Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
School--I am very sorry that he will not consent. I recommend you to keep
up all that you know and to learn more by yourself however little. The
time will come when you will be more pleased with Life--look forward to
that time and, though it may appear a trifle be careful not to let the
idle and retired Life you lead fix any awkward habit or behaviour on
you--whether you sit or walk endeavour to let it be in a seemly and if
possible a graceful manner. We have been very little together: but you
have not the less been with me in thought. You have no one in the world
besides me who would sacrifice anything for you--I feel myself the only
Protector you have. In all your little troubles think of me with the
thought that there is at least one person in England who if he could would
help you out of them--I live in hopes of being able to make you happy.--I
should not perhaps write in this manner, if it were not for the fear of
not being able to see you often or long together. I am in hopes Mr. Abbey
will not object any more to your receiving a letter now and then from me.
How unreasonable! I want a few more lines from you for George--there are
some young Men, acquaintances of a Schoolfellow of mine, going out to
Birkbeck's at the latter end of this Month--I am in expectation every day
of hearing from George--I begin to fear his last letters miscarried. I
shall be in town to-morrow--if you should not be in town, I shall send
this little parcel by the Walthamstow Coach--I think you will like
Goldsmith--Write me soon--
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
Mrs. Dilke has not been very well--she is gone a walk to town to-day for
exercise.
XCII.--TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS.
Sunday Morn{g.} February 14, [1819].
My dear Brother and Sister--How is it that we have not heard from you from
the Settlement yet? The letters must surely have miscarried. I am in
expectation every day. Peachey wrote me a few days ago, saying some more
acquaintances of his were preparing to set out for Birkbeck; therefore, I
shall take the opportunity of sending you what I can muster in a sheet or
two. I am still at Wentworth Place--indeed, I have kept indoors lately,
resolved if possible to rid myself of my sore throat; consequently I have
not been to see your Mother since my return from Chichester; but my
absence from her has been a great weight upon me. I say since my return
from Chichester--I believe I told you I was going thither. I was nearly a
fortnight at Mr. John Snook's and a few days at old Mr. Dilke's. Nothing
worth speaking of happened at either place. I took down some thin paper
and wrote on it a little poem called St. Agnes's Eve, which you shall have
as it is when I have finished the blank part of the rest for you. I went
out twice at Chichester to dowager Card parties. I see very little now,
and very few persons, being almost tired of men and things. Brown and
Dilke are very kind and considerate towards me. The Miss R.'s have been
stopping next door lately, but are very dull. Miss Brawne and I have every
now and then a chat and a tiff. Brown and Dilke are walking round their
garden, hands in pockets, making observations. The literary world I know
nothing about. There is a poem from Rogers dead born; and another satire
is expected from Byron, called "Don Giovanni." Yesterday I went to town
for the first time for these three weeks. I met people from all parts and
of all sets--Mr. Towers, one of the Holts, Mr. Dominie Williams, Mr.
Woodhouse, Mrs. Hazlitt and son, Mrs. Webb, and Mrs. Septimus Brown. Mr.
Woodhouse was looking up at a book window in Newgate Street, and, being
short-sighted, twisted his muscles into so queer a stage that I stood by
in doubt whether it was him or his brother, if he has one, and turning
round, saw Mrs. Hazlitt, with that little Nero, her son. Woodhouse, on his
features subsiding, proved to be Woodhouse, and not his brother. I have
had a little business with Mr. Abbey from time to time; he has behaved to
me with a little Brusquerie: this hurt me a little, especially when I knew
him to be the only man in England who dared to say a thing to me I did not
approve of without its being resented, or at least noticed--so I wrote him
about it, and have made an alteration in my favour--I expect from this to
see more of Fanny, who has been quite shut out from me. I see Cobbett has
been attacking the Settlement, but I cannot tell what to believe, and
shall be all out at elbows till I hear from you. I am invited to Miss
Millar's birthday dance on the 19th--I am nearly sure I shall not be able
to go. A dance would injure my throat very much. I see very little of
Reynolds. Hunt, I hear, is going on very badly--I mean in money matters.
I shall not be surprised to hear of the worst. Haydon too, in consequence
of his eyes, is out at elbows. I live as prudently as it is possible for
me to do. I have not seen Haslam lately. I have not seen Richards for this
half year, Rice for three months, or Charles Cowden Clarke for God knows
when.
When I last called in Henrietta Street[88] Miss Millar was very unwell,
and Miss Waldegrave as staid and self-possessed as usual. Henry was well.
There are two new tragedies--one by the apostate Maw, and one by Miss Jane
Porter. Next week I am going to stop at Taylor's for a few days, when I
will see them both and tell you what they are. Mr. and Mrs. Bentley are
well, and all the young carrots. I said nothing of consequence passed at
Snook's--no more than this--that I like the family very much. Mr. and Mrs.
Snook were very kind We used to have a little religion and politics
together almost every evening,--and sometimes about you. He proposed
writing out for me his experience in farming, for me to send to you. If I
should have an opportunity of talking to him about it, I will get all I
can at all events; but you may say in your answer to this what value you
place upon such information. I have not seen Mr. Lewis lately, for I have
shrank from going up the hill. Mr. Lewis went a few mornings ago to town
with Mrs. Brawne. They talked about me, and I heard that Mr. L. said a
thing I am not at all contented with. Says he, "O, he is quite the little
poet." Now this is abominable--You might as well say Buonaparte is quite
the little soldier. You see what it is to be under six foot and not a
lord. There is a long fuzz to-day in the Examiner about a young man who
delighted a young woman with a valentine--I think it must be Ollier's.
Brown and I are thinking of passing the summer at Brussels--If we do, we
shall go about the first of May. We--_i.e._ Brown and I--sit opposite one
another all day authorizing (_N.B._, an "s" instead of a "z" would give a
different meaning). He is at present writing a story of an old woman who
lived in a forest, and to whom the Devil or one of his aides-de-feu came
one night very late and in disguise. The old dame sets before him pudding
after pudding--mess after mess--which he devours, and moreover casts his
eyes up at a side of Bacon hanging over his head, and at the same time
asks if her Cat is a Rabbit. On going he leaves her three pips of Eve's
Apple, and somehow she, having lived a virgin all her life, begins to
repent of it, and wished herself beautiful enough to make all the world
and even the other world fall in love with her. So it happens, she sets
out from her smoky cottage in magnificent apparel.--The first City she
enters, every one falls in love with her, from the Prince to the
Blacksmith. A young gentleman on his way to the Church to be married
leaves his unfortunate Bride and follows this nonsuch--A whole regiment of
soldiers are smitten at once and follow her--A whole convent of Monks in
Corpus Christi procession join the soldiers.--The mayor and corporation
follow the same road--Old and young, deaf and dumb,--all but the
blind,--are smitten, and form an immense concourse of people, who----what
Brown will do with them I know not. The devil himself falls in love with
her, flies away with her to a desert place, in consequence of which she
lays an infinite number of eggs--the eggs being hatched from time to time,
fill the world with many nuisances, such as John Knox, George Fox, Johanna
Southcote, and Gifford.
There have been within a fortnight eight failures of the highest
consequence in London. Brown went a few evenings since to Davenport's, and
on his coming in he talked about bad news in the city with such a face I
began to think of a national bankruptcy. I did not feel much surprised and
was rather disappointed. Carlisle, a bookseller on the Hone principle, has
been issuing pamphlets from his shop in Fleet Street called the Deist. He
was conveyed to Newgate last Thursday; he intends making his own defence.
I was surprised to hear from Taylor the amount of money of the
bookseller's last sale. What think you of L25,000? He sold 4000 copies of
Lord Byron. I am sitting opposite the Shakspeare I brought from the Isle
of Wight--and I never look at him but the silk tassels on it give me as
much pleasure as the face of the poet itself.[89]
In my next packet, as this is one by the way, I shall send you the Pot of
Basil, St. Agnes Eve, and if I should have finished it, a little thing
called the Eve of St. Mark. You see what fine Mother Radcliff names I
have--it is not my fault--I do not search for them. I have not gone on
with Hyperion--for to tell the truth I have not been in great cue for
writing lately--I must wait for the spring to rouse me up a little. The
only time I went out from Bedhampton was to see a chapel
consecrated--Brown, I, and John Snook the boy, went in a chaise behind a
leaden horse. Brown drove, but the horse did not mind him. This chapel is
built by a Mr. Way, a great Jew converter, who in that line has spent one
hundred thousand pounds. He maintains a great number of poor Jews--_Of
course his communion plate was stolen_. He spoke to the clerk about
it--The clerk said he was very sorry, adding, "_I dare shay, your honour,
it's among ush_."
The chapel is built in Mr. Way's park. The consecration was not amusing.
There were numbers of carriages--and his house crammed with clergy--They
sanctified the Chapel, and it being a wet day, consecrated the
burial-ground through the vestry window. I begin to hate parsons; they did
not make me love them that day when I saw them in their proper colours. A
parson is a Lamb in a drawing-room, and a Lion in a vestry. The notions of
Society will not permit a parson to give way to his temper in any
shape--So he festers in himself--his features get a peculiar, diabolical,
self-sufficient, iron stupid expression. He is continually acting--his
mind is against every man, and every man's mind is against him--He is a
hypocrite to the Believer and a coward to the unbeliever--He must be
either a knave or an idiot--and there is no man so much to be pitied as an
idiot parson. The soldier who is cheated into an Esprit du Corps by a red
coat, a band, and colours, for the purpose of nothing, is not half so
pitiable as the parson who is led by the nose by the Bench of Bishops and
is smothered in absurdities--a poor necessary subaltern of the Church.
Friday, Feb{y.} 18.
The day before yesterday I went to Romney Street--your Mother was not at
home--but I have just written her that I shall see her on Wednesday. I
call'd on Mr. Lewis this morning--he is very well--and tells me not to be
uneasy about Letters, the chances being so arbitrary. He is going on as
usual among his favourite democrat papers. We had a chat as usual about
Cobbett and the Westminster electors. Dilke has lately been very much
harrassed about the manner of educating his son--he at length decided for
a public school--and then he did not know what school--he at last has