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I^ljvu^ lijiaM-
LIFE,
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JOHN KEATS.
EDITED BY
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET.
1848.
LONPC
EKADBURV AND EVASS, PR
STERS, WEITEFRIARS
JFRANCIS JEFFREY,
ONE OF THE SENATOBS OF THE COLLEGE OF JUSTICE IN SCOTLAND.
Dear Lord Jeffrey,
It is with great pleasure that I dedicate to
you these late memorials and relics of a man, whose
early genius you did much to rescue from the alterna-
tive of obloquy or oblivion.
The merits which your generous sagacity perceived
under so many disadvantages, are now recognised by
every student and lover of poetry in this country, and
have acquired a still brighter fame, in that other and
wider England beyond the Atlantic, whose national
youth is, perhaps, more keenly susceptible of poetic
impressions and delights, than the maturer and more
conscious fatherland.
VI DEDICATION.
I think that the poetical portion of these volumes,
wiU confirm the opinions you hazarded at the time,
when such views were hazardous even to a critical
reputation so well-founded as your own : and I believe
that you will find in the clear transcript of the poet's
mind, conveyed in these familiar letters, more than a
vindication of all the interest you took in a character,
whose moral purity and nobleness is as significant as
its intellectual excellence.
It has no doubt frequently amused you to have
outlived literary reputations, whose sound and glitter
you foresaw would not stand the tests of time and
altered circumstance ; but it is a far deeper source
of satisfaction to have received the ratification by
public opinion of judgments, once doubted or derided,
and thus to have anticipated the tardy justice which
a great work of art frequently obtains, when the hand
of the artist is cold, and the heart, that palpitated
under neglect, is still for ever.
This composition, or rather compilation, has been
indeed a labour of love, and I rejoice to prefix to it a
DEDICATION. VU
name not dearer to public esteem than to private
friendship, — not less worthy of gratitude and of
affection than of high professional honours and wide
intellectual fame.
I remain, dear Lord Jeffrey,
Yours with respect and regard,
R. MONCKTON MiLNES.
Pall Mall,
Aug. 1st, 1848.
PREFACE.
It is now fifteen years ago that I met, at the villa of
my distinguished friend Mr. Landor, on the beautiful
hill-side of Fiesole, Mr. Charles Brown, a retired
Russia-merchant, with whose name I was already
familiar as the generous protector and devoted friend
of the Poet Keats. Mr. Severn the artist, whom I
had known at Rome, had already satisfied much of
my curiosity respecting a man, whom the gods had
favoured with great genius and early death, but had
added to one gift the consciousness of public dis-
regard, and to the other the trial of severe physical
suffering. With the works of Keats I had always
felt a strong poetical sympathy, accompanied by a
ceaseless wonder at their wealth of diction and of
imagery, which was increased by the consciousness
that all that he had produced was rather a promise
PREFACE.
than an accomplishment ; he had ever seemed to me
to have done more at school in poetry, than almost
any other man who had made it the ohject of a
mature life. This adolescent character had given me
an especial interest in the moral history of this Mar-
cellus of the empire of English song, and when my
imagination measured what he might have become
by what he was, it stood astounded at the result.
Therefore the circumstances of his life and
writings appeared to me of a high literary interest,
and I looked on whatever unpublished productions of
his that fell in my way with feelings perhaps not in
all cases warranted by their intrinsic merits. Few of
these remains had escaped the affectionate care of
Mr. Brown, and he told me that he only deferred
their publication till his return to England. This
took place two or three years afterwards, and the pre-
liminary arrangements for giving them to the world
were actually in progress, when the accident of attend-
ing a meeting on the subject of the colonisation of
New Zealand altered all Mr. Brown's plans, and deter-
mined him to transfer his fortunes and the closing
years of his Ufe to the antipodes. Before he left
this country he confided to my care all his collections
of Keats' s writings, accompanied with a biographical
notice, and I engaged to use them to the best of my
abihty for the purpose of \-indicating the character
and advancing the fame of his honoured friend.
As soon as my intention was made known, I
received from the friends and acquaintances of the
poet the kindest assistance. His earUest guide and
companion m hterature, Mr. Cowden Clarke, and
liis comrades in youthful study, Mr. Holmes and
Mr. Felton INIathew, supphed me with all their recol-
lections of his boyhood ; Mr. Reynolds, whom Mr.
Leigh Hunt, in the " Examiner" of 1816, associated
with Shelley and Keats as the three poets of promise
whom time was ripening, contributed the rich store
of correspondence, which began with Keats' s intro-
duction into literary society, and never halted to
the last ; ]Mr. Haslam and Mr. Dilke aided me with
letters and remembrances, and many persons who
casually heard of my project forwarded me informa-
tion that circumstances had placed in their way.
To the enUghtened pubhshers Messrs. Taylor and
Hessey, and to Mr. Olher, I am also indebted for
willing cooperation.
Mr. Leigh Hunt had already laid his offering on
XU PREFACE.
the shrine of his beloved brother in the trials and
triumphs of genius, and could only encourage me by
his interest and sympathy.
I have already mentioned Mr. Severn, without
whom I should probably have never thought of
undertaking the task, and who now offered me the
additional inducement of an excellent portrait of his
friend to prefix to the book : he has also in his pos-
session a small full-length of Keats sitting reading,
which is considered a striking and characteristic
resemblance.
But perhaps the most valuable, as the most confi-
dential communication I received, was from the
gentleman who has married the widow of George
Keats, and who placed at my disposal, with the con-
sent of the family, the letters George received from
his brother after he emigrated to America. I have
taken the liberty of omitting some few unimportant
passages which referred exclusively to individuals or
transitory circumstances, regarding this part of the
correspondence as of a more private character than
any other that has fallen into my hands.
I am not indeed unprepared for the charge,
that I have published in these volumes much that
might well have heeu omitted, both for its own
irrelevancy, and from the decent reverence that
should always veil, more or less, the intimate family
concerns and the deep internal life of those that are
no more. Never has such remonstrance been more
ably expressed than in the following passage from
Mr. Wordsworth's " Letter to a friend of Robert
Bums,"* and which, on account of the rarity of the
pamphlet, I here transcribe: —
" Biography, though differing in some essentials
from works of fiction, is nevertheless like them an
art — an art, the laws of which are determined by the
imperfections of our nature and the constitution of
society. Truth is not here, as in the sciences and in
natural philosophy, to be sought without scruple, and
promulgated for its own sake upon the mere chance
of its being serviceable, but only for obviously jus-
tifying purposes, moral or intellectual. Silence is a
priA-ilege of the grave, a right of the departed; let
him therefore, who infringes that right by speaking
publicly of, for, or against those who cannot speak
for themselves, take heed that he open not his
mouth without a sufficient sanction. * * * *
* Published 1816.
XIV PREFACE.
The general obligation upon which I have insisted
is especially binding upon those who undertake the
biography of authors. Assuredly there is no cause
why the lives of that class of men should be pried
into with diligent curiosity, and laid open with the
same disregard of reserve which may sometimes be
expedient in composing the history of men who have
borne an active part in the world. Such thorough
knowledge of the good and bad qualities of these
latter, as can only be obtained by a scrutiny of their
private bias, conduces to explain, not only their own
public conduct, but that of those with whom they
have acted. Nothing of this applies to authors,
considered merely as authors. Our business is with
their books, to understand and to enjoy them. And
of poets more especially it is true, that if their works
be good, they contain within themselves all that
is necessary to their being comprehended and
relished. It should seem that the ancients thought
in this manner, for of the eminent Greek and Roman
poets, few and scanty memorials were, I believe,
ever prepared, and fewer still are preserved. It is
delightful to read what, in the happy exercise of
his own genius, Horace chooses to communicate of
himself and his friends; but I confess I am not so
much a lover of knowledge independent of its
quality, as to make it likely that it would much
rejoice me were I to hear that records of the Sabine
poet and his contemporaries, composed upon the
Boswellian plan, had been unearthed among the ruins
of Herculaneum."
With this earnest warning before me, I hesitated
some time as to the appHcation of my materials. It
was easy for me to construct out of them a signal
monument of the worth and genius of Keats: by
selecting the circumstances and the passages that
illustrated the extent of his abilities, the purity of
his objects and the nobleness of his nature, I might
have presented to the world a monography, appa-
rently perfect, and at least as real as those which
the affection or pride of the relatives or dependants
of remarkable personages generally prefix to their
works. But I could not be unconscious that, if
I were able to present to public view the true per-
sonality of a man of genius, without either wounding
the feelings of mourning friends or detracting from
his existing reputation, I should be doing a much
better thing in itself, and one much more becoming
XVI PREFACE.
that office of biographer, which I, a personal stranger
to the individual, had consented to undertake. For,
if I left the memorials of Keats to tell their own
tale, they would in truth be the book, and my
business would be almost limited to their collection
and arrangement; whereas, if I only regarded them
as the materials of my own work, the general effect
would chiefly depend on my ability of construction,
and the temptation to render the facts of the story
subservient to the excellence of the work of art
would never have been absent.
I had else to consider which procedure was most
likely to raise the character of Keats in the estima-
tion of those most capable of judging it. I saw how
grievously he was misapprehended even by many who
wished to see in him only what was best. I perceived
that many, who heartily admired his poetry, looked
on it as the production of a wayward, erratic, genius,
self-indulgent in conceits, disrespectful of the rules
and limitations of Art, not only unlearned but care-
less of knowledge, not only exaggerated but des-
pising proportion. I knew that his moral disposition
was assumed to be weak, gluttonous of sensual
excitement, querulous of severe judgment, fantastical
in its tastes, and lackadaisical in its sentiments. He
was all but universally believed to have been killed
by a stupid, savage, article in a review, and to the
compassion generated by his untoward fate he was
held to owe a certain personal interest, which his
poetic reputation hardly justified.
When, then, I found, from the undeniable docu-
mentary evidence of his inmost life, that nothing
could be further from the truth than this opinion, it
seemed to me, that a portrait, so dissimilar from the
general assumption, would hardly obtain credit, and
might rather look like the production of a paradoxical
partiahty than the result of conscientious inqmry. I
had to show that Keats, in his intellectual character,
reverenced simplicity and tnxth above all things, and
abhorred whatever was merely strange and strong —
that he was ever learning and ever growing more con-
scious of his own ignorance, — that his models were
always the highest and the purest, and that his earnest-
ness in aiming at their excellence, was only equal to
the humble estimation of his own efforts — that his
poetical course was one of distinct and positive pro-
gress, exhibiting a self-command and self-direction
which enabled him to understand and avoid the faults
XVm PREFACE.
even of the writers he was most naturally inclined to
esteem, and to liberate himself at once, not only from
the fetters of literary partizanship, but even from the
subtler influences and associations of the accidental
literary spirit of his own time. I had also to exhibit
the moral pecuHarities of Keats as the effects of a
strong will, passionate temperament, indomitable
courage, and a somewhat contemptuous disregard of
other men — to represent him as unflinchingly meeting
all criticism of his writings, and caring for the Article,
which was supposed to have had such homicidal
success, just so far as it was an evidence of the Uttle
power he had as yet acquired over the sympathies of
mankind, and no more. I had to make prominent
the brave front he opposed to poverty and pain —
to show, how love of pleasure was in him continually
subordinate to higher aspirations, notwithstanding
the sharp zest of enjoyment which his mercurial
nature conferred on him ; and above all, I had to
illustrate how little he abused his full possession
of that imaginative faculty, which enables the poet
to vivify the phantoms of the hour, and to purify the
objects of sense, beyond what the moralist may
sanction, or the mere practical man can understand.
I thus came to the conclusion, that it was best
to act simply as editor of the Life which was, as it
were, already written. I had not the right, which
many men yet living might claim from personal
knowledge, of analysing motives of action and
explaining courses of conduct ; I could tell no more
than was told to me, and that I have done as faith-
fully as I was able : and I now leave the result in
the hands of the few whose habits of thought incline
them to such subjects, not, indeed, in the hope that
their task \n\\ be as agreeable as mine has been, but
in the belief, that they will find in it much that is
not mine to appreciate and enjoy : a previous admi-
ration of the works of Keats which have been
already published is the test of their authority to
approve or condemn these supplementary memorials,
and I admit no other.
ERRATA.
VOL. I.
Page 205, line 20, for " Titians," read " Titans."
— 270, last line, instead of
" When lulled Argus, baffled, swooned and slept," &c.
read,
" As Hermes once took to his feathers light."
VOL. II.
Page 295, second line of motto, for
" Than those that made the hyacinthine bell,"
read,
" Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell."
the Philosopher, yet our observation will be more or
less limited and obscured by the sequence of events,
the forms of manners, or the exigencies of theory,
and the personality of the writer must be frequently
lost ; while the Poet, if his utterances be deep and true,
can hai'dly hide himself even beneath the epic or dra-
matic veil, and often makes of the rough public ear a
LIFE AND LETTERS
JOHN KEATS.
TO the Poet, if to any man, it may justly be conceded
to be estimated by what he has written rather
than by what he has done, and to be judged by the
productions of his genius rather than by the circum-
stances of his outward life. For although the choice
and treatment of a subject may enable us to con-
template the mind of the Historian, the Novelist, or
the Philosopher, yet our observation will be more or
less limited and obscured by the sequence of events,
the forms of manners, or the exigencies of theorj-,
and the persouahty of the writer must be frequently
lost ; while the Poet, if his utterances be deep and true,
can hardly hide himself even beneath the epic or dra-
matic veil, and often makes of the rough public ear a
2 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
confessional into which to pour the richest treasures
and holiest secrets of his soul. His Life is in his
■writings, and his Poems are his works indeed.
The biography therefore of a poet can be little
better than a comment on his Poems, even when itself
of long duration, and chequered with strange and
various adventures : but these pages concern one
whose whole story may be summed up in the com-
position of three small volumes of verse, some earnest
friendships, one passion, and a premature death. As
men die, so they walk among posterity ; and our im-
pression of Keats can only be that of a noble nature
perseveringly testing its own powers, of a manly heart
bravely surmounting its first hard experience, and of
an imagination ready to inundate the world, yet
learning to flow witliin regulated channels and abating
its violence without lessening its strength.
It is thus no more than the beginning of a Life
which can here be written, and nothing but a convic-
tion of the singularity and greatness of the fragment
would justify any one in attempting to draw general
attention to its shape and substance. The interest
indeed of the Poems of Keats has already had much of
a personal character : and his early end, like that of
Chatterton, (of whom he ever speaks with a sort of
prescient sympathy) has, in some degree, stood him in
stead of a fulfilled poetical existence. Ever improving
JOHN KEATS. 3
in his art, he gave no reason to believe that his
man'ellous faculty had anything m common with that
Ipical facility "which many men have manifested in
boyhood or in youth, but which has grown torpid or
disappeared altogether with the advance of mature
life ; in him no one doubts that a true genius was
suddenly arrested, and they who will not allow him
to have won his place in the first ranks of English
poets will not deny the promise of his candidature.
When a man has had a fair field of existence before
him and free scope for the exhibition of his energies,
it becomes a superfluous and generally an unpro-
fitable task to collect together the unimportant
incidents of his career and hoard up the scattered
remnants of his mind, most of which he would pro-
bably have himself wished to be forgotten. But in
the instance of Keats, it is a natural feeling in those
who knew and loved, and not an extravagant one in
those who merely admire him, to desire, as far as
may be, to repair the injustice of destiny, and to glean
whatever relics they may find of a harvest of which so
few fuU sheaves were permitted to be garnered.
The interest which attaches to the family of every
remarkable individual has failed to discover in that
of Keats anything more than that the influences with
which his childhood was surrounded were virtuous
and honourable. His father, who was employed in
4 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
the establishment of Mr. Jennings, the proprietor of
large livery-stables on the Pavement in Moorfields,
nearly opposite the entrance into Finsbm-y Circus,
became liis master's son-in-law, and is still remembered
as a man of excellent natural sense, lively and ener-
getic countenance, and entire freedom from any vul-
garity or assumption on account of his prosperous
alliance. He was killed by a fall from his horse in
1804, at the early age of thirty-sis. The mother, a
lively intelligent woman, was supposed to have pre-
maturely hastened the birth of John by her passionate
love of amusement, though his constitution gave no
signs of the peculiar debility of a seventh months
child. He was bom on the 29th of October, 1795.*
He had two brothers, George, older than himself,
Thomas, younger, and a sister much younger ; John
resembled his father in feature stature and manners,
while the two brothers were more like their mother,
who was tall, had a large oval face, and a somewhat
saturnine demeanour. She succeeded however in in-
spiring her children with the profoundest affection,
and especially John, who, when, on an occasion of
illness, the doctor ordered her not to be disturbed
* This point, which has been disputed, (Mr. Leigh Hunt making
him a year younger), is decided by the proceedings in Chancery,
on the administration of his effects, where he is said to have come of
age in October, 1816. Rawlings v. Jennings, June 3rd, 1825.
JOHN KEATS. 5
for some time, kept sentinel at her door for above
three hom's with an old sword he had picked up, and
allowed no one to enter the room. At this time he was
between four and five years old, and later he was sent,
with his brothei-s, to Mr. Clarke's school at Enfield,
which was then in high repute. Harrow had been at
first proposed but was found to be too expensive.
A maternal uncle of the young Keats's had been an
ofiicer in Duncan's ship in the action off Camperdown
and had distinguished himself there both by his signal
braveiy and by his peculiarly lofty stature, which
made him a mai'k for the enemy's shot ; the Dutch
admu'al said as much to him after the battle. This
sailor-imcle was the ideal of the boys, and filled their
imagination when they went to school with the notion
of keeping up the family's reputation for courage.
This was manifested in the elder brother by a passive
manliness, but in John and Tom by the fiercest pug-
nacity. John was always fighting ; he chose his
favourites among his schoolfellows from those that
fought the most readily and pertinaciously, nor were
the brothers loth to exercise their mettle even on one
another. This disposition, however, in all of them,
seems to have been combined with much tenderness,
and, in John, with a passionate sensibility, which ex-
liibited itself in the strongest contrasts. Convulsions
of laughter and of tears were equally frequent with
6 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
him, and he would pass from one to the other almost
without an interval. He gave vent to his impulses
with no regard for consequences ; he violently attacked
an usher who had boxed his brother's ears, and on the
occasion of his mother's death, which occurred sud-
denly, in 1810, (though she had lingered for some
years in a consumption,) he hid himself in a nook
under the master's desk for several days, in a long
agony of grief, and would take no consolation from
master or from friend. The sense of humour, which
almost universally accompanies a deep sensibility,
and is perhaps but the reverse of the medal,
abounded in him ; from the first, he took infinite
delight in any grotesque originality or novel prank of
his companions, and, after the exhibition of "physical
courage, appeared to prize these above all other quali-
fications. His indifference to be thought well of as
" a good boy," was as remarkable as his facility in
getting through the daily tasks of the school, which
never seemed to occupy his attention, but in which he
was never behind the others. His skill in all manly
exercises and the perfect generosity of his disposition,
made him extremely popular : " he combined," writes
one of his schoolfellows, " a terrier-like resoluteness
of character, with the most noble placability," and
another mentions that his extraordinary energy, ani-
mation, and ability, impressed them all with a convic-
JOHN KEATS. 7
tion of his future greatness, " but rather m a military
or some such active sphere of life, than in the peaceful
arena of literature."* This impression was no doubt
unconsciously aided by a rare vivacity of countenance
and very beautiful features. His eyes, then, as ever,
were large and sensitive, flashing with strong emo-
tions or suffused with tender sympathies, and more
distinctly reflected the varying impulses of his nature
than when under the self-control of maturer years :
his hair hung in thick brown ringlets round a
head diminutive for the breadth of the shoulders
below it, while the smallness of the lower limbs,
which in later life marred the proportion of his
person, was not then apparent, any more than the
undue prominence of the lower lip, which afterwards
gave his face too pugnacious a character to be entirely
pleasing, but at that time only completed such an
impression as the ancients had of Achilles, — joyous
and glorious youth, everlastingly striving.
After remaining some time at school his intellectual
ambition suddenly developed itself : he determined
to cany off all the first prizes in literature, and he
succeeded : but the object was only obtained by a total
sacrifice of his amusements and favourite exei'cises.
Even on the half-holidays, when the school was all
out at play, he remained at home translating his
* Mr. E. Holmes, author of the " Life of Mozart," &c.
8 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
Virgil or his Fenelon : it has frequently occurred to
the master to force him out into the open air for his
health, and then he would walk in the garden with
a book in his hand. The quantity of translations on
paper he made during the last two years of his stay at
Enfield was surprising. The twelve books of the
" ^neid " were a portion of it, but he does not appear
to have been familiar with much other and more
difficult Latin poetry, nor to have even commenced
learning the Greek language. Yet Tooke's " Pan-
theon," Spence's " Polymetis, " and Lempriere's
"Dictionary," were sufficient fully to introduce his
imagination to the enchanted world of old mythology ;
with this, at once, he became intimately acquainted,
and a natural consanguinity, so to say, of intellect,
soon domesticated him with the ancient ideal life, so
that his scanty scholarship supplied him with a clear
perception of classic beauty, and led the way to that
wonderful reconstruction of Grecian feeling and fancy,
of which his mind became afterwards capable. He
does not seem to have been a sedulous reader of
other books, but " Ptobinson Crusoe" and Marmontel's
" Incas of Peru" impressed him strongly, and he
must have met with Shakspeare, for he told a school-
fellow considerably younger than himself, " that he
thought no one could dare to read ' Macbeth ' alone
in a house, at two o'clock in the morning."
JOHN KEATS. 9
On the death of their remainmg parent, the young
Keats 's were consigned to the guardianship of Mr.
Abbey, a merchant. About eight thousand pounds were
left to be equally divided among the four children. It
does not appear whether the wishes of John, as to his
destuiation in life, were at all consulted, but on
leaving school in the summer of 1810, he was ap-
prenticed, for five years, to Mr. Hammond, a sm-geon
of some eminence at Edmonton. The vicinity to
Enfield enabled him to keep up his connection
with the family of Mr. Clarke, where he was always
received with familiar kindness. His talents and
energy had strongly recommended him to his pre-
ceptor, and his affectionate disposition endeared him
to his son. In Chai'les Cowden Clarke, Keats found
a friend capable of sjnupathising with all his highest
tastes and finest sentiments, and in this genial at-
mosphere his powers gradually expanded. He was
always borrowing books, which he devoured rather
than read. Yet so little expectation was formed of
the direction his ability would take, that when, in the
beginning of 1812, he asked for the loan of Spenser's
" Fairy Queen," Mr. Clarke remembers that it was
supposed in the family that he merely desired, from
a boyish ambition, to study an illustrious production
of literature. The effect, however, produced on him by
that great work of ideality was electrical : he was in the
10 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
habit of walking over to Enfield at least once a week,
to talk over his reading with his friend, and he
would now speak of nothing but Spenser. A new
world of dehght seemed revealed to him : " he ramped
through the scenes ofthe romance," writes Mr. Clarke,
" like a young horse turned into a spring meadow : "
he revelled in the gorgeousness of the imagery, as in
the pleasures of a sense fresh-found : the force and
felicity of an epithet (such for example as — " the sea-
shouldering whale ") would light up his countenance
with ecstacy, and some fine touch of description would
seem to strike on the secret chords of his soul and
generate countless' harmonies. This in fact was not
only his open presentation at the Court of the Muses,
(for the lines in imitation of Spenser,
" Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
And her first footsteps touched a verdant hill," &c.
are the earliest known verses of his composition,) but
it was the great impulse of his poetic life, and the
stream of his inspiration remained long coloured by
the rich soil over which it first had flowed. Nor
vpill the just critic of the maturer poems of Keats fail
to trace to the influence of the study of Spenser
much that at first appears forced and fantastical
both in idea and in expression, and discover that pre-
cisely those defects which are commonly attributed to
JOHN KEATS. 11
an extravagant originality may be distinguished as
proceeding from a too indiscriminate reverence for a
great but unequal model. In the scanty records which
are left of the adolescent years in which Keats became
a poet, a Sonnet on Spenser, the date of which 1
have not been able to trace, itself illustrates this
view : —
" Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine,
A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
Did, last eve, ask my promise to refine
Some English, that might strive thine ear to please.
But, Elfin-poet ! 'tis impossible
For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise, like Phoebus, with a golden quill,
Fire-winged, and make a morning in his mirth.
It is impossible to 'scape from toil
O' the sudden, and receive thy spiriting :
The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Before it can put forth its blossoming :
Be with me in the summer days and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try."
A few memorials remain of his other studies.
Chaucer evidently gave him the greatest pleasure : he
afterwards complained of the diction as "annoyingly
mixed up vrith Gallicisms," but at the time when he
wrote the Sonnet, at the end of the tale of " The Flower
and the Leaf," he felt nothing but the pm'e breatli
of nature in the moniing of English literatui'e.
His friend Clarke, tired with a long walk, had fallen
12 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
asleep on the sofa with the book in his hand, and
when he woke, the volume was enriched with this
addition,
" This pleasant tale is like a little copse : " &c. *
The strange tragedy of the fate of Chatterton " the
marvellous Boy, the sleepless soul that perished in
its pride," so disgraceful to the age in which it
occurred and so awful a warning to all others of the
cruel evils, which the mere apathy and ignorance of
the world can inflict on genius, is a frequent subject
of allusion and interest in Keats 's letters and poems,
and some lines of the following invocation bear a
mournful anticipatory analogy to the close of the beau-
tiful elegy which Shelley hung over another early grave.
" Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate !
Dear child of sorrow — son of misery !
How soon the film of death obscured that eye.
Whence Genius mildly flashed, and high debate.
How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
Melted in dying numbers ! Oh ! how nigh
Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die
A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate."!*
But this is past: thou art among the stars
Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres
Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning mars,
Above the ingrate world and human fears.
* See the " Literary Remains."
j- Amate. — Affright. Chaucer.
JOHN KEATS. 13
On earth the good man hase detraction hars
From thy fair name, and waters it with tears."
Not long before tliis, Keats had become familiar
■with the works of Lord Byron, and indited a Sonnet,
of little merit, to him in December, 1814 : —
" Byron ! how sweetly sad thy melody !
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, 1
Had touched her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffered them to die.
O'ershading sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful : thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily.
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil.
Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow.
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail.
And like fair veins in sable marble flow ;
Still warble, dying swan ! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe."
Confused as are the imagery and diction of these
lines, their feeling suggests a painful contrast with
the harsh judgment and late remorse of their object,
the proud and successful poet, who never heard of
this imperfect utterance of boyish sympathy and
respect.
The impressible nature of Keats would naturally
incline him to erotic composition, but his early love-
verses are remarkably deficient in beauty and even
in passion. Some which remain in manuscript are
without any interest, and those published in the
14
^ LIFE AND LETTEKS OF
little volume of 1817 are the worst pieces in it. The
world of personal emotion was then far less familiar
to him than that of fancy, and indeed it seems to
have been long before he descended from the ideal
atmosphere in which he dwelt so happily, into the
troubled realities of human love. Not, however, that
the creatures even of his young imagination were
unimbued with natural affections ; so far from it, it may
be reasonably conjectured that it was the interfusion
of ideal and sensual life which rendered the Grecian
mythology so peculiarly congenial to the mind of
Keats, and when the " Endymion" comes to be critically
considered, it will be found that its excellence consists
in its clear comprehension of that ancient spirit of
beauty, to which all outward perceptions so excel-
lently ministered, and which undertook to ennoble and
purify, as far as was consistent with their retention,
the instinctive desires of mankind.
Friendship, generally ardent in youth, would not
remain without its impression in the early poems of
Keats, and a congeniality of literaiy dispositions ap-
pears to have been the chief impulse to these relations.
With Mr. Felton Mathew,* to whom his first published
Epistle was addressed, he appears to have enjoyed a
high intellectual sympathy. This friend had introduced
* A gentleman of high literary merit, now employed in the
administration of the Poor Law.
JOHN KEATS. 15
him to agreeable society, both of books and men, and
those verses were written just at the time when Keats
became fully aware that he had no real interest in the
profession he was sedulously pursuing, and was
already in the midst of that sad conflict between the
outer and inner worlds, which is too often, perhaps
always in some degree, the Poet's heritage in life.
That freedom from the bonds of conventional phra-
seology which so clearly designates true genius, but
which, if unwatched and unchastened, will continually
outrage the perfect form that can alone embalm
the beautiful idea and preserve it for ever, is there
already manifest, and the presence of Spenser shows
itself not only by quaint expressions and curious adap-
tations of rhyme, but by the introduction of the words
"and make a sun-shine in a shady place," applied to the
power of the Muse. Mr. Mathew retains his impression
that at that time "the eye of Keats was more critical
than tender, and so was his mind : he admired more
the external decorations than felt the deep emotions of
the Muse. He delighted in leading you through the
mazes of elaborate description, but was less conscious
of the sublime and the pathetic. He used to spend
many evenings in reading to me, but I never observed
the tears in his eyes nor the broken voice which are
indicative of extreme sensibility." This modification
of a nature at first passionately susceptible and the
16 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
growing preponderance of the imagination is a frequent
phenomenon m poetical psychology.
To his brother George, then a clerk in Mr. Abbey's
house, his next Epistle is addressed, and Spenser is
there too. But by this time the delightful compla-
cency of conscious genius had already dawned upon
his mind and gives the poem an especial interest.
After a brilliant sketch of the present happiness of
the Poet, " his proud eye looks through the film of
death ; " he thinks of leaving behind him lays
" of such a dear delight,
That maids will sing them on their hridal night;"
he foresees that the patriot will thunder out his
numbers,
" To startle princes from their easy slumhers;"
and while he checks himself in what he calls " this
mad ambition," yet lie owns he has felt
" relief from pain,
When some hright thought has darted through my brain —
Through all the day, I 've felt a greater pleasure
Than if I 'd brought to light a hidden treasure."
Although this foretaste of fame is in most cases a
delusion (as the fame itself may be a greater delusion
still), yet it is the best and purest drop in the cup of
intellectual ambition. It is enjoyed, thank God, by
JOHN KEATS. 17
thousands, who soon learn to estimate their own capa-
cities aright and tranquilly submit to the obscxire and
transitoiy condition of their existence : it is felt by
many, who look back on it in after years with a smiling
pity to thiak they were so deceived, but who never-
theless recognise in that aspiration the spring of their
future energies and usefulness in other and far different
fields of action ; and the few, in whom the prophecy is
accomplished — who become what they have believed
— will often turn away with uneasy satiety from pre-
sent satisfaction to the memory of those happy hopes,
to the thought of the dear delight they then derived
from one single leaf of those laurels that now crowd in
at the window, and which the hand is half inclined
to push away to let in the fresh air of heaven.
