Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Part 31

Shanklin, Sat.u.r.day Evening [July 31, 1819].

My dear Dilke--I will not make my diligence an excuse for not writing to you sooner--because I consider idleness a much better plea. A Man in the hurry of business of any sort is expected and ought to be expected to look to everything--his mind is in a whirl, and what matters it what whirl? But to require a Letter of a Man lost in idleness is the utmost cruelty; you cut the thread of his existence, you beat, you pummel him, you sell his goods and chattels, you put him in prison; you impale him; you crucify him. If I had not put pen to paper since I saw you this would be to me a vi et armis taking up before the Judge; but having got over my darling lounging habits a little, it is with scarcely any pain I come to this dating from Shanklin and Dear Dilke. The Isle of Wight is but so so, etc.

Rice and I pa.s.sed rather a dull time of it. I hope he will not repent coming with me. He was unwell, and I was not in very good health: and I am afraid we made each other worse by acting upon each other's spirits. We would grow as melancholy as need be. I confess I cannot bear a sick person in a House, especially alone--it weighs upon me day and night--and more so when perhaps the Case is irretrievable. Indeed I think Rice is in a dangerous state. I have had a Letter from him which speaks favourably of his health at present. Brown and I are pretty well harnessed again to our dog-cart. I mean the Tragedy, which goes on sinkingly. We are thinking of introducing an Elephant, but have not historical reference within reach to determine us as to Otho's Menagerie. When Brown first mentioned this I took it for a joke; however he brings such plausible reasons, and discourses so eloquently on the dramatic effect that I am giving it a serious consideration. The Art of Poetry is not sufficient for us, and if we get on in that as well as we do in painting, we shall by next winter crush the Reviews and the Royal Academy. Indeed, if Brown would take a little of my advice, he could not fail to be first palette of his day. But odd as it may appear, he says plainly that he cannot see any force in my plea of putting skies in the background, and leaving Indian ink out of an ash tree. The other day he was sketching Shanklin Church, and as I saw how the business was going on, I challenged him to a trial of skill--he lent me Pencil and Paper--we keep the Sketches to contend for the Prize at the Gallery. I will not say whose I think best--but really I do not think Brown's done to the top of the Art.

A word or two on the Isle of Wight. I have been no further than Steephill.

If I may guess, I should say that there is no finer part in the Island than from this Place to Steephill. I do not hesitate to say it is fine.

Bonchurch is the best. But I have been so many finer walks, with a background of lake and mountain instead of the sea, that I am not much touch'd with it, though I credit it for all the Surprise I should have felt if it had taken my c.o.c.kney maidenhead. But I may call myself an old Stager in the picturesque, and unless it be something very large and overpowering, I cannot receive any extraordinary relish.

I am sorry to hear that Charles is so much oppress'd at Westminster, though I am sure it will be the finest touchstone for his Metal in the world. His troubles will grow day by day less, as his age and strength increase. The very first Battle he wins will lift him from the Tribe of Mana.s.seh. I do not know how I should feel were I a Father--but I hope I should strive with all my Power not to let the present trouble me. When your Boy shall be twenty, ask him about his childish troubles and he will have no more memory of them than you have of yours. Brown tells me Mrs.

Dilke sets off to-day for Chichester. I am glad--I was going to say she had a fine day--but there has been a great Thunder cloud muttering over Hampshire all day--I hope she is now at supper with a good appet.i.te.

So Reynolds's Piece succeeded--that is all well. Papers have with thanks been duly received. We leave this place on the 13th, and will let you know where we may be a few days after--Brown says he will write when the fit comes on him. If you will stand law expenses I'll beat him into one before his time. When I come to town I shall have a little talk with you about Brown and one Jenny Jacobs. Open daylight! he don't care. I am afraid there will be some more feet for little stockings--[_of Keats's making_.

(_I mean the feet._)[103]] Brown here tried at a piece of Wit but it failed him, as you see, though long a brewing.--[_this is a 2{d} lie._]

Men should never despair--you see he has tried again and succeeded to a miracle.--He wants to try again, but as I have a right to an inside place in my own Letter--I take possession.

Your sincere friend

JOHN KEATS.

CX.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

[_Fragment (outside sheet) of a letter addressed to Bailey at St.

Andrews._ Winchester, August 15, 1819.]

We removed to Winchester for the convenience of a library, and find it an exceeding pleasant town, enriched with a beautiful Cathedral, and surrounded by a fresh-looking country. We are in tolerably good and cheap lodgings--Within these two months I have written 1500 lines, most of which, besides many more of prior composition, you will probably see by next winter. I have written 2 tales, one from Boccaccio, called the Pot of Basil, and another called St. Agnes's Eve, on a popular Superst.i.tion, and a 3{rd} called Lamia (half finished). I have also been writing parts of my "Hyperion," and completed 4 Acts of a tragedy. It was the opinion of most of my friends that I should never be able to write a scene. I will endeavour to wipe away the prejudice--I sincerely hope you will be pleased when my labours, since we last saw each other, shall reach you. One of my Ambitions is to make as great a revolution in modern dramatic writing as Kean has done in acting. Another to upset the drawling of the blue-stocking literary world--if in the Course of a few years I do these two things, I ought to die content, and my friends should drink a dozen of claret on my tomb. I am convinced more and more every day that (excepting the human friend philosopher), a fine writer is the most genuine being in the world. Shakspeare and the Paradise lost every day become greater wonders to me. I look upon fine phrases like a lover. I was glad to see by a pa.s.sage of one of Brown's letters, some time ago, from the North that you were in such good spirits. Since that you have been married, and in congratulating you I wish you every continuance of them. Present my respects to Mrs. Bailey. This sounds oddly to me, and I daresay I do it awkwardly enough: but I suppose by this time it is nothing new to you.

Brown's remembrances to you. As far as I know, we shall remain at Winchester for a goodish while.

Ever your sincere friend

JOHN KEATS.

CXI.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.

Winchester, Monday morn [August 23, 1819].

My dear Taylor-- ... Brown and I have together been engaged (this I should wish to remain secret) on a Tragedy which I have just finished and from which we hope to share moderate profits.... I feel every confidence that, if I choose, I may be a popular writer. That I will never be; but for all that I will get a livelihood. I equally dislike the favour of the public with the love of a woman. They are both a cloying treacle to the wings of Independence. I shall ever consider them (People) as debtors to me for verses, not myself to them for admiration--which I can do without. I have of late been indulging my spleen by composing a preface AT them: after all resolving never to write a preface at all. "There are so many verses,"

would I have said to them, "give so much means for me to buy pleasure with, as a relief to my hours of labour"--You will observe at the end of this if you put down the letter, "How a solitary life engenders pride and egotism!" True--I know it does: but this pride and egotism will enable me to write finer things than anything else could--so I will indulge it. Just so much as I am humbled by the genius above my grasp am I exalted and look with hate and contempt upon the literary world.--A drummer-boy who holds out his hand familiarly to a field Marshal,--that drummer-boy with me is the good word and favour of the public. Who could wish to be among the common-place crowd of the little famous--who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves? Is this worth louting or playing the hypocrite for? To beg suffrages for a seat on the benches of a myriad-aristocracy in letters? This is not wise.--I am not a wise man--'Tis pride--I will give you a definition of a proud man--He is a man who has neither Vanity nor Wisdom--One filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise. Pardon me for hammering instead of writing.

Remember me to Woodhouse Hessey and all in Percy Street.

Ever yours sincerely

JOHN KEATS.

CXII.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

Winchester, August 25 [1819].

My dear Reynolds--By this post I write to Rice, who will tell you why we have left Shanklin; and how we like this place. I have indeed scarcely anything else to say, leading so monotonous a life, except I was to give you a history of sensations, and day-nightmares. You would not find me at all unhappy in it, as all my thoughts and feelings which are of the selfish nature, home speculations, every day continue to make me more iron--I am convinced more and more, every day, that fine writing is, next to fine doing, the top thing in the world; the Paradise Lost becomes a greater wonder. The more I know what my diligence may in time probably effect, the more does my heart distend with Pride and Obstinacy--I feel it in my power to become a popular writer--I feel it in my power to refuse the poisonous suffrage of a public. My own being which I know to be becomes of more consequence to me than the crowds of Shadows in the shape of men and women that inhabit a kingdom. The soul is a world of itself, and has enough to do in its own home. Those whom I know already, and who have grown as it were a part of myself, I could not do without: but for the rest of mankind, they are as much a dream to me as Milton's Hierarchies. I think if I had a free and healthy and lasting organisation of heart, and lungs as strong as an ox's so as to be able to bear unhurt the shock of extreme thought and sensation without weariness, I could pa.s.s my life very nearly alone though it should last eighty years. But I feel my body too weak to support me to the height, I am obliged continually to check myself, and be nothing. It would be vain for me to endeavour after a more reasonable manner of writing to you. I have nothing to speak of but myself, and what can I say but what I feel? If you should have any reason to regret this state of excitement in me, I will turn the tide of your feelings in the right Channel, by mentioning that it is the only state for the best sort of Poetry--that is all I care for, all I live for. Forgive me for not filling up the whole sheet; Letters become so irksome to me, that the next time I leave London I shall pet.i.tion them all to be spared me. To give me credit for constancy, and at the same time waive letter writing will be the highest indulgence I can think of.

