Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Part 33

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.

Tuesday [September 21].

You see I keep adding a sheet daily till I send the packet off, which I shall not do for a few days, as I am inclined to write a good deal; for there can be nothing so remembrancing and enchaining as a good long letter, be it composed of what it may. From the time you left me our friends say I have altered completely--am not the same person. Perhaps in this letter I am, for in a letter one takes up one's existence from the time we last met. I daresay you have altered also--every man does--our bodies every seven years are completely material'd. Seven years ago it was not this hand that clinched itself against Hammond. We are like the relict garments of a saint--the same and not the same, for the careful monks patch it and patch it till there's not a thread of the original garment left, and still they show it for St. Anthony's s.h.i.+rt. This is the reason why men who have been bosom friends, on being separated for any number of years meet coldly, neither of them knowing why. The fact is they are both altered.

Men who live together have a silent moulding and influencing power over each other. They intera.s.similate. 'Tis an uneasy thought, that in seven years the same hands cannot greet each other again. All this may be obviated by a wilful and dramatic exercise of our minds towards each other. Some think I have lost that poetic ardour and fire 'tis said I once had--the fact is, perhaps I have; but, instead of that, I hope I shall subst.i.tute a more thoughtful and quiet power. I am more frequently now contented to read and think, but now and then haunted with ambitious thoughts. Quieter in my pulse, improved in my digestion, exerting myself against vexing speculations, scarcely content to write the best verses for the fever they leave behind. I want to compose without this fever. I hope I one day shall. You would scarcely imagine I could live alone so comfortably. "Kepen in solitarinesse." I told Anne, the servant here, the other day, to say I was not at home if any one should call. I am not certain how I should endure loneliness and bad weather together. Now the time is beautiful. I take a walk every day for an hour before dinner, and this is generally my walk: I go out the back gate, across one street into the cathedral yard, which is always interesting; there I pa.s.s under the trees along a paved path, pa.s.s the beautiful front of the cathedral, turn to the left under a stone doorway,--then I am on the other side of the building,--which leaving behind me, I pa.s.s on through two college-like squares, seemingly built for the dwelling-place of deans and prebendaries, garnished with gra.s.s and shaded with trees; then I pa.s.s through one of the old city gates, and then you are in one college street, through which I pa.s.s, and at the end thereof crossing some meadows, and at last a country alley of gardens, I arrive, that is my wors.h.i.+p arrives, at the foundation of St. Cross, which is a very interesting old place, both for its gothic tower and alms square and for the appropriation of its rich rents to a relation of the Bishop of Winchester. Then I pa.s.s across St. Cross meadows till you come to the most beautifully clear river--now this is only one mile of my walk. I will spare you the other two till after supper, when they would do you more good. You must avoid going the first mile best after dinner--

[Wednesday, September 22.]

I could almost advise you to put by this nonsense until you are lifted out of your difficulties; but when you come to this part, feel with confidence what I now feel, that though there can be no stop put to troubles we are inheritors of, there can be, and must be, an end to immediate difficulties. Rest in the confidence that I will not omit any exertion to benefit you by some means or other--If I cannot remit you hundreds, I will tens, and if not that, ones. Let the next year be managed by you as well as possible--the next month, I mean, for I trust you will soon receive Abbey's remittance. What he can send you will not be a sufficient capital to ensure you any command in America. What he has of mine I have nearly antic.i.p.ated by debts, so I would advise you not to sink it, but to live upon it, in hopes of my being able to increase it. To this end I will devote whatever I may gain for a few years to come, at which period I must begin to think of a security of my own comforts, when quiet will become more pleasant to me than the world. Still, I would have you doubt my success. 'Tis at present the cast of a die with me. You say, "These things will be a great torment to me." I shall not suffer them to be so. I shall only exert myself the more, while the seriousness of their nature will prevent me from nursing up imaginary griefs. I have not had the blue devils once since I received your last. I am advised not to publish till it is seen whether the tragedy will or not succeed. Should it, a few months may see me in the way of acquiring property. Should it not, it will be a drawback, and I shall have to perform a longer literary pilgrimage. You will perceive that it is quite out of my interest to come to America. What could I do there? How could I employ myself out of reach of libraries? You do not mention the name of the gentleman who a.s.sists you. 'Tis an extraordinary thing. How could you do without that a.s.sistance? I will not trust myself with brooding over this. The following is an extract from a letter of Reynolds to me:--

"I am glad to hear you are getting on so well with your writings. I hope you are not neglecting the revision of your poems for the press, from which I expect more than you do."

