again before Christmas. You would have seen me if I had been quite well. I
have not, though not unwell enough to have prevented me--not indeed at
all--but fearful lest the weather should affect my throat which on
exertion or cold continually threatens me.--By the advice of my Doctor I
have had a warm great Coat made and have ordered some thick shoes--so
furnish'd I shall be with you if it holds a little fine before Christmas
day.--I have been very busy since I saw you, especially the last Week, and
shall be for some time, in preparing some Poems to come out in the Spring,
and also in brightening the interest of our Tragedy.--Of the Tragedy I can
give you but news semigood. It is accepted at Drury Lane with a promise of
coming out next season: as that will be too long a delay we have
determined to get Elliston to bring it out this Season or to transfer it
to Covent Garden. This Elliston will not like, as we have every motive to
believe that Kean has perceived how suitable the principal Character will
be for him. My hopes of success in the literary world are now better than
ever. Mr. Abbey, on my calling on him lately, appeared anxious that I
should apply myself to something else--He mentioned Tea Brokerage. I
supposed he might perhaps mean to give me the Brokerage of his concern
which might be executed with little trouble and a good profit; and
therefore said I should have no objection to it, especially as at the same
time it occurred to me that I might make over the business to George--I
questioned him about it a few days after. His mind takes odd turns. When I
became a Suitor he became coy. He did not seem so much inclined to serve
me. He described what I should have to do in the progress of business. It
will not suit me. I have given it up. I have not heard again from George,
which rather disappoints me, as I wish to hear before I make any fresh
remittance of his property. I received a note from Mrs. Dilke a few days
ago inviting me to dine with her on Xmas day which I shall do. Mr. Brown
and I go on in our old dog trot of Breakfast, dinner (not tea, for we have
left that off), supper, Sleep, Confab, stirring the fire and reading.
Whilst I was in the Country last Summer, Mrs. Bentley tells me, a woman
in mourning call'd on me,--and talk'd something of an aunt of ours--I am
so careless a fellow I did not enquire, but will particularly: On Tuesday
I am going to hear some Schoolboys Speechify on breaking up day--I'll lay
you a pocket piece we shall have "My name is Norval." I have not yet
look'd for the Letter you mention'd as it is mix'd up in a box full of
papers--you must tell me, if you can recollect, the subject of it. This
moment Bentley brought a Letter from George for me to deliver to Mrs.
Wylie--I shall see her and it before I see you. The Direction was in his
best hand written with a good Pen and sealed with a Tassie's Shakspeare
such as I gave you--We judge of people's hearts by their Countenances; may
we not judge of Letters in the same way?--if so, the Letter does not
contain unpleasant news--Good or bad spirits have an effect on the
handwriting. This direction is at least unnervous and healthy. Our Sister
is also well, or George would have made strange work with Ks and Ws. The
little Baby is well or he would have formed precious vowels and
Consonants--He sent off the Letter in a hurry, or the mail bag was rather
a warm berth, or he has worn out his Seal, for the Shakspeare's head is
flattened a little. This is close muggy weather as they say at the Ale
houses.
I am ever, my dear Sister, yours affectionately
JOHN KEATS.
CXXX.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, Wednesday.
[December 22, 1819.]
My dear Fanny--I wrote to you a Letter directed Walthamstow the day before
yesterday wherein I promised to see you before Christmas day. I am sorry
to say I have been and continue rather unwell, and therefore shall not be
able to promise certainly. I have not seen Mrs. Wylie's Letter. Excuse my
dear Fanny this very shabby note.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
CXXXI.--TO GEORGIANA KEATS.
Thursday, January 13, 1820.
