Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
that day it seems behaved himself so winningly that they became hand and
glove together, and a little complimentary. Brown was obliged to depart
early. He bid them good-bye and passed into the passage. No sooner was his
back turned than the old women began lauding him. When Brown had reached
the street door, and was just going, Dilke threw up the window and called:
"Brown! Brown! They say you look younger than ever you did!" Brown went
on, and had just turned the corner into the other street when Dilke
appeared at the back window, crying: "Brown! Brown! By God, they say
you're handsome!" You see what a many words it requires to give any
identity to a thing I could have told you in half a minute.
I have been reading lately Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, and I think you
will be very much amused with a page I here copy for you. I call it a Feu
de Joie round the batteries of Fort St. Hyphen-de-Phrase on the birthday
of the Digamma. The whole alphabet was drawn up in a phalanx on the corner
of an old dictionary, band playing, "Amo, amas," etc.
"Every lover admires his mistriss, though she be very deformed of
herself, ill-favoured, wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan'd,
tallow-faced, have a swoln juglers platter face, or a thin, lean,
chitty face, have clouds in her face, be crooked, dry, bald,
goggle-ey'd, blear-ey'd or with staring eys, she looks like a squis'd
cat, hold her head still awry, heavy, dull, hollow-mouthed, Persean
hook-nosed, have a sharp Jose nose, a red nose, China flat, great
nose, _nare simo patuloque_, a nose like a promontory, gubber-tushed,
rotten teeth, black, uneven, brown teeth, beetle browed, a witches
beard, her breath stink all over the room, her nose drop winter and
summer with a Bavarian poke under her chin, a sharp chin, lave eared,
with a long cranes neck, which stands awry too, _pendulis mammis, her
dugs like two double jugs_, or else no dugs in the other extream,
bloody faln fingers, she have filthy long unpaired nails, scabbed
hands or wrists, a tan'd skin, a rotten carkass, crooked back, she
stoops, is lame, splea-footed, _as slender in the middle as a cow in
the waste_, gowty legs, her ankles hang over her shooes, her feet
stink, she breed lice, a mere changeling, a very monster, an aufe
imperfect, her whole complexion savours, an harsh voyce, incondite
gesture, vile gait, a vast virago, or an ugly tit, a slug, a fat
fustilugs, a truss, a long lean rawbone, a skeleton, a sneaker (_si
qua latent meliora puta_), and to thy judgment looks like a Mard in a
lanthorn, whom thou couldst not fancy for a world, but hatest,
lothest, and wouldst have spit in her face, or blow thy nose in her
bosome, _remedium amoris_ to another man, a dowdy, a slut, a scold, a
nasty, rank, rammy, filthy, beastly quean, dishonest peradventure,
obscene, base, beggerly, rude, foolish, untaught, peevish, Irus'
daughter, Thersite's sister, Grobian's schollar; if he love her once,
he admires her for all this, he takes no notice of any such errors,
or imperfections of body or minde."
There's a dose for you. Fire!! I would give my favourite leg to have
written this as a speech in a play. With what effect could Matthews
pop-gun it at the pit! This I think will amuse you more than so much
poetry. Of that I do not like to copy any, as I am afraid it is too mal a
propos for you at present; and yet I will send you some, for by the time
you receive it, things in England may have taken a different turn. When I
left Mr. Abbey on Monday evening, I walked up Cheapside, but returned to
put some letters in the post, and met him again in Bucklesbury. We walked
together through the Poultry as far as the baker's shop he has some
concern in--He spoke of it in such a way to me, I thought he wanted me to
make an offer to assist him in it. I do believe if I could be a hatter I
might be one. He seems anxious about me. He began blowing up Lord Byron
while I was sitting with him: "However, may be the fellow says true now
and then," at which he took up a magazine, and read me some extracts from
Don Juan (Lord Byron's last flash poem), and particularly one against
literary ambition. I do think I must be well spoken of among sets, for
Hodgkinson is more than polite, and the coffee German endeavoured to be
very close to me the other night at Covent Garden, where I went at half
price before I tumbled into bed. Every one, however distant an
acquaintance, behaves in the most conciliating manner to me. You will see
I speak of this as a matter of interest. On the next sheet I will give you
a little politics.
In every age there has been in England, for two or three centuries,
subjects of great popular interest on the carpet, so that however great
the uproar, one can scarcely prophecy any material change in the
Government, for as loud disturbances have agitated the country many times.
