Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Part 11

I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, And I love your junkets mainly, But 'hind the door I love kissing more, O look not so disdainly.

I love your hills, and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating-- But O, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

I'll put your Basket all safe in a nook, Your shawl I hang up on the willow, And we will sigh in the daisy's eye And kiss on a gra.s.s green pillow.

How does the work go on? I should like to bring out my "Dentatus"[55] at the time your Epic makes its appearance. I expect to have my Mind soon clear for something new. Tom has been much worse: but is now getting better--his remembrances to you. I think of seeing the Dart and Plymouth--but I don't know. It has as yet been a Mystery to me how and where Wordsworth went. I can't help thinking he has returned to his Sh.e.l.l--with his beautiful Wife and his enchanting Sister. It is a great Pity that People should by a.s.sociating themselves with the finest things, spoil them. Hunt has d.a.m.ned Hampstead and masks and sonnets and Italian tales. Wordsworth has d.a.m.ned the lakes--Milman has d.a.m.ned the old drama--West has d.a.m.ned----wholesale. Peac.o.c.k has d.a.m.ned satire--Ollier has d.a.m.n'd Music--Hazlitt has d.a.m.ned the bigoted and the blue-stockinged; how durst the Man?! he is your only good d.a.m.ner, and if ever I am d.a.m.n'd--d.a.m.n me if I shouldn't like him to d.a.m.n me. It will not be long ere I see you, but I thought I would just give you a line out of Devon.

Yours affectionately

JOHN KEATS.

Remember me to all we know.

XLIV.--TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY.

Teignmouth, Sat.u.r.day Morn [March 21, 1818].

My dear Sirs--I had no idea of your getting on so fast--I thought of bringing my 4th Book to Town all in good time for you--especially after the late unfortunate chance.

I did not however for my own sake delay finishing the copy which was done a few days after my arrival here. I send it off to-day, and will tell you in a Postscript at what time to send for it from the Bull and Mouth or other Inn. You will find the Preface and dedication and the t.i.tle Page as I should wish it to stand--for a Romance is a fine thing notwithstanding the circulating Libraries. My respects to Mrs. Hessey and to Percy Street.

Yours very sincerely

JOHN KEATS.

_P.S._--I have been advised to send it to you--you may expect it on Monday--for I sent it by the Postman to Exeter at the same time with this Letter. Adieu!

XLV.--TO JAMES RICE.

Teignmouth, Tuesday [March 24, 1818].

My dear Rice--Being in the midst of your favourite Devon, I should not, by rights, pen one word but it should contain a vast portion of Wit, Wisdom and learning--for I have heard that Milton ere he wrote his answer to Salmasius came into these parts, and for one whole month, rolled himself for three whole hours (per day?), in a certain meadow hard by us--where the mark of his nose at equidistances is still shown. The exhibitor of the said meadow further saith, that, after these rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all the seven acres for seven years, and that from the said time, a new sort of plant was made from the whitethorn, of a thornless nature, very much used by the bucks of the present day to rap their boots withal.

This account made me very naturally suppose that the nettles and thorns etherealised by the scholar's rotatory motion, and garnered in his head, thence flew after a process of fermentation against the luckless Salmasius and occasioned his well-known and unhappy end. What a happy thing it would be if we could settle our thoughts and make our minds up on any matter in five minutes, and remain content--that is, build a sort of mental cottage of feelings, quiet and pleasant--to have a sort of Philosophical back-garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping front one--but alas! this never can be: for as the material cottager knows there are such places as France and Italy, and the Andes and burning mountains, so the spiritual Cottager has knowledge of the terra semi-incognita of things unearthly, and cannot for his life keep in the check-rein--or I should stop here quiet and comfortable in my theory of nettles. You will see, however, I am obliged to run wild being attracted by the load-stone concatenation. No sooner had I settled the knotty point of Salmasius, than the Devil put this whim into my head in the likeness of one of Pythagoras's questionings--Did Milton do more good or harm in the world? He wrote, let me inform you (for I have it from a friend, who had it of ----,) he wrote Lycidas, Comus, Paradise Lost and other Poems, with much delectable prose--He was moreover an active friend to man all his life, and has been since his death.--Very good--but, my dear Fellow, I must let you know that, as there is ever the same quant.i.ty of matter const.i.tuting this habitable globe--as the ocean notwithstanding the enormous changes and revolutions taking place in some or other of its demesnes--notwithstanding Waterspouts whirlpools and mighty rivers emptying themselves into it--still is made up of the same bulk, nor ever varies the number of its atoms--and as a certain bulk of water was inst.i.tuted at the creation--so very likely a certain portion of intellect was spun forth into the thin air, for the brains of man to prey upon it. You will see my drift without any unnecessary parenthesis. That which is contained in the Pacific could not lie in the hollow of the Caspian--that which was in Milton's head could not find room in Charles the Second's--He like a Moon attracted intellect to its flow--it has not ebbed yet, but has left the sh.o.r.e-pebbles all bare--I mean all Bucks, Authors of Hengist, and Castlereaghs of the present day; who without Milton's gormandising might have been all wise men--Now forasmuch as I was very predisposed to a country I had heard you speak so highly of, I took particular notice of everything during my journey, and have bought some folio a.s.ses' skins for memorandums. I have seen everything but the wind--and that, they say, becomes visible by taking a dose of acorns, or sleeping one night in a hog-trough, with your tail to the Sow Sow-West.

Some of the little Bar-maids look'd at me as if I knew Jem Rice.... Well, I can't tell! I hope you are showing poor Reynolds the way to get well.

Send me a good account of him, and if I can, I'll send you one of Tom--Oh!

for a day and all well!

I went yesterday to Dawlish fair.

Over the Hill and over the Dale, And over the Bourne to Dawlish, Where ginger-bread wives have a scanty sale, And ginger-bread nuts are smallish, etc. etc.

Tom's remembrances and mine to you all.

Your sincere friend

JOHN KEATS.

XLVI.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

[Teignmouth, March 25, 1818.]

My dear Reynolds--In hopes of cheering you through a Minute or two, I was determined will he nill he to send you some lines, so you will excuse the unconnected subject and careless verse. You know, I am sure, Claude's Enchanted Castle,[56] and I wish you may be pleased with my remembrance of it. The Rain is come on again--I think with me Devonshire stands a very poor chance. I shall d.a.m.n it up hill and down dale, if it keep up to the average of six fine days in three weeks. Let me have better news of you.

Tom's remembrances to you. Remember us to all.

Your affectionate friend,

JOHN KEATS.

Dear Reynolds! as last night I lay in bed, There came before my eyes that wonted thread Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances, That every other minute vex and please: Things all disjointed come from north and south,-- Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth, Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon, And Alexander with his nightcap on; Old Socrates a-tying his cravat, And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat; And Junius Brutus, pretty well so so, Making the best of's way towards Soho.

Few are there who escape these visitings,-- Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings, And thro' whose curtains peeps no h.e.l.lish nose, No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes; But flowers bursting out with l.u.s.ty pride, And young aeolian harps personify'd; Some t.i.tian colours touch'd into real life,-- The sacrifice goes on; the pontiff knife Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows, The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows: A white sail shows above the green-head cliff, Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff; The mariners join hymn with those on land.

You know the Enchanted Castle,--it doth stand Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake, Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake From some old magic-like Urganda's Sword.

O Phoebus! that I had thy sacred word To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise, Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies!

You know it well enough, where it doth seem A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream; You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills, All which elsewhere are but half animate; There do they look alive to love and hate, To smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound Above some giant, pulsing underground.

Part of the Building was a chosen See, Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee; The other part, two thousand years from him, Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim; Then there's a little wing, far from the Sun, Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun; And many other juts of aged stone Founded with many a mason-devil's groan.

The doors all look as if they op'd themselves The windows as if latch'd by Fays and Elves, And from them comes a silver flash of light, As from the westward of a Summer's night; Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes Gone mad thro' olden songs and poesies.

See! what is coming from the distance dim!

A golden Galley all in silken trim!

Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles; Towards the shade, under the Castle wall, It comes in silence,--now 'tis hidden all.

The Clarion sounds, and from a Postern-gate An echo of sweet music doth create A fear in the poor Herdsman, who doth bring His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring,-- He tells of the sweet music, and the spot, To all his friends, and they believe him not.

O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, Would all their colours from the sunset take: From something of material sublime, Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time In the dark void of night. For in the world We jostle,--but my flag is not unfurl'd On the Admiral-staff,--and so philosophise I dare not yet! Oh, never will the prize, High reason, and the love of good and ill, Be my award! Things cannot to the will Be settled, but they tease us out of thought; Or is it that imagination brought Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd, Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind, Cannot refer to any standard law Of either earth or heaven? It is a flaw In happiness, to see beyond our bourn,-- It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.

Dear Reynolds! I have a mysterious tale, And cannot speak it: the first page I read Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed Among the breakers; 'twas a quiet eve, The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave An untumultuous fringe of silver foam Along the flat brown sand; I was at home And should have been most happy,--but I saw Too far into the sea, where every maw The greater on the less feeds evermore.-- But I saw too distinct into the core Of an eternal fierce destruction, And so from happiness I far was gone.

Still am I sick of it, and tho' to-day, I've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay Of periwinkle and wild strawberry, Still do I that most fierce destruction see,-- The Shark at savage prey,--the Hawk at pounce,-- The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, Ravening a worm,--Away, ye horrid moods!

Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well.

You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell To some Kamtschatkan Missionary Church, Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch.