesticks are short enough. I am
now writing with those upon the table; Mrs. U. is reading opposite,
and they suit us both exactly. With the money that you have in hand,
you may purchase, my dear, at your most convenient time, a tea-urn;
that which we have at present having never been handsome, and being
now old and patched. A parson once, as he walked across the parlour,
pushed it down with his belly, and it never perfectly recovered
itself. We want likewise a tea-waiter, meaning, if you please, such
a one as you may remember to have seen at the Hall, a wooden one.
To which you may add, from the same fund, three or four yards of
yard-wide muslin, wherewithal to make neckcloths for my worship. If
after all these disbursements anything should be left at the bottom
of the purse, we shall be obliged to you if you will expend it in the
purchase of silk pocket-handkerchiefs. There, my precious--I think I
have charged thee with commissions in plenty.
You neither must nor shall deny us the pleasure of sending to you
such small matters as we do. As to the partridges, you may recollect
possibly, when I remind you of it, that I never eat them; they refuse
to pass my stomach; and Mrs. Unwin rejoiced in receiving them only
because she could pack them away to you--therefore never lay us under
any embargoes of this kind, for I tell you beforehand, that we are
both incorrigible. My beloved Cousin, the first thing that I open my
eyes upon in a morning, is it not the bed in which you have laid me?
Did you not, in our old dismal parlour at Olney, give me the tea on
which I breakfast? --the chocolate that I drank at noon, and the table
at which I dine? --the everything, in short, that I possess in the
shape of convenience, is it not all from you? and is it possible,
think you, that we should either of us overlook an opportunity of
making such a tiny acknowledgement of your kindness? Assure yourself
that never, while my name is Giles Gingerbread, will I dishonour my
glorious ancestry, and my illustrious appellation, by so unworthy a
conduct. I love you at my heart, and so does Mrs. U. , and we must say
thank you, and send you a peppercorn when we can. So thank you, my
dear, for the brawn and the chine, and for all the good things that
you announce, and at present I will, for your sake, say no more of
thanksgiving.
TO MRS. BODHAM
_His mother's portrait_
Weston, 27 _Feb. _ 1790.
MY DEAREST ROSE,
Whom I thought withered, and fallen from the stalk, but whom I still
find alive: nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it,
and to hear it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a
child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so.
Every creature that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and
you, the daughter of her brother, are but one remove distant from her:
I love you, therefore, and love you much, both for her sake, and for
your own. The world could not have furnished you with a present so
acceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. I
received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation of
nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had the
dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung
it where it is the last object that I see at night, and, of course,
the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I
completed my sixth year; yet I remember her well, and am an ocular
witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, a
multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received from her, and
which have endeared her memory to me beyond expression. There is in
me, I believe, more of the Donne than of the Cowper; and though I love
all of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my own
name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side.
I was thought in the days of my childhood much to resemble my mother;
and in my natural temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must
be supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and my late
uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability; and a little,
I would hope, both of his and of her--I know not what to call it,
without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but
speaking to _you_, I will even speak out, and say _good nature_. Add
to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the
Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne at
all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all.
EDMUND BURKE
1729-1797
TO MATTHEW SMITH
_First impressions of London_
[1750. ]
You'll expect some short account of my journey to this great city. To
tell you the truth, I made very few remarks as I rolled along, for my
mind was occupied with many thoughts, and my eyes often filled with
tears, when I reflected on all the dear friends I left behind; yet
the prospects could not fail to attract the attention of the most
indifferent: country seats sprinkled round on every side, some in the
modern taste, some in the style of old De Coverley Hall, all smiling
on the neat but humble cottage; every village as neat and compact as
a bee-hive, resounding with the busy hum of industry; and inns like
palaces.
What a contrast to our poor country, where you'll scarce find a
cottage ornamented with a chimney! But what pleased me most of all
was the progress of agriculture, my favourite study, and my favourite
pursuit, if Providence had blessed me with a few paternal acres.
A description of London and its natives would fill a volume. The
buildings are very fine: it may be called the sink of vice: but its
hospitals and charitable institutions, whose turrets pierce the skies
like so many electrical conductors, avert the wrath of Heaven. The
inhabitants may be divided into two classes, the _undoers_ and the
_undone_; generally so, I say, for I am persuaded there are many men
of honesty and women of virtue in every street. An Englishman is
cold and distant at first; he is very cautious even in forming an
acquaintance; he must know you well before he enters into friendship
with you; but if he does, he is not the first to dissolve that sacred
bond: in short, a real Englishman is one that performs more than he
promises; in company he is rather silent, extremely prudent in his
expressions, even in politics, his favourite topic. The women are not
quite so reserved; they consult their glasses to the best advantage;
and as nature is very liberal in her gifts to their persons, and even
minds, it is not easy for a young man to escape their glances, or to
shut his ears to their softly flowing accents.
As to the state of learning in this city, you know I have not been
long enough in it to form a proper judgement of that subject. I don't
think, however, there is as much respect paid to a man of letters on
this side of the water as you imagine. I don't find that genius, the
'rath primrose, which forsaken dies', is patronized by any of the
nobility, so that writers of the first talents are left to the
capricious patronage of the public. Notwithstanding discouragement,
literature is cultivated in a high degree. Poetry raises her
enchanting voice to Heaven. History arrests the wings of Time in his
flight to the gulf of oblivion. Philosophy, the queen of arts, and the
daughter of Heaven, is daily extending her intellectual empire. Fancy
sports on airy wing like a meteor on the bosom of a summer cloud; and
even Metaphysics spins her cobwebs, and catches some flies.
The House of Commons not unfrequently exhibits explosions of eloquence
that rise superior to those of Greece and Rome, even in their
proudest days. Yet, after all, a man will make more by the figures of
arithmetic than the figures of rhetoric, unless he can get into the
trade wind, and then he may sail secure over Pactolean sands. As to
the stage, it is sunk, in my opinion, into the lowest degree; I
mean with regard to the trash that is exhibited on it; but I don't
attribute this to the taste of the audience, for when Shakespeare
warbles his 'native woodnotes', the boxes, pit, and gallery, are
crowded--and the gods are true to every word, if properly winged to
the heart.
Soon after my arrival in town I visited Westminster Abbey: the
moment I entered I felt a kind of awe pervade my mind which I cannot
describe; the very silence seemed sacred. Henry VII's chapel is a very
fine piece of Gothic architecture, particularly the roof; but I am
told that it is exceeded by a chapel in the University of Cambridge.
Mrs. Nightingale's monument has not been praised beyond its merit. The
attitude and expression of the husband in endeavouring to shield his
wife from the dart of death, is natural and affecting. But I always
thought that the image of death would be much better represented with
an extinguished torch inverted, than with a dart. Some would imagine
that all these monuments were so many monuments of folly;--I don't
think so; what useful lessons of morality and sound philosophy do
they not exhibit! When the high-born beauty surveys her face in the
polished Parian, though dumb the marble, yet it tells her that it was
placed to guard the remains of as fine a form, and as fair a face as
her own. They show besides how anxious we are to extend our loves and
friendships beyond the grave, and to snatch as much as we can from
oblivion--such is our natural love of immortality; but it is here
that letters obtain the noblest triumphs; it is here that the swarthy
daughters of Cadmus may hang their trophies on high; for when all
the pride of the chisel and the pomp of heraldry yield to the silent
touches of time, a single line, a half-worn-out inscription, remain
faithful to their trust. Blest be the man that first introduced these
strangers into our islands, and may they never want protection or
merit! I have not the least doubt that the finest poem in the
English language, I mean Milton's _Il Penseroso_, was composed in the
long-resounding aisle of a mouldering cloister or ivy'd abbey. Yet
after all do you know that I would rather sleep in the southern corner
of a little country churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets. I
should like, however, that my dust should mingle with kindred dust.
The good old expression 'family burying-ground' has something pleasing
in it, at least to me.
To JAMES BARRY
_A friend's infirmities_
Gregories, 16 _Sept_. 1769.
MY DEAR BARRY,
I am most exceedingly obliged to your friendship and partiality,
which attributed a silence very blameable on our parts to a favourable
cause: let me add in some measure to its true cause, a great deal of
occupation of various sorts, and some of them disagreeable enough.
As to any reports concerning your conduct and behaviour, you may be
very sure they could have no kind of influence here; for none of us
are of such a make as to trust to any one's report for the character
of a person whom we ourselves know. Until very lately, I had never
heard anything of your proceedings from others; and when I did, it was
much less than I had known from yourself, that you had been upon ill
terms with the artists and virtuosi in Rome, without much mention of
cause or consequence. If you have improved these unfortunate quarrels
to your advancement in your art, you have turned a very disagreeable
circumstance to a very capital advantage. However you may have
succeeded in this uncommon attempt, permit me to suggest to you, with
that friendly liberty which you have always had the goodness to bear
from me, that you cannot possibly have always the same success, either
with regard to your fortune or your reputation. Depend upon it, that
you will find the same competitions, the same jealousies, the same
arts and cabals, the emulations of interest and of fame, and the same
agitations and passions here that you have experienced in Italy; and
if they have the same effect on your temper, they will have just the
same effects upon your interest; and be your merit what it will, you
will never be employed to paint a picture. It will be the same at
London as at Rome, and the same in Paris as in London, for the world
is pretty nearly alike in all its parts; nay, though it would perhaps
be a little inconvenient to me, I had a thousand times rather you
should fix your residence in Rome than here, as I should not then have
the mortification of seeing with my own eyes a genius of the first
rank lost to the world, himself, and his friends; as I certainly must,
if you do not assume a manner of acting and thinking here, totally
different from what your letters from Rome have described to me.
That you have had just subjects of indignation always, and of anger
often, I do no ways doubt; who can live in the world without some
trial of his patience? But believe me, my dear Barry, that the arms
with which the ill dispositions of the world are to be combated, and
the qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and we reconciled
to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence to others, and
a great deal of mistrust of ourselves; which are not qualities of a
mean spirit, as some may possibly think them; but virtues of a
great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature as much as they
contribute to our repose and fortune; for nothing can be so unworthy
of a well-composed soul, as to pass away life in bickerings and
litigations, in snarling and scuffling with every one about us.
Again and again, my dear Barry, we must be at peace with our species;
if not for their sakes yet very much for our own.
husband loves her: if so, she cannot be unhappy.
I know not whether I should tell you--yet why should I conceal those
trifles, or indeed anything from you? There is a book of mine will be
published in a few days: the life of a very extraordinary man; no less
than the great Voltaire. You know already by the title that it is no
more than a catch-penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the whole
performance, for which I received twenty pounds. When published, I
shall take some method of conveying it to you, unless you may think
it dear of the postage, which may amount to four or five shillings.
However, I fear you will not find an equivalent of amusement.
Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short; you should have given me
your opinion of the design of the heroi-comical poem which I sent you.