All civilised countries become gradually more enlightened, and there
should be a continual change for the better. Look at this country at
present, and remember it when it was even thought impious to doubt the
justice of a trial by combat. From that time there has been a gradual
change. Three great changes have been in progress: first for the better,
next for the worse, and a third for the better once more. The first was
the gradual annihilation of the tyranny of the nobles, when kings found it
their interest to conciliate the common people, elevate them, and be just
to them. Just when baronial power ceased, and before standing armies were
so dangerous, taxes were few, kings were lifted by the people over the
heads of their nobles, and those people held a rod over kings. The change
for the worse in Europe was again this: the obligation of kings to the
multitude began to be forgotten. Custom had made noblemen the humble
servants of kings. Then kings turned to the nobles as the adorners of
their power, the slaves of it, and from the people as creatures
continually endeavouring to check them. Then in every kingdom there was a
long struggle of kings to destroy all popular privileges. The English were
the only people in Europe who made a grand kick at this. They were slaves
to Henry VIII, but were freemen under William III at the time the French
were abject slaves under Louis XIV. The example of England, and the
liberal writers of France and England, sowed the seed of opposition to
this tyranny, and it was swelling in the ground till it burst out in the
French Revolution. That has had an unlucky termination. It put a stop to
the rapid progress of free sentiments in England, and gave our Court hopes
of turning back to the despotism of the eighteenth century. They have made
a handle of this event in every way to undermine our freedom. They spread
a horrid superstition against all innovation and improvement. The present
struggle in England of the people is to destroy this superstition. What
has roused them to do it is their distresses. Perhaps, on this account,
the present distresses of this nation are a fortunate thing though so
horrid in their experience. You will see I mean that the French Revolution
put a temporary stop to this third change--the change for the better--Now
it is in progress again, and I think it is an effectual one. This is no
contest between Whig and Tory, but between right and wrong. There is
scarcely a grain of party spirit now in England. Right and wrong
considered by each man abstractedly, is the fashion. I know very little of
these things. I am convinced, however, that apparently small causes make
great alterations. There are little signs whereby we may know how matters
are going on. This makes the business of Carlisle the bookseller of great
amount in my mind. He has been selling deistical pamphlets, republished
Tom Paine, and many other works held in superstitious horror. He even has
been selling, for some time, immense numbers of a work called The Deist,
which comes out in weekly numbers. For this conduct he, I think, has had
about a dozen indictments issued against him, for which he has found bail
to the amount of many thousand pounds. After all, they are afraid to
prosecute. They are afraid of his defence; it would be published in all
the papers all over the empire. They shudder at this. The trials would
light a flame they could not extinguish. Do you not think this of great
import? You will hear by the papers of the proceedings at Manchester, and
Hunt's triumphal entry into London. It would take me a whole day and a
quire of paper to give you anything like detail. I will merely mention
that it is calculated that 30,000 people were in the streets waiting for
him. The whole distance from the Angel at Islington to the Crown and
Anchor was lined with multitudes.
As I passed Colnaghi's window I saw a profile portrait of Sandt, the
destroyer of Kotzebue. His very look must interest every one in his
favour. I suppose they have represented him in his college dress. He seems
to me like a young Abelard--a fine mouth, cheek bones (and this is no
joke) full of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar nose, and plump temples.
On looking over some letters I found the one I wrote, intended for you,
from the foot of Helvellyn to Liverpool; but you had sailed, and therefore
it was returned to me. It contained, among other nonsense, an acrostic of
my sister's name--and a pretty long name it is. I wrote it in a great
hurry which you will see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought it would
ever be seen by any but yourselves.
Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
Exact in capitals your golden name,
Or sue the fair Apollo, and he will
Rouse from his heavy slumber and instil
Great love in me for thee and Poesy.
Imagine not that greatest mastery
And kingdom over all the realms of verse
Nears more to Heaven in aught than when we nurse
And surety give to love and brotherhood.
Anthropopagi in Othello's mood;
Ulysses storm'd, and his enchanted belt
Glowed with the Muse: but they are never felt
Unbosom'd so, and so eternal made,
Such tender incense in their laurel shade
To all the recent sisters of the Nine,
As this poor offering to you, sister mine.
Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;
And may its taste to you, like good old wine,
Take you to real happiness, and give
Sons, daughters, and a home like honied hive.
Foot of Helvellyn, June 27.
I sent you in my first packet some of my Scotch letters. I find I have one
kept back, which was written in the most interesting part of our tour, and
will copy part of it in the hope you will not find it unamusing. I would
give now anything for Richardson's power of making mountains of molehills.
Incipit epistola caledoniensa--
"Dunancullen."
(I did not know the day of the month, for I find I have not added it.
Brown must have been asleep). "Just after my last had gone to the post"
(before I go any further, I must premise that I would send the identical
letter, instead of taking the trouble to copy it; I do not do so, for it
would spoil my notion of the neat manner in which I intend to fold these
three genteel sheets. The original is written on coarse paper, and the
soft one would ride in the post bag very uneasy. Perhaps there might be a
quarrel)[106]
* * * * *
I ought to make a large "?" here, but I had better take the opportunity of
telling you I have got rid of my haunting sore throat, and conduct myself
in a manner not to catch another.
You speak of Lord Byron and me. There is this great difference between us:
he describes what he sees--I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest