XVI. To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. My dear Reynolds, Oxford, Sunday Morning [21 September 1817]. So you are determined to be my mortal foedraw a Sword at me, and I will forgive—put a Bullet in my Brain, and I will shake it out as a dew-drop from the Lion's Mane-put me on a Gridiron and I will fry with great complacency-but-oh, horror! to come upon me in the shape of a Dun!-send me bills! As I say to my Tailor, send me Bills and I'll never employ you more. However, needs must, when the devil drives: and for fear of "before and behind Mr. Honeycomb" I'll proceed. I have not time to elucidate the forms and shapes of the grass and trees; for, rot it! I forgot to bring my mathematical case with me, which unfortunately contained my triangular Prism so that the hues of the grass cannot be dissected for you. For these last five or six days, we have had regularly a Boat on the Isis, and explored all the streams about, which are more in number than your eye-lashes. We sometimes skim into a Bed of rushes, and there become naturalized river-folks, there is one particularly nice nest, which we have christened "Reynolds's Cove," in which we have read Wordsworth, and talked as may be. I think I see you and Hunt meeting in the Pit.—What a very pleasant fellow he is, if he would give up the sovereignty of a room pro bono. What evenings we might pass with him, could we have him from Mrs. H. D Failings I am always rather rejoiced to find in a man than sorry for; they bring us to a Level. He has them, but then his makes-up are very good. He agrees with the Northern Poet in this, "He is not one of those who much delight to season their fireside with personal talk." I must confess, however, having a little itch that way, and at this present moment I have a few neighbourly remarks to make. The world, and especially our England, has, within the last thirty years, been vexed and teazed by a set of devils, whom I detest so much that I almost hunger after an Acherontic promotion to a Torturer, purposely for their accommodation. These devils are a set of women, who having taken a snack or luncheon of Literary scraps, set themselves up for towers of Babel in languages, Sapphos in Poetry, Euclids in Geometry, and everything in nothing. The thing has made a very uncomfortable impression on me. I had longed for some real feminine Modesty in these things, and was therefore gladdened in the extreme on opening the other day one of Bailey's books-a book of poetry written by one beautiful Mrs. Philips, a friend of Jeremy Taylor's, and called "The Matchless Orinda." You must have heard of her, and most likely read her Poetry -I wish you have not, that I may have the pleasure of treating you with a few stanzas-I do it at a venture. You will not regret reading them once more. The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A. at parting, you will judge of. I have examin'd and do find, Of all that favour me There's none I grieve to leave behind But only, only thee. To part with thee I needs must die, Could parting sep'rate thee and I. But neither Chance nor Complement Did element our Love; 'Twas sacred sympathy was lent Us from the Quire above. That Friendship Fortune did create, Still fears a wound from Time or Fate. Our chang'd and mingled Souls are grown That if each would resume their own, We have each other so engrost, That each is in the Union lost. And thus we can no Absence know, Our active Souls will daily go To learn each others mind. Nay, should we never meet to Sense, Inspired with a Flame Divine I scorn to court a stay ; For from that noble Soul of thine I ne're can be away. But I shall weep when thou dost grieve; Nor can I die whil'st thou dost live. By my own temper I shall guess At thy felicity, And only like my happiness Our hearts at any time will tell All Honour sure I must pretend, |
