Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
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