Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Part 32

CXV.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.

Winchester, September 5 [1819].

My dear Taylor--This morning I received yours of the 2d, and with it a letter from Hessey enclosing a Bank post Bill of 30, an ample sum I a.s.sure you--more I had no thought of.--You should not have delayed so long in Fleet St.--leading an inactive life as you did was breathing poison: you will find the country air do more for you than you expect. But it must be proper country air. You must choose a spot. What sort of a place is Retford? You should have a dry, gravelly, barren, elevated country, open to the currents of air, and such a place is generally furnished with the finest springs--The neighbourhood of a rich enclosed fulsome manured arable land, especially in a valley and almost as bad on a flat, would be almost as bad as the smoke of Fleet St.--Such a place as this was Shanklin, only open to the south-east, and surrounded by hills in every other direction. From this south-east came the damps of the sea; which, having no egress, the air would for days together take on an unhealthy idiosyncrasy altogether enervating and weakening as a city smoke--I felt it very much. Since I have been here at Winchester I have been improving in health--it is not so confined--and there is on one side of the City a dry chalky down, where the air is worth Sixpence a pint. So if you do not get better at Retford, do not impute it to your own weakness before you have well considered the Nature of the air and soil--especially as Autumn is encroaching--for the Autumn fog over a rich land is like the steam from cabbage water. What makes the great difference between valesmen, flatlandmen and mountaineers? The cultivation of the earth in a great measure--Our health temperament and disposition are taken more (notwithstanding the contradiction of the history of Cain and Abel) from the air we breathe, than is generally imagined. See the difference between a Peasant and a Butcher.--I am convinced a great cause of it is the difference of the air they breathe: the one takes _his_ mingled with the fume of slaughter, the other from the dank exhalement from the glebe; the teeming damp that comes up from the plough-furrow is of great effect in taming the fierceness of a strong man--more than his labour--Let him be mowing furze upon a mountain, and at the day's end his thoughts will run upon a..axe[104] if he ever had handled one; let him leave the plough, and he will think quietly of his supper. Agriculture is the tamer of men--the steam from the earth is like drinking their Mother's milk--it enervates their nature--this appears a great cause of the imbecility of the Chinese: and if this sort of atmosphere is a mitigation to the energy of a strong man, how much more must it injure a weak one unoccupied unexercised--For what is the cause of so many men maintaining a good state in Cities, but occupation--An idle man, a man who is not sensitively alive to self-interest in a city cannot continue long in good health. This is easily explained--If you were to walk leisurely through an unwholesome path in the fens, with a little horror of them, you would be sure to have your ague. But let Macbeth cross the same path, with the dagger in the air leading him on, and he would never have an ague or anything like it--You should give these things a serious consideration. Notts, I believe, is a flat county--You should be on the slope of one of the dry barren hills in Somersetshire. I am convinced there is as harmful air to be breathed in the country as in town. I am greatly obliged to you for your letter.

Perhaps, if you had had strength and spirits enough, you would have felt offended by my offering a note of hand, or rather expressed it. However, I am sure you will give me credit for not in anywise mistrusting you: or imagining that you would take advantage of any power I might give you over me. No--It proceeded from my serious resolve not to be a gratuitous borrower, from a great desire to be correct in money matters, to have in my desk the Chronicles of them to refer to, and know my worldly non-estate: besides in case of my death such doc.u.ments would be but just, if merely as memorials of the friendly turns I had done to me--Had I known of your illness I should not have written in such fiery phrase in my first letter. I hope that shortly you will be able to bear six times as much.

Brown likes the tragedy very much: But he is not a fit judge of it, as I have only acted as midwife to his plot; and of course he will be fond of his child. I do not think I can make you any extracts without spoiling the effect of the whole when you come to read it--I hope you will then not think my labour mis-spent. Since I finished it, I have finished Lamia, and am now occupied in revising St. Agnes's Eve, and studying Italian.

Ariosto I find as diffuse, in parts, as Spenser--I understand completely the difference between them. I will cross the letter with some lines from Lamia. Brown's kindest remembrances to you--and I am ever your most sincere friend

JOHN KEATS.

