talk about Poetry in the way I should have liked for I was not in humor
with either his or mine. His self-delusions are very lamentable--they have
enticed him into a Situation which I should be less eager after than that
of a galley Slave--what you observe thereon is very true must be in time.
Perhaps it is a self-delusion to say so--but I think I could not be
deceived in the manner that Hunt is--may I die to-morrow if I am to be.
There is no greater Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter oneself
into an idea of being a great Poet--or one of those beings who are
privileged to wear out their Lives in the pursuit of Honor--how
comfortable a feel it is to feel that such a Crime must bring its heavy
Penalty? That if one be a Self-deluder accounts must be balanced? I am
glad you are hard at Work--'t will now soon be done--I long to see
Wordsworth's as well as to have mine in:[20] but I would rather not show
my face in Town till the end of the Year--if that will be time enough--if
not I shall be disappointed if you do not write for me even when you think
best. I never quite despair and I read Shakspeare--indeed I shall I think
never read any other Book much. Now this might lead me into a long Confab
but I desist. I am very near agreeing with Hazlitt that Shakspeare is
enough for us. By the by what a tremendous Southean article his last
was--I wish he had left out "grey hairs." It was very gratifying to meet
your remarks on the manuscript--I was reading Anthony and Cleopatra when I
got the Paper and there are several Passages applicable to the events you
commentate. You say that he arrived by degrees and not by any single
struggle to the height of his ambition--and that his Life had been as
common in particulars as other Men's. Shakspeare makes Enobarb say--
Where's Antony?
_Eros._--He's walking in the garden, and _spurns
The rush that lies_ before him; cries, Fool, Lepidus!
In the same scene we find--
Let determined things
To destiny hold unbewailed their way.
Dolabella says of Anthony's Messenger,
An argument that he is pluck'd when hither
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing.
Then again--
_Eno._--I see Men's Judgments are
A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them,
To suffer all alike.
The following applies well to Bertrand[21]--
Yet he that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fallen Lord,
Does conquer him that did his Master conquer,
And earns a place i' the story.
But how differently does Buonaparte bear his fate from Anthony!
'Tis good, too, that the Duke of Wellington has a good Word or so in the
Examiner. A Man ought to have the Fame he deserves--and I begin to think
that detracting from him as well as from Wordsworth is the same thing. I
wish he had a little more taste--and did not in that respect "deal in
Lieutenantry." You should have heard from me before this--but in the first
place I did not like to do so before I had got a little way in the First
Book, and in the next as G. told me you were going to write I delayed till
I had heard from you. Give my Respects the next time you write to the
North and also to John Hunt. Remember me to Reynolds and tell him to
write. Ay, and when you send Westward tell your Sister that I mentioned
her in this. So now in the name of Shakspeare, Raphael and all our Saints,
I commend you to the care of heaven!
Your everlasting Friend
JOHN KEATS.
XI.--TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY.
Margate, May 16, 1817.
My dear Sirs--I am extremely indebted to you for your liberality in the
shape of manufactured rag, value L20, and shall immediately proceed to
destroy some of the minor heads of that hydra the dun; to conquer which
the knight need have no Sword Shield Cuirass, Cuisses Herbadgeon Spear
Casque Greaves Paldrons spurs Chevron or any other scaly commodity, but
he need only take the Bank-note of Faith and Cash of Salvation, and set
out against the monster, invoking the aid of no Archimago or Urganda, but
finger me the paper, light as the Sibyl's leaves in Virgil, whereat the
fiend skulks off with his tail between his legs. Touch him with this
enchanted paper, and he whips you his head away as fast as a snail's
horn--but then the horrid propensity he has to put it up again has
discouraged many very valiant Knights. He is such a never-ending
still-beginning sort of a body--like my landlady of the Bell. I should
conjecture that the very spright that "the green sour ringlets makes
Whereof the ewe not bites" had manufactured it of the dew fallen on said
sour ringlets. I think I could make a nice little allegorical poem, called
"The Dun," where we would have the Castle of Carelessness, the drawbridge
of credit, Sir Novelty Fashion's expedition against the City of Tailors,
etc. etc. I went day by day at my poem for a Month--at the end of which
time the other day I found my Brain so over-wrought that I had neither
rhyme nor reason in it--so was obliged to give up for a few days. I hope
soon to be able to resume my work--I have endeavoured to do so once or
twice; but to no purpose. Instead of Poetry, I have a swimming in my head
and feel all the effects of a Mental debauch, lowness of Spirits, anxiety
to go on without the power to do so, which does not at all tend to my
ultimate progression. However to-morrow I will begin my next month. This
evening I go to Canterbury, having got tired of Margate. I was not right
in my head when I came--At Canterbury I hope the remembrance of Chaucer
will set me forward like a Billiard Ball. I am glad to hear of Mr. T.'s
health, and of the welfare of the "In-town-stayers." And think Reynolds
will like his Trip--I have some idea of seeing the Continent some time
this summer. In repeating how sensible I am of your kindness, I remain
Y{r} obed{t} serv{t} and friend
JOHN KEATS.
I shall be happy to hear any little intelligence in the literary or
friendly way when you have time to scribble.
XII.--TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY.
[London] Tuesday Morn [July 8, 1817].
My dear Sirs--I must endeavour to lose my maidenhead with respect to money
Matters as soon as possible--And I will too--So, here goes! A couple of
Duns that I thought would be silent till the beginning, at least, of next
month (when I am certain to be on my legs, for certain sure), have opened
upon me with a cry most "untuneable"; never did you hear such
_un-_"gallant chiding." Now you must know, I am not desolate, but have,
thank God, 25 good notes in my fob. But then, you know, I laid them by to
write with and would stand at bay a fortnight ere they should grab me. In
a month's time I must pay, but it would relieve my mind if I owed you,
instead of these Pelican duns.
I am afraid you will say I have "wound about with circumstance," when I
should have asked plainly--however as I said I am a little maidenish or
so, and I feel my virginity come strong upon me, the while I request the
loan of a L20 and a L10, which, if you would enclose to me, I would
acknowledge and save myself a hot forehead. I am sure you are confident of
my responsibility, and in the sense of squareness that is always in me.
Your obliged friend
JOHN KEATS.
XIII.--TO MARIANE AND JANE REYNOLDS.
[Oxford,[22] September 5, 1817].
My dear Friends--You are I am glad to hear comfortable at Hampton,[23]
where I hope you will receive the Biscuits we ate the other night at
Little Britain.[24] I hope you found them good. There you are among
sands, stones, Pebbles, Beeches, Cliffs, Rocks, Deeps, Shallows, weeds,
ships, Boats (at a distance), Carrots, Turnips, sun, moon, and stars and
all those sort of things--here am I among Colleges, halls, Stalls, Plenty
of Trees, thank God--Plenty of water, thank heaven--Plenty of Books, thank
the Muses--Plenty of Snuff, thank Sir Walter Raleigh--Plenty of
segars,--Ditto--Plenty of flat country, thank Tellus's rolling-pin. I'm on
the sofa--Buonaparte is on the snuff-box--But you are by the
seaside--argal, you bathe--you walk--you say "how beautiful"--find out
resemblances between waves and camels--rocks and dancing-masters--
fireshovels and telescopes--Dolphins and Madonas--which word, by the way,
I must acquaint you was derived from the Syriac, and came down in a way
which neither of you I am sorry to say are at all capable of comprehending.
But as a time may come when by your occasional converse with me you may
arrive at "something like prophetic strain," I will unbar the gates of my
pride and let my condescension stalk forth like a ghost at the
Circus.--The word Ma-don-a, my dear Ladies--or--the word Mad--Ona--so I
say! I am not mad--Howsumever when that aged Tamer Kewthon sold a certain
camel called Peter to the overseer of the Babel Sky-works, he thus spake,
adjusting his cravat round the tip of his chin--"My dear
Ten-story-up-in-air! this here Beast, though I say it as shouldn't say't,
not only has the power of subsisting 40 days and 40 nights without fire
and candle but he can sing.--Here I have in my Pocket a Certificate from
Signor Nicolini of the King's Theatre; a Certificate to this effect----" I
have had dinner since I left that effect upon you, and feel too heavy in
mentibus to display all the Profundity of the Polygon--so you had better
each of you take a glass of cherry Brandy and drink to the health of
Archimedes, who was of so benign a disposition that he never would leave
Syracuse in his life--So kept himself out of all Knight-Errantry.--This I
know to be a fact; for it is written in the 45th book of Winkine's
treatise on garden-rollers, that he trod on a fishwoman's toe in
Liverpool, and never begged her pardon. Now the long and short is
this--that is by comparison--for a long day may be a short year--A long
Pole may be a very stupid fellow as a man. But let us refresh ourself from
this depth of thinking, and turn to some innocent jocularity--the Bow
cannot always be bent--nor the gun always loaded, if you ever let it
off--and the life of man is like a great Mountain--his breath is like a
Shrewsbury cake--he comes into the world like a shoeblack, and goes out of
it like a cobbler--he eats like a chimney-sweeper, drinks like a
gingerbread baker--and breathes like Achilles--so it being that we are
such sublunary creatures, let us endeavour to correct all our bad
spelling--all our most delightful abominations, and let us wish health to
Marian and Jane, whoever they be and wherever.
Yours truly
JOHN KEATS.
XIV--TO FANNY KEATS.
Oxford, September 10 [1817].
My dear Fanny--Let us now begin a regular question and answer--a little
pro and con; letting it interfere as a pleasant method of my coming at
your favorite little wants and enjoyments, that I may meet them in a way
befitting a brother.
We have been so little together since you have been able to reflect on
things that I know not whether you prefer the History of King Pepin to
Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress--or Cinderella and her glass slipper to
Moore's Almanack. However in a few Letters I hope I shall be able to come
at that and adapt my scribblings to your Pleasure. You must tell me about
all you read if it be only six Pages in a Week and this transmitted to me
every now and then will procure you full sheets of Writing from me pretty
frequently.--This I feel as a necessity for we ought to become intimately
acquainted, in order that I may not only, as you grow up love you as my
only Sister, but confide in you as my dearest friend. When I saw you last
I told you of my intention of going to Oxford and 'tis now a Week since I
disembark'd from his Whipship's Coach the Defiance in this place. I am
living in Magdalen Hall on a visit to a young Man with whom I have not
been long acquainted, but whom I like very much--we lead very industrious
lives--he in general Studies and I in proceeding at a pretty good rate
with a Poem which I hope you will see early in the next year.--Perhaps you
might like to know what I am writing about. I will tell you. Many Years
ago there was a young handsome Shepherd who fed his flocks on a Mountain's
Side called Latmus--he was a very contemplative sort of a Person and lived
solitary among the trees and Plains little thinking that such a beautiful
Creature as the Moon was growing mad in Love with him.--However so it was;
and when he was asleep on the Grass she used to come down from heaven and
admire him excessively for a long time; and at last could not refrain from
carrying him away in her arms to the top of that high Mountain Latmus
while he was a dreaming--but I daresay you have read this and all the
other beautiful Tales which have come down from the ancient times of that
beautiful Greece. If you have not let me know and I will tell you more at
large of others quite as delightful. This Oxford I have no doubt is the
finest City in the world--it is full of old Gothic buildings--Spires--
towers--Quadrangles--Cloisters--Groves, etc., and is surrounded with more
clear streams than ever I saw together. I take a Walk by the Side of one
of them every Evening and, thank God, we have not had a drop of rain these
many days. I had a long and interesting Letter from George, cross lines by
a short one from Tom yesterday dated Paris. They both send their loves to
you. Like most Englishmen they feel a mighty preference for everything
English--the French Meadows, the trees, the People, the Towns, the
Churches, the Books, the everything--although they may be in themselves
good: yet when put in comparison with our green Island they all vanish
like Swallows in October. They have seen Cathedrals, Manuscripts,
Fountains, Pictures, Tragedy, Comedy,--with other things you may by chance
meet with in this Country such as Washerwomen, Lamplighters, Turnpikemen,
Fishkettles, Dancing Masters, Kettle drums, Sentry Boxes, Rocking Horses,
etc.--and, now they have taken them over a set of boxing-gloves.
I have written to George and requested him, as you wish I should, to write
to you. I have been writing very hard lately, even till an utter
incapacity came on, and I feel it now about my head: so you must not mind
a little out-of-the-way sayings--though by the bye were my brain as clear
as a bell I think I should have a little propensity thereto. I shall stop
here till I have finished the 3d Book of my Story; which I hope will be
accomplish'd in at most three Weeks from to-day--about which time you
shall see me. How do you like Miss Taylor's essays in Rhyme--I just look'd
into the Book and it appeared to me suitable to you--especially since I
remember your liking for those pleasant little things the Original
Poems--the essays are the more mature production of the same hand. While I
was speaking about France it occurred to me to speak a few Words on their
Language--it is perhaps the poorest one ever spoken since the jabbering in
the Tower of Babel, and when you come to know that the real use and
greatness of a Tongue is to be referred to its Literature--you will be
astonished to find how very inferior it is to our native Speech.--I wish
the Italian would supersede French in every school throughout the Country,
for that is full of real Poetry and Romance of a kind more fitted for the
Pleasure of Ladies than perhaps our own.--It seems that the only end to be
gained in acquiring French is the immense accomplishment of speaking
it--it is none at all--a most lamentable mistake indeed. Italian indeed
would sound most musically from Lips which had began to pronounce it as
early as French is crammed down our Mouths, as if we were young Jackdaws
at the mercy of an overfeeding Schoolboy. Now Fanny you must write
soon--and write all you think about, never mind what--only let me have a
good deal of your writing--You need not do it all at once--be two or three
or four days about it, and let it be a diary of your little Life. You will
preserve all my Letters and I will secure yours--and thus in the course of
time we shall each of us have a good Bundle--which, hereafter, when things
may have strangely altered and God knows what happened, we may read over
together and look with pleasure on times past--that now are to come. Give
my Respects to the Ladies--and so my dear Fanny I am ever
Your most affectionate Brother
JOHN.
If you direct--Post Office, Oxford--your Letter will be brought to me.
XV.--TO JANE REYNOLDS.
Oxford, Sunday Evg. [September 14, 1817].
My dear Jane--You are such a literal translator, that I shall some day
amuse myself with looking over some foreign sentences, and imagining how
you would render them into English. This is an age for typical
Curiosities; and I would advise you, as a good speculation, to study
Hebrew, and astonish the world with a figurative version in our native
tongue. The Mountains skipping like rams, and the little hills like lambs,
you will leave as far behind as the hare did the tortoise. It must be so
or you would never have thought that I really meant you would like to pro
and con about those Honeycombs--no, I had no such idea, or, if I had,
'twould be only to tease you a little for love. So now let me put down in
black and white briefly my sentiments thereon.--Imprimis--I sincerely
believe that Imogen is the finest creature, and that I should have been
disappointed at hearing you prefer Juliet--Item--Yet I feel such a
yearning towards Juliet that I would rather follow her into Pandemonium
than Imogen into Paradise--heartily wishing myself a Romeo to be worthy of
her, and to hear the Devils quote the old proverb, "Birds of a feather
flock together"--Amen.--
Now let us turn to the Seashore. Believe me, my dear Jane, it is a great
happiness to see that you are in this finest part of the year winning a
little enjoyment from the hard world. In truth, the great Elements we know
of, are no mean comforters: the open sky sits upon our senses like a
sapphire crown--the Air is our robe of state--the Earth is our throne, and
the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it--able, like David's harp, to
make such a one as you forget almost the tempest cares of life. I have
found in the ocean's music,--varying (tho self-same) more than the passion
of Timotheus, an enjoyment not to be put into words; and, "though inland
far I be," I now hear the voice most audibly while pleasing myself in the
idea of your sensations.
---- is getting well apace, and if you have a few trees, and a little
harvesting about you, I'll snap my fingers in Lucifer's eye. I hope you
bathe too--if you do not, I earnestly recommend it. Bathe thrice a week,
and let us have no more sitting up next winter. Which is the best of
Shakspeare's plays? I mean in what mood and with what accompaniment do you
like the sea best? It is very fine in the morning, when the sun,
"Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt sea streams,"
and superb when
"The sun from meridian height
Illumines the depth of the sea,
And the fishes, beginning to sweat,
Cry d---- it! how hot we shall be,"
and gorgeous, when the fair planet hastens
"To his home
Within the Western foam."
But don't you think there is something extremely fine after sunset, when
there are a few white clouds about and a few stars blinking--when the
waters are ebbing, and the horizon a mystery? This state of things has
been so fulfilling to me that I am anxious to hear whether it is a
favourite with you. So when you and Marianne club your letter to me put in
a word or two about it. Tell Dilke that it would be perhaps as well if he
left a Pheasant or Partridge alive here and there to keep up a supply of
game for next season--tell him to rein in if Possible all the Nimrod of
his disposition, he being a mighty hunter before the Lord--of the Manor.
Tell him to shoot fair, and not to have at the Poor devils in a
furrow--when they are flying, he may fire, and nobody will be the wiser.
Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, saying that I have not forgiven
myself for not having got her the little box of medicine I promised, and
that, had I remained at Hampstead I would have made precious havoc with
her house and furniture--drawn a great harrow over her garden--poisoned
Boxer--eaten her clothes-pegs--fried her cabbages--fricaseed (how is it
spelt?) her radishes--ragout'd her Onions--belaboured her
_beat_-root--outstripped her scarlet-runners--parlez-vous'd with her
french-beans--devoured her mignon or mignionette--metamorphosed her
bell-handles--splintered her looking-glasses--bullocked at her cups and
saucers--agonised her decanters--put old Phillips to pickle in the
brine-tub--dis_organ_ised her piano--dislocated her candlesticks--emptied
her wine-bins in a fit of despair--turned out her maid to grass--and
astonished Brown; whose letter to her on these events I would rather see
than the original Copy of the Book of Genesis. Should you see Mr. W.
D.[25] remember me to him, and to little Robinson Crusoe, and to Mr.
Snook. Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone to bed, pleased that I
am writing to you. To your brother John (whom henceforth I shall consider
as mine) and to you, my dear friends, Marianne and Jane, I shall ever feel
grateful for having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey. He
delights me in the selfish and (please God) the disinterested part of my
disposition. If the old Poets have any pleasure in looking down at the
enjoyers of their works, their eyes must bend with a double satisfaction
upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is over them, and pray that if,
after my death, any of my labours should be worth saving, they may have so
"honest a chronicler" as Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm in his own
pursuit and for all good things is of an exalted kind--worthy a more
healthful frame and an untorn spirit. He must have happy years to
come--"he shall not die by God."
A letter from John the other day was a chief happiness to me. I made a
little mistake when, just now, I talked of being far inland. How can that
be when Endymion and I are at the bottom of the sea? whence I hope to
bring him in safety before you leave the seaside; and, if I can so
contrive it, you shall be greeted by him upon the sea-sands, and he shall
tell you all his adventures, which having finished, he shall thus
proceed--"My dear Ladies, favourites of my gentle mistress, however my
friend Keats may have teased and vexed you, believe me he loves you not
the less--for instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet he has been
hauling me through the earth and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I know
for all this that he is mighty fond of me, by his contriving me all sorts
of pleasures. Nor is this the least, fair ladies, this one of meeting you
on the desert shore, and greeting you in his name. He sends you moreover
this little scroll--" My dear Girls, I send you, per favour of Endymion,
the assurance of my esteem for you, and my utmost wishes for your health
and pleasure, being ever,
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN KEATS.
XVI.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.
Oxford, Sunday Morn [September 21, 1817].
My dear Reynolds--So you are determined to be my mortal foe--draw a Sword
at me, and I will forgive--Put a Bullet in my Brain, and I will shake it
out as a dew-drop from the Lion's Mane--put me on a Gridiron, and I will
fry with great complacency--but--oh, horror! to come upon me in the shape
of a Dun! Send me bills! as I say to my Tailor, send me Bills and I'll
never employ you more. However, needs must, when the devil drives: and for
fear of "before and behind Mr. Honeycomb" I'll proceed. I have not time to
elucidate the forms and shapes of the grass and trees; for, rot it! I
forgot to bring my mathematical case with me, which unfortunately
contained my triangular Prism so that the hues of the grass cannot be
dissected for you--