MEMOIR.

CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE, born on 8th December, 1789, was the eldest son of Charles Wentworth Dilke, born 1742, and of Sarah Blewford-his lovely wife. His only brother is at the present time living at Chichester, in which city their father dwelt after his retirement from the public service. Mr. Dilke's father and his grandfather-Wentworth Dilke-Wentworth (he took the name of Wentworth as his surname, as two of his ancestors in the seventeenth century had also done)—were both in the Civil Service of the Crown, and the subject of the present notice also entered the Civil Service at an early age, in the Navy Pay Office. His father, as the head of the younger branch of the ancient family of Dilke of Maxstoke Castle, in Warwickshire, was fond of heraldry and family research. He was also an excellent artist in sepia-drawing and intaglio, and as a modeller. His son, Mr. Dilke, was brought up to be proud of his descent from Sir Peter Wentworth, member of the High Court of Justice, and from the older Sir Peter Wentworth, leader of the Puritan opposition under Queen Elizabeth, and husband of the sister of Sir Francis Walsingham. At an early age Mr. Dilke became both an antiquary and a Radical, and both he continued to be until the end of his days.

In 1815, a letter says, "Gifford speaks very highly of him," and he evidently was already engaged on literary work. About this date he edited a continuation of Dodsley's "Old Plays," and from this time to 1830 he wrote largely in the various

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monthly and quarterly reviews. Mr. Dilke's earliest friends were John Hamilton Reynolds, Thomas Hood, and Keats, the poets, and Charles Brown, a merchant, the friend also of all these. His friendship with Hood was a warm one; it lasted from 1816 to 1842, and many of Hood's letters to him will be found in the "Memorials of Thomas Hood," by Mrs. Broderip. His most affectionate friendship with Keats, which lasted from 1816 to Keats' death, is recorded in Lord Houghton's Life of Keats. Mr. Dilke's grandson has still in his possession a great number of Keats' letters;-his Ovid, his Shakespear, and his Milton, with marginal notes; the pocket-book given him by Leigh Hunt with the first drafts of many of the sonnets in it; the locks of hair mentioned in the Life; his medical notebooks; and Keats' own copy of Endymion, with all the sonnets, and many of the other poems copied in on note-paper pages at the end, in Keats' writing.

In addition, however, to the letters which appear in Lord Houghton's Life of Keats, there are a good many of a more intimate character still, of and about the poet, from which extracts may be made.

"MY DEAR DILKE,

"Mrs. Dilke or Mr. Wm. Dilke, whoever of you shall receive this present, have the kindness to send per bearer Sibylline Leaves,' and your petitioner shall ever pray as in duty bound.

"Given under my hand this Wednesday morning of Nov. 1817,

"Vivant Rex et Regina-amen."

"JOHN KEATS.

In June, 1818, Keats and Brown started on their tour in the North of England and Scotland.

July, 1818, Brown writes to Mr. Dilke:-"Keats has been these five hours abusing the Scotch and their country. He says that the women have large splay feet, which is too true to

be controverted, and that he thanks Providence he is not related to a Scot, nor any way connected with them."

The following letter is from Charles Brown to Mr. Dilke's father, Mr. Dilke of Chichester, and forms part of a diary of the whole tour, which was one which Keats, with an hereditary tendency to consumption, ought not to have undertaken.

"MY DEAR SIR,

"What shall I write about? I am resolved to send you a letter; but where is the subject? I have already stumped away on my ten toes 642 miles, and seen many fine sights, but I am puzzled to know what to make choice of. Suppose I begin with myself,--there must be a pleasure in that,--and, by way of variety, I must bring in Mr. Keats. Then, be it known, in the first place, we are in as continued a bustle as an old dowager at home-always moving-moving from one place to another, like Dante's inhabitants of the Sulphur Kingdom in search of cold ground-prosing over the map-calculating distances-packing up knapsacks, and paying bills. There's so much for yourself, my dear. Thank'ye, sir.' How many miles to the next town? Seventeen lucky miles, sir.' That must be at least twenty; come along, Keats; here's your stick; why, we forgot the map! now for it; seventeen lucky miles! I must have another hole taken up in the strap of my knapsack. Oh, the misery of coming to the meeting of three roads without a finger-post! There's an old woman coming,-God bless her! she'll tell us all about it. Eh! she can't speak English! Repeat the name of the town over in all ways, but the true spelling way, and possibly she may understand. No, we have not got the brogue. Then toss up heads or tails, for right and left, and fortune send us the right road! Here's a soaking shower coming! ecod! it rolls between the mountains as if it would drown us. At last we come, wet and weary, to the long-wished-for inn. What have you for dinner? 'Truly nothing.' No eggs? two.' Any loaf-bread? No, sir, but we've nice Any bacon? any dried fish? No, no, no, sir!'