My dear Sister--By the time you receive this your trouble will be over. I
wish you knew they were half over. I mean that George is safe in England
and in good health.[112] To write to you by him is almost like following
one's own letter in the mail. That it may not be quite so, I will leave
common intelligence out of the question, and write wide of him as I can. I
fear I must be dull, having had no good-natured flip from Fortune's finger
since I saw you, and no sideway comfort in the success of my friends. I
could almost promise that if I had the means I would accompany George back
to America, and pay you a visit of a few months. I should not think much
of the time, or my absence from my books; or I have no right to think, for
I am very idle. But then I ought to be diligent, and at least keep myself
within the reach of materials for diligence. Diligence, that I do not mean
to say; I should say dreaming over my books, or rather other people's
books. George has promised to bring you to England when the five years
have elapsed. I regret very much that I shall not be able to see you
before that time, and even then I must hope that your affairs will be in
so prosperous a way as to induce you to stop longer. Yours is a hardish
fate, to be so divided among your friends and settled among a people you
hate. You will find it improve. You have a heart that will take hold of
your children; even George's absence will make things better. His return
will banish what must be your greatest sorrow, and at the same time minor
ones with it. Robinson Crusoe, when he saw himself in danger of perishing
on the waters, looked back to his island as to the haven of his happiness,
and on gaining it once more was more content with his solitude. We smoke
George about his little girl. He runs the common-beaten road of every
father, as I dare say you do of every mother: there is no child like his
child, so original,--original forsooth! However, I take you at your words.
I have a lively faith that yours is the very gem of all children. Ain't I
its uncle?
On Henry's marriage there was a piece of bride cake sent me. It missed its
way. I suppose the carrier or coachman was a conjuror, and wanted it for
his own private use. Last Sunday George and I dined at Millar's. There
were your mother and Charles with Fool Lacon, Esq., who sent the sly,
disinterested shawl to Miss Millar, with his own heathen name engraved in
the middle. Charles had a silk handkerchief belonging to a Miss Grover,
with whom he pretended to be smitten, and for her sake kept exhibiting and
adoring the handkerchief all the evening. Fool Lacon, Esq., treated it
with a little venturesome, trembling contumely, whereupon Charles set him
quietly down on the floor, from where he as quietly got up. This process
was repeated at supper time, when your mother said, "If I were you Mr.
Lacon I would not let him do so." Fool Lacon, Esq., did not offer any
remark. He will undoubtedly die in his bed. Your mother did not look quite
so well on Sunday. Mrs. Henry Wylie is excessively quiet before people. I
hope she is always so. Yesterday we dined at Taylor's, in Fleet Street.
George left early after dinner to go to Deptford; he will make all square
there for me. I could not go with him--I did not like the amusement.
Haslam is a very good fellow indeed; he has been excessively anxious and
kind to us. But is this fair? He has an innamorata at Deptford, and he has
been wanting me for some time past to see her. This is a thing which it is
impossible not to shirk. A man is like a magnet--he must have a repelling
end. So how am I to see Haslam's lady and family, if I even went? for by
the time I got to Greenwich I should have repell'd them to Blackheath, and
by the time I got to Deptford they would be on Shooter's Hill; when I came
to Shooter Hill they would alight at Chatham, and so on till I drove them
into the sea, which I think might be indictable. The evening before
yesterday we had a pianoforte hop at Dilke's. There was very little
amusement in the room, but a Scotchman to hate. Some people, you must have
observed, have a most unpleasant effect upon you when you see them
speaking in profile. This Scotchman is the most accomplished fellow in
this way I ever met with. The effect was complete. It went down like a
dose of bitters, and I hope will improve my digestion. At Taylor's too,
there was a Scotchman,--not quite so bad, for he was as clean as he could
get himself. Not having succeeded in Drury Lane with our tragedy, we have
been making some alterations, and are about to try Covent Garden. Brown
has just done patching up the copy--as it is altered. The reliance I had
on it was in Kean's acting. I am not afraid it will be damn'd in the
Garden. You said in one of your letters that there was nothing but Haydon
and Co. in mine. There can be nothing of him in this, for I never see him
or Co. George has introduced to us an American of the name of Hart. I like
him in a moderate way. He was at Mrs. Dilke's party--and sitting by me; we
began talking about English and American ladies. The Miss ---- and some of
their friends made not a very enticing row opposite us. I bade him mark
them and form his judgment of them. I told him I hated Englishmen because
they were the only men I knew. He does not understand this. Who would be
Braggadochio to Johnny Bull? Johnny's house is his castle--and a precious
dull castle it is; what a many Bull castles there are in so-and-so
crescent! I never wish myself an unversed writer and newsmonger but when I
write to you. I should like for a day or two to have somebody's
knowledge--Mr. Lacon's for instance--of all the different folks of a wide
acquaintance, to tell you about. Only let me have his knowledge of family
minutiae and I would set them in a proper light; but, bless me, I never go
anywhere. My pen is no more garrulous than my tongue. Any third person
would think I was addressing myself to a lover of scandal. But we know we
do not love scandal, but fun; and if scandal happens to be fun, that is no
fault of ours. There were very good pickings for me in George's letters
about the prairie settlement, if I had any taste to turn them to account
in England. I knew a friend of Miss Andrews, yet I never mentioned her to
him; for after I had read the letter I really did not recollect her story.
