ÆT. 29.]

LETTERS FROM THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

111

I have nobody. I should give the world to be back to Sydenham. What must Siberia be! I mean to persevere, however, a little while. I have found out an antidote against cold in bathing; for the temptation to continue in the waves, is irresistible, when I have once plunged.* This antidote is a close wardrobe of flannel, which carries me half out to Portsmouth, without experiencing a sensation of cold! Imagine your sublime bard this morning arrived at a collier-brig, in the roads, and invited on board, like the Neapolitan Peschiere, dripping from the waves! Imagine his enchanting appearance, seated on the sunny deck of the collier, with his flannel cowl on his head, and a cigar, which he smoked from the hands of the sailors, between his tuneful lips. Then, like another Orion, trusting to the dolphins, he plunged to seek the shore.

"To-morrow, I shall visit several ships in the harbour, not in this diver-like attire, but in a pleasing party. We are to board one that was commanded by Captain Duff, who was killed off Trafalgar. I hope it will inspire a few ideas in the idealess head of your forlorn, but faithful friend, T. C."

* This is one of the few instances in which the Poet evinces any partiality for water, fresh or salt. In his "flannel wardrobe," which carried him halfway out to Portsmouth, he might have disputed with his friend, the noble "Childe," the passage of the Hellespont. Judging, by subsequent experiments, however, the antidote seems to have failed; for, after "trusting to the dolphins, his flannel cowl, and a cigar," the modern Orion (horresco referens) had a shivering fit on landing, which detracted greatly from the merits of the discovery. But that did not prevent a renewal of the pastime; it only rendered him much less excursive in his natatory propensities, and more shy of the "collier-brigs in the roads ;" on quitting which for the last time

"his bold head

'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared
Himself, with his good arms, in lusty stroke

To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bowed
As stooping to relieve him! I not doubt
He came alive to land."

Again-"Ryde, Monday morning, July 10"-he writes. A gentleman of our party having taken it into his head to make a precipitate departure for London, I cannot suffer him to go without sending you a few lines, my dear Miss Mayow, though I am sorry to say the time he has given me is too short for even attempting to treat you in turn for your most benevolent and, as my wife interceded for me, long letter. That word is indeed scarcely applicable; for, though I could not complain of shortness, I turned over the last page with as much eagerness as the first. That, perhaps, was avarice, but it was at least of a tasteful kind. I lament to find by your own letter that you have thoughts of leaving Sydenham, and, by your sister's, that there seems to be some occasion for it. This

makes me as sad as the Russian news. I pray to God there may be no necessity for such a separation from your family, and such loss to our society-and prayers are all that I can offer the prayers, too, of a sinner, though, I trust, not of a hypocrite.

"I thank you most particularly for your early information of the accession to your kindred. I did, indeed, kiss the little stranger in my imagination. God bless him. I hope to have him in my hands in reality, when I pass through London. In all that concerns any relation of yours, I shall ever unfeignedly feel an interest, and, married as my favourite Eliza is-and married, too, as I amI shall always, with my wife's permission, have a penchant for her. I told her, I believe, or at least insinuated, the conquest she made of me by one "good night "-smile at the party-the first party of Mrs. M's. But I am running on at a sad rate-and see you colouring with indignation at the impertinence of making you a confidant to my out-of-doors attachments! Pray don't, however,

ET. 29.]

LETTERS FROM RYDE-ISLE OF WIGHT.

113

judge too harshly of me by my own foolish confessions. I am not quite so bad as I made you believe for the sake of an argument on those matters, which we once maintained at Sydenham. I am, I assure you, a good creature in the main.

"These news-these horrors! but let us not despair! If Buonaparte has beat Russians, he has not yet beat English freemen on their own soil. I fancy the bravery of the Russians has, like all other popular stories, been exaggerated their physical strength, for instance, is talked of; I know for a certainty, that for size and fineness of conformation (talking of them as animals) the Tartars, who compose nine-tenths of the Russian armies, are inferior to the men of Europe. Buonaparte, I repeat, has never yet fought with freemen-with English freemen in England! Whether we are destined to resist him or not, this must be the creed now. We must not give way, but be optimists. Adieu! and I say it with regret, so early; but my letter-bearer is waiting. May health return to you! I wish I were a magician, and you should have a magical cure; though I should travel to the bottom of the deep for it.

Give my kind compliments to your neighbour, Mrs. Thomas Campbell, the Poet's wife! Remember me in the kindest terms to Mrs. M-, and believe me, with sincere esteem, yours,

T. C.

VOL II.

114

CHAPTER V.

RETURN TO SYDENHAM.

THE preceding letters, though comprising only a portion of his correspondence, give a sufficiently simple and connected history of his visit to the Isle of Wight. His health was greatly benefited by the change; he had made considerable progress in the new poem, and "The Selections;" and after his return home writes from "the nursery another domestic letter to his sister.

MY DEAR MARY,

TO MISS CAMPBELL.

SYDENHAM, KENT, September 1, 1807.

The prospect of February gives me great delight. God grant nothing may spoil the beauty of my babies, before the grand presentation to their Aunt, but that they may look so lovely and interesting, as to make you remember them in your will! At present, though not beautiful, they are certainly fine children. Thomas's eyes approach to beauty; his complexion is also pearly, and his little limbs are solid and smooth. For the rest, his features, and promise of intellect, are such as, perhaps, if I could be impartial, I should not extravagantly praise. But for what he is, thanks be to God! for he is growing every day a dearer and more inestimable gem; and I can pronounce his heart and feelings, by every symptom, to be sweet and susceptible. Alison is the funniest little cock

ET. 30.] LETTER FROM THE NURSERY-HIS CHILDREN.

115

nosed fat dumpling you ever saw-quite roguish and sly. Matilda is all this day in town, bringing back Thomas, who had been sent to visit his grand-parents. I have had Alison my inseparable companion all the time. You may guess his advancement in manners, when he sits with me at the dinner, and officiates as chaplain. The only form of litany which he has hitherto got, is a piece of the Lord's Prayer, which, unless prevented, he constantly begins"Our old Father," &c., &c. I am quite in raptures with the decorum of his behaviour, for he eats his lamb chop as gravely as a judge, commenting pitifully on the poor ba-alamb which we were eating, and at intervals entertaining me with an account how the Doctor of the village cures the people. "Cockle Hall," he said (i. e. Doctor Hall) "keeps always pocket-fulls of physic for bad boys. When he hears that the people are sick, he cries, 'Oh, dear!' and comes gallop-a-trot down the hill, and then comes tap-tap-tap at the houses. Then he finds the people in bed, snoring and sleeping, and comes and pops in his head and cries Boo-peep!' and so the people get quite well." You see there is no fool like a father-fool. Forgive all this

nonsense.

I had to-day a letter from our mother, who says she is better. I am glad to see she writes clearly and collectedly; for I was afraid by some of her former letters that she was going fast. She still talks of Sandy's coming home. I am afraid this is one piece of her dotage still continuing, for I thought, by Sandy's own letter, there could be no great prospect of his return. Betsy, she informs me, has been shabbily rewarded-if it can be called reward, by what was given by old MacArthur Stuart. By a letter from his

*

* This gentleman had got possession of their family estate of Kirnan, and left a legacy to the Poet. The" Kirnan case" will be stated in a subsequent part of this work.