A haunting Music sole perhaps and lone Supportress of the fairy roof made moan Throughout as fearful the whole charm might fade.

Fresh Carved Cedar mimicking a glade Of Palm and Plantain met from either side In the high midst in honour of the Bride-- Two Palms, and then two plantains and so on From either side their stems branch'd one to one All down the aisled place--and beneath all There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.

So canopied lay an untasted feast Teeming a perfume. Lamia regal drest Silverly paced about and as she went Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich The splendid finish of each nook and niche-- Between the tree stems wainscoated at first Came jasper panels--then anon there burst Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees And with the larger wove in small intricacies-- And so till she was sated--then came down Soft lighting on her head a brilliant crown Wreath'd turban-wise of tender wannish fire And sprinkled o'er with stars like Ariadne's tiar, Approving all--she faded at self will And shut the Chamber up close hush'd and still; Complete, and ready, for the revels rude When dreadful Guests would come to spoil her solitude The day came soon and all the gossip-rout-- O senseless Lycius[105] ...

This is a good sample of the story. Brown is gone to Chichester a-visiting--I shall be alone here for 3 weeks, expecting accounts of your health.

CXVI.--TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS.

Winchester, September [17, 1819], Friday.

My dear George--I was closely employed in reading and composition in this place, whither I had come from Shanklin for the convenience of a library, when I received your last dated 24th July. You will have seen by the short letter I wrote from Shanklin how matters stand between us and Mr.

Jennings. They had not at all moved, and I knew no way of overcoming the inveterate obstinacy of our affairs. On receiving your last, I immediately took a place in the same night's coach for London. Mr. Abbey behaved extremely well to me, appointed Monday evening at seven to meet me, and observed that he should drink tea at that hour. I gave him the enclosed note and showed him the last leaf of yours to me. He really appeared anxious about it, and promised he would forward your money as quickly as possible. I think I mentioned that Walton was dead.... He will apply to Mr. Gliddon the partner, endeavour to get rid of Mrs. Jennings' claim, and be expeditious. He has received an answer from my letter to Fry. That is something. We are certainly in a very low estate--I say we, for I am in such a situation, that were it not for the a.s.sistance of Brown and Taylor, I must be as badly off as a man can be. I could not raise any sum by the promise of any poem, no, not by the mortgage of my intellect. We must wait a little while. I really have hopes of success. I have finished a tragedy, which if it succeeds will enable me to sell what I may have in ma.n.u.script to a good advantage. I have pa.s.sed my time in reading, writing, and fretting--the last I intend to give up, and stick to the other two. They are the only chances of benefit to us. Your wants will be a fresh spur to me. I a.s.sure you you shall more than share what I can get whilst I am still young. The time may come when age will make me more selfish. I have not been well treated by the world, and yet I have, capitally well. I do not know a person to whom so many purse-strings would fly open as to me, if I could possibly take advantage of them, which I cannot do, for none of the owners of these purses are rich. Your present situation I will not suffer myself to dwell upon. When misfortunes are so real, we are glad enough to escape them and the thought of them. I cannot help thinking Mr.

Audubon a dishonest man. Why did he make you believe that he was a man of property? How is it that his circ.u.mstances have altered so suddenly? In truth, I do not believe you fit to deal with the world, or at least the American world. But, good G.o.d! who can avoid these chances? You have done your best. Take matters as coolly as you can; and confidently expecting help from England, act as if no help were nigh. Mine, I am sure, is a tolerable tragedy; it would have been a bank to me, if just as I had finished it, I had not heard of Kean's resolution to go to America. That was the worst news I could have had. There is no actor can do the princ.i.p.al character besides Kean. At Covent Garden there is a great chance of its being damm'd. Were it to succeed even there it would lift me out of the mire; I mean the mire of a bad reputation which is continually rising against me. My name with the literary fashionables is vulgar. I am a weaver-boy to them. A tragedy would lift me out of this mess, and mess it is as far as regards our pockets. But be not cast down any more than I am; I feel that I can bear real ills better than imaginary ones. Whenever I find myself growing vapourish, I rouse myself, wash, and put on a clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes, tie my shoestrings neatly, and in fact adonise as I were going out. Then, all clean and comfortable, I sit down to write. This I find the greatest relief. Besides I am becoming accustomed to the privations of the pleasures of sense. In the midst of the world I live like a hermit. I have forgot how to lay plans for the enjoyment of any pleasure. I feel I can bear anything,--any misery, even imprisonment, so long as I have neither wife nor child. Perhaps you will say yours are your only comfort; they must be. I returned to Winchester the day before yesterday, and am now here alone, for Brown, some days before I left, went to Bedhampton, and there he will be for the next fortnight. The term of his house will be up in the middle of next month when we shall return to Hampstead. On Sunday, I dined with your mother and Hen and Charles in Henrietta Street. Mrs. and Miss Millar were in the country. Charles had been but a few days returned from Paris. I daresay you will have letters expressing the motives of his journey. Mrs. Wylie and Miss Waldegrave seem as quiet as two mice there alone. I did not show your last. I thought it better not, for better times will certainly come, and why should they be unhappy in the meantime? On Monday morning I went to Walthamstow. f.a.n.n.y looked better than I had seen her for some time. She complains of not hearing from you, appealing to me as if it were half my fault. I had been so long in retirement that London appeared a very odd place. I could not make out I had so many acquaintances, and it was a whole day before I could feel among men. I had another strange sensation.

There was not one house I felt any pleasure to call at. Reynolds was in the country, and, saving himself, I am prejudiced against all that family.

Dilke and his wife and child were in the country. Taylor was at Nottingham. I was out, and everybody was out. I walked about the streets as in a strange land. Rice was the only one at home. I pa.s.sed some time with him. I know him better since we have lived a month together in the Isle of Wight. He is the most sensible and even wise man I know. He has a few John Bull prejudices, but they improve him. His illness is at times alarming. We are great friends, and there is no one I like to pa.s.s a day with better. Martin called in to bid him good-bye before he set out for Dublin. If you would like to hear one of his jokes, here is one which, at the time, we laughed at a good deal: A Miss ----, with three young ladies, one of them Martin's sister, had come a-gadding in the Isle of Wight and took for a few days a cottage opposite ours. We dined with them one day, and as I was saying they had fish. Miss ---- said she thought _they tasted of the boat_. "No" says Martin, very seriously, "they haven't been kept long enough." I saw Haslam. He is very much occupied with love and business, being one of Mr. Saunders' executors and lover to a young woman.

He showed me her picture by Severn. I think she is, though not very cunning, too cunning for him. Nothing strikes me so forcibly with a sense of the ridiculous as love. A man in love I do think cuts the sorriest figure in the world; queer, when I know a poor fool to be really in pain about it, I could burst out laughing in his face. His pathetic visage becomes irresistible. Not that I take Haslam as a pattern for lovers; he is a very worthy man and a good friend. His love is very amusing.

Somewhere in the Spectator is related an account of a man inviting a party of stutterers and squinters to his table. It would please me more to sc.r.a.pe together a party of lovers--not to dinner, but to tea. There would be no fighting as among knights of old.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, Nibble their toast and cool their tea with sighs; Or else forget the purpose of the night, Forget their tea, forget their appet.i.te.

See, with cross'd arms they sit--Ah! hapless crew, The fire is going out and no one rings For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.

A fly is in the milk-pot. Must he die Circled by a humane society?

No, no; there, Mr. Werter takes his spoon, Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark, Across the tea-board draws a long wet mark.

Romeo! Arise take snuffers by the handle, There's a large cauliflower in each candle.

A winding sheet--ah, me! I must away To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.

Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well; Where may your Taylor live? I may not tell.

O pardon me. I'm absent now and then.

Where _might_ my Taylor live? I say again I cannot tell. Let me no more be teased; He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleased.

You see, I cannot get on without writing, as boys do at school, a few nonsense verses. I begin them, and before I have written six the whim has pa.s.sed--if there is anything deserving so respectable a name in them. I shall put in a bit of information anywhere, just as it strikes me. Mr.

Abbey is to write to me as soon as he can bring matters to bear, and then I am to go to town and tell him the means of forwarding to you through Capper and Hazlewood. I wonder I did not put this before. I shall go on to-morrow; it is so fine now I must take a bit of a walk.

Sat.u.r.day [September 18].

With my inconstant disposition it is no wonder that this morning, amid all our bad times and misfortunes, I should feel so alert and well-spirited.

At this moment you are perhaps in a very different state of mind. It is because my hopes are ever paramount to my despair. I have been reading over a part of a short poem I have composed lately, called Lamia, and I am certain there is that sort of fire in it that must take hold of people some way. Give them either pleasant or unpleasant sensation--what they want is a sensation of some sort. I wish I could pitch the key of your spirits as high as mine is; but your organ-loft is beyond the reach of my voice.

I admire the exact admeasurement of my niece in your mother's letter--O!

the little span-long elf. I am not in the least a judge of the proper weight and size of an infant. Never trouble yourselves about that. She is sure to be a fine woman. Let her have only delicate nails both on hands and feet, and both as small as a May-fly's, who will live you his life on a 3 square inch of oak-leaf; and nails she must have, quite different from the market-women here, who plough into b.u.t.ter and make a quarter pound taste of it. I intend to write a letter to your wife, and there I may say more on this little plump subject--I hope she's plump. Still harping on my daughter. This Winchester is a place tolerably well suited to me. There is a fine cathedral, a college, a Roman Catholic chapel, a Methodist do., and Independent do.; and there is not one loom, or anything like manufacturing beyond bread and b.u.t.ter, in the whole city. There are a number of rich Catholics in the place. It is a respectable, ancient, aristocratic place, and moreover it contains a nunnery. Our set are by no means so hail fellow well met on literary subjects as we were wont to be. Reynolds has turn'd to the law. By the bye, he brought out a little piece at the Lyceum call'd One, Two, Three, Four: by Advertis.e.m.e.nt. It met with complete success. The meaning of this odd t.i.tle is explained when I tell you the princ.i.p.al actor is a mimic, who takes off four of our best performers in the course of the farce. Our stage is loaded with mimics. I did not see the piece, being out of town the whole time it was in progress. Dilke is entirely swallowed up in his boy. It is really lamentable to what a pitch he carries a sort of parental mania. I had a letter from him at Shanklin. He went on, a word or two about the Isle of Wight, which is a bit of hobby horse of his, but he soon deviated to his boy. "I am sitting," says he, "at the window expecting my boy from ----." I suppose I told you somewhere that he lives in Westminster, and his boy goes to school there, where he gets beaten, and every bruise he has, and I daresay deserves, is very bitter to Dilke.

The place I am speaking of puts me in mind of a circ.u.mstance which occurred lately at Dilke's. I think it very rich and dramatic and quite ill.u.s.trative of the little quiet fun that he will enjoy sometimes. First I must tell you that their house is at the corner of Great Smith Street, so that some of the windows look into one street, and the back windows into another round the corner. Dilke had some old people to dinner--I know not who, but there were two old ladies among them. Brown was there--they had known him from a child. Brown is very pleasant with old women, and on that day it seems behaved himself so winningly that they became hand and glove together, and a little complimentary. Brown was obliged to depart early. He bid them good-bye and pa.s.sed into the pa.s.sage. No sooner was his back turned than the old women began lauding him. When Brown had reached the street door, and was just going, Dilke threw up the window and called: "Brown! Brown! They say you look younger than ever you did!" Brown went on, and had just turned the corner into the other street when Dilke appeared at the back window, crying: "Brown! Brown! By G.o.d, they say you're handsome!" You see what a many words it requires to give any ident.i.ty to a thing I could have told you in half a minute.

I have been reading lately Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, and I think you will be very much amused with a page I here copy for you. I call it a Feu de Joie round the batteries of Fort St. Hyphen-de-Phrase on the birthday of the Digamma. The whole alphabet was drawn up in a phalanx on the corner of an old dictionary, band playing, "Amo, amas," etc.

"Every lover admires his mistriss, though she be very deformed of herself, ill-favoured, wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan'd, tallow-faced, have a swoln juglers platter face, or a thin, lean, chitty face, have clouds in her face, be crooked, dry, bald, goggle-ey'd, blear-ey'd or with staring eys, she looks like a squis'd cat, hold her head still awry, heavy, dull, hollow-mouthed, Persean hook-nosed, have a sharp Jose nose, a red nose, China flat, great nose, _nare simo patuloque_, a nose like a promontory, gubber-tushed, rotten teeth, black, uneven, brown teeth, beetle browed, a witches beard, her breath stink all over the room, her nose drop winter and summer with a Bavarian poke under her chin, a sharp chin, lave eared, with a long cranes neck, which stands awry too, _pendulis mammis, her dugs like two double jugs_, or else no dugs in the other extream, b.l.o.o.d.y faln fingers, she have filthy long unpaired nails, scabbed hands or wrists, a tan'd skin, a rotten carka.s.s, crooked back, she stoops, is lame, splea-footed, _as slender in the middle as a cow in the waste_, gowty legs, her ankles hang over her shooes, her feet stink, she breed lice, a mere changeling, a very monster, an aufe imperfect, her whole complexion savours, an harsh voyce, incondite gesture, vile gait, a vast virago, or an ugly t.i.t, a slug, a fat fustilugs, a truss, a long lean rawbone, a skeleton, a sneaker (_si qua latent meliora puta_), and to thy judgment looks like a Mard in a lanthorn, whom thou couldst not fancy for a world, but hatest, lothest, and wouldst have spit in her face, or blow thy nose in her bosome, _remedium amoris_ to another man, a dowdy, a s.l.u.t, a scold, a nasty, rank, rammy, filthy, beastly quean, dishonest peradventure, obscene, base, beggerly, rude, foolish, untaught, peevish, Irus'

daughter, Thersite's sister, Grobian's schollar; if he love her once, he admires her for all this, he takes no notice of any such errors, or imperfections of body or minde."

There's a dose for you. Fire!! I would give my favourite leg to have written this as a speech in a play. With what effect could Matthews pop-gun it at the pit! This I think will amuse you more than so much poetry. Of that I do not like to copy any, as I am afraid it is too mal a propos for you at present; and yet I will send you some, for by the time you receive it, things in England may have taken a different turn. When I left Mr. Abbey on Monday evening, I walked up Cheapside, but returned to put some letters in the post, and met him again in Bucklesbury. We walked together through the Poultry as far as the baker's shop he has some concern in--He spoke of it in such a way to me, I thought he wanted me to make an offer to a.s.sist him in it. I do believe if I could be a hatter I might be one. He seems anxious about me. He began blowing up Lord Byron while I was sitting with him: "However, may be the fellow says true now and then," at which he took up a magazine, and read me some extracts from Don Juan (Lord Byron's last flash poem), and particularly one against literary ambition. I do think I must be well spoken of among sets, for Hodgkinson is more than polite, and the coffee German endeavoured to be very close to me the other night at Covent Garden, where I went at half price before I tumbled into bed. Every one, however distant an acquaintance, behaves in the most conciliating manner to me. You will see I speak of this as a matter of interest. On the next sheet I will give you a little politics.

In every age there has been in England, for two or three centuries, subjects of great popular interest on the carpet, so that however great the uproar, one can scarcely prophecy any material change in the Government, for as loud disturbances have agitated the country many times.

All civilised countries become gradually more enlightened, and there should be a continual change for the better. Look at this country at present, and remember it when it was even thought impious to doubt the justice of a trial by combat. From that time there has been a gradual change. Three great changes have been in progress: first for the better, next for the worse, and a third for the better once more. The first was the gradual annihilation of the tyranny of the n.o.bles, when kings found it their interest to conciliate the common people, elevate them, and be just to them. Just when baronial power ceased, and before standing armies were so dangerous, taxes were few, kings were lifted by the people over the heads of their n.o.bles, and those people held a rod over kings. The change for the worse in Europe was again this: the obligation of kings to the mult.i.tude began to be forgotten. Custom had made n.o.blemen the humble servants of kings. Then kings turned to the n.o.bles as the adorners of their power, the slaves of it, and from the people as creatures continually endeavouring to check them. Then in every kingdom there was a long struggle of kings to destroy all popular privileges. The English were the only people in Europe who made a grand kick at this. They were slaves to Henry VIII, but were freemen under William III at the time the French were abject slaves under Louis XIV. The example of England, and the liberal writers of France and England, sowed the seed of opposition to this tyranny, and it was swelling in the ground till it burst out in the French Revolution. That has had an unlucky termination. It put a stop to the rapid progress of free sentiments in England, and gave our Court hopes of turning back to the despotism of the eighteenth century. They have made a handle of this event in every way to undermine our freedom. They spread a horrid superst.i.tion against all innovation and improvement. The present struggle in England of the people is to destroy this superst.i.tion. What has roused them to do it is their distresses. Perhaps, on this account, the present distresses of this nation are a fortunate thing though so horrid in their experience. You will see I mean that the French Revolution put a temporary stop to this third change--the change for the better--Now it is in progress again, and I think it is an effectual one. This is no contest between Whig and Tory, but between right and wrong. There is scarcely a grain of party spirit now in England. Right and wrong considered by each man abstractedly, is the fashion. I know very little of these things. I am convinced, however, that apparently small causes make great alterations. There are little signs whereby we may know how matters are going on. This makes the business of Carlisle the bookseller of great amount in my mind. He has been selling deistical pamphlets, republished Tom Paine, and many other works held in superst.i.tious horror. He even has been selling, for some time, immense numbers of a work called The Deist, which comes out in weekly numbers. For this conduct he, I think, has had about a dozen indictments issued against him, for which he has found bail to the amount of many thousand pounds. After all, they are afraid to prosecute. They are afraid of his defence; it would be published in all the papers all over the empire. They shudder at this. The trials would light a flame they could not extinguish. Do you not think this of great import? You will hear by the papers of the proceedings at Manchester, and Hunt's triumphal entry into London. It would take me a whole day and a quire of paper to give you anything like detail. I will merely mention that it is calculated that 30,000 people were in the streets waiting for him. The whole distance from the Angel at Islington to the Crown and Anchor was lined with mult.i.tudes.

As I pa.s.sed Colnaghi's window I saw a profile portrait of Sandt, the destroyer of Kotzebue. His very look must interest every one in his favour. I suppose they have represented him in his college dress. He seems to me like a young Abelard--a fine mouth, cheek bones (and this is no joke) full of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar nose, and plump temples.

On looking over some letters I found the one I wrote, intended for you, from the foot of Helvellyn to Liverpool; but you had sailed, and therefore it was returned to me. It contained, among other nonsense, an acrostic of my sister's name--and a pretty long name it is. I wrote it in a great hurry which you will see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought it would ever be seen by any but yourselves.

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame Exact in capitals your golden name, Or sue the fair Apollo, and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instil Great love in me for thee and Poesy.

Imagine not that greatest mastery And kingdom over all the realms of verse Nears more to Heaven in aught than when we nurse And surety give to love and brotherhood.

Anthropopagi in Oth.e.l.lo's mood; Ulysses storm'd, and his enchanted belt Glowed with the Muse: but they are never felt Unbosom'd so, and so eternal made, Such tender incense in their laurel shade To all the recent sisters of the Nine, As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are; Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where; And may its taste to you, like good old wine, Take you to real happiness, and give Sons, daughters, and a home like honied hive.

Foot of Helvellyn, June 27.

I sent you in my first packet some of my Scotch letters. I find I have one kept back, which was written in the most interesting part of our tour, and will copy part of it in the hope you will not find it unamusing. I would give now anything for Richardson's power of making mountains of molehills.

Incipit epistola caledoniensa--

"Dunancullen."

(I did not know the day of the month, for I find I have not added it.

Brown must have been asleep). "Just after my last had gone to the post"

(before I go any further, I must premise that I would send the identical letter, instead of taking the trouble to copy it; I do not do so, for it would spoil my notion of the neat manner in which I intend to fold these three genteel sheets. The original is written on coa.r.s.e paper, and the soft one would ride in the post bag very uneasy. Perhaps there might be a quarrel)[106]

I ought to make a large "?" here, but I had better take the opportunity of telling you I have got rid of my haunting sore throat, and conduct myself in a manner not to catch another.