Ever your affectionate friend

JOHN KEATS.

CXIII.--TO f.a.n.n.y KEATS.

Winchester, August 28 [1819].

My dear f.a.n.n.y--You must forgive me for suffering so long a s.p.a.ce to elapse between the dates of my letters. It is more than a fortnight since I left Shanklin chiefly for the purpose of being near a tolerable Library, which after all is not to be found in this place. However we like it very much: it is the pleasantest Town I ever was in, and has the most recommendations of any. There is a fine Cathedral which to me is always a source of amus.e.m.e.nt, part of it built 1400 years ago; and the more modern by a magnificent Man, you may have read of in our History, called William of Wickham. The whole town is beautifully wooded. From the Hill at the eastern extremity you see a prospect of Streets, and old Buildings mixed up with Trees. Then there are the most beautiful streams about I ever saw--full of Trout. There is the Foundation of St. Croix about half a mile in the fields--a charity greatly abused. We have a Collegiate School, a Roman catholic School; a chapel ditto and a Nunnery! And what improves it all is, the fashionable inhabitants are all gone to Southampton. We are quiet--except a fiddle that now and then goes like a gimlet through my Ears--our Landlady's son not being quite a Proficient. I have still been hard at work, having completed a Tragedy I think I spoke of to you. But there I fear all my labour will be thrown away for the present, as I hear Mr. Kean is going to America. For all I can guess I shall remain here till the middle of October--when Mr. Brown will return to his house at Hampstead; whither I shall return with him. I some time since sent the Letter I told you I had received from George to Haslam with a request to let you and Mrs. Wylie see it: he sent it back to me for very insufficient reasons without doing so; and I was so irritated by it that I would not send it travelling about by the post any more: besides the postage is very expensive. I know Mrs. Wylie will think this a great neglect. I am sorry to say my temper gets the better of me--I will not send it again. Some correspondence I have had with Mr. Abbey about George's affairs--and I must confess he has behaved very kindly to me as far as the wording of his Letter went. Have you heard any further mention of his retiring from Business? I am anxious to hear whether Hodgkinson, whose name I cannot bear to write, will in any likelihood be thrown upon himself. The delightful Weather we have had for two Months is the highest gratification I could receive--no chill'd red noses--no shivering--but fair atmosphere to think in--a clean towel mark'd with the mangle and a basin of clear Water to drench one's face with ten times a day: no need of much exercise--a Mile a day being quite sufficient. My greatest regret is that I have not been well enough to bathe though I have been two Months by the seaside and live now close to delicious bathing--Still I enjoy the Weather--I adore fine Weather as the greatest blessing I can have. Give me Books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by somebody I do not know--not pay the price of one's time for a jig--but a little chance music: and I can pa.s.s a summer very quietly without caring much about Fat Louis, fat Regent or the Duke of Wellington.

Why have you not written to me? Because you were in expectation of George's Letter and so waited? Mr. Brown is copying out our Tragedy of Otho the Great in a superb style--better than it deserves--there as I said is labour in vain for the present. I had hoped to give Kean another opportunity to shine. What can we do now? There is not another actor of Tragedy in all London or Europe. The Covent Garden Company is execrable.

Young is the best among them and he is a ranting c.o.xcombical tasteless Actor--a Disgust, a Nausea--and yet the very best after Kean. What a set of barren a.s.ses are actors! I should like now to promenade round your Gardens--apple-tasting--pear-tasting--plum-judging--apricot-nibbling-- peach-scrunching--nectarine-sucking and Melon-carving. I have also a great feeling for antiquated cherries full of sugar cracks--and a white currant tree kept for company. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water lilied pond to eat white currants and see gold-fish: and go to the Fair in the Evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that--one is sure to get into some mess before evening. Have these hot days I brag of so much been well or ill for your health? Let me hear soon.

Your affectionate Brother

JOHN ----.

CXIV.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.

Winchester, September 1, 1819.

My dear Taylor--Brown and I have been employed for these 3 weeks past from time to time in writing to our different friends--a dead silence is our only answer--we wait morning after morning. Tuesday is the day for the Examiner to arrive, this is the 2d Tuesday which has been barren even of a newspaper--Men should be in imitation of spirits "responsive to each other's note." Instead of that I pipe and no one hath danced. We have been cursing like Mandeville and Lisle--With this I shall send by the same post a 3d letter to a friend of mine, who though it is of consequence has neither answered right or left. We have been much in want of news from the Theatres, having heard that Kean is going to America--but no--not a word.

Why I should come on you with all these complaints I cannot explain to myself, especially as I suspect you must be in the country. Do answer me soon for I really must know something. I must steer myself by the rudder of Information....

Ever yours sincerely

JOHN KEATS.