The lines
"As to my Sonnets — though none else should heed them,
I feel delighted still that you should read them,"
occur in this Epistle, and several of these have been
preserved besides those published or already men-
tioned. Some, indeed, are mere experiments in this
difficult but attractive form of composition, and others
evidently refer to forgotten details of daily life and
are unmeaning without them. A few of unequal power
and illustrative of the progress of genius should not
be forgotten, while those contained in the first volume
of his Poems are perhaps the most remarkable pieces
18 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
in it. They are as noble in thought, rich in expres-
sion, and harmonious in rhythm as any in the
language, and among the best may be ranked that
" On first looking into Chapman's Homer." Unable
as he was to read the original Greek, Homer had
as yet been to him a name of solemn significance,
and nothing more. His friend and literary counsellor,
Mr, Clarke, happened to borrow Chapman's transla-
tion, and having invited Keats to read it with him one
evening, they continued their study till daylight. He
describes Keats 's delight as intense, even to shouting
aloud, as some passage of especial energy struck his
imagination. It was fortunate that he was introduced
to that heroic company through an intei"pretation
which preserves so much of the ancient simplicity, and
in a metre that, after all various attempts, including
that of the hexameter, still appears the best adapted,
from its pauses and its length, to represent in English
the Greek epic verse. An accomplished scholar may
perhaps be unwilling, or unable, to understand how
thoroughly the imaginative reader can fill up the neces-
sary defects of any translation which adheres, as far as
it may, to the tone and spirit of the original, and does
not introduce fresh elements of thought, incongruous
ornaments, or cumbrous additions; be it bald and tame,
he can clothe and colour it — be it harsh and ill-jointed,
he can perceive the smoothness and completeness that
JOHN' KEATS. 19
has beeu lost; only let it not be like Pope's Homer,
a new ■work with an old name — a portrait, itself of con-
siderable power and beauty, but in which the featux'es
of the indi^'idual are scarcely to be recognised. The
Sonnet in which these his first impressions are con-
centrated, was left the following day on Mr. Clai'kes
table, realising the idea of that form of verse ex-
pressed by Keats himself in his thu'd Epistle, as —
" swelling loudly
Up to its climax, and then dying proudly."
This Epistle is written in a bolder and freer strain
than the others ; the Poet in excusing himself for
not having addressed his Muse to Mr. Clarke before,
on account of his inferiority to the great masters of
song, implies that he is growing conscious of a pos-
sible brotherhood with them ; and his terse and true
description of the various orders of verse, with which
his friend has familiarised his mind — the Sonnet, as
above cited — the Ode,
" Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load," "4
the Epic,
" of all the king,
Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring,"
and last,
" The sharp, the rapier-pointed Epigram, — "
betokens the justness of perception generally allied
with redundant fancy.
c 2
20 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
These notices have anticipated the period of the ter-
mination of Keats's apprenticeship and his removal to
London, for the purpose of walking the hospitals. He
lodged in the Poultry, and having been introduced by
Mr. Clarke to some literary friends soon found himself
in a circle of minds which appreciated his genius
and stimulated him to exertion. One of his first
acquaintance, at that time eminent for his poetical origi-
nality and his political pei'secutions, was Mr. Leigh
Hunt, who was regarded by some with admiration,
by others with ridicule, as the master of a school of
poets, though in truth he was only their encourager,
sympathiser, and friend ; while the unpopularity of his
liberal and cosmopolite politics was visited with indis-
criminating injustice on all who had the happiness of
his friendship or even the gratification of his society.
In those days of hard opinion, which we of a freer
and worthier time look upon with indignation and
surprise, Mr. Hunt had been imprisoned for the pub-
lication of phrases which, at the most, were indecorous
expressions of public feeling, and became a traitor or
a martyr according to the temper of the spectator.
The heart of Keats leaped towards him in human
and poetic brotherhood, and the earnest Sonnet on
the day he left his prison riveted the connexion.
They read and walked together, and wrote verses in
competition on a given subject. " No imaginative
JOHN KEATS. 21
pleasure," characteristically observes Mr. Hunt, " was
left unnoticed by us or unenjoyed, from the recol-
lection of the bards and patinots of old, to the luxury
of a summer rain at oui" windows, or the clicking of
the coal in winter time." Thus he became intimate
with Hazlitt, Shelley, Haydon, and Godwin, with Mr.
Basil Montague and his distinguished family, and
with Mr. Oilier, a young publisher, himself a poet,
who, out of sheer admiration, offered to publish a
volume of his productions. The poem with which it
commences was suggested to Keats by a delightful sum-
mers-day, as he stood beside the gate that leads from
the Battery, on Hampstead Heath, into a field by
Caen Wood; and the last, " Sleep and Poetry," was
occasioned by his sleeping in Mr. Hunt's pretty
cottage, in the vale of Health, in the same quarter.
These two pieces, being of considerable length, tested
the strength of the young poet's fancy, and it did not
fail. For the masters of song will not only rise
lark-like with quivering wings in the sunlight, but
must train their powers to sustain a calm and pro-
tracted flight, and pass, as if poised in air, over the
heads of mankind. Yet it was to be expected that
the apparent faults of Keats's style would be here
more manifest than in his shorter efforts ; poetry to
him was not yet an Art ; the irregularities of his
own and other verse were no more to him than the
22 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
inequalities of that nature, of which he regarded
himself as the interpreter ;
" For what has made the sage or poet write,
But the fair paradise of Nature's light ?
In the calm grandeur of a soher line
We see the waving of the mountain pine.
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade."
He had yet to learn that Art should purify and
elevate the Nature that it comprehends, and that the
ideal loses nothing of its truth hy aiming at perfection
of form as well as of idea. Neither did he like to
regard poetry as a matter of study and anxiety, or as a
representative of the struggles and troubles of the
mind and heart of men. He said most exquisitely,
that—
" a di-ainless shower
Of light is Poesy — 'tis the supreme of power ;
'Tis Might half-slumbering on its own right arm."
He thought that —
" strength alone, though of the Muses born.
Is like a fallen angel — trees uptorn.
Darkness and worms and shrouds and sepulchres
Delight it — for it feeds upon the burrs
And thorns of life, forgetting the great end
Of Poesy, that it should be a friend
To soothe the cares and lift the thoughts of men."
And yet Keats did not escape the charge of sacrificing
beauty to supposed intensity, and of merging the
abiding grace of his song in the passionate fantasies of
JOHN KEATS. 23
the moment. Words indeed seem to have been
often selected by him rather for their force and their
harmony, than according to any just rules of diction ;
if he met with a word anywhei'e in an old writer that
took his fancy he inserted it in his verse on the first
opportunity; and one has a kind of impression that
he must have thought aloud as he was writing, so
that many an ungainly phrase has acquired its place
by its assonance or harmony, or capability to rhyme,
(for he took great pleasure in fresh and original rhymes)
rather than for its grammatical correctness or even
justness of expression. And when to this is added
the example set him by his great master Spenser,
of whom a noted man of letters has been heard irre-
verently to assert " that eveiy Englishman might be
thankful that Spenser's gibberish had never become
part and parcel of the language," the wonder is rather
that he sloughed off so fast so many of his offending
peculiarities, and in his third volume attained so great
a purity and concinnity of phraseology, that little was
left to designate either his poetical education or his
literaiy associates.
At the completion of the matter for this first volume
he gave a striking proof of his facility in composition ;
he was engaged with a lively circle of friends when
the last proof-sheet was brought in, and he was re-
quested by the printer to send the Dedication dix*ectly,
f
24 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
if he intended to have one : he went to a side-table,
and while all around were noisily conversing, he sat
down and wrote the sonnet —
" Glory and loveliness have passed away," &c. &c.
which, but for the insertion of one epithet of doubtful
taste, is excellent in itself, and curious, as showing how
he already had possessed himself with the images of
Pagan beauty, and was either mourning over their
decay and extinction, or attempting, in his own way,
to bid them live again. For in him was realised the
mediaeval legend of the Venus-worshipper, without its
melancholy moral ; and while the old Gods rewarded
him for his love with powers and perceptions that a
Greek might have envied, he kept his affections high
and pure above these sensuous influences, and led a
temperate and honest life in an ideal world that knows
nothing of duty and repels all images that do not
please.
This little book, the beloved first-born of so great
a genius, scarcely touched the public attention. If,
indeed, it had become notable, it would only have been
to the literary formalist the sign of the existence of a
new Cockney poet whom he was bound to criticise and
annihilate, and to the political bigot the production of
a fresh member of a revolutionary Propaganda to be
hunted down with ridicule or obloquy, as the case
JOHN KEATS. 25
might require. But these honours were reserved for
maturer labour's ; beyond the circle of ardent friends
and admirers, -which comprised most of the most
remarkable minds of the period, it had hardly a
purchaser ; and the contrast between the admiration he
had, perhaps in excess, enjoyed among his immediate
acquaintance, and the entire apathy of mankind with-
out, must have been a hard lesson to his sensitive
spirit. It is not sui^prising therefore, that he attributed
his want of success to the favourite scape-goat of un-
happy authors, an inactive publisher, and incurred the
additional affliction of a breach of his friendship with
Mr. OlUer.
Mr. Haydon, Mr. Dilke, Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Wood-
house, Mr. Rice, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Hessey, Mr. Bailey,
and Mr. Haslam, were his chief companions and cor-
respondents at this period. The first name of this
list now excites the most painful associations : it recals
a life of long struggle without a prize, of persevering
hope stranded on despair ; high talents laboriously
applied earning the same catastrophe as waits on
abilities vainly wasted ; frugality, self-denial, and
simple habits, leading to the penalties of profligacy
and the death of distraction ; an mdependent genius
starving on the crumbs of ungenial patronage, and
even these failing him at the last ! It might be
that Haydon did not so realise his conceptions as to
/
26 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
make them to other men -what they were to himself; it
might be that he over-estimated his own aesthetic,
powers, and underrated those provinces of art in which
some of his contemporaries excelled ; but surely a man
should not have been so left to perish, whose passion for
lofty art, notwithstanding all discouragements, must
have made him dear to artists, and whose capabilities
were such as in any other coimtry would have assured
him at least competence and reputation — perhaps
wealth and fame.
But at this time the destiny of Haydon seemed to
be spread out very differently before him; if ever
stern presentiments came across his soul, Art and
Youth had then colours bright enough to chase them
all away. His society seems to have been both agree-
able and instructive to Keats. It is easy to conceive
what a revelation of greatness the Elgin Marbles
must have been to the yoimg poets mind, when he
saw them for the first time, in March, 1817. The
following Sonnets on the occasion were written directly
after, and published in the " Examiner." With more
polish they might have been worthy of the theme, but
as it is, the diction, of the first especially, is obscure
though vigorous, and the thought does not come
out in the clear unity becoming the Sonnet, and
attained by Keats so successfully on many other
subjects : —
JOHN KEATS. Q7
ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES.
My spirit is too weak ; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain,
Bring round the heart an indescribable feud ;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
The image of the " Eagle " is beautiful in itself,
and interesting in its application.
TO HAYDON.
(with the above.)
Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speak
Definitively of these mighty things ;
Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings,
That what I want I know not where to seek.
And think that I would not be over-meek.
In rolling out upfoUowed thunderings,
Even to the steep of Heliconian springs.
Were I of ample strengtli for such a freak.
Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine ;
Whose else ? In this who touch thy vesture's hem ?
28 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
For, when men stared at what was most divine
With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm,
Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine
Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them !
Ill the previous autumn Keats was in the habit of
frequently passing the evening in his friend's paint-
ing-room, "where many men of genius were wont to
meet, and, sitting before some picture on which he
was engaged, criticise, argue, defend, attack, and
quote their favourite writers. Keats used to call it
" Making us wings for the night." The morning
after one of these innocent and happy symposia,
Haydon received a note inclosing the picturesque
Sonnet
" Great Spirits now on Earth are sojourning," &c.
Keats adding, that the preceding evening had wrought
him up, and he could not forbear sending it. Haydon
in his acknowledgment, suggested the omission of part
of it ; and also mentioned that he would forward it to
Wordsworth ; he received this reply : —
My deab Sir,
Your letter has filled me with a proud
pleasure, and shall be kept by me as a stimulus to
exertion. I begin to fix my eyes on an horizon.
My feelings entirely fall in with yours with regard to
the ellipsis, and I glory in it. The idea of your
JOHN KEATS. 29
sending it to Wordsworth puts me out of breath — you
know with what reverence I would send my well-
wishes to him.
Yours sincerely,
John Keats.
It should here be remembered that Wordsworth
was not then what he is now, that he was confounded
with much that was thought ridiculous and unmanly in
the new school, and that it was something for so young
a student to have torn away the veil of prejudice then
hanging over that now-honoured name, and to have
proclaimed his reverence in such earnest words, while
so many men of letters could only scorn or jeer.
The imcongenial profession to which Keats had
attached himself now became every day more repul-
sive. A book of very careful annotations, preserved
by Mr. Dilke, attests his diligence, although a fellow-
student,- who lodged in the same house, describes
him at the lectures as scribbling doggerel rhymes
among the notes, particularly if he got hold of another
student's syllabus. Of course, his peculiar tastes did
not find much sympathy in that society. Whenever
he showed his graver poetry to his companions, it was
pretty sure to be ridiculed and severely handled.
They were therefore surprised when, on presenting
* Mr. H. Stephens.
30 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
himself for examination at Apothecaries' Hall, he
passed his examination with considerable credit.
When, however, he entered on the practical part of
his business, although successful in all his operations,
he found his mind so oppressed during the task with an
over-wrought apprehension of the possibility of doing
harm, that he came to the determined conviction that
he was unfit for the line of life on which he had ex-
pended so many years of his study and a considerable
part of his property. " My dexterity," he said, " used
to seem to me a miracle, and I resolved never to take
up a surgical mstrament again," and thus he found
himself on his first entrance into manhood thrown on
the world almost without the means of daily subsist-
ence, but with many friends interested in liis for-
tunes, and with the faith in the future which generally
accompanies the highest genius. Mr. Haydou seems
to have been to him a wise and prudent counsellor,
and to have encouraged him to brace his powers by
undistracted study, while he advised him to leave
London for awhile, and take more care of his health.
The following note, written in March, shows that
Keats did as he was recommended : —
My Dear Reynolds,
My brothers are anxious that I should
go by myself into the countiy ; they have always been
JOHN KEATS. 81
ex-tremely foud of me, and now that Haydon has
pointed out how necessary it is that I should be alone
to improve myself, they give up the temporary plea-
sure of being with me continually for a great good which
I hope will follow ; so I shall soon be out of town. You
must soon bring all your present troubles to a close,
and so must I, but we must, like the Fox, prepare
for a fresh swarm of flies. Banish money — Banish
sofas — Banish wine — Banish music ; but right Jack
Health, honest Jack Health, tnie Jack Health.
Banish Health and banish all the world.
Your sincere friend,
John Keats.
During his absence he wrote the following letters.
The correspondence with Mr. Reynolds will form so
considerable a portion of this volume, and will so dis-
tinctly enunciate the invaluable worth of his friend-
ship to Keats, that one can only regret that both
portions of it are not preserved.*
* It is also to be lamented that Mr, Reynolds's own remark-
able verse is not better known. Lord Byron speaks with praise
of several pieces, and attributes some to Moore. " The Fancy,"
published under the name of Peter Corcoran, and " The Garden of
Florence," under that of John Hamilton, are full of merit, espe-
cially the former, to which is prefixed one of the liveliest specimens
of fictitious biography I know.
32 life and letters of
Carisbrooke,
April nth, 1817.
My Dear Keynolds,
Ever since I wrote to my brother from
Southampton, I have been in a taking, and at this
moment I am about to become settled, for I have
unpacked my books, put them into a snug comer,
pinned up Hay don, Mary Queen [of] Scots, and Mil-
ton with his daughters in a row. In the passage I
found a head of Shakspeare, which I had not before
seen. It is most likely the same that George spoke
so well of, for I like it extremely. Well, this head
I have hung over my books, just above the three in a
row, having first discarded a French Ambassador ;
now this alone is a good morning's work. Yesterday
I went to Shanklin, which occasioned a great debate
in my mind whether I should live there or at Caris-
brooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful place ; sloping
wood and meadow ground reach round the Chine,
which is a cleft between the cliffs, of the depth
of nearly 300 feet at least. This cleft is filled with
trees and bushes in the narrow part ; and as it widens
becomes bare, if it were not for primroses on one side,
which spread to the very verge of the sea, and some
fishermen's huts on the other, perched midway in
the balustrades of beautiful green hedges along the
steps down to the sands. But the sea, Jack, the
JOHN KEATS. 33
sea, the little waterfall, then the white cliflf, then
St. Catherine's Hill, " the sheep in the meadows, the
cows in the corn." Then why are you at Caris-
brooke ? say you. Because, in the first place, I should
be at twice the expense, and three times the incon-
venience ; next, that from here I can see your conti-
nent from a little hill close by, the whole 'north angle
of the Isle of Wight, with the water between us ; in
the third place, I see Carisbrooke Castle from my
window, and have found several delightful wood
alleys, and copses, and quiet freshes ; as for prim-
roses, the Island ought to be called Primrose Island,
that is, if the nation of Cowshps agree thereto, of
which there are divers clans just beginning to lift
up their heads. Another reason of my fixing is, that
I am more in reach of the places around me. I
intend to walk over the Island, east, west, north,
south. I have not seen many specimens of ruins.
I don't think, however, I shall ever see one to sur-
pass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is overgrown
with the smoothest turf, and the walls with ivy. The
Keep within side is one bower of ivy ; a colony of
jackdaws have been there for many years. I dare
say I have seen many a descendant of some old cawer
who peeped through the bars at Charles the First,
when he was there in confinement. On the road from
Cowes to Newport I saw some extensive Barracks,
VOL. I. D
34 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
which disgusted me extremely with the Government
for placing such a nest of debauchery in so beautiful a
place. I asked a man on the coach about this, and
he said that the people had been spoiled. In the
room where I slept at Newport, I found this on
the window ; — " Isle spoilt by the milatary ! "
The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that it would
be no bad thing to be the favourite of some Fairy,
who would give one the power of seeing how our
friends got on at a distance. I should like, of all
loves, a sketch of you, and Tom, and George in ink :
which Haydon will do if you tell him how I want
them. From want of regular rest I have been rather
narvus, and the passage in Lear, " Do you not hear
the sea ! " has haunted me intensely.
" It keeps eternal whisperings around,'" &c,*
April, 18th.
1 11 tell you what — on the 23 rd was Shakespeare
born. Now if I should receive a letter from you,
and another from my brother on that day, 'twould be
a parlous good thing. Whenever you write, say a word
or two on some passage in Shakespeare that may have
come rather new to you, which must be continually
happening, notwithstanding that we read the same
play forty times — ^for instance, the following from the
Tempest never struck me so forcibly as at present : —
* See the "Literary Remains."
JOHN KEATS. 35
"Urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee."
How can I help bringing to your mind the line —
" In the dark backward and abysm of time."
I find I cannot exist -without Poetry — without eternal
Poetiy ; half the day will not do the whole of it. I
began with a little, but habit has made me a leviathan.
I had become all in a tremble from not having written
anything of late : the Sonnet over-leaf (i. e. on the
preceding page) did me good; I slept the better last
night for it ; this morning, however, I am nearly as
bad again. Just now I opened Spenser, and the first
lines I saw were these —
" The noble heart that harbours virtuous thought.
And is with child of glorious great intent.
Can never rest until it forth have brought
Th' eternal brood of glory excellent."
Let me know particularly about Haydon, ask laim to
write to me about Hunt, if it be only ten lines. I
hope all is well. I shall forthwith begin my " Endy-
mion," which I hope I shall have got some way with
before you come, when we will read our verses in a
delightful place, I have set my heart upon, near the
Castle. Give my love to your sisters severally.
Your sincere friend,
John Keats.
36 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
(Without date, but written early in May, 1817).
Margate.
My dear Haydon,
" Let Fame, that all pant after in their lives,
Live registered upon our brazen tombs,
And so grace us in the disguise of death ;
When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,
The endeavour of this present breath may bring
That honor vphich shall bate his scythe's keen edge,
And make us heirs of all eternity."
To think that I have no right to couple myself
with you in this speech would be death to me, so I
have e'en written it, and I pray God that our
" brazen tombs " be nigh neighbours.* It cannot
be long first ; the " endeavour of this present breath "
will soon be over, and yet it is as well to breathe
freely during our sojourn — it is as well if you
have not been teased \?ith that money affair, that
bill-pestilence. However, I must think that diffi-
culties nerve the spirit of a man ; they make our
prime objects a refuge as well as a passion ; the
trumpet of Fame is as a tower of strength, the
ambitious bloweth it, and is safe. I suppose, by your
telling me not to give way to forebodings, George
has been telling you what I have lately said in my
* To the copy of this letter, given me by Mr. Haydon on the
14th of May, 1846, a note was affixed at this place, in the words
" Perhaps they may be." — Alas ! no.
JOHN KEATS. 37
letters to him ; truth is, I have been in such a state
of miud as to read over my lines and to hate them.
I am one that " gathereth samphire, dreadful trade;"
the cUff of Poetry towers above me ; yet when my
brother reads some of Pope's Homer, or Plutarch's
Lives, they seem like music to mine. I read and
write about eight hours a-day. There is an old saying,
" Well begun is half done; " 'tis a bad one ; I would
use instead, " Not begun at all till half done ;" so,
according to that, I have not begun my Poem, and
consequently, a priori, can say nothing about it ;
thank God, I do begin ardently, when I leave off,
notwithstanding my occasional depressions, and I
hope for the support of a high power while I climb
this little emmence, and especially in my years of
more momentous laboui*. I remember your saying
that you had notions of a good Genius presiding over
you. I have lately had the same thought, for things
which, done half at random, are afterwards confirmed
by my judgment in a dozen features of propriety. Is
it too daring to fancy Shakespeare this presider ?
when in the Isle of Wight I met ^vith a Shakespeare
in the passage of the house at which I lodged. It
comes nearer to my idea of him than any I have
seen ; I was but there a week, yet the old woman
made me take it with me, though I went off in a
hurry. Do you not think this ominous of good ? I
3B LIFE AND LETTERS OF
ain glad you say every man of gi'eat %dews is at times
tormented as I am.
(Sunday after). This morning I received a letter
from George, by wliich it appears that money troubles
are to follow up for some time to come — perhaps for
always : those vexations are a great hindrance to one ;
they are not, like envy and detraction, stimulants to
further exertion, as being immediately relative and
reflected on at the same time with the prime object ;
but rather like a nettle-leaf or two in your bed. So
now I revoke my promise of finishing my Poem by
autumn, which I should have done had I gone on as
I have done. But I cannot write while my spirit is
fevered in a contrary direction, and I am now sure
of having plenty of it this summer ; at this moment
I am in no enviable situation. I feel that I am not
in a mood to write any to-day, and it appears that the
loss of it is the beginning of all sorts of irregularities.
I am extremely glad that a time must come when
everj-thing will leave not a wrack behind. You tell
me never to despair. I wish it was as easy for me to
observe this saying : truth is, T have a horrid mor-
bidity of temperament, which has shown itself at
intervals ; it is, I have no doubt, the greatest stum-
bling-block I have to fear ; I may surer say, it is
likely to be the cause of my disappointment. How-
ever, every Ul has its share of good ; this, my bane,
JOHN KEATS. 39
would at any time enable me to look with au obstinate
eye on the very devil himself; or, to be as proud to
be the lowest of the human race, as Alfred would be
in being of the highest. I am very sm'e that you do
love me as your very brother. I have seen it in your
continual anxiety for me, and I assure you that your
welfare and fame is, and will be, a chief pleasure to
me all my life. I know no one but you who can be
fully aware of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of
all that is called comfort, the readiness to measure
time by what is done, and to die in sLx hom's, could
plans be brought to conclusions ; the looking on the
sun, the moon, the stars, the earth, and its contents,
as mateiials to form greater things, that is to say,
ethereal things — but here I am talking like a mad-
man, — greater things than our Creator himself made.
I wi'ote to yesterday : scarcely know what I
said in it ; I could not talk about poetry in the way
I should have liked, for I was not in humour with
either his or mine. There is no greater sin, after
the seven deadly, than to flatter one's self into the
idea of being a great poet, or one of those beings who
are privileged to wear out their lives in the pursuit
of honour. How comfortable a thing it is to feel
that such a crime must bring its heavy penalty, that
if one be a self-deluder, accounts must be balanced !
I am glad you are hard at work ; it will now soon be
40 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
done. I long to see Wordsworth's, as well as to have
mine in ; but I would rather not show my face in
town till the end of the year, if that would be time
enough ; if not, I shall be disappointed if you do not
write me ever when you think best. I never quite
despair, and I read Shakespeare, — indeed, I shall, I
think, never read any other book much ; now this
might lead me into a very long confab, but I desist.
I am very near agreeing with HazHtt, that Shake-
speare is enough for us. By-the-bye, what a tremen-
dous Southean article this last was. I wish he had
left out " grey hairs." It was very gratifying to
meet your remarks on the manuscript. I was reading
Antony and Cleopatra when I got the paper, and
there are several passages applicable to the events
you commentate. You say that he arrived by degrees,
and not by any single struggle, to the height of his
ambition, and that his life had been as common in
particular as other men's. Shakespeare makes
Enobarbus say,
" Where 's Antony ?
Eros. He 's walking in the g<arden, and spurns
The rush before him ; cries, Fool, Lepidus ! "
In the same scene we find —
" Let determined things
To destiny hold unbewailed their way."
Dolabella says of Antony's messenger.
JOHN KEATS. 41
" An argument that he is plucked, when hither
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing."
Then again Enobarbus :
" men's judgments are
A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them,
To suffer all alike."
The following applies well to Bertrand ;
" Yet he that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fallen Lord,
Does conquer him, that did his master conquer,
And earns a place i' the story."
'Tis good, too, that the Duke of Wellington has a
good word or so in the " Examiner ; " a man ought to
have the fame he deserves ; and I begin to think
that detracting from him is the same thing as from
Wordsworth. I wish he (Wordsworth) had a little
more taste, and did not in that respect " deal in
Lieutenantry." You should have heard from me
before this ; but, in the first place, I did not like to
do so, before I had got a little way in the first Book,
and in the next, as G. told me you were going to
write, I delayed till I heard from you. So now in
the name of Shakespeare, Raphael, and all our Saints,
I commend you to the care of Heaven.
Your everlasting friend,
John Keats.
49 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
In the early part of May, it appears from the fol-
lowing extract of a letter to Mr. Hunt, * written from
Margate, that the sojourn in the Isle of Wight had
not answered liis expectations : the solitude, or rather
the company of self, was too much for him,
" I went to the Isle of Wight, thought so much
about poetry, so long together, that I could not get
to sleep at night ; and moreover, I know not how it
is, I could not get wholesome food. By this means,
in a week or so, I became not over capable in my
upper stories, and set off pell-mell for Margate, at
least a hundred and fifty miles, because, forsooth, I
fancied I should like my old lodgings here, and could
continue to do without trees. Another thing, I Avas too
much in solitude, and consequently was obliged to be
in continual burning of thought as an only resource.
However, Tom is with me at present, and we are very
comfortable. We intend, though, to get among some
trees. How have you got on among them ? How
are the nymphs ? — I suppose they have led you a
fine dance. Where are you now ?
" I have asked myself so often why I should be a
Poet more than other men, seeing how great a thing
it is, how great things are to be gained by it, what a
thing to be in the mouth of Fame, that at last the
* Given entire in the first volume of " Lord Byron and some of
his Contemporaries."
JOHN KEATS, 43
idea has grown so monstrously beyond my seeming
power of attainment, that the other day I nearly con-
sented with myself to drop into a Phaeton. Yet 'tis
a disgrace to fail even in a huge attempt, and at this
moment I drive the thought from me. I begun
my poem about a fortnight since, and have done some
every day, except travelling ones. Perhaps I may
have done a good deal for the time, but it appears
such a pin's point to me, that I "will not copy any out.
When I consider that so many of these pin-points go
to form a bodkin-point (God send I end not my life
with a bare bodkin, in its modem sense), and that it
requires a thousand bodkins to make a spear bright
enough to throw any light to posterity, I see nothing
but continual up-hill journeying. Nor is there any-
thing more unpleasant (it may come among the
thousand and one) than to be so journeying and to
miss the goal at last. But I intend to Tvhistle all
these cogitations into the sea, where I hope they will
breed storms \iolent enough to block up all exit from
Piussia.
"Does Shelley go on telling ' strange stories of
the deaths of kings ? ' * Tell him there are strange
* Mr. Hunt mentions that Shelley was fond of quoting the
passage in Shakespeare, and of applying it in an unexpeeted
manner. Travelling with him once to town in the Hampstead
stage, in which their only companion was an old lady, who sat
44 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
stories of the death of poets. Some have died before
they were conceived. ' How do you make that out,
Master Vellum ? ' "
This letter is signed " John Keats alias Junkets,"
an appellation given him in play upon his name,
and in allusion to his friends of Fairy-land.
The poem here begun was " Endymion." In the
first poem of the early volume some lines occur
showing that the idea had long been germinating in
his fancy ; and, how suggestive of a multitude of
images is one such legend to an earnest and con-
stnictive mind !
" He was a poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmos' top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ;
And brought, in faintness, solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian's temple — while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling. —
But, though her face was clear as infants' eyes.
Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
silent and stiff, after the English fashion, Shelley startled her into
a look of the most ludicrous astonishment by saying abruptly,
« Hist !
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell strange stories of the deaths of kings."
The old lady looked on the coach floor, expecting them to take
their seats accordingly.
JOHN KEATS. 45
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such heauty should he desolate :
So, in fine wrath, some golden sounds he won.
And gave meek Cynthia her EndjTnion."
And the description of the effect of the union of
the Poet and the Goddess on universal nature is
equal in vivacity and tenderness to anything in the
maturer work.
'■ The evening weather was so hright and clear
That men of health were of unusual cheer.
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal ;
And lovely woman there is fair and warm.
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal and pure,
And crept through half-closed lattices, to cure
The languid sick ; it cooled their fevered sleep,
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke, clear-eyed, nor burnt with thirsting,
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting.
And springing up they met the wond'ring sight
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight,
Who feel their arms and breasts, and kiss and stare.
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men and maidens at each other gazed
With hands held back and motionless, amazed
To see the brightness in each other's eyes ;
And so they stood, filled with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loosed in poesy :
Therefore no lover did of anguish die.
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken."
46 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
George Keats had now for some time left the count-
ing-house of Mr. Abbey, his guardian, on account of
the conduct of a younger partner towards him, and
had taken lodgings with his two brothers. Mr.
Abbey entertained a high opinion of his practical
abilities and energies, which experience shortly veri-
fied. Tom, the youngest, had more of the poetic and
sensitive temperament, and the bad state of health
into which he fell, on entering manhood, absolutely
precluded him from active occupation. He was soon
compelled to retire to Devonshire, as his only chance
for life, and George accompanied him. John, in the
mean time, was advancing with his poem, and had
come to an arrangement with Messrs. Taylor and
Hessey (who seem to have cordially appreciated his
genius) respecting its publication. The following
letters indicate that they gave him tangible proofs of
their interest in his welfare, and his reliance on their
generosity was, probably, only equal to his trust in
his own abundant powers of repayment. The phy-
sical symptoms he alludes to had nothing dangerous
about them and merely suggested some prudence in
his mental labours. Nor had he then experienced
the harsh repulse of ungenial criticism, but, although
never unconscious of his own deficiencies, nor blmd
to the jealousies and spites of others, believed
himself to be, on the whole, accompanied on his
JOHN KEATS. 47
path to fame by the sympathies and congratulations
of all the fellow-men he cared for: and they were
many.
Margate,
May \6th, 1817.
My deab Sir,
I am extremely indebted to you for your
liberality in the shape of manufactured rag, value 201.,
and shall immediately proceed to destroy some of the
minor heads of that hydra the Dun ; to conquer which
the knight need have no sword, shield, cuirass,
cuisses, herbadgeon, spear, casque, greaves, paldrons,
spm's, chevron, or any other scaly commodity, but he
need only take the Bank-note of Faith and Cash of
Salvation, and set out against the monster, invoking
the aid of no Archimago or Urganda, but finger me
the paper, Hght as the Sybil's leaves in Virgil,
whereat the fiend skulks off with his tail between his
legs. Touch him with this enchanted paper, and he
whips you his head away as fast as a snail's horn ; but
then the horrid propensity he has to put it up again
has discouraged many very valiant knights. He is
such a never-ending, still-beginning, sort of a body,
like my landlady of the Bell. I think I could
make a nice little allegorical poem, called " The
Dun," where we would have the Castle of Care-
lessness, the Drawbridge of Credit, Sir Novelty
48 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
Fasliion's expedition against the City of Tailors, &c. &c.
I went day by day at my poem for a month ; at the
end of which time, the other day, I found my brain
so overwrought, that I had neither rhyme nor reason
in it, so was obhged to give up for a few days. I
hope soon to be able to resume my work. I have en-
deavoured to do so once or twice ; but to no purpose.
Instead of poetry, T have a swimming in my head,
and feel all the effects of a mental debauch, low-
ness of spuits, anxiety to go on, without the power to
do so, which does not at all tend to my ultimate
progression. However, to-morrow I will begin my
next month. This evening I go to Canterbury,
having got tired of Margate ; I was not right in my
head when I came. At Canterbury I hope the
remembrance of Chaucer will set me forward like a
billiard ball. I have some idea of seeing the Conti-
nent some time this summer.
In repeating how sensible I am of your kindness,
I remain, your obedient servant and friend,
John Keats.
I shall be happy to hear any little intelligence in
the literary or friendly way when you have time to
scribble.
JOHN KEATS. 49
lath July, 1817.
My Dear Sie,
A couple of Duns that I thought would
be sileut till the beginning, at least, of next month,
(when I am certain to be on my legs, for certain
sure,) have opened upon me with a cry most " un-
tunable ;"' never did you hear such " ungallant
chiding." Now, you must know, I am not desolate,
but have, thank God, twenty-five good notes in my
fob. But then, you know, I laid them by to write
with, and would stand at bay a fortnight ere they
should quit me. In a month's time I must pay, but
it would relieve my mind if I owed you, instead of
these pelican duns.
I am afraid you will say I have " wound about
with circumstance," when I should have asked plainly.
However, as I said, I am a little maidenish or so, and
I feel my virginity come strong upon me, the while
I request the loan of a '20?. and a lOZ., which, if you
would enclose to me, I would acknowledge and save
myself a hot forehead. I am sure you are confident
of my responsibility, and in the sense of squareness
that is always in me.
Your obliged friend,
John Ke.\ts.
50 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
In September he visited his friend Bailey at
Oxford, and wrote thus : —
" Believe me, my dear , it is a great happi-
ness 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 (the 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, 1 11
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 accom-
paniment do you like the sea best? It is very
fine in the morning, when the sim,
JOHN KEATS. 51
' 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
AVithin the AVestem 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 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 mightj^ 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.
E 2
52 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
" 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 pro-
mised, and that, had I remained at Hamp-
stean, 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 — ragouted her onions — belaboured her beat-
root — outstripped her scarlet-runners — parlez-vousd
with her french-beans — devoured her mignon or
mignionette — metamorphosed her bell-handles —
splintered her looking-glasses — bullocked at her cups
and saucers — agonized her decanters — put old P
to pickle in the brine-tub — disorganized her j)iano —
dislocated her candlesticks — emptied her wine-bins in
a fit of despair — turned out her maid to grass — and
astonished B ; whose letter to her on these
events I would rather see than the original copy of
the Book of Genesis.
" 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, T shall ever feel grateful for
having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey.
He delights me in the selfish, and Q^lease God) the
disinterested part of my disposition. If the old
JOHN KEATS. 53
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 Idnd — 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 Endj-mion and I are at the bottom of the
sea ? whence I hope to bring him in safety before
you leave the sea-side ; 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,
favom-ites 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 contri^^ng me all sorts of pleasures. Nor is this
54 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
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."
This is of about the same date : —
Oxford,
Sunday Moiiiing.
Mt 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 '11
never employ you more. However, needs must, when
the devil drives : and for fear of " before and behind
Mr. Honeycomb," I '11 proceed. I have not time to
elucidate tiie forms and shapes of the grass and
trees ; for, rot it ! I forgot to bring my mathematical
case with me, which unfortunately contained my
JOHN KEATS. 55
triangular prisms; so that the hues of the grass
cannot be dissected for you.
For these last five or six days V7e have had
regidai'ly a boat on the Isis, and explored all the
streams about, which are more in number than youi-
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' Cove," in which we have read
Wordsworth, and talked as may be.
* * * Failings I am always rather rejoiced
to find in a man than sorry for ; they bring us to a
level. has them, but then his makes-up are
ver}' good. agrees with the Northern Poet in
this, " He is not one of those who much delight to
season their fire-side 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, pui^posely for their accommo-
dation. 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 poetiy, Euclids in geometrj', and eveiy-
56 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
thing in nothing. 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 Bayley'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.
" I have examined and do find,
Of all that favour me.
There's none I giieve to leave hehind.
But only, only thee :
To part with thee I needs must die,
Could parting sep'rate thee and I.
" But neither chance nor compliment
Did element our love ;
'Twas sacred sympathy was lent
Us from the Quire ahove.
That friendship Fortune did create
Still fears a wound from Time or Fate.
" Our chang'd and mingled souls are grown
To such acquaintance now,
That, if each would resume her own,
Alas ! we know not how,
JOHN KEATS. 57
We have each other so engrost
That each is in the union lost.
" And thus we can no absence know,
Nor shall we be confined ;
Our active souls will daily go
To learn each other's mind.
Nay, should we never meet to sense
Our souls would hold intelligence.
" Inspired with a flame divine,
I scorn to court a stay ;
For from that noble soul of thine
I ne'er can be away.
But I shall weep when thou dost grieve,
Nor can I die whilst thou dost live.
" 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.
" All honour sure I must pretend.
All that is good or great ;
She that would be Rosannia's friend.
Must be at least compleat ; *
If I have any bravery,
'Tis 'cause I have so much of thee.
* " A compleat friend " — this line sounded very oddly to me
at first.
58 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
" Thy lieger 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.
" 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.
" A dew shall dwell upon our tomb
Of such a quality,
That fighting armies thither come
Shall reconciled be.
We '11 ask no epitaph, but say,
Orinda and Rosannia."
In other of her poems there is a most dehcate
fancy of the Fletcher land — 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 Cum-
berland 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
JOHN KEATS. 59
(Round Table) last night. I loiow he thinks himself
not estimated by ten people in the world. I wish he
knew he is. I am getting on famous with my third
Book — have written 800 lines thereof, and hope to
finish it next week. Bailey likes what I have done
veiT much. Believe me, my dear Reynolds, one
of my chief layuigs-up is the pleasure I shall
have in showing it to you, I may now say, in a
few days.
I have heard twice from my brothers ; they are
going on veiy well, and send their remembrances to
you. We expected to have had notices from little
Hampton this morning — we must wait till Tuesday.
I am glad of their days with the Dilkes. You are, I
know, very much teased in that precious London,
and want all the rest possible ; so [I] shall be con-
tented with as brief a scrawl — a word or two, till
there comes a pat hour.
Send us a few of your stanzas to read in " Rey-
nolds' Cove.'" Give my love and respects to your
mother, and remember me kindly to all at home.
Yours faithfully,
John Keats.
I have left the doublings for Bailey, who is going
to say that he will write to you to-morrow.
60 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
From a letter to Haydon.
" You will be glad to hear that within these last
three weeks I have written 1000 lines, which are the
third book of my Poem. My ideas of it, I assure you,
are very low, and I would write the subject thoroughly
again, but I am tired of it, and tliink the time would
be better spent in writing a new romance, which I
have in my eye for next summer. Kome was not
built in a day, and all the good I expect from my
employment this summer is the fruit of experience,
which I hope to gather in my next Poem.
" Yours eternally,
"John Keats."
The three first books of " Endymion " were finished
in September, and portions of the Poem had come to
be seen and canvassed by literary friends. With a
singular anticipation of the injustice and calumny he
should be subject to as belonging to " the Cockney
School," Keats stood up most stoutly for the inde-
pendence of all personal association with which the
poem has been composed, and admiring as he did the
talents and spirit of his friend Hunt, he expresses
himself almost indignantly, in his correspondence,
at the thought that his originality, whatever it was,
should be suffered to have been marred by the
JOHN KEATS. 61
assistance, influence, or counsel of Hunt, or any one
else, " I refused,"' he writes to Mr. Bailey, (Oct. 8th),
"to visit Shelley, that I might have my own unfettered
scope ; " and proceeds to transcribe some reflections
on his undertaking, which he says he wrote to his
brother George in the spring, and which are well
worth the repetition.
"As to what you say about my being a Poet, I
can return no answer but by saying that the high
idea I have of poetical fame makes me thmk I see it
towering too high above me. At any rate I have no
right to talk until ' Endymion ' is finished. It will be
a test, a trial of my powers of imagination, and
chiefly of my invention — which is a. rare thing indeed
— by which I must make 4000 lines of one bare
circumstance, and fill them with poetiy. And when
I consider that this is a great task, and that when
done it will take me but a dozen paces towards the
Temple of Fame — it makes me say — ' God forbid
that I should be without such a task ! ' I have heard
Hunt say, and [Ij may be asked, ' Why endeavour
after a long poem ? ' To which I should answer, ' Do
not the lovers of poetij like to have a little region
to wander in, where they may pick and choose, and
in which the images are so numerous that many are
forgotten and found new in a second reading, — which
62 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
may be food for a week's stroll in the summer ? ' Do
not they like this better than -what they can read
through before Mrs. Williams comes down stairs ? —
a morning's work at most.
" Besides, a long poem is a test of invention, which
I take to be the polar star of poetry, as Fancy is the
sails, and Imagination the rudder. Did our great
poets ever wi'ite short pieces ? I mean, in the shape
of Tales. This same invention seems indeed of late
years to have been forgotten in a partial excellence.
But enough of this — I put on no laurels till I shall
have finished ' Endymion,' and I hope Apollo is not
enraged at my having made mockery of him at Hunt's.''
The conclusion of this letter has now a more
melancholy meaning than it had when written. " The
little mercury I have taken has corrected the poison
and improved my health — though I feel from my
employment that I shall never again be secure in
robustness. Would that you were as well as
" Your sincere friend and brother,
" John Keats."
" Brothers " they were in affection and in thought
— brothers also in destiny. Mr. Bailey died soon
after Keats.
JOHN KEATS. 60
[Post-marl; 22 Nov. 1817. Leatherhead.]
My Dear Bailey,
I will get over the first part of this
(M7ipaid) letter as soon as possible, for it relates to
the affairs of poor . To a man of your nature
such a letter as 's must have been extremely
cutting. What occasions the greater part of the
worlds quarrels ? Simply this : two minds meet,
and do not understand each other time enough to
prevent any shock or surprise at the conduct of
either party. As soon as I had known three
days, I had got enough of his character not to have
been surprised at such a letter as he has hurt you
with. Nor, when I knew it, was it a principle with
me to drop his acquaintance; although with you it
would have been an imperious feeling. I wish you
knew all that I think about Genius and the Heart.
And yet I think that you are thoroughly acquainted
with my innermost breast in that respect, or you
would not have known me even thus long, and still
hold me worthy to be yoiu' dear friend. In passing,
however, I must say of one thing that has pressed
upon me lately, and increased my humility and
capability of submission — and that is this truth —
]\Ien of genius are great as certain ethereal chemicals
operating on the mass of neutral intellect — but they
64 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
have not any individuality, any determined character.
I would call the top and head of those who have a
proper self, Men of Power.
But I am running my head into a subject which
I am certain I could not do justice to under live
years' study, and three vols, octavo — and moreover [I]
long to be talking about the Imagination : so, my
dear Bailey, do not think of this unpleasant affair, if
possible do not — I defy any harm to come of it
— I shall write to this week, and request
him to tell me all his goings-on, from time to time,
by letter, wherever I may be. It will go on well —
so don't, because you have discovered a coldness in
, suffer yourself to be teased. Do not, my dear
fellow. ! I wish I was as certain of the end of all
your troubles as that of your momentary start about
the authenticity of the Imagination. I am certain of
nothing but of the holiness of the heart s affections,
and the truth of Imagination. What the Imagination
seizes as Beauty must be Truth, whether it existed
before or not ; — for I have the same idea of all our
passions as of Love : they are all, in their sublime,
creative of essential Beauty. In a word, you may
know my favourite speculation by my first book, and
the little song I sent in my last, which is a repre-
sentation from the fancy of the probable mode of
operating in these matters. The Imagination may
JOHN KEATS. 69
be compared to Adam's dream : he awoke and found
it truth. I am more zealous in this affair, because I
have never yet been able to perceive how anything
can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning, —
and yet [so] it must be. Can it be that even the
greatest philosopher ever arrived at liis goal without
putting aside numerous objections ? However it may
be, for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts !
It is " a Vision in the form of Youth," a shadow of
reality to come — and this consideration has further
convinced me, — for it has come as auxiliary to another
favourite speculation of mine, — that we shall enjoy
ourselves hereafter by having what we called hap-
piness on earth repeated in a finer tone. And
yet such a fate can only befall those who delight
in Sensation, rather than hunger, as you do.
after Truth. Adam's dream will do here, and
seems to be a conviction that Imagination and its
empyreal reflection is the same as human life and
its spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, the
simple imaginative mind may have its rewards in the
repetition of its own silent working coming continually
on the spirit with a fine suddenness. To compare
great things with small, have you never, by being
surprised with an old melody, in a delicious place, by
a delicious voice, felt over again your very speculations
and surmises at the time it first operated on your
66 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
soul ? Do you not remember forming to yourself the
singer's face — more beautiful than it was possible,
and yet, with the elevation of the moment, you did
not think so ? Even then you were mounted on the
wings of Imagination, so high that the prototype
must be hereafter — that delicious face you will
see. Sure this cannot be exactly the case with
a complex mind — one that is imaginative, and
at the same time careful of its fruits, — who would
exist partly on sensation, partly on thought — to whom
it is necessary that "years should bring the philo-
sophic mind ? " Such a one I consider youi-s, and
therefore it is necessary to yom* eternal happiness
that you not only drink this old wine of Heaven,
which I shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal
musings upon earth, but also increase in knowledge,
and know all things.
I am glad to hear that you are in a fair way for
Easter. You will soon get through your unpleasant
reading, and then ! — but the world is full of troubles,
and I have not much reason to think myself pestered
with many.
I think or has a better opinion of me
than I deserve ; for, really and truly, I do not think
my brother's illness connected with mine. You know
more of the real cause than they do ; nor have I any
chance of being rack'd as you have been. You
JOHN KEATS. 67
perhaps, at oue time, thought there was such a thing as
worldly happiness to be arrived at, at certain periods
of time marked out. You have of necessity, from
your disposition, been thus led away. I scarcely
remember counting upon any happiness. I look not
for it if it be not in the present hour. Nothing
startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun
will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow were
before my -window, I take part in its existence, and
pick about the gravel. The first thmg that strikes
me on hearing a misfortune having befallen another
is this — " Well, it cannot be helped : he will have
the pleasure of trjang the resources of his spirit ; "
and I beg now, my dear Bailey, that hereafter, should
you observe anything cold in me, not to put it to the
account of heartlessness, but abstraction ; for I assure
you I sometimes feel not the influence of a passion or
affection during a whole week ; and so long this some-
times continues, I begin to suspect myself, and the
genuineness of my feelings at other times, thinking
them a few barren tragedy-tears.