'We have oat-cakes.' But you've

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plenty of whiskey? O yes, sir, plenty of whiskey!' This is melancholy. Why should so beautiful a country be poor? Why can't craggy mountains, and granite rocks, bear corn, wine, and oil? These are our misfortunes,-these are what make me an eagle's talon in the waist.' But I am well repaid for my sufferings. We came out to endure, and to be gratified with scenery, and lo! we have not been disappointed either way. As for the oat-cakes, I was once in despair about them. I was not only too dainty, but they absolutely made me sick. With a little gulping, I can manage them now. Mr. Keats, however, is too unwell for fatigue and privation. I am waiting here to see him off in the smack for London.

far

"He caught a violent cold in the Island of Mull, which, from leaving him, has become worse, and the physician here thinks him too thin and fevered to proceed on our journey. It is a cruel disappointment. We have been as happy as possible together. Alas! I shall have to travel through Perthshire and all the counties round in solitude! But my disappointment is nothing to his; he not only loses my company (and that's a great loss), but he loses the country. Poor Charles Brown will have to trudge by himself,-an odd fellow, and moreover an odd figure; imagine me with a thick stick in my hand, the knapsack on my back,' with spectacles on nose,' a white hat, a tartan coat and trousers, and a Highland plaid thrown over my shoulders! Don't laugh at me, there's a good fellow, although Mr. Keats calls me the Red Cross Knight, and declares my own shadow is ready to split its sides as it follows This dress is the best possible dress, as Dr. Pangloss would say. It is light and not easily penetrated by the wet, and when it is, it is not cold,-it has little more than a kind of heavy smoky sensation about it.

me.

"I must not think of the wind, and the sun, and the rain, after our journey through the Island of Mull. There's a wild place! Thirty-seven miles of jumping and flinging over great stones along no path at all, up the steep and down the steep, and wading through rivulets up to the knees, and crossing a bog, a mile long, up to the ankles. I should like to give you a whole and particular account of the many, many wonderful

places we have visited; but why should I ask a man to pay vigentiple postage? In one word then,-that is to the end of the letter, let me tell you we have seen one-half of the lakes in Westmoreland and Cumberland, -we have travelled over the whole of the coast of Kirkcudbrightshire, and skudded over to Donaghadee. But we did not like Ireland,-at least that partand would go no farther than Belfast. So back came we in a whirligig,—that is, in a hurry-and trotted up to Ayr, where we had the happiness of drinking whiskey in the very house that Burns was born in, and saw the banks of bonny Doon, and the brigs of Ayr, and Kirk Alloway, we saw it all! After this we went to Glasgow, and then to Loch Lomond; but you can read all about that place in one of the fashionable guidebooks. Then to Loch Awe, and down to the foot of it,-oh, what a glen we went through to get at it! At the top of the glen my Itinerary mentioned a place called 'Rest and be thankful,' nine miles off; now we had set out without breakfast, intending to take our meal there, when, horror and starvation! 'Rest and be thankful' was not an inn, but a stone seat!"

On August 16, a few days later, it will be seen, Mrs. Dilke writes to her father-in-law: "John Keats' brother is extremely ill, and the doctor begged that his brother might be sent for. Dilke accordingly wrote off to him, which was a very unpleasant task. However, from the journal received from Brown last Friday, he says Keats has been so long ill with his sore throat, that he is obliged to give up. I am rather glad of it, as he will not receive the letter, which might have frightened him very much, as he is extremely fond of his brother. How poor Brown will get on alone I know not, as he loses a cheerful, good-tempered, clever companion."

On August 19th she writes: "John Keats arrived here last night, as brown and as shabby as you can imagine; scarcely any shoes left, his jacket all torn at the back, a fur cap, a great plaid, and his knapsack. I cannot tell what he looked like."