Hastings and whom I met when we were going to the English Opera. It was in
a street which goes from Bedford Row to Lamb's Conduit Street.--I passed
her and turned back: she seemed glad of it--glad to see me, and not
offended at my passing her before. We walked on towards Islington, where
we called on a friend of hers who keeps a Boarding School. She has always
been an enigma to me--she has been in a Room with you and Reynolds, and
wishes we should be acquainted without any of our common acquaintance
knowing it. As we went along, sometimes through shabby, sometimes through
decent Streets, I had my guessing at work, not knowing what it would be,
and prepared to meet any surprise. First it ended at this House at
Islington: on parting from which I pressed to attend her home. She
consented, and then again my thoughts were at work what it might lead to,
though now they had received a sort of genteel hint from the Boarding
School. Our Walk ended in 34 Gloucester Street, Queen Square--not exactly
so, for we went upstairs into her sitting-room, a very tasty sort of place
with Books, Pictures, a bronze Statue of Buonaparte, Music, aeolian Harp, a
Parrot, a Linnet, a Case of choice Liqueurs, etc. etc. She behaved in the
kindest manner--made me take home a Grouse for Tom's dinner. Asked for my
address for the purpose of sending more game.... I expect to pass some
pleasant hours with her now and then: in which I feel I shall be of
service to her in matters of knowledge and taste: if I can I will.... She
and your George are the only women a peu pres de mon age whom I would be
content to know for their mind and friendship alone.--I shall in a short
time write you as far as I know how I intend to pass my Life--I cannot
think of those things now Tom is so unwell and weak. Notwithstanding your
Happiness and your recommendation I hope I shall never marry. Though the
most beautiful Creature were waiting for me at the end of a Journey or a
Walk; though the Carpet were of Silk, the Curtains of the morning Clouds;
the chairs and Sofa stuffed with Cygnet's down; the food Manna, the Wine
beyond Claret, the Window opening on Winander mere, I should not feel--or
rather my Happiness would not be so fine, as my Solitude is sublime. Then
instead of what I have described, there is a sublimity to welcome me
home--The roaring of the wind is my wife and the Stars through the window
pane are my Children. The mighty abstract Idea I have of Beauty in all
things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness--an amiable
wife and sweet Children I contemplate as a part of that Beauty, but I must
have a thousand of those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. I feel
more and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live
in this world alone but in a thousand worlds--No sooner am I alone than
shapes of epic greatness are stationed around me, and serve my Spirit the
office which is equivalent to a King's bodyguard--then "Tragedy with
sceptred pall comes sweeping by." According to my state of mind I am with
Achilles shouting in the Trenches, or with Theocritus in the Vales of
Sicily. Or I throw my whole being into Troilus, and repeating those lines,
"I wander like a lost Soul upon the stygian Banks staying for waftage," I
melt into the air with a voluptuousness so delicate that I am content to
be alone. These things, combined with the opinion I have of the generality
of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar
Plum than my time, form a barrier against Matrimony which I rejoice in.
I have written this that you might see I have my share of the highest
pleasures, and that though I may choose to pass my days alone I shall be
no Solitary. You see there is nothing spleenical in all this. The only
thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one short passing
day, is any doubt about my powers for poetry--I seldom have any, and I
look with hope to the nighing time when I shall have none. I am as happy
as a Man can be--that is, in myself I should be happy if Tom was well, and
I knew you were passing pleasant days. Then I should be most
enviable--with the yearning Passion I have for the beautiful, connected
and made one with the ambition of my intellect. Think of my Pleasure in
Solitude in comparison of my commerce with the world--there I am a
child--there they do not know me, not even my most intimate
acquaintance--I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from
irritating a little child. Some think me middling, others silly, others
foolish--every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will, when in
truth it is with my will--I am content to be thought all this because I
have in my own breast so great a resource. This is one great reason why
they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room and
eclipse from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet. I hope
I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I
have not the least contempt for my species, and though it may sound
paradoxical, my greatest elevations of soul leave me every time more
humbled--Enough of this--though in your Love for me you will not think it
enough.
[Later, October 29 or 31.]
Haslam has been here this morning and has taken all the Letters except
this sheet, which I shall send him by the Twopenny, as he will put the
Parcel in the Boston post Bag by the advice of Capper and Hazlewood, who
assure him of the safety and expedition that way--the Parcel will be
forwarded to Warder and thence to you all the same. There will not be a
Philadelphia ship for these six weeks--by that time I shall have another
Letter to you. Mind you I mark this Letter A. By the time you will receive
this you will have I trust passed through the greatest of your fatigues.
As it was with your Sea Sickness I shall not hear of them till they are
past. Do not set to your occupation with too great an anxiety--take it
calmly--and let your health be the prime consideration. I hope you will
have a Son, and it is one of my first wishes to have him in my Arms--which
I will do please God before he cuts one double tooth. Tom is rather more
easy than he has been: but is still so nervous that I cannot speak to him
of these Matters--indeed it is the care I have had to keep his Mind aloof
from feelings too acute that has made this Letter so short a one--I did
not like to write before him a Letter he knew was to reach your hands--I
cannot even now ask him for any Message--his heart speaks to you. Be as
happy as you can. Think of me, and for my sake be cheerful.
Believe me, my dear Brother and sister, Your anxious and affectionate
Brother
JOHN.
This day is my Birth day.
All our friends have been anxious in their enquiries, and all send their
remembrances.
LXXIV.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Hampstead, Friday Morn [October 16, 1818].
My dear Fanny--You must not condemn me for not being punctual to Thursday,
for I really did not know whether it would not affect poor Tom too much to
see you. You know how it hurt him to part with you the last time. At all
events you shall hear from me; and if Tom keeps pretty well to-morrow, I
will see Mr. Abbey the next day, and endeavour to settle that you shall be
with us on Tuesday or Wednesday. I have good news from George--He has
landed safely with our Sister--they are both in good health--their
prospects are good--and they are by this time nighing to their journey's
end--you shall hear the particulars soon.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
Tom's love to you.
LXXV.--TO FANNY KEATS.
[Hampstead, October 26, 1818.]
My dear Fanny--I called on Mr. Abbey in the beginning of last Week: when
he seemed averse to letting you come again from having heard that you had
been to other places besides Well Walk. I do not mean to say you did
wrongly in speaking of it, for there should rightly be no objection to
such things: but you know with what People we are obliged in the course of
Childhood to associate, whose conduct forces us into duplicity and
falsehood to them. To the worst of People we should be openhearted: but it
is as well as things are to be prudent in making any communication to any
one, that may throw an impediment in the way of any of the little
pleasures you may have. I do not recommend duplicity but prudence with
such people. Perhaps I am talking too deeply for you: if you do not now,
you will understand what I mean in the course of a few years. I think poor
Tom is a little Better: he sends his love to you. I shall call on Mr.
Abbey to-morrow: when I hope to settle when to see you again. Mrs. Dilke
has been for some time at Brighton--she is expected home in a day or two.
She will be pleased I am sure with your present. I will try for permission
for you to remain here all Night should Mrs. D. return in time.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
LXXVI.--TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE.
[Hampstead, October 27, 1818.]
My dear Woodhouse--Your letter gave me great satisfaction, more on account
of its friendliness than any relish of that matter in it which is
accounted so acceptable to the "genus irritabile." The best answer I can
give you is in a clerklike manner to make some observations on two
principal points which seem to point like indices into the midst of the
whole pro and con about genius, and views, and achievements, and ambition,
et caetera.--1st. As to the poetical Character itself (I mean that sort, of
which, if I am anything, I am a member; that sort distinguished from the
Wordsworthian, or egotistical Sublime; which is a thing per se, and stands
alone,) it is not itself--it has no self--It is everything and nothing--It
has no character--it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it foul
or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated--It has as much
delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous
philosopher delights the chameleon poet. It does no harm from its relish
of the dark side of things, any more than from its taste for the bright
one, because they both end in speculation. A poet is the most unpoetical
of anything in existence, because he has no Identity--he is continually in
for and filling some other body. The Sun,--the Moon,--the Sea, and men and
women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an
unchangeable attribute; the poet has none, no identity--he is certainly
the most unpoetical of all God's creatures.--If then he has no self, and
if I am a poet, where is the wonder that I should say I would write no
more? Might I not at that very instant have been cogitating on the
Characters of Saturn and Ops?[83] It is a wretched thing to confess; but
it is a very fact, that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted
as an opinion growing out of my identical Nature--how can it, when I have
no Nature? When I am in a room with people, if I ever am free from
speculating on creations of my own brain, then, not myself goes home to
myself, but the identity of every one in the room begins to press upon me,
so that I am in a very little time annihilated--not only among men; it
would be the same in a nursery of Children. I know not whether I make
myself wholly understood: I hope enough so to let you see that no
dependence is to be placed on what I said that day.
In the 2d place, I will speak of my views, and of the life I purpose to
myself. I am ambitious of doing the world some good: if I should be
spared, that may be the work of maturer years--in the interval I will
assay to reach to as high a summit in poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me
will suffer. The faint conceptions I have of poems to come bring the blood
frequently into my forehead--All I hope is, that I may not lose all
interest in human affairs--that the solitary Indifference I feel for
applause, even from the finest spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of
vision I may have. I do not think it will. I feel assured I should write
from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my
night's labours should be burnt every Morning, and no eye ever shine upon
them. But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself, but from some
Character in whose soul I now live.
I am sure however that this next sentence is from myself--I feel your
anxiety, good opinion, and friendship, in the highest degree, and am
Yours most sincerely
JOHN KEATS.
LXXVII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
[Hampstead, November 5, 1818.]
My dear Fanny--I have seen Mr. Abbey three times about you, and have not
been able to get his consent. He says that once more between this and the
Holidays will be sufficient. What can I do? I should have been at
Walthamstow several times, but I am not able to leave Tom for so long a
time as that would take me. Poor Tom has been rather better these 4 last
days in consequence of obtaining a little rest a nights. Write to me as
often as you can, and believe that I would do anything to give you any
pleasure--we must as yet wait patiently.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
LXXVIII.--TO JAMES RICE.
Well Walk [Hampstead,] Nov{r.} 24, [1818].
My dear Rice--Your amende Honorable I must call "un surcroit d'Amitie,"
for I am not at all sensible of anything but that you were unfortunately
engaged and I was unfortunately in a hurry. I completely understand your
feeling in this mistake, and find in it that balance of comfort which
remains after regretting your uneasiness. I have long made up my mind to
take for granted the genuine-heartedness of my friends, notwithstanding
any temporary ambiguousness in their behaviour or their tongues, nothing
of which however I had the least scent of this morning. I say completely
understand; for I am everlastingly getting my mind into such-like painful
trammels--and am even at this moment suffering under them in the case of a
friend of ours.--I will tell you two most unfortunate and parallel
slips--it seems down-right pre-intention--A friend says to me, "Keats, I
shall go and see Severn this week."--"Ah! (says I) you want him to take
your Portrait."--And again, "Keats," says a friend, "when will you come to
town again?"--"I will," says I, "let you have the MS. next week." In both
these cases I appeared to attribute an interested motive to each of my
friends' questions--the first made him flush, the second made him look
angry:--and yet I am innocent in both cases; my mind leapt over every
interval, to what I saw was per se a pleasant subject with him. You see I
have no allowances to make--you see how far I am from supposing you could
show me any neglect. I very much regret the long time I have been obliged
to exile from you: for I have one or two rather pleasant occasions to
confer upon with you. What I have heard from George is favourable--I
expect a letter from the Settlement itself.
Your sincere friend
JOHN KEATS.
I cannot give any good news of Tom.
LXXIX.--TO FANNY KEATS.
[Hampstead,] Tuesday Morn [December 1, 1818].
My dear Fanny--Poor Tom has been so bad that I have delayed your visit
hither--as it would be so painful to you both. I cannot say he is any
better this morning--he is in a very dangerous state--I have scarce any
hopes of him. Keep up your spirits for me my dear Fanny--repose entirely
in
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
LXXX.--TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS.
[Hampstead,[84] about Dec{r.} 18, 1818.]
My dear Brother and Sister--You will have been prepared before this
reaches you for the worst news you could have, nay, if Haslam's letter
arrives in proper time, I have a consolation in thinking that the first
shock will be past before you receive this. The last days of poor Tom were
of the most distressing nature; but his last moments were not so painful,
and his very last was without a pang. I will not enter into any parsonic
comments on death--yet the common observations of the commonest people on
death are as true as their proverbs. I have scarce a doubt of immortality
of some nature or other--neither had Tom. My friends have been exceedingly
kind to me every one of them--Brown detained me at his House. I suppose no
one could have had their time made smoother than mine has been. During
poor Tom's illness I was not able to write and since his death the task of
beginning has been a hindrance to me. Within this last Week I have been
everywhere--and I will tell you as nearly as possible how all go on. With
Dilke and Brown I am quite thick--with Brown indeed I am going to
domesticate--that is, we shall keep house together. I shall have the front
parlour and he the back one, by which I shall avoid the noise of Bentley's
Children--and be the better able to go on with my Studies--which have been
greatly interrupted lately, so that I have not the shadow of an idea of a
book in my head, and my pen seems to have grown too gouty for sense. How
are you going on now? The goings on of the world makes me dizzy--There you
are with Birkbeck--here I am with Brown--sometimes I fancy an immense
separation, and sometimes as at present, a direct communication of Spirit
with you. That will be one of the grandeurs of immortality--There will be
no space, and consequently the only commerce between spirits will be by
their intelligence of each other--when they will completely understand
each other, while we in this world merely comprehend each other in
different degrees--the higher the degree of good so higher is our Love and
friendship. I have been so little used to writing lately that I am afraid
you will not smoke my meaning so I will give an example--Suppose Brown or
Haslam or any one whom I understand in the next degree to what I do you,
were in America, they would be so much the farther from me in proportion
as their identity was less impressed upon me. Now the reason why I do not
feel at the present moment so far from you is that I remember your Ways
and Manners and actions; I know your manner of thinking, your manner of
feeling: I know what shape your joy or your sorrow would take; I know the
manner of your walking, standing, sauntering, sitting down, laughing,
punning, and every action so truly that you seem near to me. You will
remember me in the same manner--and the more when I tell you that I shall
read a passage of Shakspeare every Sunday at ten o'Clock--you read one at
the same time, and we shall be as near each other as blind bodies can be
in the same room.
I saw your Mother the day before yesterday, and intend now frequently to
pass half a day with her--she seem'd tolerably well. I called in Henrietta
Street and so was speaking with your Mother about Miss Millar--we had a
chat about Heiresses--she told me I think of 7 or eight dying Swains.
Charles was not at home. I think I have heard a little more talk about
Miss Keasle--all I know of her is she had a new sort of shoe on of bright
leather like our Knapsacks. Miss Millar gave me one of her confounded
pinches. _N.B._ did not like it. Mrs. Dilke went with me to see Fanny last
week, and Haslam went with me last Sunday. She was well--she gets a little
plumper and had a little Colour. On Sunday I brought from her a present of
facescreens and a work-bag for Mrs. D.--they were really very pretty. From
Walthamstow we walked to Bethnal green--where I felt so tired from my long
walk that I was obliged to go to Bed at ten. Mr. and Mrs. Keasle were
there. Haslam has been excessively kind, and his anxiety about you is
great; I never meet him but we have some chat thereon. He is always doing
me some good turn--he gave me this thin paper[85] for the purpose of
writing to you. I have been passing an hour this morning with Mr.