You remember I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in
a paltry ale-house. You may take the following specimen of the manner,
which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies
may be described somewhat this way:
The window, patched with paper, lent a ray
That feebly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sandy floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The game of goose was there exposed to view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold: he views with keen desire
A rusty grate, unconscious of a fire;
An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board.
And now imagine after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his
appearance in order to dun him for the reckoning:
Not with that face, so servile and so gay,
That welcomes every stranger that can pay:
With sulky eye he smoked the patient man,
Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began, &c.
All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of
Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with whom they
do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies
as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeable
species of composition than prose; and, could a man live by it, it
were not unpleasant employment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave no
space, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you very
well know already, I mean that I am
Your most affectionate friend and brother.
WILLIAM COWPER
1731-1800
TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON
_Escapade of Puss_
21 Aug. 1780.
The following occurrence ought not to be passed over in silence, in
a place where so few notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednesday
night, while we were at supper, between the hours of eight and nine, I
heard an unusual noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares was
entangled, and endeavouring to disengage herself. I was just going to
rise from table, when it ceased. In about five minutes, a voice on the
outside of the parlour door inquired if one of my hares had got
away. I immediately rushed into the next room, and found that my
poor favourite Puss had made her escape. She had gnawed in sunder the
strings of a lattice work, with which I thought I had sufficiently
secured the window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind,
because it admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened to the
kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me,
that having seen her, just after she had dropped into the street, he
attempted to cover her with his hat, but she screamed out, and leaped
directly over his head. I then desired him to pursue as fast as
possible, and added Richard Coleman to the chase, as being nimbler,
and carrying less weight than Thomas; not expecting to see her again,
but desirous to learn, if possible, what became of her. In something
less than an hour, Richard returned, almost breathless, with the
following account. That soon after he began to run, he left Tom
behind him, and came in sight of a most numerous hunt of men, women,
children, and dogs; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, and
presently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputed
between himself and Puss;--she ran right through the town, and down
the lane that leads to Dropshort; a little before she came to the
house, he got the start and turned her; she pushed for the town
again, and soon after she entered it, sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's
tanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's harvest men were
at supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There she
encountered the tanpits full of water; and while she was struggling
out of one pit, and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one of
the men drew her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then well
washed in a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and brought home
in a sack at ten o'clock.
This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe we did not
grudge a farthing of it. The poor creature received only a little hurt
in one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is now almost as well
as ever.
I do not call this an answer to your letter, but such as it is I send
it, presuming upon that interest which I know you take in my minutest
concerns, which I cannot express better than in the words of Terence a
little varied--_Nihil mei a te alienum putas. _
TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN
_A laugh that hurts nobody_
_18 Nov. 1782. _
MY DEAR WILLIAM,
. . . I little thought when I was writing the history of John Gilpin,
that he would appear in print--I intended to laugh, and to make two
or three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the world
laughs, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous in
itself, and quaintly told, as we have. --Well--they do not always laugh
so innocently, or at so small an expense--for in a world like this,
abounding with subjects for satire, and with satirical wits to mark
them, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least the grace of novelty to
recommend it. Swift's darling motto was, _Vive la bagatelle_--a good
wish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater part of whose
wisdom, whencesoever it came, most certainly came not from above. _La
bagatelle_ has no enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend,
nor so able a one, as it had in him. If I trifle, and merely trifle,
it is because I am reduced to it by necessity--a melancholy, that
nothing else so effectually disperses, engages me sometimes in the
arduous task of being merry by force. And, strange as it may seem,
the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest
mood, and, but for that saddest mood, perhaps had never been written
at all. To say truth, it would be but a shocking vagary, should
the mariners on board a ship buffeted by a terrible storm, employ
themselves in fiddling and dancing; yet sometimes much such a part act
I. . . .
To THE REV. JOHN NEWTON
_Village politicians_
_26 Jan. 1783. _
MY DEAR FRIEND,
It is reported among persons of the best intelligence at Olney--the
barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered at
this place,--that the belligerent powers are at last reconciled, the
articles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door. I saw
this morning, at nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures very
closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon the same subject.
The scene of consultation was a blacksmith's shed, very comfortably
screened from the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. Some
held their hands behind them, some had them folded across their bosom,
and others had thrust them into their breeches pockets. Every man's
posture bespoke a pacific turn of mind; but the distance being too
great for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing,
however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long, and that
you and I, equally interested in the event, though not, perhaps,
equally well-informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice in
the completion of it. The powers of Europe have clashed with each
other to a fine purpose; that the Americans, at length declared
independent, may keep themselves so, if they can; and that what the
parties, who have thought proper to dispute upon that point, have
wrested from each other in the course of the conflict, may be, in the
issue of it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be guilty of
a conduct that would render an individual infamous for ever; and
yet carry their heads high, talk of their glory, and despise their
neighbours. Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are
not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon this subject
than I have always done. England, more, perhaps, through the fault of
her generals, than her councils, has in some instances acted with a
spirit of cruel animosity she was never chargeable with till now. But
this is the worst that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans,
who, if they had contented themselves with a struggle for lawful
liberty, would have deserved applause, seem to me to have incurred
the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by making her ruin
their favourite object, and by associating themselves with her worst
enemy, for the accomplishment of their purpose. France, and of course
Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They have stolen
America from England, and whether they are able to possess themselves
of that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless what they intended.
Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of them. They
quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led them
by the nose, and the English have threshed them for suffering it.
