Part 33 (1/2)

You speak of Lord Byron and me. There is this great difference between us: he describes what he sees--I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task; now see the immense difference. The Edinburgh Reviewers are afraid to touch upon my poem. They do not know what to make of it; they do not like to condemn it, and they will not praise it for fear. They are as shy of it as I should be of wearing a Quaker's hat. The fact is, they have no real taste. They dare not compromise their judgments on so puzzling a question. If on my next publication they should praise me, and so lug in Endymion, I will address them in a manner they will not at all relish. The cowardliness of the Edinburgh is more than the abuse of the Quarterly.

Monday [September 20].

This day is a grand day for Winchester. They elect the mayor. It was indeed high time the place should have some sort of excitement. There was nothing going on--all asleep. Not an old maid's sedan returning from a card party; and if any old women have got tipsy at christenings, they have not exposed themselves in the street. The first night, though, of our arrival here there was a slight uproar took place at about ten of the clock. We heard distinctly a noise patting down the street, as of a walking-cane of the good old dowager breed; and a little minute after we heard a less voice observe, ”What a noise the ferril made--it must be loose.” Brown wanted to call the constables, but I observed it was only a little breeze, and would soon pa.s.s over. The side streets here are excessively maiden-lady-like; the door-steps always fresh from the flannel. The knockers have a very staid, serious, nay almost awful quietness about them. I never saw so quiet a collection of lions' and rams' heads. The doors most part black, with a little bra.s.s handle just above the keyhole, so that you may easily shut yourself out of your own house. He! He! There is none of your Lady Bellaston ringing and rapping here; no thundering Jupiter-footmen, no opera-treble tattoos, but a modest lifting up of the knocker by a set of little wee old fingers that peep through the gray mittens, and a dying fall thereof. The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting. The palatine Venice and the abbotine Winchester are equally interesting. Some time since I began a poem called ”The Eve of St. Mark,” quite in the spirit of town quietude. I think I will give you the sensation of walking about an old country town in a coolish evening. I know not whether I shall ever finish it; I will give it as far as I have gone. Ut tibi placeat--

THE EVE OF ST. MARK.

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell; Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, That call'd the folk to evening prayer; The city streets were clean and fair From wholesome drench of April rains; And, when on western window panes, The chilly sunset faintly told Of unmatured green vallies cold, Of the green th.o.r.n.y bloomless hedge, Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, Of primroses by shelter'd rills, And daisies on the aguish hills.

Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell: The silent streets were crowded well With staid and pious companies, Warm from their fireside orat'ries; And moving, with demurest air, To even-song, and vesper prayer.

Each arched porch, and entry low, Was fill'd with patient folk and slow, With whispers hush, and shuffling feet, While play'd the organ loud and sweet.

The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun, And Bertha had not yet half done A curious volume, patch'd and torn, That all day long, from earliest morn, Had taken captive her two eyes, Among its golden broideries; Perplex'd her with a thousand things,-- The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, Martyrs in a fiery blaze, Azure saints and silver rays, Moses' breastplate, and the seven Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, The winged Lion of St. Mark, And the Covenantal Ark, With its many mysteries, Cherubim and golden mice.

Bertha was a maiden fair, Dwelling in the old Minster-square; From her fireside she could see, Sidelong, its rich antiquity, Far as the Bishop's garden-wall, Where sycamores and elm-trees tall, Full-leav'd the forest had outstript, By no sharp north-wind ever nipt, So shelter'd by the mighty pile.

Bertha arose, and read awhile, With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.

Again she try'd, and then again, Until the dusk eve left her dark Upon the legend of St. Mark.

From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin, She lifted up her soft warm chin, With aching neck and swimming eyes, And dazed with saintly imageries.

All was gloom, and silent all, Save now and then the still footfall Of one returning homewards late, Past the echoing minster-gate.

The clamorous daws, that all the day Above tree-tops and towers play, Pair by pair had gone to rest, Each in ancient belfry-nest, Where asleep they fall betimes, To music and the drowsy chimes.

All was silent, all was gloom, Abroad and in the homely room: Down she sat, poor cheated soul!

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal; Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair And slant book, full against the glare.

Her shadow, in uneasy guise, Hover'd about, a giant size, On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, The parrot's cage, and panel square; And the warm angled winter-screen, On which were many monsters seen, Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice, And legless birds of Paradise, Macaw and tender Avadavat, And silken-furr'd Angora cat.

Untir'd she read, her shadow still Glower'd about, as it would fill The room with wildest forms and shades, As though some ghostly queen of spades Had come to mock behind her back, And dance, and ruffle her garments black, Untir'd she read the legend page, Of holy Mark, from youth to age, On land, on sea, in pagan chains, Rejoicing for his many pains.

Sometimes the learned eremite, With golden star, or dagger bright, Referr'd to pious poesies Written in smallest crow-quill size Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme Was parcelled out from time to time: ”... Als writ.i.th he of swevenis, Man han beforne they wake in bliss, Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound In crimped shroude farre under grounde; And how a litling child mote be A saint er its nativitie, Gif that the modre (G.o.d her blesse!) Kepen in solitarinesse, And kissen devoute the holy croce.

Of G.o.ddes love, and Sathan's force,-- He writ.i.th; and thinges many mo Of swiche thinges I may not show Bot I must tellen verilie Somdel of Sainte Cicilie, And chieflie what he auctorethe Of Sainte Markis life and dethe;”

At length her constant eyelids come Upon the fervent martyrdom; Then lastly to his holy shrine, Exalt amid the tapers' s.h.i.+ne At Venice,--

I hope you will like this for all its carelessness. I must take an opportunity here to observe that though I am writing _to_ you, I am all the while writing _at_ your wife. This explanation will account for my speaking sometimes hoity-toity-ishly, whereas if you were alone, I should sport a little more sober sadness. I am like a squinty gentleman, who, saying soft things to one lady ogles another, or what is as bad, in arguing with a person on his left hand, appeals with his eyes to one on the right. His vision is elastic; he bends it to a certain object, but having a patent spring it flies off. Writing has this disadvantage of speaking--one cannot write a wink, or a nod, or a grin, or a purse of the lips, or a _smile--O law!_ One cannot put one's finger to one's nose, or yerk ye in the ribs, or lay hold of your b.u.t.ton in writing; but in all the most lively and t.i.tterly parts of my letter you must not fail to imagine me, as the epic poets say, now here, now there; now with one foot pointed at the ceiling, now with another; now with my pen on my ear, now with my elbow in my mouth. O, my friends, you lose the action, and att.i.tude is everything, as Fuseli said when he took up his leg like a musket to shoot a swallow just darting behind his shoulder. And yet does not the word ”mum” go for one's finger beside the nose? I hope it does. I have to make use of the word ”mum” before I tell you that Severn has got a little baby--all his own, let us hope. He told Brown he had given up painting, and had turned modeller. I hope sincerely 'tis not a party concern--that no Mr. ---- or ---- is the real Pinxit and Severn the poor Sculpsit to this work of art. You know he has long studied in the life Academy.

”Haydon--yes,” your wife will say, ”Here is a sum total account of Haydon again. I wonder your brother don't put a monthly bulletin in the Philadelphia papers about him. I won't hear--no. Skip down to the bottom, and there are some more of his verses--skip (lullaby-by) them too.”--”No, let's go regularly through.”--”I won't hear a word about Haydon--bless the child, how rioty she is--there, go on there.”

Now, pray go on here, for I have a few words to say about Haydon. Before this chancery threat had cut off every legitimate supply of cash from me, I had a little at my disposal. Haydon being very much in want, I lent him 30 of it. Now in this see-saw game of life, I got nearest to the ground, and this chancery business rivetted me there, so that I was sitting in that uneasy position where the seat slants so abominably. I applied to him for payment. He could not. That was no wonder; but Goodman Delver, where was the wonder then? Why marry in this: he did not seem to care much about it, and let me go without my money with almost nonchalance, when he ought to have sold his drawings to supply me. I shall perhaps still be acquainted with him, but for friends.h.i.+p, that is at an end. Brown has been my friend in this. He got him to sign a bond, payable at three months.

Haslam has a.s.sisted me with the return of part of the money you lent him.

Hunt--”there,” says your wife, ”there's another of those dull folk! Not a syllable about my friends? Well, Hunt--What about Hunt? You little thing, see how she bites my finger! My! is not this a tooth?” Well when you have done with the tooth, read on. Not a syllable about your friends! Here are some syllables. As far as I could smoke things on the Sunday before last, thus matters stood in Henrietta Street. Henry was a greater blade then ever I remember to have seen him. He had on a very nice coat, a becoming waistcoat, and buff trousers. I think his face has lost a little of the Spanish-brown, but no flesh. He carved some beef exactly to suit my appet.i.te, as if I had been measured for it. As I stood looking out of the window with Charles, after dinner, quizzing the pa.s.sengers,--at which I am sorry to say he is too apt,--I observed that this young son of a gun's whiskers had begun to curl and curl, little twists and twists, all down the sides of his face, getting properly thickest on the angles of the visage. He certainly will have a notable pair of whiskers. ”How s.h.i.+ny your gown is in front,” says Charles. ”Why don't you see? 'tis an ap.r.o.n,” says Henry; whereat I scrutinised, and behold your mother had a purple stuff gown on, and over it an ap.r.o.n of the same colour, being the same cloth that was used for the lining. And furthermore to account for the s.h.i.+ning, it was the first day of wearing. I guessed as much of the gown--but that is entre nous. Charles likes England better than France. They've got a fat, smiling, fair cook as ever you saw; she is a little lame, but that improves her; it makes her go more swimmingly. When I asked ”Is Mrs. Wylie within?” she gave me such a large five-and-thirty-year-old smile, it made me look round upon the fourth stair--it might have been the fifth; but that's a puzzle. I shall never be able, if I were to set myself a recollecting for a year, to recollect. I think I remember two or three specks in her teeth, but I really can't say exactly. Your mother said something about Miss Keasle--what that was is quite a riddle to me now, whether she had got fatter or thinner, or broader or longer, straiter, or had taken to the zigzags--whether she had taken to or had left off a.s.ses'

milk. That, by the bye, she ought never to touch. How much better it would be to put her out to nurse with the wise woman of Brentford. I can say no more on so spare a subject. Miss Millar now is a different morsel, if one knew how to divide and subdivide, theme her out into sections and subsections, lay a little on every part of her body as it is divided, in common with all her fellow-creatures, in Moor's Almanack. But, alas, I have not heard a word about her, no cue to begin upon: there was indeed a buzz about her and her mother's being at old Mrs. So and So's, _who was like to die_, as the Jews say. But I dare say, keeping up their dialect, _she was not like to die_. I must tell you a good thing Reynolds _did_.

'Twas the best thing he ever _said_. You know at taking leave of a party at a doorway, sometimes a man dallies and foolishes and gets awkward, and does not know how to make off to advantage. Good-bye--well, good-bye--and yet he does not go; good-bye, and so on,--well, good bless you--you know what I mean. Now Reynolds was in this predicament, and got out of it in a very witty way. He was leaving us at Hampstead. He delayed, and we were pressing at him, and even said ”be off,” at which he put the tails of his coat between his legs and sneak'd off as nigh like a spaniel as could be.

He went with flying colours. This is very clever. I must, being upon the subject, tell you another good thing of him. He began, for the service it might be of to him in the law, to learn French; he had lessons at the cheap rate of 2s. 6d. per f.a.g, and observed to Brown, ”Gad,” says he, ”the man sells his lessons so cheap he must have stolen 'em.” You have heard of Hook, the farce writer. Horace Smith said to one who asked him if he knew Hook, ”Oh yes, Hook and I are very intimate.” There's a page of wit for you, to put John Bunyan's emblems out of countenance.