Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
specks in her teeth, but I really can't say exactly. Your mother said
something about Miss Keasle--what that was is quite a riddle to me now,
whether she had got fatter or thinner, or broader or longer, straiter, or
had taken to the zigzags--whether she had taken to or had left off asses'
milk. That, by the bye, she ought never to touch. How much better it would
be to put her out to nurse with the wise woman of Brentford. I can say no
more on so spare a subject. Miss Millar now is a different morsel, if one
knew how to divide and subdivide, theme her out into sections and
subsections, lay a little on every part of her body as it is divided, in
common with all her fellow-creatures, in Moor's Almanack. But, alas, I
have not heard a word about her, no cue to begin upon: there was indeed a
buzz about her and her mother's being at old Mrs. So and So's, _who was
like to die_, as the Jews say. But I dare say, keeping up their dialect,
_she was not like to die_. I must tell you a good thing Reynolds _did_.
'Twas the best thing he ever _said_. You know at taking leave of a party
at a doorway, sometimes a man dallies and foolishes and gets awkward, and
does not know how to make off to advantage. Good-bye--well, good-bye--and
yet he does not go; good-bye, and so on,--well, good bless you--you know
what I mean. Now Reynolds was in this predicament, and got out of it in a
very witty way. He was leaving us at Hampstead. He delayed, and we were
pressing at him, and even said "be off," at which he put the tails of his
coat between his legs and sneak'd off as nigh like a spaniel as could be.
He went with flying colours. This is very clever. I must, being upon the
subject, tell you another good thing of him. He began, for the service it
might be of to him in the law, to learn French; he had lessons at the
cheap rate of 2s. 6d. per fag, and observed to Brown, "Gad," says he, "the
man sells his lessons so cheap he must have stolen 'em." You have heard of
Hook, the farce writer. Horace Smith said to one who asked him if he knew
Hook, "Oh yes, Hook and I are very intimate." There's a page of wit for
you, to put John Bunyan's emblems out of countenance.
Tuesday [September 21].
You see I keep adding a sheet daily till I send the packet off, which I
shall not do for a few days, as I am inclined to write a good deal; for
there can be nothing so remembrancing and enchaining as a good long
letter, be it composed of what it may. From the time you left me our
friends say I have altered completely--am not the same person. Perhaps in
this letter I am, for in a letter one takes up one's existence from the
time we last met. I daresay you have altered also--every man does--our
bodies every seven years are completely material'd. Seven years ago it was
not this hand that clinched itself against Hammond. We are like the relict
garments of a saint--the same and not the same, for the careful monks
patch it and patch it till there's not a thread of the original garment
left, and still they show it for St. Anthony's shirt. This is the reason
why men who have been bosom friends, on being separated for any number of
years meet coldly, neither of them knowing why. The fact is they are both
altered.
Men who live together have a silent moulding and influencing power over
each other. They interassimilate. 'Tis an uneasy thought, that in seven
years the same hands cannot greet each other again. All this may be
obviated by a wilful and dramatic exercise of our minds towards each
other. Some think I have lost that poetic ardour and fire 'tis said I once
had--the fact is, perhaps I have; but, instead of that, I hope I shall
substitute a more thoughtful and quiet power. I am more frequently now
contented to read and think, but now and then haunted with ambitious
thoughts. Quieter in my pulse, improved in my digestion, exerting myself
against vexing speculations, scarcely content to write the best verses for
the fever they leave behind. I want to compose without this fever. I hope
I one day shall. You would scarcely imagine I could live alone so
comfortably. "Kepen in solitarinesse." I told Anne, the servant here, the
other day, to say I was not at home if any one should call. I am not
certain how I should endure loneliness and bad weather together. Now the
time is beautiful. I take a walk every day for an hour before dinner, and
this is generally my walk: I go out the back gate, across one street into
the cathedral yard, which is always interesting; there I pass under the
trees along a paved path, pass the beautiful front of the cathedral, turn
to the left under a stone doorway,--then I am on the other side of the
building,--which leaving behind me, I pass on through two college-like
squares, seemingly built for the dwelling-place of deans and prebendaries,
garnished with grass and shaded with trees; then I pass through one of the
old city gates, and then you are in one college street, through which I
pass, and at the end thereof crossing some meadows, and at last a country
alley of gardens, I arrive, that is my worship arrives, at the foundation
of St. Cross, which is a very interesting old place, both for its gothic
tower and alms square and for the appropriation of its rich rents to a
relation of the Bishop of Winchester. Then I pass across St. Cross meadows
till you come to the most beautifully clear river--now this is only one
mile of my walk. I will spare you the other two till after supper, when
they would do you more good. You must avoid going the first mile best
after dinner--
[Wednesday, September 22.]
I could almost advise you to put by this nonsense until you are lifted out
of your difficulties; but when you come to this part, feel with
confidence what I now feel, that though there can be no stop put to
troubles we are inheritors of, there can be, and must be, an end to
immediate difficulties. Rest in the confidence that I will not omit any
exertion to benefit you by some means or other--If I cannot remit you
hundreds, I will tens, and if not that, ones. Let the next year be managed
by you as well as possible--the next month, I mean, for I trust you will
soon receive Abbey's remittance. What he can send you will not be a
sufficient capital to ensure you any command in America. What he has of
mine I have nearly anticipated by debts, so I would advise you not to sink
it, but to live upon it, in hopes of my being able to increase it. To this
end I will devote whatever I may gain for a few years to come, at which
period I must begin to think of a security of my own comforts, when quiet
will become more pleasant to me than the world. Still, I would have you
doubt my success. 'Tis at present the cast of a die with me. You say,
"These things will be a great torment to me." I shall not suffer them to
be so. I shall only exert myself the more, while the seriousness of their
nature will prevent me from nursing up imaginary griefs. I have not had
the blue devils once since I received your last. I am advised not to
publish till it is seen whether the tragedy will or not succeed. Should
it, a few months may see me in the way of acquiring property. Should it
not, it will be a drawback, and I shall have to perform a longer literary
pilgrimage. You will perceive that it is quite out of my interest to come
to America. What could I do there? How could I employ myself out of reach
of libraries? You do not mention the name of the gentleman who assists
you. 'Tis an extraordinary thing. How could you do without that
assistance? I will not trust myself with brooding over this. The following
is an extract from a letter of Reynolds to me:--
"I am glad to hear you are getting on so well with your writings. I hope
you are not neglecting the revision of your poems for the press, from
which I expect more than you do."
The first thought that struck me on reading your last was to mortgage a
poem to Murray, but on more consideration, I made up my mind not to do so;
my reputation is very low; he would not have negotiated my bill of
intellect, or given me a very small sum. I should have bound myself down
for some time. 'Tis best to meet present misfortunes; not for a momentary
good to sacrifice great benefits which one's own untrammell'd and free
industry may bring one in the end. In all this do never think of me as in
any way unhappy: I shall not be so. I have a great pleasure in thinking of
my responsibility to you, and shall do myself the greatest luxury if I can
succeed in any way so as to be of assistance to you. We shall look back
upon these times, even before our eyes are at all dim--I am convinced of
it. But be careful of those Americans. I could almost advise you to come,
whenever you have the sum of L500, to England. Those Americans will, I am
afraid, still fleece you. If ever you think of such a thing, you must bear
in mind the very different state of society here,--the immense
difficulties of the times, the great sum required per annum to maintain
yourself in any decency. In fact the whole is with Providence. I know not
how to advise you but by advising you to advise with yourself. In your
next tell me at large your thoughts about America--what chance there is of
succeeding there, for it appears to me you have as yet been somehow
deceived. I cannot help thinking Mr. Audubon has deceived you. I shall not
like the sight of him. I shall endeavour to avoid seeing him. You see how
puzzled I am. I have no meridian to fix you to, being the slave of what is
to happen. I think I may bid you finally remain in good hopes, and not
tease yourself with my changes and variations of mind. If I say nothing
decisive in any one particular part of my letter, you may glean the truth
from the whole pretty correctly. You may wonder why I had not put your
affairs with Abbey in train on receiving your letter before last, to which
there will reach you a short answer dated from Shanklin. I did write and
speak to Abbey, but to no purpose. Your last, with the enclosed note, has
appealed home to him. He will not see the necessity of a thing till he is
hit in the mouth. 'Twill be effectual.
I am sorry to mix up foolish and serious things together, but in writing
so much I am obliged to do so, and I hope sincerely the tenor of your mind
will maintain itself better. In the course of a few months I shall be as
good an Italian scholar as I am a French one. I am reading Ariosto at
present, not managing more than six or eight stanzas at a time. When I
have done this language, so as to be able to read it tolerably well, I
shall set myself to get complete in Latin, and there my learning must
stop. I do not think of returning upon Greek. I would not go even so far
if I were not persuaded of the power the knowledge of any language gives
one. The fact is I like to be acquainted with foreign languages. It is,
besides, a nice way of filling up intervals, etc. Also the reading of
Dante is well worth the while; and in Latin there is a fund of curious
literature of the Middle Ages, the works of many great men--Aretino and
Sannazaro and Machiavelli. I shall never become attached to a foreign
idiom, so as to put it into my writings. The Paradise Lost, though so fine
in itself, is a corruption of our language. It should be kept as it
is--unique, a curiosity, a beautiful and grand curiosity, the most
remarkable production of the world; a northern dialect accommodating
itself to Greek and Latin inversions and intonations. The purest English,
I think--or what ought to be purest--is Chatterton's. The language had
existed long enough to be entirely uncorrupted of Chaucer's Gallicisms,
and still the old words are used. Chatterton's language is entirely
northern. I prefer the native music of it to Milton's, cut by feet. I have
but lately stood on my guard against Milton. Life to him would be death