My views of the contest being, and having been always such, I have
consequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some time
since seemed to justify. She is the only injured party. America may,
perhaps, call her the aggressor; but if she were so, America has
not only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, if
perfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition can prove their cause to
have been a rotten one, those proofs are found upon them. I think,
therefore, that whatever scourge may be prepared for England, on some
future day, her ruin is not yet to be expected. Acknowledge, now, that
I am worthy of a place under the shed I described, and that I should
make no small figure among the _quidnuncs_ of Olney. . . .
TO THE SAME
_Village justice_
17 _Nov_. 1783.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
. . . The country around us is much alarmed with apprehensions of fire.
Two have happened since that of Olney. One at Hitchin, where the
damage is said to amount to eleven thousand pounds, and another, at
a place not far from Hitchin, of which I have not learnt the name.
Letters have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to burn the town;
and the inhabitants have been so intimidated, as to have placed a
guard in many parts of it, several nights past. Some madman or some
devil has broke loose, who it is to be hoped will pay dear for these
effusions of his malignity. Since our conflagration here, we have sent
two women and a boy to the justice, for depredation; Sue Riviss, for
stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intended
to take care of. This lady, whom you will remember, escaped for want
of evidence; not that evidence was indeed wanting, but our men of
Gotham judged it unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman I
mentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of profession,
but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude of conduct rather
inconsistent with it, having filled her apron with wearing apparel,
which she likewise intended to take care of. She would have gone to
the county gaol, had Billy Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted,
insisted on it, but he good-naturedly, though I think weakly,
interposed in her favour, and begged her off. The young gentleman who
accompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. He
had stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs, the butcher. Being
convicted, he was ordered to be whipt, which operation he underwent
at the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back
again. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an imposition
upon the public. The beadle, who performed, had filled his left hand
with red ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lash
of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but in
reality not hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr. Constable
Hinschcomb, who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any
such management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful
executioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The beadle
could by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked the
constable to still harder; and this double flogging continued, till a
lass of Silverend, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under the
hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, and placing
herself immediately behind the latter, seized him by his capillary
club, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapt his face with a
most Amazonian fury. This concatenation of events has taken up more of
my paper than I intended it should, but I could not forbear to inform
you how the beadle thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle,
and the lady the constable, and how the thief was the only one who
suffered nothing. Mr. Teedon has been here, and is gone again. He came
to thank me for an old pair of breeches. In answer to our inquiries
after his health, he replied that he had a slow fever, which made
him take all possible care not to inflame his blood. I admitted
his prudence, but in his particular instance could not very clearly
discern the need of it. Pump water will not heat him much; and, to
speak a little in his own style, more inebriating fluids are to him,
I fancy, not very attainable. He brought us news, the truth of which,
however, I do not vouch for, that the town of Bedford was actually on
fire yesterday, and the flames not extinguished when the bearer of the
tidings left it.
Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why the preacher is
elevated always above his hearers, that let the crowd be as great as
it will below, there is always room enough overhead. If the French
philosophers can carry their art of flying to the perfection they
desire, the observation may be reversed, the crowd will be overhead,
and they will have most room who stay below. I can assure you,
however, upon my own experience, that this way of travelling is
very delightful. I dreamt, a night or two since, that I drove myself
through the upper regions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest
ease and security. Having finished the tour I intended, I made a short
turn, and, with one flourish of my whip, descended; my horses prancing
and curvetting with an infinite share of spirit, but without the least
danger, either to me or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is at
hand, and seems to be prognosticated by my dream, when these airy
excursions will be universal, when judges will fly the circuit,
and bishops their visitations; and when the tour of Europe will be
performed with much greater speed, and with equal advantage, by all
who travel merely for the sake of having it to say that they have made
it.
I beg that you will accept for yourself and yours our unfeigned love,
and remember me affectionately to Mr. Bacon, when you see him.
TO THE SAME
_A candidate's visit_
29 _March_, 1784.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
It being his majesty's pleasure that I should yet have another
opportunity to write before he dissolves the parliament, I avail
myself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your last,
which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary
gazette, at a time when it was not expected.
As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way into
creeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches,
in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even at
Orchard-side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the political
element, as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally deposited
in some hollow beyond the water mark, by the usual dashing of the
waves. We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and
myself, very composedly, and without the least apprehension of any
such intrusion in our snug parlour, one lady knitting, the other
netting, and the gentleman winding worsted, when to our unspeakable
surprise a mob appeared before the window; a smart rap was heard at
the door, the boys halloo'd, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville.
Puss was unfortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, with
all his good friends at his heels, was refused admittance at the grand
entry, and referred to the back door, as the only possible way of
approach. Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts,
and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window, than be absolutely
excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlour, were
filled. Mr. Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with
a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he and
as many more as could find chairs, were seated, he began to open the
intent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily
gave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not
equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, because Mr.
Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself to me at this moment,
informed me that I had a great deal. Supposing that I could not be
possessed of such a treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm
my first assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at a
loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended
the conference. Mr. Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed
the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen,
and seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted
gentlemen. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not
being sufficient as it should seem for the many nice and difficult
purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he wore suspended by
a riband from his buttonhole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked,
Puss scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious followers,
withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the adventure, and in a
short time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to be
thus interrupted more. I thought myself, however, happy in being able
to affirm truly that I had not that influence for which he sued;
and which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of the
dispute between the Crown and the Commons, I must have refused him,
for he is on the side of the former. It is comfortable to be of
no consequence in a world where one cannot exercise any without
disobliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be much at his
service, and if he be equally successful throughout the country, he
will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner perhaps was a little
mortified, because it was evident that I owed the honour of this visit
to his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper
to assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I should not I suppose
have been bound to produce them. . . .
To LADY HESKETH
_An acquaintance reopened_
Olney, 9 _Nov_. 1785.
MY DEAREST COUSIN,
Whose last most affectionate letter has run in my head ever since I
received it, and which I now sit down to answer two days sooner than
the post will serve me; I thank you for it, and with a warmth for
which I am sure you will give me credit, though I do not spend
many words in describing it. I do not seek _new_ friends, not being
altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakable
pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that now our
correspondence has suffered its last interruption, and that we shall
go down together to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily as
such a scene of things as this will permit.
I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My volume has afforded me
no such pleasure at any time, either while I was writing it, or since
its publication, as I have derived from yours and my uncle's opinion
of it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiar
quickness of taste, with which you both relish what you like, and
after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich in
the measure of your approbation that still remains. But above all,
I honour _John Gilpin_, since it was he who first encouraged you to
write. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose
well; but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisition
than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my
intercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and
generous Cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, and given
delicately to understand that the inquirer was ready to supply all
my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively, declined the
favour. I neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such inconveniences
as I had not much rather endure than come under obligations of that
sort to a person comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But to
you I answer otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the liberality of
your disposition, and have that consummate confidence in the
sincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkward
constraint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you,
therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what
manner-soever you please; and add moreover, that my affection for the
giver is such as will increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that I
shall have in receiving. It is necessary, however, that I should let
you a little into the state of my finances, that you may not suppose
them more narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and
I have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse, although during the
whole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine.
Her revenues indeed are now in some measure reduced, and do not much
exceed my own; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to
deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able to
afford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well-being
of life, depend upon. My own income has been better than it is,
but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my
connexions demanded that I should, had it not been combined with a
better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had
full proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon,
in which time by the help of good management, and a clear notion of
economical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth.
Now, my beloved Cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as it
stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for there
is no need of it, but indulge yourself in communicating (no matter
what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you
will be sure to add to the comforts of my life one of the sweetest
that I can enjoy--a token and proof of your affection.
I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwithstanding all that
time may have done: there is not a feature of your face, could I meet
it upon the road, by itself, that I should not instantly recollect.
I should say that is my Cousin's nose, or those are her lips and her
chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, I
am a very smart youth of my years; I am not indeed grown grey so much
as I am grown bald. No matter: there was more hair in the world than
ever had the honour to belong to me; accordingly having found just
enough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little
of my own that still hangs behind, I appear, if you see me in an
afternoon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguished
from my natural growth, which being worn with a small bag, and a black
riband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, even on
the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing too often!
PS. That the view I give you of myself may be complete, I add the two
following items--That I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat.
TO THE SAME
_The kindliness of thanks_
30 _Nov_. 1785.
My dearest cousin,
Your kindness reduces me to a necessity (a pleasant one, indeed), of
writing all my letters in the same terms: always thanks, thanks at
the beginning, and thanks at the end. It is however, I say, a pleasant
employment when those thanks are indeed the language of the heart: and
I can truly add, that there is no person on earth whom I thank with
so much affection as yourself. You insisted that I should give you my
genuine opinion of the wine. By the way, it arrived without the least
damage or fracture, and I finished the first bottle of it this very
day. It is excellent, and though the wine which I had been used to
drink was not bad, far preferable to that. The bottles will be in town
on Saturday. I am enamoured of the desk and its contents before I see
them. They will be most entirely welcome. A few years since I made
Mrs.
Unwin a present of a snuff-box--a silver one; the purchase was
made in London by a friend; it is of a size and form that make it
more fit for masculine than feminine use. She therefore with pleasure
accepts the box which you have sent--I should say with the greatest
pleasure. And I, discarding the leathern trunk that I have used so
long, shall succeed to the possession of hers. She says, Tell Lady
Hesketh that I truly love and honour her. Now, my Cousin, you may
depend upon it, as a most certain truth, that these words from her
lips are not an empty sound. I never in my life heard her profess a
regard for any one that she felt not. She is not addicted to the use
of such language upon ordinary occasions; but when she speaks it,
speaks from the heart. She has baited me this many a day, even as a
bear is baited, to send for Dr. Kerr. But, as I hinted to you upon
a former occasion, I am as mulish as most men are, and have hitherto
most ungallantly refused; but what is to be done now? --If it were
uncivil not to comply with the solicitations of one lady, to be
unmoved by the solicitations of two would prove me to be a bear
indeed. I will, therefore, summon him to consideration of said
stomach, and its ailments, without delay, and you shall know the
result. --I have read Goldsmith's _Traveller_ and his _Deserted
Village_, and am highly pleased with them both, as well for the manner
in which they are executed, as for their tendency, and the lessons
that they inculcate.
Mrs. Unwin said to me a few nights since, after supper, 'I have two
fine fowls in feeding, and just fit for use; I wonder whether I should
send them to Lady Hesketh? ' I replied, Yes, by all means! and I will
tell you a story that will at once convince you of the propriety of
doing so. My brother was curate on a time to Mr. Fawkes, of Orpington,
in Kent: it was when I lived in the Temple. One morning, as I was
reading by the fireside, I heard a prodigious lumbering at the door. I
opened it, and beheld a most rural figure, with very dirty boots, and
a great coat as dirty. Supposing that my great fame as a barrister had
drawn upon me a client from some remote region, I desired him to walk
in. He did so, and introduced himself to my acquaintance by telling me
that he was the farmer with whom my brother lodged at Orpington.
