'Hampstead--August 10, 1820.
'MY DEAR SHELLEY,
'I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a
mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the
letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will
be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to prophesy[4].
There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do
so in a lingering hateful manner. Therefore I must either voyage or
journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery. My nerves at
present are the worst part of me: yet they feel soothed that, come what
extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough
to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts.
'I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem--which I would
willingly take the trouble to unwrite if possible, did I care so much as
I have done about reputation.
'I received a copy of _The Cenci_, as from yourself, from Hunt. There is
only one part of it I am judge of--the poetry and dramatic effect, which
by many spirits nowadays is considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is
said, must have a purpose; which may be the God. An artist must serve
Mammon: he must have "self-concentration"--selfishness perhaps. You, I
am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb
your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your
subject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold
chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six
months together. And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of
_Endymion_, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked
up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its
monk.
'I am in expectation of _Prometheus_ every day. Could I have my own wish
effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be but now putting
an end to the second Act. I remember you advising me not to publish my
first blights, on Hampstead Heath[5]. I am returning advice upon your
hands. Most of the poems in the volume I send you [this was the volume
containing _Lamia, Hyperion_, &c.] have been written above two years[6],
and would never have been published but for hope of gain: so you see I
am inclined enough to take your advice now.
'I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my
sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley. In the hope of soon seeing
you I remain
'Most sincerely yours,
'JOHN KEATS.'
It may have been in the interval between writing his note Of invitation
to Keats, and receiving the reply of the latter, that Shelley penned the
following letter to the Editor of the _Quarterly Review_--the periodical
which had taken (or had shared with _Blackwood's Magazine_) the lead in
depreciating _Endymion_. The letter, however, was left uncompleted, and
was not dispatched. (I omit such passages as are not directly concerned
with Keats):--
'SIR,
'Should you cast your eye on the signature of this letter before you
read the contents, you might imagine that they related to a slanderous
paper which appeared in your Review some time since.... I am not in the
habit of permitting myself to be disturbed by what is said or written of
me.... The case is different with the unfortunate subject of this
letter, the author of _Endymion_, to whose feelings and situation I
entreat you to allow me to call your attention. I write considerably in
the dark; but, if it is Mr. Gifford that I am addressing, I am persuaded
that, in an appeal to his humanity and justice, he will acknowledge the
_fas ab hoste doceri_. I am aware that the first duty of a reviewer is
towards the public; and I am willing to confess that the _Endymion_ is a
poem considerably defective, and that perhaps it deserved as much
censure as the pages of your Review record against it. But, not to
mention that there is a certain contemptuousness of phraseology, from
which it Is difficult for a critic to abstain, in the review of
_Endymion_, I do not think that the writer has given it its due praise.
Surely the poem, with all its faults, is a very remarkable production
for a man of Keats's age[7]; and the promise of ultimate excellence is
such as has rarely been afforded even by such as have afterwards
attained high literary eminence. Look at book 2, line 833, &c., and book
3, lines 113 to 120; read down that page, and then again from line
193[8]. I could cite many other passages to convince you that it
deserved milder usage. Why it should have been reviewed at all,
excepting for the purpose of bringing its excellences into notice, I
cannot conceive; for it was very little read, and there was no danger
that it should become a model to the age of that false taste with which
I confess that it is replenished.
'Poor Keats was thrown into a dreadful state of mind by this review,
which, I am persuaded, was not written with any intention of producing
the effect--to which it has at least greatly contributed--of embittering
his existence, and inducing a disease from which there are now but faint
hopes of his recovery. The first effects are described to me to have
resembled insanity, and it was by assiduous watching that he was
restrained from effecting purposes of suicide. The agony of his
sufferings at length produced the rupture of a blood-vessel in the
lungs, and the usual process of consumption appears to have begun. He is
coming to pay me a visit in Italy; but I fear that, unless his mind can
be kept tranquil, little is to be hoped from the mere influence of
climate.
'But let me not extort anything from your pity. I have just seen a
second volume, published by him evidently in careless despair. I have
desired my bookseller to send you a copy: and allow me to solicit your
especial attention to the fragment of a poem entitled _Hyperion_, the
composition of which was checked by the review in question. The great
proportion of this piece is surely in the very highest style of poetry.
I speak impartially, for the canons of taste to which Keats has
conformed in his other compositions are the very reverse of my own. I
leave you to judge for yourself: it would be an insult to you to suppose
that, from motives however honourable, you would lend yourself to a
deception of the public.'
The question arises, How did Shelley know what he here states--that
Keats was thrown, by reading the _Quarterly_ article, into a state
resembling insanity, that he contemplated suicide, &c.? Not any document
has been published whereby this information could have been imparted to
Shelley: his chief informant on the subject appears to have been Mr.
Gisborne, who had now for a short while returned to England, and some
confirmation may have come from Hunt. As to the statements themselves,
they have, ever since the appearance in 1848 of Lord Houghton's _Life of
Keats_, been regarded as very gross exaggerations: indeed, I think the
tendency has since then been excessive in the reverse direction, and the
vexation occasioned to Keats by hostile criticism has come to be
underrated.
Shelley addressed to Keats in Naples another letter, 'anxiously
enquiring about his health, offering him advice as to the adaptation of
diet to the climate, and concluding with an urgent invitation to Pisa,
where he could assure him every comfort and attention.' Shelley did not,
however, re-invite Keats to his own house on the present occasion;
writing to Miss Clairmont, 'We are not rich enough for that sort of
thing.' The letter to Miss Clairmont is dated 18 February, 1821, and
appears to have been almost simultaneous with the one sent to Keats. In
that case, Keats cannot be supposed to have received the invitation; for
he had towards the middle of November quitted Naples for Rome, and by 18
February he was almost at his last gasp.
Shelley's feeling as to Keats's final volume of poems is further
exhibited in the following extracts, (To Thomas Love Peacock, November,
1820.) 'Among the modern things which have reached me is a volume of
poems by Keats; in other respects insignificant enough, but containing
the fragment of a poem called _Hyperion_, I dare say you have not time
to read it; but it is certainly an astonishing piece of writing, and
gives me a conception of Keats which I confess I had not before.' (To
Mrs. Leigh Hunt, 11 November, 1820.) 'Keats's new volume has arrived to
us, and the fragment called _Hyperion_ promises for him that he is
destined to become one of the first writers of the age. His other things
are imperfect enough[9], and, what is worse, written in the bad sort of
style which is becoming fashionable among those who fancy that they are
imitating Hunt and Wordsworth.... Where is Keats now? I am anxiously
expecting him in Italy, when I shall take care to bestow every possible
attention on him. I consider his a most valuable life, and I am deeply
interested in his safety. I intend to be the physician both of his body
and his soul,--to keep the one warm, and to teach the other Greek and
Spanish. I am aware indeed, in part, that I am nourishing a rival who
will far surpass me; and this is an additional motive, and will be an
added pleasure.' (To Peacock, 15 February, 1821.) 'Among your anathemas
of the modern attempts in poetry do you include Keats's _Hyperion_? I
think it very fine. His other poems are worth little; but, if the
_Hyperion_ be not grand poetry, none has been produced by our
contemporaries.' There is also a phrase in a letter to Mr. Ollier,
written on 14 May, 1820, before the actual publication of the _Lamia_
volume: 'Keats, I hope, is going to show himself a great poet; like the
sun, to burst through the clouds which, though dyed in the finest
colours of the air, obscured his rising.'
Keats died in Rome on 23 February, 1821. Soon afterwards Shelley wrote
his _Adonais_. He has left various written references to _Adonais_, and
to Keats in connexion with it: these will come more appropriately when I
speak of that poem itself. But I may here at once quote from the letter
which Shelley addressed on 16 June, 1821, to Mr. Gisborne, who had sent
on to him a letter from Colonel Finch[10], giving a very painful account
of the last days of Keats, and especially (perhaps in more than due
proportion) of the violence of temper which he had exhibited. Shelley
wrote thus: 'I have received the heartrending account of the closing
scene of the great genius whom envy and ingratitude[11] scourged out of
the world. I do not think that, if I had seen it before, I could have
composed my poem. The enthusiasm of the imagination would have
overpowered the sentiment. As it is, I have finished my Elegy; and this
day I send it to the press at Pisa. You shall have a copy the moment it
is completed, I think it will please you. I have dipped my pen in
consuming fire for his destroyers: otherwise the style is calm and
solemn[12].
As I have already said, the last residence of Shelley was on the Gulf of
Spezzia. He had a boat built named the Ariel (by Byron, the Don Juan),
boating being his favourite recreation; and on 1 July, 1822, he and
Lieut. Williams, along with a single sailor-lad, started in her for
Leghorn, to welcome there Leigh Hunt. The latter had come to Italy with
his family, on the invitation of Byron and Shelley, to join in a
periodical to be called _The Liberal_. On 8 July Shelley, with his two
companions, embarked to return to Casa Magni. Towards half-past six in
the evening a sudden and tremendous squall sprang up. The Ariel sank,
either upset by the squall, or (as some details of evidence suggest) run
down near Viareggio by an Italian fishing-boat, the crew of which had
plotted to plunder her of a sum of money. The bodies were eventually
washed ashore; and on 16 August the corpse of Shelley was burned on the
beach under the direction of Trelawny. In the pocket of his jacket had
been found two books--a Sophocles, and the _Lamia_ volume, doubled back
as if it had at the last moment been thrust aside. His ashes were
collected, and, with the exception of the heart which was delivered to
Mrs. Shelley, were buried in Rome, in the new Protestant Cemetery. The
corpse of Shelley's beloved son William had, in 1819, been interred hard
by, and in 1821 that of Keats, in the old Cemetery--a space of ground
which had, by 1822, been finally closed.
The enthusiastic and ideal fervour which marks Shelley's poetry could
not possibly be simulated--it was a part, the most essential part, of
his character. He was remarkably single-minded, in the sense of being
constantly ready to do what he professed as, in the abstract, the right
thing to be done; impetuous, bold, uncompromising, lavishly generous,
and inspired by a general love of humankind, and a coequal detestation
of all the narrowing influences of custom and prescription. Pity, which
included self-pity, was one of his dominant emotions. If we consider
what are the uses, and what the abuses, of a character of this type, we
shall have some notion of the excellences and the defects of Shelley. In
person he was well-grown and slim; more nearly beautiful than handsome;
his complexion brilliant, his dark-brown but slightly grizzling hair
abundant and wavy, and his eyes deep-blue, large, and fixed. His voice
was high-pitched--at times discordant, but capable of agreeable
modulation; his general aspect uncommonly youthful.
The roll of Shelley's publications is a long one for a man who perished
not yet thirty years of age. I append a list of the principal ones,
according to date of publication, which was never very distant from that
of composition. Several minor productions remain unspecified.
1810. Zastrozzi, a Romance. Puerile rubbish.
" Original Poetry, by Victor and Cazire.
Withdrawn, and ever since unknown.
" Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson.
Balderdash, partly (it would appear) intended as burlesque.
1811. St. Irvyne, or The Rosicrucian, a Romance.
No better than Zastrozzi.
1813. Queen Mab. Didactic and subversive.
1817. Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude, and other Poems.
The earliest volume fully worthy of its author.
1818. Laon and Cythna--reissued as The Revolt of Islam.
An epic of revolution and emancipation in the
Spenserian Stanza.
1819. Rosalind and Helen, a modern Eclogue, and other Poems.
The character of 'Lionel' is an evident
idealisation of Shelley himself.
1819. The Cenci, a Tragedy. Has generally been regarded
as the finest English tragedy of modern date.
" Prometheus Unbound, a Lyrical Drama, and other Poems.
The Prometheus ranks as at once the greatest and the most
thoroughly characteristic work of Shelley.
1819. Oedipus Tyrannus, or Swellfoot the Tyrant. A
Satirical Drama on the Trial of Queen Caroline.
1821. Epipsychidion. A poem of ideal love under a human personation.
" Adonais.
1822. Hellas. A Drama on the Grecian War of Liberation.
1824. Posthumous Poems. Include Julian and Maddalo,
written in 1818, The Witch of Atlas, 1820, The
Triumph of Life, 1822, and many other compositions
and translations.
The _Masque of Anarchy_ and _Peter Bell the Third_, both written by
Shelley in 1819, were published later on; also various minor poems,
complete or fragmentary. _Peter Bell the Third_ has a certain fortuitous
connexion with Keats. It was written in consequence of Shelley's having
read in _The Examiner_ a notice of _Peter Bell, a Lyrical Ballad_ (the
production of John Hamilton Reynolds): and this notice, as has very
recently been proved, was the handiwork of Keats. Shelley cannot have
been aware of that fact. His prose _Essays and Letters_, including _The
Defence of Poetry_, appeared in 1840. The only known work of Shelley,
extant but yet unpublished, is the _Philosophical View of Reform_: an
abstract of it, with several extracts, was printed in the _Fortnightly
Review_ in 1886.