Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
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--
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth:
Then let winged fancy wander
Towards heaven still spread beyond her--
Open wide the mind's cage door,
She'll dart forth and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy, let her loose!
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the spring
Fades as doth its blossoming: