# Hemans Miscellaneous Poetry 2/The Fever Dream

THE FEVER DREAM.
[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved of Mrs Hemans's livelier effusions, which she never wrote with any other view than the momentary amusement of her own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time to her sister who was then travelling in Italy. The following extracts from this familiar epistle may serve to show her facility in a style of composition which she latterly entirely discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange fancy produced by an attack of fever, the description of which had given rise to many pleasantries—being an imaginary voyage to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent old English worthy, John Evelyn.]
Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please, Some account of the converse you held on high seas With Evelyn, the excellent author of "Sylva," A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa. I think that old Neptune was visited ne'er In so well-rigg'd a ship, by so well-matched a pair. There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any Companion more pleasant, since you're fond of botany, And his horticultural talents are known, Just as well as Canova's for fashioning stone.
Of the vessel you sail'd in, I just will remark That I ne'er heard before of so curious a bark. Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe, I have read very often, as doubtless have you; Of tho Argo conveying that hero young Jason; Of the ship moor'd by Trajan in Nemi's deep basin; Of the galley (in Plutarch you'll find the description) Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian; Of that wonderful frigate (see "Curse of Kehama") Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama, And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama. But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China, (I'm astonish'd no shocking disaster befel,) In that swift-sailing first-rate—a cocoa-nut shell!
 I hope, my dear H., that you touch'd at Loo Choo, That abode of a people so gentle and true, Who with arms and with money have nothing to do. How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears Of running in debt, or of running on spears! Oh dear! what an Eden!—a land without money! It excels e'en the region of milk and of honey, Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call'd "Lalla Rookh."
 But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would e'er be More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, Of whose travels—related in elegant phrases— I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises, And have copied (you know I let nothing escape) His striking account of the frozen North Cape. I think 'twas in his works I read long ago (I've not the best memory for dates, as you know,) Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored, Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board) In the icy domains of some rough northern hero, Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out, And in streams, just like lava, meander'd about, You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. When my first for a moment had harden'd my last, My second burst out, and all melted as fast; To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on, But I quite forget which of the elements won.
 But a truce with all joking—I hope you'll excuse me, Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me, For hastily putting a few questions down, To which answers from you all my wishes will crown;
For you know I'm so fond of the land of Corinne That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within, And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily, Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy;
From your shipmate John Evelyn's amusing old tour, To Forsyth's one volume, and Eustace's four, In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances At the classical Eustace, and says he romances. —Pray describe me from Venice, (don't think it a bore,) The literal state of the famed Bucentaur, And whether the horses, that once were the sun's, Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze; For some travellers say one thing, and some say another,
And I can't find out which, they all make such a pother. Oh! another thing, too, which I'd nearly forgot, Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not? These are matters of moment, you'll surely allow, For Venice must interest all—even now.
 These points being settled, I ask for no more hence,
But should wish for a few observations from Florence. Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti Are finish'd; if not 'tis a shame for the city To let one for ages—was e'er such a thing?— Its entablature want, and the other its wing. Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter, And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her) Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a wood-pigeon, Which makes people gulls in the name of Religion! Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a Cosa About which I'm anxious—as also to know If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago, Came back (above all, don't forget this to mention) To that manuscript library called the Laurentian.
 Since I wrote the above, I by chance have found out,
That the horses are bright yellow brass beyond doubt; So I’ll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing? —When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will, If the Acqua Toffana's in fashion there still; For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity, 'Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity. I should like to have also, and not written shabbily, Your opinion about the Piscina mirabile; And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro's, Is decided by you to be really Maro's.