After this preliminary information he unbuttoned his great coat, and I
observed a quantity of long feathers projected from an inside pocket.
He thrust in his hand, and with great difficulty extricated a great
fat capon. He then proceeded to lighten the other side of him, by
dragging out just such another, and begged my acceptance of both.
I sent them to a tavern, where they were dressed, and I with two or
three friends, whom I invited to the feast, found them incomparably
better than any fowls we had ever tasted from the London co-ops. Now,
said I to Mrs. Unwin, it is likely that the fowls at Olney may be as
good as the fowls at Orpington, therefore send them; for it is not
possible to make so good a use of them in any other way . . . Adieu, my
faithful, kind, and consolatory friend!
TO THE SAME
_Arrival of the desk_
7 _Dec_. 1785.
My dear cousin,
At this time last night I was writing to you, and now I am writing to
you again . . . My dear, you say not a word about the desk in your last,
which I received this morning. I infer from your silence that you
supposed it either at Olney or on its way thither, and that you
expected nothing so much as that my next would inform you of its safe
arrival;--therefore, where can it possibly be? I am not absolutely in
despair about it, for the reasons that I mentioned last night; but to
say the truth, I stand tottering upon the verge of it. I write, and
have written these many years, upon a book of maps, which I now begin
to find too low and too flat, though till I expected a better desk,
I found no fault with _them_. See and observe how true it is, that
by increasing the number of our conveniences, we multiply our wants
exactly in the same proportion! neither can I at all doubt that if you
were to tell me that all the men in London of any fashion at all, wore
black velvet shoes with white roses, and should also tell me that you
would send me such, I should dance with impatience till they arrived.
Not because I care one farthing of what materials my shoes are made,
but because any shoes of your sending would interest me from head to
foot.
_Thursday Evening_.
Oh that this letter had wings, that it might fly to tell you that my
desk, the most elegant, the compactest, the most commodious desk in
the world, and of all the desks that ever were or ever shall be,
the desk that I love the most, is safe arrived. Nay, my dear, it was
actually at Sherrington, when the wagoner's wife (for the man himself
was not at home) croaked out her abominable _No_! yet she examined the
bill of lading, but either did it so carelessly, or as poor Dick Madan
used to say, with such an _ignorant eye_, that my name escaped her. My
precious Cousin, you have bestowed too much upon me. I have nothing
to render you in return, but the affectionate feelings of a heart most
truly sensible of your kindness. How pleasant it is to write upon such
a green bank! I am sorry that I have so nearly reached the end of
my paper. I have now however only room to say that Mrs. Unwin is
delighted with her box, and bids me do more than thank you for
it. What can I do more at this distance but say that she loves you
heartily, and that so do I? The pocket-book is also the completest
that I ever saw, and the watch-chain the most brilliant.
Adieu for a little while. Now for Homer.
N. B. --I generally write the day before the post sets out, which is
the thing that puzzles you. I do it that I may secure time for the
purpose, and may not be hurried. On this very day twenty-two years ago
I left London.
TO THE SAME
_Anticipations of a visit_
Olney, 9 _Feb_. 1786.
MY DEAREST COUSIN,
I have been impatient to tell you that I am impatient to see you
again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon this
subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the
last post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormenting
specimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a letter
on Monday that should distress and alarm him; I sent him another
yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologized
very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures; and his
friend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison of
me with the original, so that, I doubt not, we shall jog on merrily
together. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that your
kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both! I shall see you
again. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will
show you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its banks,
everything that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of those
days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk
not of an inn! Mention it not for your life! We have never had so many
visitors, but we could easily accommodate them all, though we have
received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son all at once.
My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or beginning
of June, because before that time my greenhouse will not be ready to
receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. When
the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor
with mats; and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at your
side, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will make
you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention the
country will not be in complete beauty.
And I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance.
Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a
look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of
my making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my hares, and
in which lodges Puss at present; but he, poor fellow, is worn out with
age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right
hand stands a cupboard, the work of the same author; it was once a
dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table,
which I also made; but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it
became paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament; and all
my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end
of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour,
into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs.
Unwin, unless we should meet her before, and where we will be as happy
as the day is long. Order yourself, my Cousin, to the Swan at Newport,
and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney.
My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have
asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keeps
his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be
anything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content with
it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too.
Adieu! my dearest, dearest Cousin.
TO THE SAME
_Commissions and thanks_
The Lodge, 24 _Dec_. 1786.
You must by no means, my dearest Coz, pursue the plan that has
suggested itself to you on the supposed loss of your letter. In
the first place I choose that my Sundays, like the Sundays of other
people, shall be distinguished by something that shall make me look
forward to them with agreeable expectation, and for that reason desire
that they may always bring me a letter from you. In the next place,
if I know when to _expect_ a letter, I know likewise when to _inquire
after_ a letter, if it happens not to come; a circumstance of some
importance, considering how excessively careless they are at the Swan,
where letters are sometimes overlooked, and do not arrive at their
destination, if no inquiry be made, till some days have passed since
their arrival at Olney. It has happened frequently to me to receive
a letter long after all the rest have been delivered, and the Padre
assured me that Mr. Throckmorton has sent notes three several times to
Mrs. Marriot, complaining of this neglect. For these reasons, my dear,
thou must write still on Saturdays, and as often on other days as thou
pleasest.
