till it burst out in the French Revolution. That has had an unlucky termination. It put a stop to the rapid progress of free sentiments in England, and gave our Court hopes of turning back to the despotism of the eighteenth century. They have made a handle of this event in every way to undermine our freedom. They spread a horrid superstition against all innovation and improvement. The present struggle in England of the people is to destroy this superstition. What has rous'd them to do it is their distresses. Perhaps, on this account, the present distresses of this nation are a fortunate thing. Tho' so horrid in their experience, you will see I mean that the French Revolution put a temporary stop to this third change the change for the better. Now it is in progress again, and I think it an effectual one. This is no contest between Whig and Tory, but between right and wrong. There is scarcely a grain of party spirit now in England. Right and wrong, considered by each man abstractedly, is the fashion. I know very little of these things. I am convinced, however, that apparently small causes make great alterations. There are little signs whereby we may know how matters are going on. This makes the business of Carlisle the bookseller of great moment in my mind. He has been selling deistical pamphlets, republished Tom Payne (sic), and many other works held in superstitious horror. He even has been selling, for some time, immense numbers of a work called "The Deist," which comes out in weekly numbers. For this conduct he, I think, has had above a dozen indictments issued against him, for which he has found VOL. I. 12 bail to the amount of many thousand pounds. After all, they are afraid to prosecute. They are afraid of his defense; it would be published in all the papers all over the empire. They shudder at this. The trials would light a flame they could not extinguish. Do you not think this of great import? You will hear by the papers of the proceedings at Manchester, and Hunt's triumphal entry into London. It would take me a whole day and a quire of paper to give you anything like detail. I will merely mention that it is calculated that 30,000 people were in the streets waiting for him. The whole distance from the Angel at Islington to the Crown and Anchor was lined with multitudes. As I pass'd Colnaghi's window I saw a profile portrait of Sands, the destroyer of Kotzebue. His very look must interest every one in his favour. I suppose they have represented him in his college dress. He seems to me like a young Abelarda fine mouth, cheek bones (and this is no joke) full of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar nose, and plump temples. On looking over some letters, I found the one I wrote, intended for you, from the foot of Helvellyn to Liverpool; but you had sailed, and therefore it was returned to me. It contained, among other nonsense, an acrostic of my sister's name-and a pretty long name it is. I wrote it in a great hurry, which you will see. Indeed, I would not copy it if I thought it would ever be seen by any but yourselves. Give me your patience, sister, while I frame Or sue the fair Apollo, and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill And kingdom over all the realms of verse Nears more to Heaven in aught than when we nurse And surety give to love and brotherhood. Anthropopagi in Othello's mood; Ulysses stormed, and his enchanted belt Glowed with the Muse: but they are never felt Unbosom'd so, and so eternal made, Such tender insence in their laurel shade Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are; I sent you in my first packet some of my Scotch letters. I find I have one kept back, which was written in the most interesting part of our tour, and will copy part of it in the hope you will not find it unamusing. I would give now anything for Richardson's power of making mountains of molehills. Incipit epistola caledoniensa. Dunancullen-I did not know the day of the month, for I find I have not added it. Brown must have been asleep. Just after my last had gone to the post (before I go any further, I must premise that I would send the identical letter, instead of taking the trouble to copy it; I do not do so, for it would spoil my notion of the neat manner in which I intend to fold these three genteel sheets. The original is written on coarse paper, and the soft ones would ride in the post-bag very uneasy. Perhaps there might be a quarrel). (Here follows the same letter, written to his brother Tom, and dated "Dunancullen, July 23d, 1818.") I ought to make a large (?) here, but I had better take the opportunity of telling you I have got rid of my haunting sore throat, and conduct myself in a manner not to catch another. You speak of Lord Byron and me. There is this great difference between us: he describes what he sees-I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task; now see the immense difference. The "Edinburgh Reviewers" are afraid to touch upon my poem. They do not know what to make of it; they do not like to condemn it, and they will not praise it for fear. They are as shy of it as I should be of wearing a Quaker's hat. The fact is, they have no real taste. They dare not compromise their judgments on so puzzling a question. If on my next publication they should praise me, and so lug in "Endymion," I will address them in a manner they will not at all relish. The cowardliness of the "Edinburgh" is more than the abuse of the "Quarterly." Monday. 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, tho', 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 madeit must be loose." Brown wanted to call the constables, but I observed it was only a little breeze, and would soon pass over. The side streets here are excessively maiden-lady like. The door-steps always fresh from the flannel. The knockers have a very staid, serious, nay, almost awful, quietness about them. I never saw so quiet a collection of irons and rams'-heads. The doors, most part black, with a little brass handle just above the key-hole, 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-trebble tattooes, but a modest lifting up of the knocker by a set of little wee old fingers that peep through the grey 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 bf. Better gold, 24. |