Now I have been sitting here half an hour with my invention at work, to
say something about your mother or Charles or Henry, but it is in vain. I
know not what to say. Three nights since, George went with your mother to
the play. I hope she will soon see mine acted. I do not remember ever to
have thanked you for your tassels to my Shakspeare--there he hangs so ably
supported opposite me. I thank you now. It is a continual memento of you.
If you should have a boy, do not christen him John, and persuade George
not to let his partiality for me come across. 'Tis a bad name, and goes
against a man. If my name had been Edmund I should have been more
fortunate.
I was surprised to hear of the state of society at Louisville; it seems to
me you are just as ridiculous there as we are here--threepenny parties,
halfpenny dances. The best thing I have heard of is your shooting; for it
seems you follow the gun. Give my compliments to Mrs. Audubon, and tell
her I cannot think her either good-looking or honest. Tell Mr. Audubon
he's a fool, and Briggs that 'tis well I was not Mr. A.
Saturday, January 15.
It is strange that George having to stop so short a time in England, I
should not have seen him for nearly two days. He has been to Haslam's and
does not encourage me to follow his example. He had given promise to dine
with the same party to-morrow, but has sent an excuse which I am glad of,
as we shall have a pleasant party with us to-morrow. We expect Charles
here to-day. This is a beautiful day. I hope you will not quarrel with it
if I call it an American one. The sun comes upon the snow and makes a
prettier candy than we have on twelfth-night cakes. George is busy this
morning in making copies of my verses. He is making one now of an "Ode to
the Nightingale," which is like reading an account of the Black Hole at
Calcutta on an iceberg.
You will say this is a matter of course. I am glad it is--I mean that I
should like your brothers more the more I know them. I should spend much
more time with them if our lives were more run in parallel; but we can
talk but on one subject--that is you.
The more I know of men the more I know how to value entire liberality in
any of them. Thank God, there are a great many who will sacrifice their
worldly interest for a friend. I wish there were more who would sacrifice
their passions. The worst of men are those whose self-interests are their
passion; the next, those whose passions are their self-interest. Upon the
whole I dislike mankind. Whatever people on the other side of the question
may advance, they cannot deny that they are always surprised at hearing of
a good action, and never of a bad one. I am glad you have something to
like in America--doves. Gertrude of Wyoming and Birkbeck's book should be
bound up together like a brace of decoy ducks--one is almost as poetical
as the other. Precious miserable people at the prairie. I have been
sitting in the sun whilst I wrote this till it's become quite
oppressive--this is very odd for January. The vulcan fire is the true
natural heat for winter. The sun has nothing to do in winter but to give a
little glooming light much like a shade. Our Irish servant has piqued me
this morning by saying that her father in Ireland was very much like my
Shakspeare, only he had more colour than the engraving. You will find on
George's return that I have not been neglecting your affairs. The delay
was unfortunate, not faulty. Perhaps by this time you have received my
three last letters, not one of which had reached before George sailed. I
would give twopence to have been over the world as much as he has. I wish
I had money enough to do nothing but travel about for years. Were you now
in England I dare say you would be able (setting aside the pleasure you
would have in seeing your mother) to suck out more amusement for society
than I am able to do. To me it is all as dull here as Louisville could be.
I am tired of the theatres. Almost all the parties I may chance to fall
into I know by heart. I know the different styles of talk in different
places,--what subjects will be started, how it will proceed like an acted
play, from the first to the last act. If I go to Hunt's I run my head into
many tunes heard before, old puns, and old music; to Haydon's worn-out
discourses of poetry and painting. The Miss ---- I am afraid to speak to,
for fear of some sickly reiteration of phrase or sentiment. When they were
at the dance the other night I tried manfully to sit near and talk to
them, but to no purpose; and if I had it would have been to no purpose
still. My question or observation must have been an old one, and the
rejoinder very antique indeed. At Dilke's I fall foul of politics. 'Tis
best to remain aloof from people and like their good parts without being
eternally troubled with the dull process of their everyday lives. When
once a person has smoked the vapidness of the routine of society he must
either have self-interest or the love of some sort of distinction to keep
him in good humour with it. All I can say is that, standing at Charing
Cross and looking east, west, north, and south, I can see nothing but
dulness. I hope while I am young to live retired in the country. When I
grow in years and have a right to be idle, I shall enjoy cities more. If
the American ladies are worse than the English they must be very bad. You
say you should like your Emily brought up here. You had better bring her
up yourself. You know a good number of English ladies; what encomium could
you give of half a dozen of them? The greater part seem to me downright
American. I have known more than one Mrs. Audubon. Her affectation of
fashion and politeness cannot transcend ours. Look at our Cheapside
tradesmen's sons and daughters--only fit to be taken off by a plague. I
hope now soon to come to the time when I shall never be forced to walk
through the city and hate as I walk.
Monday, January 17.
George had a quick rejoinder to his letter of excuse to Haslam, so we had
not his company yesterday, which I was sorry for as there was our old set.
I know three witty people all distinct in their excellence--Rice,
Reynolds, and Richards. Rice is the wisest, Reynolds the playfullest,
Richards the out-o'-the-wayest. The first makes you laugh and think, the
second makes you laugh and not think, the third puzzles your head. I
admire the first, I enjoy the second, I stare at the third. The first is
claret, the second ginger-beer, the third creme de Byrapymdrag. The first
is inspired by Minerva, the second by Mercury, the third by Harlequin
Epigram, Esq. The first is neat in his dress, the second slovenly, the
third uncomfortable. The first speaks adagio, the second allegretto, the
third both together. The first is Swiftean, the second Tom-Crib-ean, the
third Shandean. And yet these three eans are not three eans but one ean.
Charles came on Saturday but went early; he seems to have schemes and
plans and wants to get off. He is quite right; I am glad to see him
employed at business. You remember I wrote you a story about a woman named
Alice being made young again, or some such stuff. In your next letter tell
me whether I gave it as my own, or whether I gave it as a matter Brown was
employed upon at the time. He read it over to George the other day, and
George said he had heard it all before. So Brown suspects I have been
giving you his story as my own. I should like to set him right in it by
your evidence. George has not returned from town; when he does I shall tax
his memory. We had a young, long, raw, lean Scotchman with us yesterday,
called Thornton. Rice, for fun or for mistake, would persist in calling
him Stevenson. I know three people of no wit at all, each distinct in his
excellence--A, B, and C. A is the foolishest, B the sulkiest, C is a
negative. A makes you yawn, B makes you hate, as for C you never see him
at all though he were six feet high--I bear the first, I forbear the
second, I am not certain that the third is. The first is gruel, the second
ditch-water, the third is spilt--he ought to be wip'd up. A is inspired by
Jack-o'-the-clock, B has been drilled by a Russian serjeant, C, they say,
is not his mother's true child, but she bought him of the man who cries,
Young lambs to sell.
Twang-dillo-dee--This you must know is the amen to nonsense. I know a good
many places where Amen should be scratched out, rubbed over with ponce
made of Momus's little finger bones, and in its place Twang-dillo-dee
written. This is the word I shall be tempted to write at the end of most
modern poems. Every American book ought to have it. It would be a good
distinction in society. My Lords Wellington and Castlereagh, and Canning,
and many more, would do well to wear Twang-dillo-dee on their backs
instead of Ribbons at their button-holes; how many people would go
sideways along walls and quickset hedges to keep their "Twang-dillo-dee"
out of sight, or wear large pig-tails to hide it. However there would be
so many that the Twang-dillo-dees would keep one another in
countenance--which Brown cannot do for me--I have fallen away lately.
Thieves and murderers would gain rank in the world, for would any of them
have the poorness of spirit to condescend to be a Twang-dillo-dee? "I have
robbed many a dwelling house; I have killed many a fowl, many a goose,
and many a Man (would such a gentleman say) but, thank Heaven, I was never
yet a Twang-dillo-dee." Some philosophers in the moon, who spy at our
globe as we do at theirs, say that Twang-dillo-dee is written in large
letters on our globe of earth; they say the beginning of the "T" is just
on the spot where London stands, London being built within the flourish;
"wan" reaches downward and slants as far as Timbuctoo in Africa; the tail
of the "g" goes slap across the Atlantic into the Rio della Plata; the
remainder of the letters wrap around New Holland, and the last "e"
terminates in land we have not yet discovered. However, I must be silent;
these are dangerous times to libel a man in--much more a world.
Friday 27 [for 28th January 1820].
I wish you would call me names: I deserve them so much. I have only
written two sheets for you, to carry by George, and those I forgot to
bring to town and have therefore to forward them to Liverpool. George went
this morning at 6 o'clock by the Liverpool coach. His being on his journey
to you prevents my regretting his short stay. I have no news of any sort
to tell you. Henry is wife bound in Camden Town; there is no getting him
out. I am sorry he has not a prettier wife: indeed 'tis a shame: she is
not half a wife. I think I could find some of her relations in Buffon, or
Capt{n} Cook's voyages or the hie_rogue_glyphics in Moor's Almanack, or
upon a Chinese clock door, the shepherdesses on her own mantelpiece, or in
a _cruel_ sampler in which she may find herself worsted, or in a Dutch
toyshop window, or one of the daughters in the ark, or any picture shop
window. As I intend to retire into the country where there will be no sort
of news, I shall not be able to write you very long letters. Besides I am
afraid the postage comes to too much; which till now I have not been aware
of.
People in military bands are generally seriously occupied. None may or
can laugh at their work but the Kettle Drum, Long Drum, Do. Triangle and
Cymbals. Thinking you might want a rat-catcher I put your mother's old
quaker-colour'd cat into the top of your bonnet. She's wi' kitten, so you
may expect to find a whole family. I hope the family will not grow too
large for its lodging. I shall send you a close written sheet on the first
of next month, but for fear of missing the Liverpool Post I must finish
here. God bless you and your little girl.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN KEATS.
CXXXII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, Sunday Morning.
[February 6, 1820.]
My dear Sister--I should not have sent those Letters without some notice
if Mr. Brown had not persuaded me against it on account of an illness with
which I was attack'd on Thursday.[113] After that I was resolved not to
write till I should be on the mending hand; thank God, I am now so. From
imprudently leaving off my great coat in the thaw I caught cold which flew
to my Lungs. Every remedy that has been applied has taken the desired
effect, and I have nothing now to do but stay within doors for some time.
If I should be confined long I shall write to Mr. Abbey to ask permission
for you to visit me. George has been running great chance of a similar
attack, but I hope the sea air will be his Physician in case of
illness--the air out at sea is always more temperate than on land--George
mentioned, in his Letters to us, something of Mr. Abbey's regret
concerning the silence kept up in his house. It is entirely the fault of
his Manner. You must be careful always to wear warm clothing not only in
frost but in a Thaw.--I have no news to tell you. The half-built houses
opposite us stand just as they were and seem dying of old age before they
are brought up. The grass looks very dingy, the Celery is all gone, and
there is nothing to enliven one but a few Cabbage Stalks that seem fix'd
on the superannuated List. Mrs. Dilke has been ill but is better. Several
of my friends have been to see me. Mrs. Reynolds was here this morning and
the two Mr. Wylie's. Brown has been very alert about me, though a little
wheezy himself this weather. Everybody is ill. Yesterday evening Mr.
Davenport, a gentleman of Hampstead, sent me an invitation to supper,
instead of his coming to see us, having so bad a cold he could not stir
out--so you see 'tis the weather and I am among a thousand. Whenever you
have an inflammatory fever never mind about eating. The day on which I was
getting ill I felt this fever to a great height, and therefore almost
entirely abstained from food the whole day. I have no doubt experienced a
benefit from so doing--The Papers I see are full of anecdotes of the late
King: how he nodded to a Coal-heaver and laugh'd with a Quaker and lik'd
boiled Leg of Mutton. Old Peter Pindar is just dead: what will the old
King and he say to each other? Perhaps the King may confess that Peter was
in the right, and Peter maintain himself to have been wrong. You shall
hear from me again on Tuesday.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
CXXXIII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, Tuesday Morn.
[February 8, 1820.]