trouble to return to me. The History of its reaching me is this. My
Cousin, Miss Frogley of Hounslow, borrowed my copy of _Endymion_ for
a specified time. Before she had time to look into it, she and my
friend Mr. Hy. Neville of Esher, who was house Surgeon to the late
Princess Charlotte, insisted upon having it to read for a day or two,
and undertook to make my Cousin's peace with me on account of the
extra delay. Neville told me that one of the Misses Porter (of
romance Celebrity) had seen it on his table, dipped into it, and
expressed a wish to read it. I desired he should keep it as long and
lend it to as many as he pleased, provided it was not allowed to
slumber on any one's shelf. I learned subsequently from Miss Frogley
that these Ladies had requested of Mr. Neville, if he was acquainted
with the Author, the Pleasure of an introduction. About a week back
the enclosed was transmitted by Mr. Neville to my Cousin, as a
species of Apology for keeping her so long without the Book, and she
sent it to me, knowing that it would give me Pleasure--I forward it
to you for somewhat the same reason, but principally because it gives
me the opportunity of naming to you (which it would have been
fruitless to do before) the opening there is for an introduction to a
class of society from which you may possibly derive advantage, as
well as qualification, if you think proper to avail yourself of it.
In such a case I should be very happy to further your Wishes. But do
just as you please. The whole is entirely _entre nous_.--
Yours, etc.,
R. W."
Well--now this is Miss Porter's Letter to Neville--
"Dear Sir--As my Mother is sending a Messenger to Esher, I cannot but
make the same the bearer of my regrets for not having had the
pleasure of seeing you the morning you called at the gate. I had
given orders to be denied, I was so very unwell with my still
adhesive cold; but had I known it was you I should have taken off the
interdict for a few minutes, to say how very much I am delighted with
_Endymion_. I had just finished the Poem and have done as you
permitted, lent it to Miss Fitzgerald. I regret you are not
personally acquainted with the Author, for I should have been happy
to have acknowledged to him, through the advantage of your
communication, the very rare delight my sister and myself have
enjoyed from the first fruits of Genius. I hope the ill-natured
Review will not have damaged" (or damped) "such true Parnassian
fire--it ought not, for when Life is granted, etc."
--and so she goes on. Now I feel more obliged than flattered by this--so
obliged that I will not at present give you an extravaganza of a Lady
Romancer. I will be introduced to them if it be merely for the pleasure of
writing to you about it--I shall certainly see a new race of People. I
shall more certainly have no time for them.
Hunt has asked me to meet Tom Moore some day--so you shall hear of him.
The Night we went to Novello's there was a complete set to of Mozart and
punning. I was so completely tired of it that if I were to follow my own
inclinations I should never meet any one of that set again, not even Hunt,
who is certainly a pleasant fellow in the main when you are with him--but
in reality he is vain, egotistical, and disgusting in matters of taste
and in morals. He understands many a beautiful thing; but then, instead
of giving other minds credit for the same degree of perception as he
himself professes--he begins an explanation in such a curious manner that
our taste and self-love is offended continually. Hunt does one harm by
making fine things petty, and beautiful things hateful. Through him I am
indifferent to Mozart, I care not for white Busts--and many a glorious
thing when associated with him becomes a nothing. This distorts one's
mind--makes one's thoughts bizarre--perplexes one in the standard of
Beauty. Martin is very much irritated against Blackwood for printing some
Letters in his Magazine which were Martin's property--he always found
excuses for Blackwood till he himself was injured, and now he is enraged.
I have been several times thinking whether or not I should send you the
Examiners, as Birkbeck no doubt has all the good periodical
Publications--I will save them at all events. I must not forget to mention
how attentive and useful Mrs. Bentley has been--I am very sorry to leave
her--but I must, and I hope she will not be much a loser by it. Bentley is
very well--he has just brought me a clothes'-basket of Books. Brown has
gone to town to-day to take his Nephews who are on a visit here to see the
Lions. I am passing a Quiet day--which I have not done for a long
while--and if I do continue so, I feel I must again begin with my
poetry--for if I am not in action mind or Body I am in pain--and from that
I suffer greatly by going into parties where from the rules of society and
a natural pride I am obliged to smother my Spirit and look like an
Idiot--because I feel my impulses given way to would too much amaze them.
I live under an everlasting restraint--never relieved except when I am
composing--so I will write away.
Friday [December 25].
I think you knew before you left England that my next subject would be
"the fall of Hyperion." I went on a little with it last night, but it
will take some time to get into the vein again. I will not give you any
extracts because I wish the whole to make an impression. I have however a
few Poems which you will like, and I will copy out on the next sheet. I
shall dine with Haydon on Sunday, and go over to Walthamstow on Monday if
the frost hold. I think also of going into Hampshire this Christmas to Mr.
Snook's[87]--they say I shall be very much amused--But I don't know--I
think I am in too huge a Mind for study--I must do it--I must wait at home
and let those who wish come to see me. I cannot always be (how do you
spell it?) trapsing. Here I must tell you that I have not been able to
keep the journal or write the Tale I promised--now I shall be able to do
so. I will write to Haslam this morning to know when the Packet sails, and
till it does I will write something every day--After that my journal shall
go on like clockwork, and you must not complain of its dulness--for what I
wish is to write a quantity to you--knowing well that dulness itself will
from me be interesting to you--You may conceive how this not having been
done has weighed upon me. I shall be able to judge from your next what
sort of information will be of most service or amusement to you. Perhaps
as you were fond of giving me sketches of character you may like a little
picnic of scandal even across the Atlantic. But now I must speak
particularly to you, my dear Sister--for I know you love a little quizzing
better than a great bit of apple dumpling. Do you know Uncle Redhall? He
is a little Man with an innocent powdered upright head, he lisps with a
protruded under lip--he has two Nieces, each one would weigh three of
him--one for height and the other for breadth--he knew Bartolozzi. He gave
a supper, and ranged his bottles of wine all up the Kitchen and cellar
stairs--quite ignorant of what might be drunk--It might have been a good
joke to pour on the sly bottle after bottle into a washing tub, and roar
for more--If you were to trip him up it would discompose a Pigtail and
bring his under lip nearer to his nose. He never had the good luck to lose
a silk Handkerchief in a Crowd, and therefore has only one topic of
conversation--Bartolozzi. Shall I give you Miss Brawne? She is about my
height--with a fine style of countenance of the lengthened sort--she wants
sentiment in every feature--she manages to make her hair look well--her
nostrils are fine--though a little painful--her mouth is bad and good--her
Profile is better than her full-face which indeed is not full but pale and
thin without showing any bone. Her shape is very graceful and so are her
movements--her Arms are good her hands baddish--her feet tolerable. She is
not seventeen--but she is ignorant--monstrous in her behaviour, flying out
in all directions--calling people such names that I was forced lately to
make use of the term _Minx_--this is I think not from any innate vice, but
from a penchant she has for acting stylishly--I am however tired of such
style and shall decline any more of it. She had a friend to visit her
lately--you have known plenty such--her face is raw as if she was standing
out in a frost; her lips raw and seem always ready for a Pullet--she plays
the Music without one sensation but the feel of the ivory at her fingers.
She is a downright Miss without one set off--We hated her and smoked her
and baited her and I think drove her away. Miss B. thinks her a Paragon of
fashion, and says she is the only woman she would change persons with.
What a stupe--She is superior as a Rose to a Dandelion. When we went to
bed Brown observed as he put out the Taper what a very ugly old woman that
Miss Robinson would make--at which I must have groaned aloud for I'm sure
ten minutes. I have not seen the thing Kingston again--George will
describe him to you--I shall insinuate some of these Creatures into a
Comedy some day--and perhaps have Hunt among them--
Scene, a little Parlour. _Enter_ Hunt--Gattie--Hazlitt--Mrs.
Novello--Ollier. _Gattie._ Ha! Hunt, got into your new house? Ha! Mrs.
Novello: seen Altam and his Wife?--_Mrs. N._ Yes (with a grin), it's Mr.
Hunt's, isn't it?--_Gattie._ Hunt's? no, ha! Mr. Ollier, I congratulate
you upon the highest compliment I ever heard paid to the Book. Mr.
Hazlitt, I hope you are well.--_Hazlitt._ Yes Sir, no Sir.--_Mr. Hunt_ (at
the Music), "La Biondina," etc. Hazlitt, did you ever hear this?--"La
Biondina," etc.--_Hazlitt._ O no Sir--I never.--_Ollier._ Do, Hunt, give
it us over again--divine.--_Gattie._ Divino--Hunt, when does your
Pocket-Book come out?--_Hunt._ "What is this absorbs me quite?" O we are
spinning on a little, we shall floridise soon I hope. Such a thing was
very much wanting--people think of nothing but money getting--now for me I
am rather inclined to the liberal side of things. I am reckoned lax in my
Christian principles, etc. etc. etc.
[December 29.]
It is some days since I wrote the last page--and what I have been about
since I have no Idea. I dined at Haslam's on Sunday--with Haydon
yesterday, and saw Fanny in the morning; she was well. Just now I took out
my poem to go on with it, but the thought of my writing so little to you
came upon me and I could not get on--so I have began at random and I have
not a word to say--and yet my thoughts are so full of you that I can do
nothing else. I shall be confined at Hampstead a few days on account of a
sore throat--the first thing I do will be to visit your Mother again. The
last time I saw Henry he show'd me his first engraving, which I thought
capital. Mr. Lewis called this morning and brought some American Papers--I
have not look'd into them--I think we ought to have heard of you before
this--I am in daily expectation of Letters--Nil desperandum. Mrs. Abbey
wishes to take Fanny from School--I shall strive all I can against that.
There has happened a great Misfortune in the Drewe Family--old Drewe has
been dead some time; and lately George Drewe expired in a fit--on which
account Reynolds has gone into Devonshire. He dined a few days since at
Horace Twisse's with Liston and Charles Kemble. I see very little of him
now, as I seldom go to Little Britain because the _Ennui_ always seizes me
there, and John Reynolds is very dull at home. Nor have I seen Rice. How
you are now going on is a Mystery to me--I hope a few days will clear it
up.
[December 30.]
I never know the day of the Month. It is very fine here to-day, though I
expect a Thundercloud, or rather a snow cloud, in less than an hour. I am
at present alone at Wentworth Place--Brown being at Chichester and Mr. and
Mrs. Dilke making a little stay in Town. I know not what I should do
without a sunshiny morning now and then--it clears up one's spirits. Dilke
and I frequently have some chat about you. I have now and then some doubt,
but he seems to have a great confidence. I think there will soon be
perceptible a change in the fashionable slang literature of the day--it
seems to me that Reviews have had their day--that the public have been
surfeited--there will soon be some new folly to keep the Parlours in
talk--What it is I care not. We have seen three literary Kings in our
Time--Scott, Byron, and then the Scotch novels. All now appears to be
dead--or I may mistake, literary Bodies may still keep up the Bustle which
I do not hear. Haydon show'd me a letter he had received from
Tripoli--Ritchie was well and in good Spirits, among Camels, Turbans, Palm
Trees, and Sands. You may remember I promised to send him an Endymion
which I did not--however he has one--you have one. One is in the Wilds of
America--the other is on a Camel's back in the plains of Egypt. I am
looking into a Book of Dubois's--he has written directions to the
Players--one of them is very good. "In singing never mind the
music--observe what time you please. It would be a pretty degradation
indeed if you were obliged to confine your genius to the dull regularity
of a fiddler--horse hair and cat's guts--no, let him keep _your_ time and
play _your_ tune--_dodge him_." I will now copy out the Letter and Sonnet
I have spoken of. The outside cover was thus directed, "Messrs. Taylor and
Hessey, (Booksellers), No. 93 Fleet Street, London," and it contained
this:
'Messrs. Taylor and Hessey are requested to forward the enclosed
letter by some _safe_ mode of conveyance to the Author of Endymion,
who is not known at Teignmouth: or if they have not his address, they
will return the letter by post, directed as below, within a
_fortnight_, "Mr. P. Fenbank, P. O., Teignmouth." 9th Novr. 1818.'
In this sheet was enclosed the following, with a superscription--'Mr. John
Keats, Teignmouth.' Then came Sonnet to John Keats--which I would not copy
for any in the world but you--who know that I scout "mild light and
loveliness" or any such nonsense in myself.
Star of high promise!--not to this dark age
Do thy mild light and loveliness belong;
For it is blind, intolerant, and wrong;
Dead to empyreal soarings, and the rage
Of scoffing spirits bitter war doth wage
With all that bold integrity of song.
Yet thy clear beam shall shine through ages strong
To ripest times a light and heritage.
And there breathe now who dote upon thy fame,
Whom thy wild numbers wrap beyond their being,
Who love the freedom of thy lays--their aim
Above the scope of a dull tribe unseeing--
And there is one whose hand will never scant
From his poor store of fruits all _thou_ canst want.
November 1818. turn over.
I turn'd over and found a L25 note. Now this appears to me all very
proper--if I had refused it I should have behaved in a very bragadochio
dunderheaded manner--and yet the present galls me a little, and I do not
know whether I shall not return it if I ever meet with the donor after,
whom to no purpose I have written. I have your Miniature on the Table
George the great--it's very like--though not quite about the upper lip. I
wish we had a better of your little George. I must not forget to tell you
that a few days since I went with Dilke a shooting on the heath and shot a
Tomtit. There were as many guns abroad as Birds. I intended to have been
at Chichester this Wednesday--but on account of this sore throat I wrote
him (Brown) my excuse yesterday.
Thursday [December 31].
(I will date when I finish.)--I received a Note from Haslam
yesterday--asking if my letter is ready--now this is only the second
sheet--notwithstanding all my promises. But you must reflect what
hindrances I have had. However on sealing this I shall have nothing to
prevent my proceeding in a gradual journal, which will increase in a Month
to a considerable size. I will insert any little pieces I may
write--though I will not give any extracts from my large poem which is
scarce began. I want to hear very much whether Poetry and literature in
general has gained or lost interest with you--and what sort of writing is
of the highest gust with you now. With what sensation do you read
Fielding?--and do not Hogarth's pictures seem an old thing to you? Yet you
are very little more removed from general association than I am--recollect
that no Man can live but in one society at a time--his enjoyment in the
different states of human society must depend upon the Powers of his
Mind--that is you can imagine a Roman triumph or an Olympic game as well
as I can. We with our bodily eyes see but the fashion and Manners of one
country for one age--and then we die. Now to me manners and customs long
since passed whether among the Babylonians or the Bactrians are as real,
or even more real than those among which I now live--My thoughts have
turned lately this way--The more we know the more inadequacy we find in
the world to satisfy us--this is an old observation; but I have made up
my Mind never to take anything for granted--but even to examine the truth
of the commonest proverbs--This however is true. Mrs. Tighe and Beattie
once delighted me--now I see through them and can find nothing in them but
weakness, and yet how many they still delight! Perhaps a superior being
may look upon Shakspeare in the same light--is it possible? No--This same
inadequacy is discovered (forgive me, little George, you know I don't mean
to put you in the mess) in Women with few exceptions--the Dress Maker, the
blue Stocking, and the most charming sentimentalist differ but in a slight
degree and are equally smokeable. But I'll go no further--I may be
speaking sacrilegiously--and on my word I have thought so little that I
have not one opinion upon anything except in matters of taste--I never can
feel certain of any truth but from a clear perception of its Beauty--and I
find myself very young minded even in that perceptive power--which I hope
will increase. A year ago I could not understand in the slightest degree
Raphael's cartoons--now I begin to read them a little--And how did I learn
to do so? By seeing something done in quite an opposite spirit--I mean a
picture of Guido's in which all the Saints, instead of that heroic
simplicity and unaffected grandeur which they inherit from Raphael, had
each of them both in countenance and gesture all the canting, solemn,
melodramatic mawkishness of Mackenzie's father Nicholas. When I was last
at Haydon's I looked over a Book of Prints taken from the fresco of the
Church at Milan, the name of which I forget--in it are comprised Specimens
of the first and second age of art in Italy. I do not think I ever had a
greater treat out of Shakspeare. Full of Romance and the most tender
feeling--magnificence of draperies beyond any I ever saw, not excepting
Raphael's. But Grotesque to a curious pitch--yet still making up a fine
whole--even finer to me than more accomplish'd works--as there was left so
much room for Imagination. I have not heard one of this last course of
Hazlitt's lectures. They were upon 'Wit and Humour,' 'the English comic
writers.'
Saturday, Jan{y.} 2nd [1819].
Yesterday Mr. and Mrs. D. and myself dined at Mrs. Brawne's--nothing
particular passed. I never intend hereafter to spend any time with Ladies
unless they are handsome--you lose time to no purpose. For that reason I
shall beg leave to decline going again to Redall's or Butler's or any
Squad where a fine feature cannot be mustered among them all--and where
all the evening's amusement consists in saying 'your good health, _your_
good health, and YOUR good health--and (O I beg your pardon) yours, Miss
----,' and such thing not even dull enough to keep one awake--With respect
to amiable speaking I can read--let my eyes be fed or I'll never go out to
dinner anywhere. Perhaps you may have heard of the dinner given to Thos.
Moore in Dublin, because I have the account here by me in the Philadelphia
democratic paper. The most pleasant thing that occurred was the speech Mr.
Tom made on his Father's health being drank. I am afraid a great part of
my Letters are filled up with promises and what I will do rather than any
great deal written--but here I say once for all--that circumstances
prevented me from keeping my promise in my last, but now I affirm that as
there will be nothing to hinder me I will keep a journal for you. That I
have not yet done so you would forgive if you knew how many hours I have
been repenting of my neglect. For I have no thought pervading me so
constantly and frequently as that of you--my Poem cannot frequently drive
it away--you will retard it much more than you could by taking up my time
if you were in England. I never forget you except after seeing now and
then some beautiful woman--but that is a fever--the thought of you both is
a passion with me, but for the most part a calm one. I asked Dilke for a
few lines for you--he has promised them--I shall send what I have written
to Haslam on Monday Morning--what I can get into another sheet to-morrow
I will--There are one or two little poems you might like. I have given up
snuff very nearly quite--Dilke has promised to sit with me this evening, I
wish he would come this minute for I want a pinch of snuff very much just
now--I have none though in my own snuff box. My sore throat is much better
to-day--I think I might venture on a pinch. Here are the Poems--they will
explain themselves--as all poems should do without any comment--