Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends

were to come by a long invitation--so long that for the time I forgot it when I promised Mrs. Brawne to dine with her on the same day. On recollecting my engagement with your Brothers I immediately excused myself with Mrs. Brawne, but she would not hear of it, and insisted on my bringing my friends with me. So we all dined at Mrs. Brawne's. I have been to Mrs. Bentley's this morning, and put all the letters to and from you and poor Tom and me.[95] I found some of the correspondence between him and that degraded Wells and Amena. It is a wretched business; I do not know the rights of it, but what I do know would, I am sure, affect you so much that I am in two minds whether I will tell you anything about it. And yet I do not see why--for anything, though it be unpleasant, that calls to mind those we still love has a compensation in itself for the pain it occasions--so very likely to-morrow I may set about copying the whole of what I have about it: with no sort of a Richardson self-satisfaction--I hate it to a sickness--and I am afraid more from indolence of mind than anything else. I wonder how people exist with all their worries. I have not been to Westminster but once lately, and that was to see Dilke in his new Lodgings--I think of living somewhere in the neighbourhood myself. Your mother was well by your Brothers' account. I shall see her perhaps to-morrow--yes I shall. We have had the Boys[96] here lately--they make a bit of a racket--I shall not be sorry when they go. I found also this morning, in a note from George to you and my dear sister a lock of your hair which I shall this moment put in the miniature case. A few days ago Hunt dined here and Brown invited Davenport to meet him, Davenport from a sense of weakness thought it incumbent on him to show off--and pursuant to that never ceased talking and boring all day till I was completely fagged out. Brown grew melancholy--but Hunt perceiving what a complimentary tendency all this had bore it remarkably well--Brown grumbled about it for two or three days. I went with Hunt to Sir John Leicester's gallery; there I saw Northcote--Hilton--Bewick, and many more of great and Little note. Haydon's picture is of very little progress this year--He talks about finishing it next year. Wordsworth is going to publish a Poem called Peter Bell--what a perverse fellow it is! Why will he talk about Peter Bells--I was told not to tell--but to you it will not be telling--Reynolds hearing that said Peter Bell was coming out, took it into his head to write a skit upon it called Peter Bell. He did it as soon as thought on, it is to be published this morning, and comes out before the real Peter Bell, with this admirable motto from the "Bold Stroke for a Wife" "I am the real Simon Pure." It would be just as well to trounce Lord Byron in the same manner. I am still at a stand in versifying--I cannot do it yet with any pleasure--I mean, however, to look round on my resources and means, and see what I can do without poetry--To that end I shall live in Westminster--I have no doubt of making by some means a little to help on, or I shall be left in the Lurch--with the burden of a little Pride--However I look in time. The Dilkes like their Lodgings at Westminster tolerably well. I cannot help thinking what a shame it is that poor Dilke should give up his comfortable house and garden for his Son, whom he will certainly ruin with too much care. The boy has nothing in his ears all day but himself and the importance of his education. Dilke has continually in his mouth "My Boy." This is what spoils princes: it may have the same effect with Commoners. Mrs. Dilke has been very well lately--But what a shameful thing it is that for that obstinate Boy Dilke should stifle himself in Town Lodgings and wear out his Life by his continual apprehension of his Boy's fate in Westminster school, with the rest of the Boys and the Masters. Every one has some wear and tear. One would think Dilke ought to be quiet and happy--but no--this one Boy makes his face pale, his society silent and his vigilance jealous--He would I have no doubt quarrel with any one who snubb'd his Boy--With all this he has no notion how to manage him. O what a farce is our greatest cares! Yet one must be in the pother for the sake of Clothes food and Lodging. There has been a squabble between Kean and Mr. Bucke--There are faults on both sides--on Bucke's the faults are positive to the Question: Kean's fault is a want of genteel knowledge and high Policy. The former writes knavishly foolish, and the other silly bombast. It was about a Tragedy written by said Mr. Bucke which, it appears, Mr. Kean kick'd at--it was so bad--After a little struggle of Mr. Bucke's against Kean, Drury Lane had the Policy to bring it out and Kean the impolicy not to appear in it. It was damn'd. The people in the Pit had a favourite call on the night of "Buck, Buck, rise up" and "Buck, Buck, how many horns do I hold up." Kotzebue the German Dramatist and traitor to his country was murdered lately by a young student whose name I forget--he stabbed himself immediately after crying out Germany! Germany! I was unfortunate to miss Richards the only time I have been for many months to see him. Shall I treat you with a little extempore?-- When they were come into the Faery's Court They rang--no one at home--all gone to sport And dance and kiss and love as faerys do For Faries be as humans lovers true. Amid the woods they were so lone and wild, Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd, And where the very brooks, as if afraid, Hurry along to some less magic shade. 'No one at home!' the fretful princess cry'd; 'And all for nothing such a dreary ride, And all for nothing my new diamond cross; No one to see my Persian feathers toss, No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool, Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule. Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, why stand you gaping there, Burst the door open, quick--or I declare I'll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.' The Dwarf began to tremble, and the Ape Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape, The Princess grasp'd her switch, but just in time The dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme. 'O mighty Princess, did you ne'er hear tell What your poor servants know but too too well? Know you the three great crimes in faery land? The first, alas! poor Dwarf, I understand, I made a whipstock of a faery's wand; The next is snoring in their company; The next, the last, the direst of the three, Is making free when they are not at home. I was a Prince--a baby prince--my doom, You see, I made a whipstock of a wand, My top has henceforth slept in faery land. He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-up Prince, But he has never been a King's son since He fell a snoring at a faery Ball. Your poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thing Picklock'd a faery's boudoir--now no king But ape--so pray your highness stay awhile, 'Tis sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow-- Persist and _you_ may be an ape to-morrow.' While the Dwarf spake the Princess, all for spite, Peel'd the brown hazel twig to lilly white, Clench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apart, Try'd to look unconcern'd with beating heart. They saw her highness had made up her mind, A-quavering like the reeds before the wind-- And they had had it, but O happy chance The Ape for very fear began to dance And grinn'd as all his ugliness did ache-- She staid her vixen fingers for his sake, He was so very ugly: then she took Her pocket-mirror and began to look First at herself and then at him, and then She smil'd at her own beauteous face again. Yet for all this--for all her pretty face-- She took it in her head to see the place. Women gain little from experience Either in Lovers, husbands, or expense. The more their beauty the more fortune too-- Beauty before the wide world never knew-- So each fair reasons--tho' it oft miscarries. She thought _her_ pretty face would please the fairies. 'My darling Ape I won't whip you to-day, Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.' They all three wept but counsel was as vain As crying cup biddy to drops of rain. Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth draw The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw. The Princess took it, and dismounting straight Tripp'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteously Opened--she enter'd with her servants three. Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen But the Mule grazing on the herbage green. End of Canto XII. Canto the XIII. The Mule no sooner saw himself alone Than he prick'd up his Ears--and said 'well done; At least unhappy Prince I may be free-- No more a Princess shall side-saddle me. O King of Otaheite--tho' a Mule, Aye, every inch a King'--tho' 'Fortune's fool,' Well done--for by what Mr. Dwarfy said I would not give a sixpence for her head.' Even as he spake he trotted in high glee To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree, And rubb'd his sides against the mossed bark Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark Except his Bridle--how get rid of that Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait. At last it struck him to pretend to sleep, And then the thievish Monkies down would creep And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away. No sooner thought of than adown he lay, Shamm'd a good snore--the Monkey-men descended, And whom they thought to injure they befriended. They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough And off he went run, trot, or anyhow-- Brown is gone to bed--and I am tired of rhyming--there is a north wind blowing playing young gooseberry with the trees--I don't care so it helps even with a side wind a Letter to me--for I cannot put faith in any reports I hear of the Settlement; some are good and some bad. Last Sunday I took a Walk towards Highgate and in the lane that winds by the side of Lord Mansfield's park I met Mr. Green our Demonstrator at Guy's in conversation with Coleridge--I joined them, after enquiring by a look whether it would be agreeable--I walked with him at his alderman-after-dinner pace for near two miles I suppose. In those two Miles he broached a thousand things--let me see if I can give you a list--Nightingales--Poetry--on Poetical Sensation--Metaphysics--Different genera and species of Dreams--Nightmare--a dream accompanied by a sense of touch--single and double touch--a dream related--First and second consciousness--the difference explained between will and Volition--so say metaphysicians from a want of smoking the second consciousness--Monsters-- the Kraken--Mermaids--Southey believes in them--Southey's belief too much diluted--a Ghost story--Good morning--I heard his voice as he came towards me--I heard it as he moved away--I had heard it all the interval--if it may be called so. He was civil enough to ask me to call on him at Highgate. Good-night! [Later, April 16 or 17.] It looks so much like rain I shall not go to town to-day: but put it off till to-morrow. Brown this morning is writing some Spenserian stanzas against Mrs., Miss Brawne and me; so I shall amuse myself with him a little: in the manner of Spenser-- He is to weet a melancholy Carle Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair As hath the seeded thistle when in parle It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom No brush had touch'd his chin or razor sheer No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom. Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl,