Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
or you would never have thought that I really meant you would like to pro
and con about those Honeycombs--no, I had no such idea, or, if I had,
'twould be only to tease you a little for love. So now let me put down in
black and white briefly my sentiments thereon.--Imprimis--I sincerely
believe that Imogen is the finest creature, and that I should have been
disappointed at hearing you prefer Juliet--Item--Yet I feel such a
yearning towards Juliet that I would rather follow her into Pandemonium
than Imogen into Paradise--heartily wishing myself a Romeo to be worthy of
her, and to hear the Devils quote the old proverb, "Birds of a feather
flock together"--Amen.--
Now let us turn to the Seashore. Believe me, my dear Jane, it is a great
happiness to see that you are in this finest part of the year winning a
little enjoyment from the hard world. In truth, the great Elements we know
of, are no mean comforters: the open sky sits upon our senses like a
sapphire crown--the Air is our robe of state--the Earth is our throne, and
the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it--able, like David's harp, to
make such a one as you forget almost the tempest cares of life. I have
found in the ocean's music,--varying (tho self-same) more than the passion
of Timotheus, an enjoyment not to be put into words; and, "though inland
far I be," I now hear the voice most audibly while pleasing myself in the
idea of your sensations.
---- is getting well apace, and if you have a few trees, and a little
harvesting about you, I'll snap my fingers in Lucifer's eye. I hope you
bathe too--if you do not, I earnestly recommend it. Bathe thrice a week,
and let us have no more sitting up next winter. Which is the best of
Shakspeare's plays? I mean in what mood and with what accompaniment do you
like the sea best? It is very fine in the morning, when the sun,
"Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt sea streams,"
and superb when
"The sun from meridian height
Illumines the depth of the sea,
And the fishes, beginning to sweat,
Cry d---- it! how hot we shall be,"
and gorgeous, when the fair planet hastens
"To his home
Within the Western foam."
But don't you think there is something extremely fine after sunset, when
there are a few white clouds about and a few stars blinking--when the
waters are ebbing, and the horizon a mystery? This state of things has
been so fulfilling to me that I am anxious to hear whether it is a
favourite with you. So when you and Marianne club your letter to me put in
a word or two about it. Tell Dilke that it would be perhaps as well if he
left a Pheasant or Partridge alive here and there to keep up a supply of
game for next season--tell him to rein in if Possible all the Nimrod of
his disposition, he being a mighty hunter before the Lord--of the Manor.
Tell him to shoot fair, and not to have at the Poor devils in a
furrow--when they are flying, he may fire, and nobody will be the wiser.
Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, saying that I have not forgiven
myself for not having got her the little box of medicine I promised, and
that, had I remained at Hampstead I would have made precious havoc with
her house and furniture--drawn a great harrow over her garden--poisoned
Boxer--eaten her clothes-pegs--fried her cabbages--fricaseed (how is it
spelt?) her radishes--ragout'd her Onions--belaboured her
_beat_-root--outstripped her scarlet-runners--parlez-vous'd with her
french-beans--devoured her mignon or mignionette--metamorphosed her
bell-handles--splintered her looking-glasses--bullocked at her cups and
saucers--agonised her decanters--put old Phillips to pickle in the
brine-tub--dis_organ_ised her piano--dislocated her candlesticks--emptied
her wine-bins in a fit of despair--turned out her maid to grass--and
astonished Brown; whose letter to her on these events I would rather see
than the original Copy of the Book of Genesis. Should you see Mr. W.
D.[25] remember me to him, and to little Robinson Crusoe, and to Mr.
Snook. Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone to bed, pleased that I
am writing to you. To your brother John (whom henceforth I shall consider
as mine) and to you, my dear friends, Marianne and Jane, I shall ever feel
grateful for having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey. He
delights me in the selfish and (please God) the disinterested part of my
disposition. If the old Poets have any pleasure in looking down at the
enjoyers of their works, their eyes must bend with a double satisfaction
upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is over them, and pray that if,
after my death, any of my labours should be worth saving, they may have so
"honest a chronicler" as Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm in his own
pursuit and for all good things is of an exalted kind--worthy a more
healthful frame and an untorn spirit. He must have happy years to
come--"he shall not die by God."
A letter from John the other day was a chief happiness to me. I made a
little mistake when, just now, I talked of being far inland. How can that
be when Endymion and I are at the bottom of the sea? whence I hope to
bring him in safety before you leave the seaside; and, if I can so
contrive it, you shall be greeted by him upon the sea-sands, and he shall
tell you all his adventures, which having finished, he shall thus
proceed--"My dear Ladies, favourites of my gentle mistress, however my
friend Keats may have teased and vexed you, believe me he loves you not
the less--for instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet he has been
hauling me through the earth and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I know
for all this that he is mighty fond of me, by his contriving me all sorts
of pleasures. Nor is this the least, fair ladies, this one of meeting you
on the desert shore, and greeting you in his name. He sends you moreover
this little scroll--" My dear Girls, I send you, per favour of Endymion,
the assurance of my esteem for you, and my utmost wishes for your health
and pleasure, being ever,
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN KEATS.