The screens came safe, and one of them is at this moment interposed
between me and the fire, much to the comfort of my peepers. The
other of them being fitted up with a screw that was useless, I have
consigned it to proper hands, that it may be made as serviceable
as its brother. They are very neat, and I account them a great
acquisition. Our carpenter assures me that the lameness of the chairs
was not owing to any injury received in their journey, but that the
maker never properly finished them. They were not high when they came,
and in order to reduce them to a level, we have lowered them an inch.
Thou knowest, child, that the short foot could not be lengthened, for
which reason we shortened the long ones. The box containing the plate
and the brooms reached us yesterday, and nothing had suffered the
least damage by the way. Everything is smart, everything is elegant,
and we admire them all. The short candlesticks are short enough. I am
now writing with those upon the table; Mrs. U. is reading opposite,
and they suit us both exactly. With the money that you have in hand,
you may purchase, my dear, at your most convenient time, a tea-urn;
that which we have at present having never been handsome, and being
now old and patched. A parson once, as he walked across the parlour,
pushed it down with his belly, and it never perfectly recovered
itself. We want likewise a tea-waiter, meaning, if you please, such
a one as you may remember to have seen at the Hall, a wooden one.
To which you may add, from the same fund, three or four yards of
yard-wide muslin, wherewithal to make neckcloths for my worship. If
after all these disbursements anything should be left at the bottom
of the purse, we shall be obliged to you if you will expend it in the
purchase of silk pocket-handkerchiefs. There, my precious--I think I
have charged thee with commissions in plenty.
You neither must nor shall deny us the pleasure of sending to you
such small matters as we do. As to the partridges, you may recollect
possibly, when I remind you of it, that I never eat them; they refuse
to pass my stomach; and Mrs. Unwin rejoiced in receiving them only
because she could pack them away to you--therefore never lay us under
any embargoes of this kind, for I tell you beforehand, that we are
both incorrigible. My beloved Cousin, the first thing that I open my
eyes upon in a morning, is it not the bed in which you have laid me?
Did you not, in our old dismal parlour at Olney, give me the tea on
which I breakfast? --the chocolate that I drank at noon, and the table
at which I dine? --the everything, in short, that I possess in the
shape of convenience, is it not all from you? and is it possible,
think you, that we should either of us overlook an opportunity of
making such a tiny acknowledgement of your kindness? Assure yourself
that never, while my name is Giles Gingerbread, will I dishonour my
glorious ancestry, and my illustrious appellation, by so unworthy a
conduct. I love you at my heart, and so does Mrs. U. , and we must say
thank you, and send you a peppercorn when we can. So thank you, my
dear, for the brawn and the chine, and for all the good things that
you announce, and at present I will, for your sake, say no more of
thanksgiving.
TO MRS. BODHAM
_His mother's portrait_
Weston, 27 _Feb. _ 1790.
MY DEAREST ROSE,
Whom I thought withered, and fallen from the stalk, but whom I still
find alive: nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it,
and to hear it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a
child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so.
Every creature that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and
you, the daughter of her brother, are but one remove distant from her:
I love you, therefore, and love you much, both for her sake, and for
your own. The world could not have furnished you with a present so
acceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. I
received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation of
nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had the
dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung
it where it is the last object that I see at night, and, of course,
the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I
completed my sixth year; yet I remember her well, and am an ocular
witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, a
multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received from her, and
which have endeared her memory to me beyond expression. There is in
me, I believe, more of the Donne than of the Cowper; and though I love
all of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my own
name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side.
I was thought in the days of my childhood much to resemble my mother;
and in my natural temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must
be supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and my late
uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability; and a little,
I would hope, both of his and of her--I know not what to call it,
without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but
speaking to _you_, I will even speak out, and say _good nature_. Add
to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the
Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne at
all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all.
EDMUND BURKE
1729-1797
TO MATTHEW SMITH
_First impressions of London_
[1750. ]
You'll expect some short account of my journey to this great city. To
tell you the truth, I made very few remarks as I rolled along, for my
mind was occupied with many thoughts, and my eyes often filled with
tears, when I reflected on all the dear friends I left behind; yet
the prospects could not fail to attract the attention of the most
indifferent: country seats sprinkled round on every side, some in the
modern taste, some in the style of old De Coverley Hall, all smiling
on the neat but humble cottage; every village as neat and compact as
a bee-hive, resounding with the busy hum of industry; and inns like
palaces.
What a contrast to our poor country, where you'll scarce find a
cottage ornamented with a chimney! But what pleased me most of all
was the progress of agriculture, my favourite study, and my favourite
pursuit, if Providence had blessed me with a few paternal acres.
A description of London and its natives would fill a volume. The
buildings are very fine: it may be called the sink of vice: but its
hospitals and charitable institutions, whose turrets pierce the skies
like so many electrical conductors, avert the wrath of Heaven. The
inhabitants may be divided into two classes, the _undoers_ and the
_undone_; generally so, I say, for I am persuaded there are many men
of honesty and women of virtue in every street. An Englishman is
cold and distant at first; he is very cautious even in forming an
acquaintance; he must know you well before he enters into friendship
with you; but if he does, he is not the first to dissolve that sacred
bond: in short, a real Englishman is one that performs more than he
promises; in company he is rather silent, extremely prudent in his
expressions, even in politics, his favourite topic. The women are not
quite so reserved; they consult their glasses to the best advantage;
and as nature is very liberal in her gifts to their persons, and even
minds, it is not easy for a young man to escape their glances, or to
shut his ears to their softly flowing accents.
As to the state of learning in this city, you know I have not been
long enough in it to form a proper judgement of that subject. I don't
think, however, there is as much respect paid to a man of letters on
this side of the water as you imagine. I don't find that genius, the
'rath primrose, which forsaken dies', is patronized by any of the
nobility, so that writers of the first talents are left to the
capricious patronage of the public. Notwithstanding discouragement,
literature is cultivated in a high degree. Poetry raises her
enchanting voice to Heaven. History arrests the wings of Time in his
flight to the gulf of oblivion. Philosophy, the queen of arts, and the
daughter of Heaven, is daily extending her intellectual empire. Fancy
sports on airy wing like a meteor on the bosom of a summer cloud; and
even Metaphysics spins her cobwebs, and catches some flies.
The House of Commons not unfrequently exhibits explosions of eloquence
that rise superior to those of Greece and Rome, even in their
proudest days. Yet, after all, a man will make more by the figures of
arithmetic than the figures of rhetoric, unless he can get into the
trade wind, and then he may sail secure over Pactolean sands. As to
the stage, it is sunk, in my opinion, into the lowest degree; I
mean with regard to the trash that is exhibited on it; but I don't
attribute this to the taste of the audience, for when Shakespeare
warbles his 'native woodnotes', the boxes, pit, and gallery, are
crowded--and the gods are true to every word, if properly winged to
the heart.
Soon after my arrival in town I visited Westminster Abbey: the
moment I entered I felt a kind of awe pervade my mind which I cannot
describe; the very silence seemed sacred. Henry VII's chapel is a very
fine piece of Gothic architecture, particularly the roof; but I am
told that it is exceeded by a chapel in the University of Cambridge.
Mrs. Nightingale's monument has not been praised beyond its merit. The
attitude and expression of the husband in endeavouring to shield his
wife from the dart of death, is natural and affecting. But I always
thought that the image of death would be much better represented with
an extinguished torch inverted, than with a dart. Some would imagine
that all these monuments were so many monuments of folly;--I don't
think so; what useful lessons of morality and sound philosophy do
they not exhibit! When the high-born beauty surveys her face in the
polished Parian, though dumb the marble, yet it tells her that it was
placed to guard the remains of as fine a form, and as fair a face as
her own. They show besides how anxious we are to extend our loves and
friendships beyond the grave, and to snatch as much as we can from
oblivion--such is our natural love of immortality; but it is here
that letters obtain the noblest triumphs; it is here that the swarthy
daughters of Cadmus may hang their trophies on high; for when all
the pride of the chisel and the pomp of heraldry yield to the silent
touches of time, a single line, a half-worn-out inscription, remain
faithful to their trust. Blest be the man that first introduced these
strangers into our islands, and may they never want protection or
merit! I have not the least doubt that the finest poem in the
English language, I mean Milton's _Il Penseroso_, was composed in the
long-resounding aisle of a mouldering cloister or ivy'd abbey. Yet
after all do you know that I would rather sleep in the southern corner
of a little country churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets. I
should like, however, that my dust should mingle with kindred dust.
The good old expression 'family burying-ground' has something pleasing
in it, at least to me.
To JAMES BARRY
_A friend's infirmities_
Gregories, 16 _Sept_. 1769.
MY DEAR BARRY,
I am most exceedingly obliged to your friendship and partiality,
which attributed a silence very blameable on our parts to a favourable
cause: let me add in some measure to its true cause, a great deal of
occupation of various sorts, and some of them disagreeable enough.
As to any reports concerning your conduct and behaviour, you may be
very sure they could have no kind of influence here; for none of us
are of such a make as to trust to any one's report for the character
of a person whom we ourselves know. Until very lately, I had never
heard anything of your proceedings from others; and when I did, it was
much less than I had known from yourself, that you had been upon ill
terms with the artists and virtuosi in Rome, without much mention of
cause or consequence. If you have improved these unfortunate quarrels
to your advancement in your art, you have turned a very disagreeable
circumstance to a very capital advantage. However you may have
succeeded in this uncommon attempt, permit me to suggest to you, with
that friendly liberty which you have always had the goodness to bear
from me, that you cannot possibly have always the same success, either
with regard to your fortune or your reputation. Depend upon it, that
you will find the same competitions, the same jealousies, the same
arts and cabals, the emulations of interest and of fame, and the same
agitations and passions here that you have experienced in Italy; and
if they have the same effect on your temper, they will have just the
same effects upon your interest; and be your merit what it will, you
will never be employed to paint a picture. It will be the same at
London as at Rome, and the same in Paris as in London, for the world
is pretty nearly alike in all its parts; nay, though it would perhaps
be a little inconvenient to me, I had a thousand times rather you
should fix your residence in Rome than here, as I should not then have
the mortification of seeing with my own eyes a genius of the first
rank lost to the world, himself, and his friends; as I certainly must,
if you do not assume a manner of acting and thinking here, totally
different from what your letters from Rome have described to me.
That you have had just subjects of indignation always, and of anger
often, I do no ways doubt; who can live in the world without some
trial of his patience? But believe me, my dear Barry, that the arms
with which the ill dispositions of the world are to be combated, and
the qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and we reconciled
to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence to others, and
a great deal of mistrust of ourselves; which are not qualities of a
mean spirit, as some may possibly think them; but virtues of a
great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature as much as they
contribute to our repose and fortune; for nothing can be so unworthy
of a well-composed soul, as to pass away life in bickerings and
litigations, in snarling and scuffling with every one about us.
Again and again, my dear Barry, we must be at peace with our species;
if not for their sakes yet very much for our own.