The first thought that struck me on reading your last was to mortgage a poem to Murray, but on more consideration, I made up my mind not to do so; my reputation is very low; he would not have negotiated my bill of intellect, or given me a very small sum. I should have bound myself down for some time. 'Tis best to meet present misfortunes; not for a momentary good to sacrifice great benefits which one's own untrammell'd and free industry may bring one in the end. In all this do never think of me as in any way unhappy: I shall not be so. I have a great pleasure in thinking of my responsibility to you, and shall do myself the greatest luxury if I can succeed in any way so as to be of a.s.sistance to you. We shall look back upon these times, even before our eyes are at all dim--I am convinced of it. But be careful of those Americans. I could almost advise you to come, whenever you have the sum of 500, to England. Those Americans will, I am afraid, still fleece you. If ever you think of such a thing, you must bear in mind the very different state of society here,--the immense difficulties of the times, the great sum required per annum to maintain yourself in any decency. In fact the whole is with Providence. I know not how to advise you but by advising you to advise with yourself. In your next tell me at large your thoughts about America--what chance there is of succeeding there, for it appears to me you have as yet been somehow deceived. I cannot help thinking Mr. Audubon has deceived you. I shall not like the sight of him. I shall endeavour to avoid seeing him. You see how puzzled I am. I have no meridian to fix you to, being the slave of what is to happen. I think I may bid you finally remain in good hopes, and not tease yourself with my changes and variations of mind. If I say nothing decisive in any one particular part of my letter, you may glean the truth from the whole pretty correctly. You may wonder why I had not put your affairs with Abbey in train on receiving your letter before last, to which there will reach you a short answer dated from Shanklin. I did write and speak to Abbey, but to no purpose. Your last, with the enclosed note, has appealed home to him. He will not see the necessity of a thing till he is. .h.i.t in the mouth. 'Twill be effectual.

I am sorry to mix up foolish and serious things together, but in writing so much I am obliged to do so, and I hope sincerely the tenor of your mind will maintain itself better. In the course of a few months I shall be as good an Italian scholar as I am a French one. I am reading Ariosto at present, not managing more than six or eight stanzas at a time. When I have done this language, so as to be able to read it tolerably well, I shall set myself to get complete in Latin, and there my learning must stop. I do not think of returning upon Greek. I would not go even so far if I were not persuaded of the power the knowledge of any language gives one. The fact is I like to be acquainted with foreign languages. It is, besides, a nice way of filling up intervals, etc. Also the reading of Dante is well worth the while; and in Latin there is a fund of curious literature of the Middle Ages, the works of many great men--Aretino and Sannazaro and Machiavelli. I shall never become attached to a foreign idiom, so as to put it into my writings. The Paradise Lost, though so fine in itself, is a corruption of our language. It should be kept as it is--unique, a curiosity, a beautiful and grand curiosity, the most remarkable production of the world; a northern dialect accommodating itself to Greek and Latin inversions and intonations. The purest English, I think--or what ought to be purest--is Chatterton's. The language had existed long enough to be entirely uncorrupted of Chaucer's Gallicisms, and still the old words are used. Chatterton's language is entirely northern. I prefer the native music of it to Milton's, cut by feet. I have but lately stood on my guard against Milton. Life to him would be death to me. Miltonic verse cannot be written, but is the verse of art. I wish to devote myself to another verse alone.

Friday [September 24].

I have been obliged to intermit your letter for two days (this being Friday morning), from having had to attend to other correspondence. Brown, who was at Bedhampton, went thence to Chichester, and I am still directing my letters Bedhampton. There arose a misunderstanding about them. I began to suspect my letters had been stopped from curiosity. However, yesterday Brown had four letters from me all in a lump, and the matter is cleared up. Brown complained very much in his letter to me of yesterday of the great alteration the disposition of Dilke has undergone. He thinks of nothing but political justice and his boy. Now, the first political duty a man ought to have a mind to is the happiness of his friends. I wrote Brown a comment on the subject, wherein I explained what I thought of Dilke's character, which resolved itself into this conclusion, that Dilke was a man who cannot feel he has a personal ident.i.ty unless he has made up his mind about everything. The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing--to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts, not a select party. The genus is not scarce in population; all the stubborn arguers you meet with are of the same brood. They never begin upon a subject they have not pre-resolved on. They want to hammer their nail into you, and if you have the point, still they think you wrong. Dilke will never come at a truth as long as he lives, because he is always trying at it. He is a G.o.dwin Methodist.

I must not forget to mention that your mother show'd me the lock of hair--'tis of a very dark colour for so young a creature. Then it is two feet in length. I shall not stand a barley corn higher. That's not fair; one ought to go on growing as well as others. At the end of this sheet I shall stop for the present and send it off. You may expect another letter immediately after it. As I never know the day of the month but by chance, I put here that this is the 24th September.

I would wish you here to stop your ears, for I have a word or two to say to your wife.

