Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
task; now see the immense difference. The Edinburgh Reviewers are afraid
to touch upon my poem. They do not know what to make of it; they do not
like to condemn it, and they will not praise it for fear. They are as shy
of it as I should be of wearing a Quaker's hat. The fact is, they have no
real taste. They dare not compromise their judgments on so puzzling a
question. If on my next publication they should praise me, and so lug in
Endymion, I will address them in a manner they will not at all relish. The
cowardliness of the Edinburgh is more than the abuse of the Quarterly.
Monday [September 20].
This day is a grand day for Winchester. They elect the mayor. It was
indeed high time the place should have some sort of excitement. There was
nothing going on--all asleep. Not an old maid's sedan returning from a
card party; and if any old women have got tipsy at christenings, they have
not exposed themselves in the street. The first night, though, of our
arrival here there was a slight uproar took place at about ten of the
clock. We heard distinctly a noise patting down the street, as of a
walking-cane of the good old dowager breed; and a little minute after we
heard a less voice observe, "What a noise the ferril made--it must be
loose." Brown wanted to call the constables, but I observed it was only a
little breeze, and would soon pass over. The side streets here are
excessively maiden-lady-like; the door-steps always fresh from the
flannel. The knockers have a very staid, serious, nay almost awful
quietness about them. I never saw so quiet a collection of lions' and
rams' heads. The doors most part black, with a little brass handle just
above the keyhole, so that you may easily shut yourself out of your own
house. He! He! There is none of your Lady Bellaston ringing and rapping
here; no thundering Jupiter-footmen, no opera-treble tattoos, but a modest
lifting up of the knocker by a set of little wee old fingers that peep
through the gray mittens, and a dying fall thereof. The great beauty of
poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting. The
palatine Venice and the abbotine Winchester are equally interesting. Some
time since I began a poem called "The Eve of St. Mark," quite in the
spirit of town quietude. I think I will give you the sensation of walking
about an old country town in a coolish evening. I know not whether I
shall ever finish it; I will give it as far as I have gone. Ut tibi
placeat--
THE EVE OF ST. MARK.
Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That call'd the folk to evening prayer;
The city streets were clean and fair
From wholesome drench of April rains;
And, when on western window panes,
The chilly sunset faintly told
Of unmatured green vallies cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
Of primroses by shelter'd rills,
And daisies on the aguish hills.
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:
The silent streets were crowded well
With staid and pious companies,
Warm from their fireside orat'ries;
And moving, with demurest air,
To even-song, and vesper prayer.
Each arched porch, and entry low,
Was fill'd with patient folk and slow,
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While play'd the organ loud and sweet.
The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun,
And Bertha had not yet half done
A curious volume, patch'd and torn,
That all day long, from earliest morn,
Had taken captive her two eyes,
Among its golden broideries;
Perplex'd her with a thousand things,--
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,
Martyrs in a fiery blaze,
Azure saints and silver rays,
Moses' breastplate, and the seven
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,
The winged Lion of St. Mark,
And the Covenantal Ark,
With its many mysteries,
Cherubim and golden mice.
Bertha was a maiden fair,
Dwelling in the old Minster-square;
From her fireside she could see,
Sidelong, its rich antiquity,
Far as the Bishop's garden-wall,
Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,
Full-leav'd the forest had outstript,
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
So shelter'd by the mighty pile.
Bertha arose, and read awhile,
With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.
Again she try'd, and then again,
Until the dusk eve left her dark
Upon the legend of St. Mark.
From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,
She lifted up her soft warm chin,
With aching neck and swimming eyes,
And dazed with saintly imageries.
All was gloom, and silent all,
Save now and then the still footfall
Of one returning homewards late,
Past the echoing minster-gate.
The clamorous daws, that all the day
Above tree-tops and towers play,
Pair by pair had gone to rest,
Each in ancient belfry-nest,
Where asleep they fall betimes,
To music and the drowsy chimes.
All was silent, all was gloom,
Abroad and in the homely room:
Down she sat, poor cheated soul!
And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;
Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair
And slant book, full against the glare.
Her shadow, in uneasy guise,
Hover'd about, a giant size,
On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
The parrot's cage, and panel square;
And the warm angled winter-screen,
On which were many monsters seen,
Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice,
And legless birds of Paradise,
Macaw and tender Avadavat,
And silken-furr'd Angora cat.
Untir'd she read, her shadow still
Glower'd about, as it would fill
The room with wildest forms and shades,
As though some ghostly queen of spades
Had come to mock behind her back,
And dance, and ruffle her garments black,
Untir'd she read the legend page,
Of holy Mark, from youth to age,
On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
Rejoicing for his many pains.
Sometimes the learned eremite,
With golden star, or dagger bright,
Referr'd to pious poesies
Written in smallest crow-quill size
Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme
Was parcelled out from time to time:
"... Als writith he of swevenis,
Man han beforne they wake in bliss,
Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound
In crimped shroude farre under grounde;
And how a litling child mote be
A saint er its nativitie,
Gif that the modre (God her blesse!)