My brother Tom is much improved — he is going to
Devonshire — whither I shall follow him. At present,
I am just arrived at Dorking, to change the scene,
change the air, and give me a spur to wind up my
poem, of which there are wanting 500 lines. I should
have been here a day sooner, but the Reynoldses
f2
68 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
persuaded me to stop in town to meet your friend
Christie. There were Rice and Martin. We talked
about ghosts. I will have some talk with Taylor,
and let you know, when, please God, I come down at
Christmas. I will find the " Examiner," if possible.
My best regards to Gleig, my brothers, to you, and
Mrs. Bentley.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
I want to say much more to you — a few hints will
set me going.
Leatherhead,
22wd November, 1817.
My dear Reynolds,
There are two things which tease me
here — one of them , and the other that I cannot
go with Tom into Devonshire. However, I hope to
do my duty to myself in a week or so ; and then I '11
try what I can do for my neighboui" — now, is not this
virtuous ? On returning to town I '11 damn all idle-
ness — indeed, in superabundance of employment, I
must not be content to run here and there on little
two-pemiy errands, but turn Rakehell, i. e. go a
masking, or Bailey will think me just as great a
promise-keeper as he thinks you ; for myself I do
not, and do not remember above one complaint
JOHN KEATS. 69
against you for mattei* o' that. Bailey Avrites so
abominable a baud, to give his letter a fair reading
requires a little time, so I bad not seen, when I saw
you last, his invitation to Oxford at Christmas. I '11
go with you. You know bow poorly was. I do
not think it was all corporeal, — bodily pain was not
used to keep him silent. 1 11 tell you what ; be was
hurt at what your sisters said about his joking with
your mother. It will all blow over. God knows,
my dear Reynolds, I should not talk any sorrow to
you — you must have enough vexation, so I won't any
more. If I ever start a rueful subject in a letter to
you — blow me ! Why don't you ? — Now I was going
to ask you a very sUly question, [which] neither you
nor anybody else could answer, under a folio, or at
least a pamphlet — you shall judge. Why don't you,
as I do, look unconcerned at what may be called
more particularly heart - vexations ? They never
surprise me. Lord ! a man should have the fine
point of his soul taken off, to become fit for this
world.
I like this place veiy much. There is hill and
dale, and a little river. I went up Box Hill this
evening after the moon — " you a' seen the moon " —
came down, and wrote some lines. Whenever I am
separated from you, and not engaged in a continued
poem, eveiy letter shall bring you a lyric — but I am
70 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
too anxious for you to enjoy the whole to send you a
particle. One of the three books I have with me
is " Shakspeare's Poems : " I never found so many
beauties in the Sonnets ; they seem to be full of
fine things said unintentionally — in the intensity
of working out conceits. Is this to be borne ?
Hark ye !
" When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the head,
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier -with white and bristly head."
He has left nothing to say about nothing or any-
thing : for look at snails — you know what he says
about snails — you know when he talks about "cockled
snails" — well, in one of these sonnets, he says — the
chap slips into — no ! I lie ! this is in the " Venus
and Adonis : " the simile brought it to my mind.
" As the snail, whose tender horns being hit.
Shrinks back into his shelly cave with pain,
And there all smothered up in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to put forth again ;
So at his bloody view her eyes are fled,
Into the deep dark cabins of her head."
He overwhelms a genuine lover of poetry with all
manner of abuse, talking about —
"A poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song."
JOHN KEATS. 71
Which, by the by, will be a capital motto for my
poem, won't it? He speaks too of " Time's antique
pen" — and "April's first-born flowers" — and "Death's
eternal cold." — By the Whim- lung! I '11 give you a
stanza, because it is not material in connection, and
when I wi'ote it I wanted you to give your vote, pro
or con.
Chrystalline Brother of the belt of Heaven,
Aquarius ! to whom King Jove hath given
Two liquid pulse-streams, 'stead of feathered wings —
Two fan-like fountains — thine illuminings
For Dian play :
Dissolve the frozen purity of air ;
[ Let thy white shoulders, silvery and bare.
Show cold through wat'ry pinions : make more bright
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage-night :
Haste, haste away !
I see there is an advertisement in the " Chronicle "
to Poets — he is so over-loaded with poems on the
" late Princess." I suppose you do not lack — send me
a few — lend me thy hand to laugh a little — send me
a Uttle pullet-sperm, a few finch-eggs — and remember
me to each of our card- playing Club. When you die you
will all be turned into dice, and be put in pawn with
the devil : for cards, they crumple up like anything.
I rest,
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
Give my love to both houses — Jdnc atque ilUnc.
72 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
"Endymion " was finished at Burford Bridge, on the
28th of November, 1817 ; so records the still existing
manuscript, written fairly in a book, with many
corrections of phrases and some of lines, but with
few of sentences or of arrangement. It betrays
the leading fault of the composition, namely, the
dependence of the matter on the rhyme, but shows
the confidence of the Poet in his own profusion
of diction, the strongest and most emphatic words
being generally taken as those to which the conti-
nuing verse was to be adapted. There was no doubt
a pleasure to him in this very victory over the limited
harmonies of our language, and the result, when
fortunate, is very impressive ; yet the following
criticism of his friend Mr. Leigh Hmit is also
just :—
" He had a just contempt for the monotonous termi-
nation of every-day couplets ; he broke up his lines in
order to distribute the rhjane properly ; but, going
only upon the ground of his contempt, and not having
yet settled with himself any principle of versification,
the very exuberance of his ideas led him to make
use of the first rhymes that offered ; so that, by a
new meeting of extremes, the effect was as artificial
and much more obtrusive than one under the old
system. Dryden modestly confessed that a rhyme
had often helped him to a thought. Mr. Keats, in
JOHN KEATS. 73
tlie tyranny of his "wealth, forced his rhymes to help
him, whether they would or not, and they obeyed him,
ui the most singular manner, with equal promptitude
and ingeniousness ; though occasionally in the MS.,
when the second line of the couplet could not be made
to rhyme, the sense of the fii'st is arbitrarily altered,
and its sense cramped into a new and less appropriate
form."'
Keats passed the winter of 1817-18 at Hampstead,
gaily enough among his friends; his society was
much sought after, from the delightful combination of
earnestness and pleasantly which distinguished his
intercourse with all men. There was no effort about
him to say fine things, but he did say them most
effectively, and they gained considerably by his happy
transition of manner. He joked well or ill, as it
happened, and with a laugh which still echoes sweetly
in many ears ; but at the mention of oppression or
wrong, or at any calumny against those he loved, he rose
into grave manliness at once, and seemed like a tall
man. His habitual gentleness made his occasional
looks of indignation almost terrible : on one occasion,
when a gross falsehood respecting the young artist
Severn was repeated and dwelt upon, he left the
room, declaring " he should be ashamed to sit with
men who could utter and believe such things." On
another occasion, hearing of some unworthy conduct.
74 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
he burst out — " Is there no human dust-hole into
which we can sweep such fellows ? "
Display of all kinds was especially disagreeable to
him, and he complains, in a note to Haydon, that
" conversation is not a search after knowledge, but
an endeavour at effect — if Lord Bacon were alive,
and to make a remark in the present day in company,
the conversation would stop on a sudden. I am
convinced of this."
His health does not seem to have prevented him
from indulging somewhat in that dissipation which is
the natural outlet for the young energies of ardent
temperaments, unconscious how scanty a portion of
vital strength had been allotted him ; but a strictly
regulated and abstinent life would have appeared to
him pedantic and sentimental. He did not, however,
to any serious extent, allow wine to usurp on his
intellect, or games of chance to impair his means,
for, in his letters to his brothers, he speaks of having
drunk too much as a rare piece of joviality, and of
having won 10^. at cards as a great loit. His bodily
vigour too must, at this time, have been considerable,
as he signalised himself, at Hampstead, by giving a
severe drubbing to a butcher, whom he saw beating
a little boy, to the enthusiastic admiration of a crowd
of bystanders. Plam, manly, practical life on the one
hand, and a free exercise of his rich imagination on
JOHN KEATS. 75
the other, were the ideal of his existence : his poetry
never weakened his action, and his simple, every-day
habits never coarsened the beauty of the world
wthin him.
The following letters of this time are preserved: —
Jan. 23, 1818.
My Dear Tatloe,
I have spoke to Haydon about the
drawing. He would do it with all his Art and Heart
too, if so I will it ; however, he has written this to
me ; but I must tell you, first, he intends painting a
finished Picture from the Poem. Thus he writes —
" When I do anything for your Poem it must be
effectual — an honour to both of us : to hurry up a
sketch for the season won't do. I think an engraving
from your head, from a chalk drawing of mine, done
with all my might, to which I would put my name,
would answer Taylor's idea better than the other.
Indeed, I am sure of it."
* * * What think you of this ? Let me
hear. I shall have my second Book in readiness
forthwith.
Yours most sincerely,
John Keats.
76 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Jan. 23, 1818.
My Dear Batley,
Twelve days have pass'd since your last
reached me. — What has gone through the myriads of
human minds since the 12th? We talk of the
immense number of books, the volumes ranged
thousands by thousands — but perhaps more goes
through the human intelligence in twelve days than
ever was written. — How has that unfortunate family
lived through the twelve ? One saying of yours I
shall never forget : you may not recollect it, it being,
perhaps, said when you were looking on the surface
and seeming of Humanity alone, without a thought
of the past or the future, or the deeps of good and
evil. You were at that moment estranged from
speculation, and I think you have arguments ready
for the man who would utter it to you. This is a
formidable preface for a simple thing — merely you
said, " Why should woman suffer? " Aye, why sh®uld
she ? " By heavens, I'd coin my very soul, and drop
my blood for drachmas ! " These things are, and he,
who feels how incompetent the most skyey knight-
errantry is to heal this bruised fairness, is like a
sensitive leaf on the hot hand of thought.
Your tearing, my dear friend, a spiritless and
gloomy letter up, to re-write to me, is what I shall
never forget — it was to me a real thing.
JOirN KEATS. 77
Things haA-e happened lately of great perplexity;
you must have heard of them ; and
retorting and recriminating, and parting for ever.
The same thing has happened between and
. It is unfortunate : men should bear with each
other : there lives not the man who may not be cut
up, aye, lashed to pieces, on his weakest side. The
best of men have but a portion of good in them — a
kind of spiritual yeast in their frames, which creates
the ferment of existence — by which a man is pro-
pell'd to act, and strive, and buffet with circumstance.
The sure way, Bailey, is first to know a man's faults,
and then be passive. If, after that, he insensibly
draws you towards him, then you have no power to
break the link. Before I felt interested in either
or , I was well read in their faults ; yet,
knowing them, I have been cementing gradually with
both. I have an affection for them both, for reasons
almost opposite ; and to both must I of necessity
cUng, supported always by the hope, that when a
little time, a few yeai-s, shall have tried me more
fully in their esteem, I may be able to bring them
together. The time must come, because they have
both hearts ; and they will recollect the best parts
of each other, when this gust is overblown.
I had a message from you through a letter to
Jane — I think, about C . There can be no idea
78 LIFE AND LETTEBS OF
of bindiug until a sufl&cient sum is sure for him ;
and even tlien the thing should be maturely considered
by all his helpers. I shall tiy my luck upon as many
fat purses as I can meet -with. C is improving
very fast : I have the greater hopes of him because
he is so slow in development. A man of great
executing powers at twenty, with a look and a speech
the most stupid, is sure to do something.
I have just looked through the second side of your
letter. I feel a great content at it.
I was at Hunt's the other day, and he surprised
me with a real authenticated lock of Milton's Hair.
I know you would like what I wrote thereon, so here
it is — as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book : —
ON SEEING A LOCK OP MILTON'S HAIR.
Chief of organic numbers !
Old Scliolar of the Spheres !
Thy spirit never slumbers,
But rolls about our ears
For ever and for ever !
O what a mad endeavour
Worketh He,
Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse
Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse
And melody.
How heaven-ward thou soundest !
Live Temple of sweet noise,
And Discord unconfoundest,
JOHN KEATS. 79
Giving Delight new joys,
And Pleasure nobler pinions :
where are thy dominions ?
Lend thine ear
To a young Delian oath — aye, by thy soul,
By all that from thy mortal lips did roll,
And by the kernel of thy earthly love,
Beauty in things on earth and things above,
I swear !
When every childish fashion
Has vanished from my rhyme,
Will I, grey gone in passion,
Leave to an after-time.
Hymning and Harmony
Of thee and of thy works, and of thy life ;
But vain is now the burning and the strife ;
Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife
With old Philosophy,
And wed with glimpses of futurity.
For many years my offerings must he hushed ;
When I do speak, I '11 think upon this hour,
Because I feel my forehead hot and ilushed,
Even at the simplest vassal of thy power.
A lock of thy bright hair, —
Sudden it came.
And I was startled when I caught thy name
Coupled so unaware ;
Yet at the moment temperate was my blood —
1 thought I had beheld it from the flood !
This I did at Hunt's, at his request. Perhaps I
should have done something better alone and at
home.
80 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
I have sent my first book to the press, and this
afternoon shall begin preparing the second. My
visit to you will be a great spur to quicken the pro-
ceeding. I have not had your sermon returned.
I long to make it the subject of a letter to you.
What do they say at Oxford ?
I trust you and Gleig pass much fine time together.
Remember me to him and Whitehead. My brother
Tom is getting stronger, but his spitting of blood
continues.
I sat down to read " King Lear" yesterday, and felt
the greatness of the thing up to the writing of a
sonnet preparatory thereto : in my next you shall
have it.
There were some miserable reports of Rice's health
— I went, and lo ! Master Jemmy had been to the
play the night before, and was out at the time. He
always comes on his legs like a cat.
I have seen a good deal of Wordsworth. Hazlitt
is lecturing on Poetry at the Surrey Institution. I
shall be there next Tuesday.
Your most affectionate friend,
John Keats.
The assumption, in the above lines, of Beauty being
" the kernel " of Milton's love, rather accords with the
opinion of many of Keats 's friends, that at this time
JOHN KEATS. 81
he had not studied " Paradise Lost," as he did after-
wards. His taste would naturally have rather attracted
him to those poems which Milton had drawn out of the
heart of old mythology, "Lycidas" and "Comus; " and
those " two exquisite jewels, hung, as it were, in the
ears of antiquity, "the "Penseroso"and "Allegro," had
no doubt been well enjoyed ; but his full appreciation
of the great Poem was reserved for the period which
produced " Hyperion " as clearly under Miltonic in-
fluence, as "Endymion " is imbued with the spirit of
Spenser, Fletcher, and Ben Jonson.
From a letter to Mr. Reynolds.
Hampstead,
Jan. 31s«, 1818.
Now I purposed to wiite to you a serious poetical
letter, but I find that a maxim I met with the other
day is a just one : " On cause mieux quand on ne dit
pas causons." I was hindered, however, from my
first intention by a mere muslin handkerchief, very
neatly pinned — but " Hence, vain deluding," &c.
Yet I cannot write in prose ; it is a sunshiny day and
I cannot, so here goes.
Hence Bui-gandy, Claret, and Port,
Away with old Hock and Madeira,
Too earthly ye are for my sport ;
VOL. I. G
LIFE AND LETTERS OF
There 's a beverage brighter and clearer.
Instead of a pitiful rummer,
My wine overbrims a whole summer ;
My bowl is the sky,
And T drink at my eye,
Till I feel in the brain
A Delphian pain —
Then follow, my Caius ! then follow.