My dear Sister--In the first place I must quarrel with you for sending me such a shabby piece of paper, though that is in some degree made up for by the beautiful impression of the seal. You should like to know what I was doing the first of May. Let me see--I cannot recollect. I have all the Examiners ready to send--they will be a great treat to you when they reach you. I shall pack them up when my business with Abbey has come to a good conclusion, and the remittance is on the road to you. I have dealt round your best wishes like a pack of cards, but being always given to cheat myself, I have turned up ace. You see I am making game of you. I see you are not all happy in that America. England, however, would not be over happy for you if you were here. Perhaps 'twould be better to be teased here than there. I must preach patience to you both. No step hasty or injurious to you must be taken. You say let one large sheet be all to me.

You will find more than that in different parts of this packet for you.

Certainly, I have been caught in rains. A catch in the rain occasioned my last sore throat; but as for red-haired girls, upon my word, I do not recollect ever having seen one. Are you quizzing me or Miss Waldegrave when you talk of promenading? As for pun-making, I wish it was as good a trade as pin-making. There is very little business of that sort going on now. We struck for wages, like the Manchester weavers, but to no purpose.

So we are all out of employ. I am more lucky than some, you see, by having an opportunity of exporting a few--getting into a little foreign trade, which is a comfortable thing. I wish one could get change for a pun in silver currency. I would give three and a half any night to get into Drury pit, but they won't ring at all. No more will notes you will say; but notes are different things, though they make together a pun-note as the term goes. If I were your son, I shouldn't mind you, though you rapt me with the scissors. But, Lord! I should be out of favour when the little un be comm'd. You have made an uncle of me, you have, and I don't know what to make of myself. I suppose next there will be a nevey. You say in my last, write directly. I have not received your letter above ten days. The thought of your little girl puts me in mind of a thing I heard a Mr. Lamb say. A child in arms was pa.s.sing by towards its mother, in the nurse's arms. Lamb took hold of the long clothes, saying: "Where, G.o.d bless me, where does it leave off?"

Sat.u.r.day [September 25].

If you would prefer a joke or two to anything else, I have two for you, fresh hatched, just ris, as the bakers' wives say by the rolls. The first I played off on Brown; the second I played on myself. Brown, when he left me, "Keats," says he, "my good fellow" (staggering upon his left heel and fetching an irregular pirouette with his right); "Keats," says he (depressing his left eyebrow and elevating his right one), though by the way at the moment I did not know which was the right one; "Keats," says he (still in the same posture, but furthermore both his hands in his waistcoat pockets and putting out his stomach), "Keats--my--go-o-ood fell-o-o-ooh," says he (interlarding his exclamation with certain ventriloquial parentheses),--no, this is all a lie--He was as sober as a judge, when a judge happens to be sober, and said: "Keats, if any letters come for me, do not forward them, but open them and give me the marrow of them in a few words." At the time I wrote my first to him no letter had arrived. I thought I would invent one, and as I had not time to manufacture a long one, I dabbed off a short one, and that was the reason of the joke succeeding beyond my expectations. Brown let his house to a Mr. Benjamin--a Jew. Now, the water which furnishes the house is in a tank, sided with a composition of lime, and the lime impregnates the water unpleasantly. Taking advantage of this circ.u.mstance, I pretended that Mr.

Benjamin had written the following short note--

Sir--By drinking your d.a.m.n'd tank water I have got the gravel. What reparation can you make to me and my family?

NATHAN BENJAMIN.

By a fortunate hit, I hit upon his right--heathen name--his right p.r.o.nomen. Brown in consequence, it appears, wrote to the surprised Mr.

Benjamin the following--

Sir--I cannot offer you any remuneration until your gravel shall have formed itself into a stone--when I will cut you with pleasure.

C. BROWN.

This of Brown's Mr. Benjamin has answered, insisting on an explanation of this singular circ.u.mstance. B. says: "When I read your letter and his following, I roared; and in came Mr. Snook, who on reading them seem'd likely to burst the hoops of his fat sides." So the joke has told well.

Now for the one I played on myself. I must first give you the scene and the dramatis personae. There are an old major and his youngish wife here in the next apartments to me. His bedroom door opens at an angle with my sitting-room door. Yesterday I was reading as demurely as a parish clerk, when I heard a rap at the door. I got up and opened it; no one was to be seen. I listened, and heard some one in the major's room. Not content with this, I went upstairs and down, looked in the cupboards and watch'd. At last I set myself to read again, not quite so demurely, when there came a louder rap. I was determined to find out who it was. I looked out; the staircases were all silent. "This must be the major's wife," said I. "At all events I will see the truth." So I rapt me at the major's door and went in, to the utter surprise and confusion of the lady, who was in reality there. After a little explanation, which I can no more describe than fly, I made my retreat from her, convinced of my mistake. She is to all appearance a silly body, and is really surprised about it. She must have been, for I have discovered that a little girl in the house was the rapper. I a.s.sure you she has nearly made me sneeze. If the lady tells t.i.ts, I shall put a very grave and moral face on the matter with the old gentleman, and make his little boy a present of a humming top.

[Monday, September 27.]