Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends

And sauces held he worthless as the chaff He 'sdeign'd the swineherd at the wassail bowl Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul Panted, and all his food was woodland air Though he would ofttimes feast on gilliflowers rare-- The slang of cities in no wise he knew _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; He sipp'd no olden Tom or ruin blue Or nantz or cherry brandy drunk full meek By many a Damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek Nor did he know each aged Watchman's beat-- Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet. This character would ensure him a situation in the establishment of patient Griselda. The servant has come for the little Browns this morning--they have been a toothache to me which I shall enjoy the riddance of--Their little voices are like wasps' stings--Sometimes am I all wound with Browns.[97] We had a claret feast some little while ago. There were Dilke, Reynolds, Skinner, Mancur, John Brown, Martin, Brown and I. We all got a little tipsy--but pleasantly so--I enjoy Claret to a degree. [Later, April 18 or 19.] I have been looking over the correspondence of the pretended Amena and Wells this evening--I now see the whole cruel deception. I think Wells must have had an accomplice in it--Amena's letters are in a Man's language and in a Man's hand imitating a woman's. The instigations to this diabolical scheme were vanity, and the love of intrigue. It was no thoughtless hoax--but a cruel deception on a sanguine Temperament, with every show of friendship. I do not think death too bad for the villain. The world would look upon it in a different light should I expose it--they would call it a frolic--so I must be wary--but I consider it my duty to be prudently revengeful. I will hang over his head like a sword by a hair. I will be opium to his vanity--if I cannot injure his interests--He is a rat and he shall have ratsbane to his vanity--I will harm him all I possibly can--I have no doubt I shall be able to do so--Let us leave him to his misery alone, except when we can throw in a little more. The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and more--it is that one in which he meets with Paolo and Francesca. I had passed many days in rather a low state of mind, and in the midst of them I dreamt of being in that region of Hell. The dream was one of the most delightful enjoyments I ever had in my life. I floated about the whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were joined as it seemed for an age--and in the midst of all this cold and darkness I was warm--even flowery tree-tops sprung up, and we rested on them, sometimes with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind blew us away again. I tried a sonnet upon it--there are fourteen lines, but nothing of what I felt in it--O that I could dream it every night-- As Hermes once took to his feathers light When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, So on a delphic reed my idle spright So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft The Dragon world of all its hundred eyes; And seeing it asleep, so fled away;-- Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved that day; But to that second circle of sad Hell Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw Of Rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw, Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form I floated with about that melancholy storm. I want very very much a little of your wit, my dear Sister--a Letter or two of yours just to bandy back a pun or two across the Atlantic, and send a quibble over the Floridas. Now you have by this time crumpled up your large Bonnet, what do you wear--a cap? do you put your hair in papers of a night? do you pay the Miss Birkbecks a morning visit--have you any tea? or do you milk-and-water with them--What place of Worship do you go to--the Quakers, the Moravians, the Unitarians, or the Methodists? Are there any flowers in bloom you like--any beautiful heaths--any streets full of Corset Makers? What sort of shoes have you to fit those pretty feet of yours? Do you desire Compliments to one another? Do you ride on Horseback? What do you have for breakfast, dinner, and supper? without mentioning lunch and bever,[98] and wet and snack--and a bit to stay one's stomach? Do you get any Spirits--now you might easily distill some whiskey--and going into the woods, set up a whiskey shop for the Monkeys--Do you and the Miss Birkbecks get groggy on anything--a little so-soish so as to be obliged to be seen home with a Lantern? You may perhaps have a game at puss in the corner--Ladies are warranted to play at this game though they have not whiskers. Have you a fiddle in the Settlement--or at any rate a Jew's harp--which will play in spite of one's teeth--When you have nothing else to do for a whole day I tell you how you may employ it--First get up and when you are dressed, as it would be pretty early with a high wind in the woods, give George a cold Pig with my Compliments. Then you may saunter into the nearest coffee-house, and after taking a dram and a look at the Chronicle--go and frighten the wild boars upon the strength--you may as well bring one home for breakfast, serving up the hoofs garnished with bristles and a grunt or two to accompany the singing of the kettle--then if George is not up give him a colder Pig always with my Compliments--When you are both set down to breakfast I advise you to eat your full share, but leave off immediately on feeling yourself inclined to anything on the other side of the puffy--avoid that, for it does not become young women--After you have eaten your breakfast keep your eye upon dinner--it is the safest way--You should keep a Hawk's eye over your dinner and keep hovering over it till due time then pounce taking care not to break any plates. While you are hovering with your dinner in prospect you may do a thousand things--put a hedgehog into George's hat--pour a little water into his rifle--soak his boots in a pail of water--cut his jacket round into shreds like a Roman kilt or the back of my grandmother's stays--Sew _off_ his buttons-- [Later, April 21 or 22.] Yesterday I could not write a line I was so fatigued, for the day before I went to town in the morning, called on your Mother, and returned in time for a few friends we had to dinner. These were Taylor, Woodhouse, Reynolds: we began cards at about 9 o'clock, and the night coming on, and continuing dark and rainy, they could not think of returning to town--So we played at Cards till very daylight--and yesterday I was not worth a sixpence. Your Mother was very well but anxious for a Letter. We had half an hour's talk and no more, for I was obliged to be home. Mrs. and Miss Millar were well, and so was Miss Waldegrave. I have asked your Brothers here for next Sunday. When Reynolds was here on Monday he asked me to give Hunt a hint to take notice of his Peter Bell in the Examiner--the best thing I can do is to write a little notice of it myself, which I will do here, and copy out if it should suit my Purpose-- _Peter Bell._ There have been lately advertised two Books both Peter Bell by name; what stuff the one was made of might be seen by the motto--"I am the real Simon Pure." This false Florimel has hurried from the press and obtruded herself into public notice, while for aught we know the real one may be still wandering about the woods and mountains. Let us hope she may soon appear and make good her right to the magic girdle. The Pamphleteering Archimage, we can perceive, has rather a splenetic love than a downright hatred to real Florimels--if indeed they had been so christened--or had even a pretention to play at bob cherry with Barbara Lewthwaite: but he has a fixed aversion to those three rhyming Graces Alice Fell, Susan Gale and Betty Foy; and now at length especially to Peter Bell--fit Apollo. It may be seen from one or two Passages in this little skit, that the writer of it has felt the finer parts of Mr. Wordsworth, and perhaps expatiated with his more remote and sublimer muse. This as far as it relates to Peter Bell is unlucky. The more he may love the sad embroidery of the Excursion, the more he will hate the coarse Samplers of Betty Foy and Alice Fell; and as they come from the same hand, the better will he be able to imitate that which can be imitated, to wit Peter Bell--as far as can be imagined from the obstinate Name. We repeat, it is very unlucky--this real Simon Pure is in parts the very Man--there is a pernicious likeness in the scenery, a 'pestilent humour' in the rhymes, and an inveterate cadence in some of the Stanzas, that must be lamented. If we are one part amused with this we are three parts sorry that an appreciator of Wordsworth should show so much temper at this really provoking name of Peter Bell--![99] This will do well enough--I have copied it and enclosed it to Hunt. You will call it a little politic--seeing I keep clear of all parties. I say something for and against both parties--and suit it to the tune of the Examiner--I meant to say I do not unsuit it--and I believe I think what I say, nay I am sure I do--I and my conscience are in luck to-day--which is an excellent thing. The other night I went to the Play with Rice, Reynolds, and Martin--we saw a new dull and half-damn'd opera call'd the 'Heart of Midlothian,' that was on Saturday--I stopt at Taylor's on Sunday with Woodhouse--and passed a quiet sort of pleasant day. I have been very much pleased with the Panorama of the Ship at the North Pole--with the icebergs, the Mountains, the Bears, the Wolves--the seals, the Penguins--and a large whale floating back above water--it is impossible to describe the place-- Wednesday Evening [April 28]. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI O what can ail thee Knight at arms Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the Lake And no birds sing! O what can ail thee Knight at arms So haggard, and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast Withereth too-- I met a Lady in the Meads Full beautiful, a faery's child-- Her hair was long, her foot was light And her eyes were wild-- I made a Garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone She look'd at me as she did love And made sweet moan-- I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend and sing A faery's song-- She found me roots of relish sweet And honey wild and manna dew And sure in language strange she said I love thee true-- She took me to her elfin grot And there she wept and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four-- And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd Ah Woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale Kings and Princes too Pale warriors death-pale were they all They cried--La belle dame sans merci Thee hath in thrall. I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering; Though the sedge is withered from the Lake And no birds sing.[100]... Why four kisses--you will say--why four, because I wish to restrain the