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Updated: June 26, 2025
It was given to thee, alone of all poets, to achieve by mere language a rapture that thrills the soul like the sound of an organ. And they mocked thee, they spit upon thee, they cursed thee, oh my poor, poor Keats! Thou, the hostler's son thou, the apothecary's clerk! Thou, sick and starved and helpless thou, dying of disease and neglect and despair: Oh for a draft of vintage!
Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler's bell, and a loud cry of 'Horses on directly! But here another delay occurred.
He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid into bed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers . . . and of grey masks. Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier. Breton was packing a large portmanteau. He had gathered together those things which he knew his master loved. "Monsieur," said the lackey, holding up a book, "this will not go in."
Pledged to try the surgeon's experiment, I left his error uncorrected, of course. In so doing, I took my first step blindfold toward the last act in the drama of the Hostler's Dream. The next day brought with it a little domestic difficulty, which indirectly and strangely associated itself with the coming end.
Before going out, I stepped into the office of the stable, slipped a half-dollar into the hostler's palm and asked him once more to be sure to have the horses fed at half-past five in the morning. Then I left. A slight haze filled the air, not heavy enough to blot out the stars; but sufficient to promise hoarfrost at least. Somehow there was no reason to despair as yet of Christmas weather.
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