XVI.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.
Oxford, Sunday Morn [September 21, 1817].
My dear Reynolds--So you are determined to be my mortal foe--draw a Sword
at me, and I will forgive--Put a Bullet in my Brain, and I will shake it
out as a dew-drop from the Lion's Mane--put me on a Gridiron, and I will
fry with great complacency--but--oh, horror! to come upon me in the shape
of a Dun! Send me bills! as I say to my Tailor, send me Bills and I'll
never employ you more. However, needs must, when the devil drives: and for
fear of "before and behind Mr. Honeycomb" I'll proceed. I have not time to
elucidate the forms and shapes of the grass and trees; for, rot it! I
forgot to bring my mathematical case with me, which unfortunately
contained my triangular Prism so that the hues of the grass cannot be
dissected for you--
For these last five or six days, we have had regularly a Boat on the Isis,
and explored all the streams about, which are more in number than your
eye-lashes. We sometimes skim into a Bed of rushes, and there become
naturalised river-folks,--there is one particularly nice nest, which we
have christened "Reynolds's Cove," in which we have read Wordsworth and
talked as may be. I think I see you and Hunt meeting in the Pit.--What a
very pleasant fellow he is, if he would give up the sovereignty of a Room
pro bono. What Evenings we might pass with him, could we have him from
Mrs. H. Failings I am always rather rejoiced to find in a man than sorry
for; they bring us to a Level. He has them, but then his makes-up are very
good. He agrees with the Northern Poet in this, "He is not one of those
who much delight to season their fireside with personal talk"--I must
confess however having a little itch that way, and at this present moment
I have a few neighbourly remarks to make. The world, and especially our
England, has, within the last thirty years, been vexed and teased by a
set of Devils, whom I detest so much that I almost hunger after an
Acherontic promotion to a Torturer, purposely for their accommodation.
These devils are a set of women, who having taken a snack or Luncheon of
Literary scraps, set themselves up for towers of Babel in languages,
Sapphos in Poetry, Euclids in Geometry, and everything in nothing. Among
such the name of Montague has been pre-eminent. The thing has made a very
uncomfortable impression on me. I had longed for some real feminine
Modesty in these things, and was therefore gladdened in the extreme on
opening the other day, one of Bailey's Books--a book of poetry written by
one beautiful Mrs. Philips, a friend of Jeremy Taylor's, and called "The
Matchless Orinda--" You must have heard of her, and most likely read her
Poetry--I wish you have not, that I may have the pleasure of treating you
with a few stanzas--I do it at a venture--You will not regret reading them
once more. The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A. at parting, you will
judge of.
1
I have examin'd and do find,
Of all that favour me
There's none I grieve to leave behind
But only, only thee.
To part with thee I needs must die,
Could parting sep'rate thee and I.
2
But neither Chance nor Complement
Did element our Love;
'Twas sacred sympathy was lent
Us from the Quire above.
That Friendship Fortune did create,
Still fears a wound from Time or Fate.
3
Our chang'd and mingled Souls are grown
To such acquaintance now,
That if each would resume their own,
Alas! we know not how.
We have each other so engrost,
That each is in the Union lost.
4
And thus we can no Absence know,
Nor shall we be confin'd;
Our active Souls will daily go
To learn each others mind.
Nay, should we never meet to Sense,
Our Souls would hold Intelligence.
5
Inspired with a Flame Divine
I scorn to court a stay;
For from that noble Soul of thine
I ne're can be away.
But I shall weep when thou dost grieve;
Nor can I die whil'st thou dost live.
6
By my own temper I shall guess
At thy felicity,
And only like my happiness
Because it pleaseth thee.
Our hearts at any time will tell
If thou, or I, be sick, or well.
7
All Honour sure I must pretend,
All that is good or great;
She that would be _Rosania's_ Friend,
Must be at least compleat.[A]
If I have any bravery,
'Tis cause I have so much of thee.
8
Thy Leiger Soul in me shall lie,
And all thy thoughts reveal;
Then back again with mine shall flie,
And thence to me shall steal.
Thus still to one another tend;
Such is the sacred name of _Friend_.
9
Thus our twin-Souls in one shall grow,
And teach the World new Love,
Redeem the Age and Sex, and show
A Flame Fate dares not move:
And courting Death to be our friend,
Our Lives together too shall end.
10
A Dew shall dwell upon our Tomb
Of such a quality,
That fighting Armies, thither come,
Shall reconciled be.
We'll ask no Epitaph, but say
Orinda and Rosania.
In other of her poems there is a most delicate fancy of the Fletcher
kind--which we will con over together. So Haydon is in Town. I had a
letter from him yesterday. We will contrive as the winter comes on--but
that is neither here nor there. Have you heard from Rice? Has Martin met
with the Cumberland Beggar, or been wondering at the old Leech-gatherer?
Has he a turn for fossils? that is, is he capable of sinking up to his
Middle in a Morass? How is Hazlitt? We were reading his Table[26] last
night. I know he thinks him self not estimated by ten people in the
world--I wish he knew he is. I am getting on famous with my third