Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
goods and chattels, you put him in prison; you impale him; you crucify
him. If I had not put pen to paper since I saw you this would be to me a
vi et armis taking up before the Judge; but having got over my darling
lounging habits a little, it is with scarcely any pain I come to this
dating from Shanklin and Dear Dilke. The Isle of Wight is but so so, etc.
Rice and I passed rather a dull time of it. I hope he will not repent
coming with me. He was unwell, and I was not in very good health: and I am
afraid we made each other worse by acting upon each other's spirits. We
would grow as melancholy as need be. I confess I cannot bear a sick person
in a House, especially alone--it weighs upon me day and night--and more so
when perhaps the Case is irretrievable. Indeed I think Rice is in a
dangerous state. I have had a Letter from him which speaks favourably of
his health at present. Brown and I are pretty well harnessed again to our
dog-cart. I mean the Tragedy, which goes on sinkingly. We are thinking of
introducing an Elephant, but have not historical reference within reach to
determine us as to Otho's Menagerie. When Brown first mentioned this I
took it for a joke; however he brings such plausible reasons, and
discourses so eloquently on the dramatic effect that I am giving it a
serious consideration. The Art of Poetry is not sufficient for us, and if
we get on in that as well as we do in painting, we shall by next winter
crush the Reviews and the Royal Academy. Indeed, if Brown would take a
little of my advice, he could not fail to be first palette of his day. But
odd as it may appear, he says plainly that he cannot see any force in my
plea of putting skies in the background, and leaving Indian ink out of an
ash tree. The other day he was sketching Shanklin Church, and as I saw how
the business was going on, I challenged him to a trial of skill--he lent
me Pencil and Paper--we keep the Sketches to contend for the Prize at the
Gallery. I will not say whose I think best--but really I do not think
Brown's done to the top of the Art.
A word or two on the Isle of Wight. I have been no further than Steephill.
If I may guess, I should say that there is no finer part in the Island
than from this Place to Steephill. I do not hesitate to say it is fine.
Bonchurch is the best. But I have been so many finer walks, with a
background of lake and mountain instead of the sea, that I am not much
touch'd with it, though I credit it for all the Surprise I should have
felt if it had taken my cockney maidenhead. But I may call myself an old
Stager in the picturesque, and unless it be something very large and
overpowering, I cannot receive any extraordinary relish.
I am sorry to hear that Charles is so much oppress'd at Westminster,
though I am sure it will be the finest touchstone for his Metal in the
world. His troubles will grow day by day less, as his age and strength
increase. The very first Battle he wins will lift him from the Tribe of
Manasseh. I do not know how I should feel were I a Father--but I hope I
should strive with all my Power not to let the present trouble me. When
your Boy shall be twenty, ask him about his childish troubles and he will
have no more memory of them than you have of yours. Brown tells me Mrs.
Dilke sets off to-day for Chichester. I am glad--I was going to say she
had a fine day--but there has been a great Thunder cloud muttering over
Hampshire all day--I hope she is now at supper with a good appetite.
So Reynolds's Piece succeeded--that is all well. Papers have with thanks
been duly received. We leave this place on the 13th, and will let you know
where we may be a few days after--Brown says he will write when the fit
comes on him. If you will stand law expenses I'll beat him into one before
his time. When I come to town I shall have a little talk with you about
Brown and one Jenny Jacobs. Open daylight! he don't care. I am afraid
there will be some more feet for little stockings--[_of Keats's making_.
(_I mean the feet._)[103]] Brown here tried at a piece of Wit but it
failed him, as you see, though long a brewing.--[_this is a 2{d} lie._]
Men should never despair--you see he has tried again and succeeded to a
miracle.--He wants to try again, but as I have a right to an inside place
in my own Letter--I take possession.
Your sincere friend
JOHN KEATS.
CX.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.
[_Fragment (outside sheet) of a letter addressed to Bailey at St.
Andrews._ Winchester, August 15, 1819.]
* * * * *
We removed to Winchester for the convenience of a library, and find it an
exceeding pleasant town, enriched with a beautiful Cathedral, and
surrounded by a fresh-looking country. We are in tolerably good and cheap
lodgings--Within these two months I have written 1500 lines, most of
which, besides many more of prior composition, you will probably see by
next winter. I have written 2 tales, one from Boccaccio, called the Pot of
Basil, and another called St. Agnes's Eve, on a popular Superstition, and
a 3{rd} called Lamia (half finished). I have also been writing parts of my
"Hyperion," and completed 4 Acts of a tragedy. It was the opinion of most
of my friends that I should never be able to write a scene. I will
endeavour to wipe away the prejudice--I sincerely hope you will be pleased
when my labours, since we last saw each other, shall reach you. One of my
Ambitions is to make as great a revolution in modern dramatic writing as
Kean has done in acting. Another to upset the drawling of the
blue-stocking literary world--if in the Course of a few years I do these
two things, I ought to die content, and my friends should drink a dozen of
claret on my tomb. I am convinced more and more every day that (excepting
the human friend philosopher), a fine writer is the most genuine being in
the world. Shakspeare and the Paradise lost every day become greater
wonders to me. I look upon fine phrases like a lover. I was glad to see by
a passage of one of Brown's letters, some time ago, from the North that
you were in such good spirits. Since that you have been married, and in
congratulating you I wish you every continuance of them. Present my
respects to Mrs. Bailey. This sounds oddly to me, and I daresay I do it
awkwardly enough: but I suppose by this time it is nothing new to you.
Brown's remembrances to you. As far as I know, we shall remain at
Winchester for a goodish while.
Ever your sincere friend
JOHN KEATS.
CXI.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.
Winchester, Monday morn [August 23, 1819].
My dear Taylor-- ... Brown and I have together been engaged (this I should
wish to remain secret) on a Tragedy which I have just finished and from
which we hope to share moderate profits.... I feel every confidence that,
if I choose, I may be a popular writer. That I will never be; but for all
that I will get a livelihood. I equally dislike the favour of the public
with the love of a woman. They are both a cloying treacle to the wings of
Independence. I shall ever consider them (People) as debtors to me for
verses, not myself to them for admiration--which I can do without. I have
of late been indulging my spleen by composing a preface AT them: after all
resolving never to write a preface at all. "There are so many verses,"
would I have said to them, "give so much means for me to buy pleasure
with, as a relief to my hours of labour"--You will observe at the end of
this if you put down the letter, "How a solitary life engenders pride and
egotism!" True--I know it does: but this pride and egotism will enable me
to write finer things than anything else could--so I will indulge it. Just
so much as I am humbled by the genius above my grasp am I exalted and
look with hate and contempt upon the literary world.--A drummer-boy who
holds out his hand familiarly to a field Marshal,--that drummer-boy with
me is the good word and favour of the public. Who could wish to be among
the common-place crowd of the little famous--who are each individually
lost in a throng made up of themselves? Is this worth louting or playing
the hypocrite for? To beg suffrages for a seat on the benches of a
myriad-aristocracy in letters? This is not wise.--I am not a wise
man--'Tis pride--I will give you a definition of a proud man--He is a man
who has neither Vanity nor Wisdom--One filled with hatreds cannot be vain,
neither can he be wise. Pardon me for hammering instead of writing.
Remember me to Woodhouse Hessey and all in Percy Street.
Ever yours sincerely
JOHN KEATS.
CXII.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.
Winchester, August 25 [1819].
My dear Reynolds--By this post I write to Rice, who will tell you why we
have left Shanklin; and how we like this place. I have indeed scarcely
anything else to say, leading so monotonous a life, except I was to give
you a history of sensations, and day-nightmares. You would not find me at
all unhappy in it, as all my thoughts and feelings which are of the
selfish nature, home speculations, every day continue to make me more
iron--I am convinced more and more, every day, that fine writing is, next
to fine doing, the top thing in the world; the Paradise Lost becomes a
greater wonder. The more I know what my diligence may in time probably
effect, the more does my heart distend with Pride and Obstinacy--I feel it
in my power to become a popular writer--I feel it in my power to refuse
the poisonous suffrage of a public. My own being which I know to be
becomes of more consequence to me than the crowds of Shadows in the shape
of men and women that inhabit a kingdom. The soul is a world of itself,
and has enough to do in its own home. Those whom I know already, and who
have grown as it were a part of myself, I could not do without: but for
the rest of mankind, they are as much a dream to me as Milton's
Hierarchies. I think if I had a free and healthy and lasting organisation
of heart, and lungs as strong as an ox's so as to be able to bear unhurt
the shock of extreme thought and sensation without weariness, I could pass
my life very nearly alone though it should last eighty years. But I feel
my body too weak to support me to the height, I am obliged continually to
check myself, and be nothing. It would be vain for me to endeavour after a
more reasonable manner of writing to you. I have nothing to speak of but
myself, and what can I say but what I feel? If you should have any reason
to regret this state of excitement in me, I will turn the tide of your
feelings in the right Channel, by mentioning that it is the only state for
the best sort of Poetry--that is all I care for, all I live for. Forgive
me for not filling up the whole sheet; Letters become so irksome to me,
that the next time I leave London I shall petition them all to be spared
me. To give me credit for constancy, and at the same time waive letter
writing will be the highest indulgence I can think of.
Ever your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
CXIII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Winchester, August 28 [1819].
My dear Fanny--You must forgive me for suffering so long a space to elapse
between the dates of my letters. It is more than a fortnight since I left
Shanklin chiefly for the purpose of being near a tolerable Library, which
after all is not to be found in this place. However we like it very much:
it is the pleasantest Town I ever was in, and has the most recommendations
of any. There is a fine Cathedral which to me is always a source of
amusement, part of it built 1400 years ago; and the more modern by a
magnificent Man, you may have read of in our History, called William of
Wickham. The whole town is beautifully wooded. From the Hill at the
eastern extremity you see a prospect of Streets, and old Buildings mixed
up with Trees. Then there are the most beautiful streams about I ever