Kepen in solitarinesse,
And kissen devoute the holy croce.
Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force,--
He writith; and thinges many mo
Of swiche thinges I may not show
Bot I must tellen verilie
Somdel of Sainte Cicilie,
And chieflie what he auctorethe
Of Sainte Markis life and dethe;"
At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
At Venice,--
I hope you will like this for all its carelessness. I must take an
opportunity here to observe that though I am writing _to_ you, I am all
the while writing _at_ your wife. This explanation will account for my
speaking sometimes hoity-toity-ishly, whereas if you were alone, I should
sport a little more sober sadness. I am like a squinty gentleman, who,
saying soft things to one lady ogles another, or what is as bad, in
arguing with a person on his left hand, appeals with his eyes to one on
the right. His vision is elastic; he bends it to a certain object, but
having a patent spring it flies off. Writing has this disadvantage of
speaking--one cannot write a wink, or a nod, or a grin, or a purse of the
lips, or a _smile--O law!_ One cannot put one's finger to one's nose, or
yerk ye in the ribs, or lay hold of your button in writing; but in all the
most lively and titterly parts of my letter you must not fail to imagine
me, as the epic poets say, now here, now there; now with one foot pointed
at the ceiling, now with another; now with my pen on my ear, now with my
elbow in my mouth. O, my friends, you lose the action, and attitude is
everything, as Fuseli said when he took up his leg like a musket to shoot
a swallow just darting behind his shoulder. And yet does not the word
"mum" go for one's finger beside the nose? I hope it does. I have to make
use of the word "mum" before I tell you that Severn has got a little
baby--all his own, let us hope. He told Brown he had given up painting,
and had turned modeller. I hope sincerely 'tis not a party concern--that
no Mr. ---- or ---- is the real Pinxit and Severn the poor Sculpsit to
this work of art. You know he has long studied in the life Academy.
"Haydon--yes," your wife will say, "Here is a sum total account of Haydon
again. I wonder your brother don't put a monthly bulletin in the
Philadelphia papers about him. I won't hear--no. Skip down to the bottom,
and there are some more of his verses--skip (lullaby-by) them too."--"No,
let's go regularly through."--"I won't hear a word about Haydon--bless the
child, how rioty she is--there, go on there."
Now, pray go on here, for I have a few words to say about Haydon. Before
this chancery threat had cut off every legitimate supply of cash from me,
I had a little at my disposal. Haydon being very much in want, I lent him
L30 of it. Now in this see-saw game of life, I got nearest to the ground,
and this chancery business rivetted me there, so that I was sitting in
that uneasy position where the seat slants so abominably. I applied to him
for payment. He could not. That was no wonder; but Goodman Delver, where
was the wonder then? Why marry in this: he did not seem to care much about
it, and let me go without my money with almost nonchalance, when he ought
to have sold his drawings to supply me. I shall perhaps still be
acquainted with him, but for friendship, that is at an end. Brown has been
my friend in this. He got him to sign a bond, payable at three months.
Haslam has assisted me with the return of part of the money you lent him.
Hunt--"there," says your wife, "there's another of those dull folk! Not a
syllable about my friends? Well, Hunt--What about Hunt? You little thing,
see how she bites my finger! My! is not this a tooth?" Well when you have
done with the tooth, read on. Not a syllable about your friends! Here are
some syllables. As far as I could smoke things on the Sunday before last,
thus matters stood in Henrietta Street. Henry was a greater blade then
ever I remember to have seen him. He had on a very nice coat, a becoming
waistcoat, and buff trousers. I think his face has lost a little of the
Spanish-brown, but no flesh. He carved some beef exactly to suit my
appetite, as if I had been measured for it. As I stood looking out of the
window with Charles, after dinner, quizzing the passengers,--at which I am
sorry to say he is too apt,--I observed that this young son of a gun's
whiskers had begun to curl and curl, little twists and twists, all down
the sides of his face, getting properly thickest on the angles of the
visage. He certainly will have a notable pair of whiskers. "How shiny your
gown is in front," says Charles. "Why don't you see? 'tis an apron," says
Henry; whereat I scrutinised, and behold your mother had a purple stuff
gown on, and over it an apron of the same colour, being the same cloth
that was used for the lining. And furthermore to account for the shining,
it was the first day of wearing. I guessed as much of the gown--but that
is entre nous. Charles likes England better than France. They've got a
fat, smiling, fair cook as ever you saw; she is a little lame, but that
improves her; it makes her go more swimmingly. When I asked "Is Mrs. Wylie
within?" she gave me such a large five-and-thirty-year-old smile, it made
me look round upon the fourth stair--it might have been the fifth; but
that's a puzzle. I shall never be able, if I were to set myself a
recollecting for a year, to recollect. I think I remember two or three