Lewis--he wants news of you very much. Haydon was here yesterday--he
amused us much by speaking of young Hoppner who went with Captain Ross on
a voyage of discovery to the Poles. The Ship was sometimes entirely
surrounded with vast mountains and crags of ice, and in a few Minutes not
a particle was to be seen all round the Horizon. Once they met with so
vast a Mass that they gave themselves over for lost; their last resource
was in meeting it with the Bowsprit, which they did, and split it asunder
and glided through it as it parted, for a great distance--one Mile and
more. Their eyes were so fatigued with the eternal dazzle and whiteness
that they lay down on their backs upon deck to relieve their sight on the
blue sky. Hoppner describes his dreadful weariness at the continual
day--the sun ever moving in a circle round above their heads--so pressing
upon him that he could not rid himself of the sensation even in the dark
Hold of the Ship. The Esquimaux are described as the most wretched of
Beings--they float from their summer to their winter residences and back
again like white Bears on the ice floats. They seem never to have washed,
and so when their features move the red skin shows beneath the cracking
peel of dirt. They had no notion of any inhabitants in the World but
themselves. The sailors who had not seen a Star for some time, when they
came again southwards on the hailing of the first revision of one, all ran
upon deck with feelings of the most joyful nature. Haydon's eyes will not
suffer him to proceed with his Picture--his Physician tells him he must
remain two months more, inactive. Hunt keeps on in his old way--I am
completely tired of it all. He has lately publish'd a Pocket Book called
the literary Pocket-Book--full of the most sickening stuff you can
imagine. Reynolds is well; he has become an Edinburgh Reviewer. I have not
heard from Bailey. Rice I have seen very little of lately--and I am very
sorry for it. The Miss R's. are all as usual. Archer above all people
called on me one day--he wanted some information by my means, from Hunt
and Haydon, concerning some Man they knew. I got him what he wanted, but
know none of the whys and wherefores. Poor Kirkman left Wentworth Place
one evening about half-past eight and was stopped, beaten and robbed of
his Watch in Pond Street. I saw him a few days since; he had not recovered
from his bruises. I called on Hazlitt the day I went to Romney Street--I
gave John Hunt extracts from your letters--he has taken no notice. I have
seen Lamb lately--Brown and I were taken by Hunt to Novello's--there we
were devastated and excruciated with bad and repeated puns--Brown don't
want to go again. We went the other evening to see Brutus a new Tragedy by
Howard Payne, an American--Kean was excellent--the play was very bad. It
is the first time I have been since I went with you to the Lyceum.
Mrs. Brawne who took Brown's house for the Summer, still resides in
Hampstead. She is a very nice woman, and her daughter senior is I think
beautiful and elegant, graceful, silly, fashionable and strange. We have a
little tiff now and then--and she behaves a little better, or I must have
sheered off.[86] I find by a sidelong report from your Mother that I am to
be invited to Miss Millar's birthday dance. Shall I dance with Miss
Waldegrave? Eh! I shall be obliged to shirk a good many there. I shall be
the only Dandy there--and indeed I merely comply with the invitation that
the party may not be entirely destitute of a specimen of that race. I
shall appear in a complete dress of purple, Hat and all--with a list of
the beauties I have conquered embroidered round my Calves.
Thursday [December 24].
This morning is so very fine, I should have walked over to Walthamstow if
I had thought of it yesterday. What are you doing this morning? Have you a
clear hard frost as we have? How do you come on with the gun? Have you
shot a Buffalo? Have you met with any Pheasants? My Thoughts are very
frequently in a foreign Country--I live more out of England than in it.
The Mountains of Tartary are a favourite lounge, if I happen to miss the
Alleghany ridge, or have no whim for Savoy. There must be great pleasure
in pursuing game--pointing your gun--no, it won't do--now, no--rabbit
it--now bang--smoke and feathers--where is it? Shall you be able to get a
good pointer or so? Have you seen Mr. Trimmer? He is an acquaintance of
Peachey's. Now I am not addressing myself to G. minor, and yet I am--for
you are one. Have you some warm furs? By your next Letters I shall expect
to hear exactly how you go on--smother nothing--let us have all; fair and
foul, all plain. Will the little bairn have made his entrance before you
have this? Kiss it for me, and when it can first know a cheese from a
Caterpillar show it my picture twice a Week. You will be glad to hear that
Gifford's attack upon me has done me service--it has got my Book among
several _sets_--Nor must I forget to mention once more what I suppose
Haslam has told you, the present of a L25 note I had anonymously sent me.
I have many things to tell you--the best way will be to make copies of my
correspondence; and I must not forget the Sonnet I received with the Note.
Last Week I received the following from Woodhouse whom you must
recollect:--