On the green of the hill
We will drink our fill
Of golden sunshine,
Till our brains intertwine
With the glory and grace of Apollo !
God of the Meridian,
And of the East and West,
To thee my soul is flown,
And my body is earthward press'd. —
It is iin awful mission,
A terrible division;
And leaves a gulph austere
To be filled with worldly fear.
Aye, when the soul is fled
To high above our head,
Affrighted do we gaze
After its airy maze,
As doth a mother wild,
When her young infant child
Is in an eagle's claws —
And is not this the cause
Of madness ? — God of Song,
Thou hearest me along
Through sights I scarce can bare :
O let me, let me share
With the hot lyre and thee,
The staid Philosophy.
JOHN KEATS. 83
Temper my lonely hours,
And let me see thy bow'rs
More unalarm'd !
My dear Reynolds, you must forgive all this
ranting; but the fact is, I cannot write sense this
morning ; however, you shall have some. I will copy
out my last sonnet.
When I have fears that I may cease to be, &c, *
I must take a turn, and then write to Teignmoutli.
Remember me to all, not excepting yourself.
Your sincere friend,
John Keats.
Hampstead, Feb. 3, 1818.
My dear Reynolds,
I thank you for your dish of filberts.
Would I could get a basket of them by way of dessert
every day for the sum of twopence (two sonnets on
Robin Hood sent by the twopenny post). Would we
were a sort of ethereal pigs, and turned loose to feed
upon spiritual mast and acorns ! which would be
merely being a squirrel and feeding upon filberts;
for what is a squirrel but an airy pig, or a filbert but
a sort of archangelical acorn ? About the nuts being
* See the " Literary Remains."
g2
84 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
worth cracking, all I can say is, that where there are a
throng of deUghtful images ready drawn, simplicity is
the only thing. It may be said that we ought to read our
contemporaries, that Wordsworth, &c., should have
their due from us. But, for the salce of a few fine
imaginative or domestic passages, are we to be bullied
into a certain philosophy engendered in the whims of
an egotist ? Every man has his speculations, but
every man does not brood and peacock over them till
he makes a false coinage and deceives himself. Many
a man can travel to the very bourne of Heaven, and
yet want confidence to put down his half-seeing.
Sancho will invent a journey heavenward as well as
anybody. We hate poetry that has a palpable design
upon us, and, if we do not agree, seems to put its
hand into its breeches pocket. Poetry should be
great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's
soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself,
but with its subject. How beautiful are the retired
flowers ! How would they lose their beauty were
they to throng into the highway, crying out, " Admire
me, I am a violet ! Dote upon me, I am a primrose ! "
Modern poets differ from the Elizabethans in this :
each of the modems, like an Elector of Hanover,
governs his petty state, and knows how many straws
are swept daily from the causeways in all his domi-
nions, and has a continual itcliing that all the house-
JOHN KEATS. 85
wives should have their coppers well scoured. The
ancients were Emperors of vast provinces ; they had
only heard of the remote ones, and scarcely cared to
visit them. I will cut aU this. I will have no more
of Wordsworth or Hunt in particular. Why should
we be of the tribe of Manasseh, when we can wander
with Esau ? Why should we kick against the pricks
when we can walk on roses? Why should we be
owls, when we can be eagles ? Why be teased with
" nice-eyed wagtails, " when we have in sight " the
cherub Contemplation ? " Why with Wordsworth's
" Matthew with a bough of wilding in his hand,"
when we can have Jacques " imder an oak," &c.? The
secret of the "bough of wilding " will run through your
head faster than I can write it. Old Matthew spoke
to him some yeai's ago on some nothing, and because
he happens in an evening walk to imagine the figure
of the old man, he must stamp it down in black and
white, and it is henceforth sacred. I don't mean to
deny Wordsworth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I
mean to say we need not be teased with grandeur and
merit when we can have them uncontaminated and
unobtrusive. Let us have the old Poets and Ilobin
Hood. Your letter and its sonnets gave me more
pleasure than wiU the Fourth Book of " Childe
Harold," and the whole of anybody's life and
opinions.
86: LIFE AND LETTEES OF
In return for your dish of filberts, I have gathered
a few catkins.* I hope they 11 look pretty.
" No, those days are gone away," &c.
I hope you will like them — they are at least written
in the spirit of outlawry. Here are the Mermaid
lines : —
" Souls of Poets dead and gone," &c.
In the hope that these scribblings will be some
amusement for you this evening, I remain, copying
on the hill.
Your sincere friend and co-scribbler,
John Keats.
Keats was perhaps unconsciously swayed in his
estimate of Wordsworth at this moment, by an
incident which had occurred at Mr. Haydon's. The
young Poet had been induced to repeat to the elder
the fine " Hymn to Pan," out of " Endymion," which
Shelley, who did not much like the poem, used to
speak of as affording the " surest promise of ultimate
excellence : " Wordsworth only remarked, " it was a
pretty piece of Paganism." The mature and philo-
sophic genius, penetrated with Christian associations,
probably intended some slight rebuke to his youthful
* Mr. Reynolds had inclosed Keats some Sonnets on Robin
Hood, to which these fine lines are an answer.
JOHN KEATS. 87
compeer, whom he saw absorbed in an order of
ideas, that to him appeared merely sensuous, and
would have desired that the bright traits of Greek
mythology should be sobered down by a graver faith,
as in his own " Dion " and " Laodamia ; " but, as-
sioredly, the phrase could not have been meant con-
temptuously, as Keats took it, and was far more
annoyed at it than at pages of " Quarterly " abuse, or
" Blackwood's " ridicule.
[Postmark, Hampstead. Feb. 19, 1818.]
My Dear Reynolds,
I had an idea that a man might pass a
veiy pleasant life in this manner — let him on a
certain day read a certain page of full poesy or
distilled prose, and let him wander with it, and muse
upon it, and reflect from it, and bring home to it, and
prophesy upon it, and dream upon it, until it becomes
stale. But will it do so ? Never. When man has
anived at a certain ripeness of intellect, any one
grand and spiritual passage serves him as a starting-
post towards all " the two-and-thirty palaces." How
happy is such a voyage of conception, what delicious
diligent indolence ! A doze upon a sofa does not
hinder it, and a nap upon clover engenders ethereal
finger-pointings ; the prattle of a child gives it wings,
and the converse of middle-age a strength to beat
88 LIFE AND LECTEBS OF
Ihem ; a strain of music conducts to "an odd angle
of the Isle," and when the leaves whisper, it puts a
girdle round the earth. Nor will this sparing touch
of noble books be any irreverence to their writers ;
for perhaps the honours paid by man to man are
trifles in comparison to the benefit done by great
works to the " spirit and pulse of good " by their
mere passive existence. Memory should not be
called knowledge. Many have original minds who
do not think it : they are led away by custom. Now
it appears to me that almost any man may, like the
spider, spin from his own inwards, his own aiiy
citadel. The points of leaves and twigs on which
the spider begins her work are few, and she fills the
air with a beautiful circuiting. Man should be
content with as few points to tip with the fine web of
his soul, and weave a tapestry empyrean — full of
symbols for his spiritual eye, of softness for his
spiritual touch, of space for his wanderings, of dis-
tinctness for his luxury. But the minds of mortals
are so different, and bent on such diverse journeys,
that it may at first appear impossible for any common
taste and fellowship to exist between two or three
under these suppositions. It is however quite the
contrary. Minds would leave each other in contrary
directions, traverse each other in numberless points,
and at last greet each other at the journey's end.
JOHN KEATS. 89
An old man and a cliild would talk together, and the
old man be led on his path and the child left thinking .
Man should not dispute or assert but whisper results
to his neighbour, and thus by every germ of spirit
sucking the sap fi'om mould ethereal, eveiy human
[being] might become great, and humanity, instead of
being a wide heath of furze and briars, with here and
there a remote oak or pine, would become a grand
democracy of forest trees ! It has been an old
comparison for our urging on — the bee-hive ; however,
it seems to me that we should rather be the flower
than the bee. For it is a false notion that more is
gained by receiving than giving — no, the receiver and
the giver are equal in their benefits. The flower, I
doubt not, receives a fair guerdon from the bee. Its
leaves blush deeper in the next spring. And who
shall say, betwieen man and woman, which is the most
delighted? Now it is more noble to sit like Jove
than to fly like Mercury : — let us not therefore go
hurrjdng about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing
here and there for a knowledge of what is to be
anived at ; but let us open our leaves like a flower,
and be passive and receptive, budding patiently under
the eye of Apollo, and taking hints from every noble
insect that favours us with a \'isit. Sap will be given
us for meat, and dew for drink.
I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds,
90 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of
idleness. I have not read any books — the morning
said I was right — I had no idea but of the morning,
and the thrush said I was right — seeming to say,
" O thou ! whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye hath seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm-tops among the freezing stars :
To thee the Spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou ! whose only book hath been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night, when Phoebus was away.
To thee the Spring will be a triple mom.
O fret not after knowledge ! — I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge ! — I have none.
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he 's awake who thinks himself asleep."
Now I am sensible all this is a mere sophistication,
(however it may neighbour to any truths) to excuse
my own indulgence. So I will not deceive myself
that man should be equal with Jove — but think
himself very well off as a sort of scullion-mercury,
or even a humble-bee. It is no matter whether I
am right or wrong, either one way or another, if there
is sufl&cient to lift a little time from your shoulders.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
JOHN KEATS. 91
With his brothers at Teignmouth he kept up an
affectionate correspondence, of which some speci-
mens remain, and he visited them thrice in the early
part of the year. The "Champion " herein mentioned
was a periodical of considerable merit, in which Mr.
Re}-nolds was engaged, and the article on Kean
alluded to, as well as a later criticism of Keats on the
same actor, are well worth preserving, both for their
acute appreciation of a remarkable artist, and for
their evidence that the genius and habit of poetry had
produced its customary effect of makhig the Poet a
good writer of prose. Mr. Brown, whose name now
frequently occurs, was a retired merchant, who had
been the neighbour of the Keats 's since the summer,
and his congeniality of tastes and benevolence of
disposition had made them intimates and friends. It
will be often repeated in these pages — the oftener as
they advance ; and, in unison with that of the painter
Severn, will close the series of honourable friendships
associated with a Poet's fame.
Hampstead,
22nd December, 18] 7.
My dear Brothees,
I must crave your pardon for not having
written ere this. * * * I saw Kean return to
the public in " Richard III.," and finely he did it, and.
92 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
at the request of Reynolds, I went to criticise his
Duke. The critique is in to-day's " Champion,"
which I send you, with the " Examiner," in which
you will find very proper lamentation on the obso-
letion of Christmas gambols and pastimes : but it was
mixed up with so much egotism of that drivelling
nature that all pleasure is entirely lost. Hone, the
publisher's trial, you must find very amusing, and,
as Englishmen, very encouraging : his Not Guilty is
a thing, which not to have been, would have dulled
still more Liberty's emblazoning. Lord Ellen-
borough has been paid in his ovra coin. Wooler and
Hone have done us an essential service. I have had
two veiy pleasant evenings with Dilke, yesterday and
to-day, and am at this moment just come from him,
and feel in the humour to go on with this, begun in
the morning, and from which he came to fetch me.
I spent Friday evening with Wells, and went next
morning to see " Death on the Pale Horse." It is a
wonderful pictui'e, when West's age is considered;
but there is nothing to be intense upon, no women
one feels mad to kiss, no face swelling into reality.
The excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of
making all disagreeables evaporate from their being
in close relationship with beauty and truth. Examine
" King Lear," and you will find this exemplified
throughout : but in this picture we have unpleasant-
JOHN KEATS. 93
ness without any momentous deptli of speculation
excited, in which to bury its repulsiveness. The
picture is larger than " Christ Kejected."
I dined with Haydon the Sunday after you left,
and had a very pleasant day. I dined too (for I have
been out too much lately), with Horace Smith, and
met his two brothers, with Hill and Kingston, and
one Du Bois. They only served to convince me how
superior humour is to wit, in respect to enjoyment.
These men say things which make one start, without
maldug one feel ; they are all alike ; their manners
are alike ; they all know fashionables ; they have
all a mannerism in their very eating and drinking,
in their mere handling a decanter. They talked
of Kean and his low company. " Would I were
\vith that company instead of yours," said I to
myself ! I know such like acquaintance will never
do for me, and yet I am going to Reynolds on
Wednesday. Brown and Dilke walked with me and
back from the Christmas pantomime. I had not a
dispute, but a disquisition, with Dilke upon various
subjects ; several things dove-tailed in my mind, and
at once it struck me what quality went to form a
man of achievement, especially in literature, and
which Shakspeare possessed so enormously — I mean
negative capability, 'that is, when a man is capable of
being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any
94 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
irritable reaching after fact and reason. Coleridge,
for instance, -would let go by a fine isolated verisi-
militude caught from the penetralium of Mystery,
from being incapable of remaining content ■with half-
knowledge. This pvirsued through volumes would
perhaps take us no further than this, that with a
great Poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other
consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
Shelley's poem is out, and there are words about its
being objected to as much as " Queen Mab " was.
Poor Shelley, I think he has his quota of good
qualities Write soon to your most
sincere friend and affectionate brother, John.
23rd JanvMry, 1818.
My Dear Brothers,
I was thinking what hindered me from
■writing so long, for I have so many things to say to
you, and know not where to begin. It shall be upon
a thing most interesting to you, my Poem. Well !
I have given the first Book to Taylor; he seemed
more than satisfied with it, and, to my surprise, pro-
posed publishing it in quarto, if Haydon could make
a drawing of some event therein, for a frontispiece.
I called on Haydon. He said he would do anything
I liked, but said he would rather paint a finished
picture from it, which he seems eager to do. This,
JOHN KEATS. 95
in a year or two, will be a glorious thing for us ; and
it will be, for Haydon is struck with the first Book.
I left Haydon, and the next day received a letter
from him, proposing to make, as he says, with all his
might, a finished chalk sketch of my head, to be
engraved in the fii'st style, and put at the head of my
Poem, saying, at the same time, he had never done
the thing for any human being, and that it must
have considerable efi'ect, as he will put his name to it.
I begin to-day to copy my second Book : "thus far
into the bowels of the land." You shall hear
whether it will be quarto or non-quarto, picture or
non-picture. Leigh Hunt I showed my first Book to.
He allows it not much merit as a whole ; says it is
unnatm-al, and made ten objections to it, in the mere
skimming over. He says the conversation is un-
natural, and too high-flown for Brother and Sister ;
says it should be simple, — forgetting, do ye mind,
that they are both overshadowed by a supernatural
Power, and of force could not speak like Francesca,
in the " Pdmini." He must first prove that Caliban's
poetry is unnatvural. This, with me, completely over-
turns his objections. The fact is, he and Shelley are
hurt, and perhaps justly, at my not having showed
them the affair ofiiciously ; and, from several hints I
have had, they appear much disposed to dissect and
anatomise any trip or slip I may have made. — But
96 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
who 's afraid ? Ay ! Tom ! Demme if I am. I went
last Tuesday, an hour too late, to Hazlitt 's Lecture
on Poetry ; got there just as they were coming out,
when all these pounced upon me : — Hazlitt, John
Hunt and Son, Wells, Bewick, all the Landseers,
Bob Harris, aye and more.
I think a little change has taken place in my
intellect lately ; I cannot bear to be miinterested or
unemployed, I, who for so long a time have been
addicted to passiveness. Nothing is finer for the
purposes of great productions than a very gradual
ripening of the intellectual powers. As an instance
of this — observe — I sat down yesterday to read
" King Lear" once again : the thing appeared to
demand the prologue of a sonnet. I wrote it,
and began to read. (I know you would like to
see it.)
ON SITTING DOWN TO READ "KING LEAR" ONCE
AGAIN.
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute !
Fair plumed Syren ! Queen ! if far away !
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden volume, and he mute.
Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute.
Betwixt Hell torment and impassioned clay,
Must I hum through ; once more assay
The bitter sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
JOHN KEATS. 97
When I am through the old oak forest gone
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed with the Fire,
Give me new Phoenix-wings to fly at my desire.
So you see I am getting at it with a sort of deter-
mination and strength, though, verily, I do not feel
it at this moment: this is my fourth letter this
morning, and I feel rather tii'ed, and my head rather
swimming — so I will leave it open till to-morrow's
post.
I am in the habit of taking my papers to Dilke's
and copying there ; so I chat and proceed at the
same time. I have been there at my woi*k this
evening, and the walk over the Heath takes off all
sleep, so I will even proceed with you. * * *
Constable, the bookseller, has offered Reynolds ten
guineas a sheet to write for his Magazine. It is
an Edinburgh one, which Blackwood's started up
in opposition to. Hunt said he was nearly
sure that the " Cockney School " was written by
Scott;* so you are right, Tom ! There ai"e no more
little bits of news I can remember at present.
I remain,
My dear brothers, your affectionate brother,
John.
* There seems to be no foundation for this assertion.
VOL. I. H
98 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Hampstead,
February 16, [1818.]
Mt dear Brothers,
When once a man delays a letter beyond
the proper time, he delays it longer, for one or two
reasons ; first, because he must begin in a verj-^
common-place style, that is to say, with an excuse ;
and secondly, things and circumstances become so
jumbled in his mind, that he knows not what, or
what not, he has said in his last. I shall visit you as
soon as I have copied my Poem all out. I am now
much beforehand with the printers : they have done
none yet, and I am half afraid they will let half the
season by before the printing. I am determined they
shall not trouble me when I have copied it all.
Hazlitt's last lecture was on Thomson, Cowper, and
Crabbe. He praised Thomson and Cowper, but he
gave Crabbe an unmerciful licking. I saw Fazio the
first night ; it hung rather heavily on me. I am in
the high way of being introduced to a squad of people,
Peter Pindar, Mrs. Opie, Mrs. Scott. Mr. Ptobinson,
a great friend of Coleridge's, called on me. Pdchards
tells me that my Poems are known in the west
country, and that he saw a very clever copy of verses
headed with a motto from my sonnet to George.
Honours rush so thickly upon me that I shall not be
al)le to bear up against them. What think you — am
JOHN KEATS. 99
I to be crowned iu the Capitol ? Am I to be made a
]\Iandarin ? No ! I am to be invited, Mrs. Hunt tells
me, to a party at Ollier's, to keep Shakespeare's
birth-day. Shakespeare would stare to see me there.
The Wednesday before last, Shelley, Hunt, and I,
wrote each a sonnet on the river Nile : some day you
shall read them all. I saw a sheet of " Endymion,"
and have all reason to suppose they will soon get it
done ; there shall be nothing wanting on my part.
I have been writing, at intervals, many songs and
sonnets, and I long to be at Teignmouth to read them
over to you ; however, I think I had better wait
till this book is off my mind ; it will not be long
first.
Reynolds has been writing two very capital articles,
in the " YeUow Dwai-f," on Popular Preachei's.
Youi' most affectionate brother,
John
These are the three sonnets on the Nile here
alluded to, and very characteristic they are.
TO THE NILE.
Son of tbc old moon-mountains African !
Stream of the Pyramid and Crocodile !
We call tiiec fruitful, and that very while
A desert fills our seeing's inward span :
H 2
100 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Nurse of swart nations since the world begari)
Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile
Those men to honour thee, who, worn with toil.
Rest them a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan ?
may dark fancies err ! They surely do ;
' Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste
Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew
Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste
The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too,
And to the sea as happily dost haste.
J. K.
THE NILE.
It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream ;
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands, —
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roam'd through the young earth, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam.
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us ; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our ovm calm journey on for human sake.
L. H.
JOHN KEATS. 101
OZYMANDIAS.
I saw a traveller from an antique land,
Who said : — Two vast and tnmkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand.
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown.
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command.
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
Tlie hand that niock'd them and the heart that fed ;
And on the pedestal these words appear : —
" My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings :
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair !"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare.
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
P. B. S.
Hampstead,
February 2\, [1818.]
My deab Brothers,
I am extremely sorry to have given you
so much uneasiness by not writing'; however, you
know good news is no news, or vice versa. I do not
like to write a short letter to you, or you would have
had one long before. The weather, although bois-
terous to-day, has been verj' much milder, and I thiulv
Devonshire is not the last place to receive a tempe-
rate change. I have been abominably idle since you
left, but have just turned over a new leaf, and used
102 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
as a marker a letter of excuse to an invitation from
Horace Smith. I received a letter the other day
from Haydon, in which he says, his " Essays on the
Elgin Marbles " are being translated into Italian, the
which he superintends. I did not mention that I had
seen the Biitish Gallery ; there are some nice things
by Stark, and " Bathsheba," by Wilkie, which is con-
demned. I could not bear Alston's " Uriel."
The thrushes and blackbirds have been singing me
into an idea that it was spring, and almost that leaves
were on the trees. So that black clouds and bois-
terous winds seem to have mustered and collected in
full divan, for the purpose of convincing me to the
contrary. Taylor says my poem shall be out in a
month. * * * The thrushes are singing now as
if they would speak to the winds, because their big
brother Jack — the Spring — was not far off. I am
reading Voltaire and Gibbon, although I wrote to
Keynolds the other day to prove reading of no use.
I have not seen Hunt since. I am a good deal with
Dilke and Brown ; they are kind to me. I don't
think I could stop in Hampstead but for their neigh-
bourhood. I hear Hazlitt's lectures regularly : his
last was on Gray, Collins, Young, &c., and he gave a
very fine piece of discriminating criticism on Swift,
Voltaire, and Rabelais. I was very disappointed at
his treatment of Chatterton. I generally meet with
JOHN KEATS. 103
many T know there. Lord Byrons Fourth Canto is
expected out, and I heard somewhere, that Walter
Scott has a new Poem in readiness. * * * I
have not yet read Shelley's Poem : I do not suppose
you have it yet at the Teignmouth libraries. These
double lettei*s must come rather heavy ; I hope you
have a moderate portion of cash, but don't fret at all,
if you have not — Lord ! I intend to play at cut and
run as well as Falstaff, that is to say, before he got so
lusty.
I remain, praj-ing for your health, my dear brothers,
Your affectionate brother,
John.
A lady, whose feminine acuteness of perception is
only equalled by the ^-igour of her understanding, tells
me she distinctly remembers Keats as he appeared at
this time at Hazlitt's lectures. " His eyes were
large and blue, his hair auburn ; he wore it divided
down the centre, and it fell in rich masses on each
side his face ; his mouth was full, and less intellectual
than his other features. His countenance lives in my
mind as one of singular beauty and brightness — it
had an expression as if he had been looking on some
glorious sight. The shape of his face had not the
squareness of a man's, but more like some women's
faces I have seen — it was so wide over the forehead
104 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
and so small at the chin. He seemed in perfect
health, and with life offering all things that were
precious to him."
Keats had lately vindicated those " who delight in
sensation " against those who " hunger after Truth,"
and that, no doubt, was the tendency of his nature.
But it is most interesting to observe how this
dangerous inclination was in him continually balanced
and modified by the purest appreciation of moral
excellence, how far he was from taking the sphere he
loved best to dwell in for the whole or even the
best of creation. Never have words more effectively
expressed the conviction of the superiority of virtue
above beauty than those in the following letter —
never has a poet more devoutly submitted the glory
of imagination to the power of conscience.
Hampstead,
April 21, [1818.J
My dear Brothers,
I am certain, I think, of having a letter
to-morrow morning ; for I expected one so much
this morning, having been in town two days, at the
end of which my expectations began to get up a
little. I found two on the table, one from Bailey
and one from Haydon. I am quite perplexed in a
world of doubts and fancies ; there is nothing stable
JOHN KEATS. 105
in the ■world ; uproar 's j^our only music. I don't
meaii to include Bailey in this, and so I dismiss him
from this, with all the opprobrium he deserves ; that
is, in so many words, he is one of the noblest men
alive at the present day. In a note to Haydon,
about a week ago (which I wrote with a full sense of
what he had done, and how he had never manifested
any little mean drawback in his value of me), I said,
if there were three things superior in the modem
world, they were " The Excursion," " Haydon's
Pictures," and Hazlitt's depth of Taste. So I
believe — not thus speaking with any poor vanity —
that works of genius are the first things in this
world. No ! for that sort of probity and disinterest-
edness which such men as Bailey possess does hold
and grasp the tip-top of any spiritual honours that
can be paid to anything in this world. And, more-
over, having this feeling at this present come over
me in its full force, I sat down to write to you with a
grateful heart, in that I had not a brother who did
not feel and credit me for a deeper feeling and
devotion for his uprightness, than for any marks of
genius however splendid. I have just finished the
revision of my first book, and shall take it to Taylor's
to-morrow.
Your most affectionate brother,
John.
106 LIFE ANT) LETTERS OF
The correction and publication of " Endymion "
were the chief occupations of this half year, and
naturally furnish much of the matter for Keats s
correspondence. The " Axioms " in the second letter
to Mr. Taylor, his publisher, express with wonderful
vigour and conciseness the Poet's notion of bis own
art, and are the more interesting as they contain
principles which supei-ficial readers might have ima-
gined he would have been the first to disregard and
violate.
[Postmark, 30 Jan. 1818. Hampstead.]
My deab Taylor,
These lines, as they now stand, about
"happiness," have rung in my ears like "a chime
a mending." See here :
" Behold
Wherein lies happiness, Peona? fold," &c.
It appears to me the very contraiy of " blessed." I
hope this will appear to you more eligible :
" Wherein lies happiness ? In that which becks
Our ready minds to fellowship divine ;
A fellowship with essence, till we shine
Full alchemized and free of space. Behold
The clear religion of Heaven — Peona ! fold," &c.
You must indulge me by putting this in ; for, setting
JOHN KEATS. 107
aside the badness of the other, such a preface is
necessaiy to the subject. The whole thing must, I
think, have appeared to you, who are a consecutive
man, as a thing almost of mere words. But I assure
you that, when I wrote it, it was a regular stepping
of the imagination towards a truth. My having
written that argument will perhaps be of the greatest
service to me of anything I ever did. It set before
me the gradations of happiness, even like a kind of
pleasure-thermometer, and is my first step towards
the chief attempt in the drama : the playing of
different natures with joy and sorrow.
Do me this favour, and believe me.
Your sincere friend,
J. Keats.
I hope your next work will be of a more general
interest. I suppose you cogitate a little about it
now and then.
Hampstead,
27 Feb. [1818.]
My dear Taylor,
Your alteration strikes me as being a
great improvement. And now I will attend to the
punctuation you speak of. The comma should be at
soberly, and iu the other passage the comma should
follow quiet. I am e.\tremely indebted to you for
108 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
this alteration, and also for your after admonitions.
It is a sorry thing for me that any one should have
to overcome prejudices in reading my verses. That
affects me more than any hypercriticism on any par-
ticular passage. In " Endymion," I have most likely
but moved into the go-cart from the leading-strings.
In poetry I have a few axioms, and you will see how
far I am from their centre.
1st. I think poetry should surprise by a fine
excess, and not by singularity ; it should strike the
reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and
appear almost a remembrance.
2nd. Its touches of beauty should never be half-
way, thereby making the reader breathless, instead of
content. The rise, the progress, the setting of
imagery, should, like the sun, come natural to him,
shine over him, and set soberly, although m magnifi-
cence, leaving him in the luxury of twilight. But it
is easier to think what poetry should be, than to
write it. And this leads me to
Another axiom — That if poetry comes not as natu-
rally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come
at all. However it may be with me, I cannot help
looking into new countries with " Oh, for a muse of
fire to ascend ! " If " Endymion " serves me as a
pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content, for, thank
God, I can read, and perhaps understand, Shakespeare
JOHN KEATS. 109
to his depths ; and I have, I am sure, many friends,
who, if I fail, will attribute any change in my life and
temper to humbleness rather than pride — to a cower-
ing under the wings of gi'eat poets, rather than to a
bitterness that I am not appreciated. I am anxious
to get " Endymion " printed that I may forget it, and
proceed. I have copied the Third Book, and begun
the Fourth. I will take care the printer shall not
trip up my heels.
Remember me to Percy Street.
Your sincere and obliged friend,
John Keats.
P.S. — You shall have a short preface in good time.
Teignmouth,
14 March, [1818.]
Dear Reynolds,
I escaped being blown over, and blown
under, and trees and house being toppled on me.
I have, since hearing of Brown's accident, had an
aversion to a dose of parapet, and being also a lover
of antiquities, I would sooner have a harmless piece
of Herculaneum sent me quietly as a present than
ever so modem a chimney-pot tumbled on to my
head. Being agog to see some Devonshu-e, I would
have taken a walk the first day, but the rain would
not let me ; and the second, but the rain would not
110 LIFE AMD LETTEES OF
let me ; and the third, but the rain forbade it. Ditto
fourth, ditto fifth, ditto — so I made up my mijid to
stop in doors, and catch a sight flying between the
showers : and, behold, I saw a pretty valley, pretty
clifis, pretty brooks, pretty meadows, pretty ti'ees,
both standing as they were created, and blown down
as they were uncreated. The green is beautiful, as
they say, and pity it is that it is amphibious — mais!
but alas ! the flowers here wait as naturally for the
rain twice a day as the muscles do for the tide ; so
we look upon a brook in these parts as you look upon
a splash in your country. There must be something
to support this — aye, fog, hail, snow, rain, mist
blanketing up thi'ee parts of the year. This Devon-
shire is like Lydia Languish, very entertaining when
it smiles, but cursedly subject to sympathetic moisture.
You have the sensation of walking under one great
Lamp-lighter : and you cant go on the other side of
the ladder to keep your fi'ock clean. Buy a gii-dle,
put a pebble in your mouth, loosen your braces — for
I am going among scenery whence I intend to tip you
the Damosel Eadcliffe. I'll cavern you, and grotto
you, and water- fall you, and wood you, and water you,
and immense-rock you, and tremendous-sound you,
and solitude you. 1 11 make a lodgment on your
glacis by a row of pines, and storm your covered
way \vith bramble-bushes. 1 11 have at you -snth hip-
JOHN KEATS. Ill
and- haw small-shot, and cannonade you with shingles.
I "11 be witty upon salt fish, and impede your cavalry
with clotted-cream. But ah, Coward ! to talk at this
rate to a sick man, or, I hope, to one that was sick —
for I hope by this you stand on your right foot. If
you are not — that's all — I intend to cut all sick
people if they do not make up their minds to cut
Sickness — a fellow to whom I have a complete aver-
sion, and who, strange to say, is harboured and
countenanced in several houses where I visit : he is
sitting now, quite impudent, between me and Tom ;
he insults me at poor Jem Rice's ; and you have
seated him, before now, between us at the Theatre,
when I thought he looked with a longing eye at poor
Kean. I shall say, once for all, to my friends,
generally and severally, cut that fellow, or I cut
you.
1 went to the Theatre here the other night, which
I forgot to tell George, and got insulted, which I
ought to remember to forget to tell anybody ; for
1 did not fight, and as yet have had no redress —
"Lie thou there, sweet-heart! " I wrote to Bailey
yesterday, obliged to speak in a high way, and a
damme who 's afraid ? for I liad owed him [a letter]
so long : however, he shall see I will be better in
future. Is he in town yet ? I have directed to Oxford
as the better chance.
112 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
I have copied my fourth Book, and shall write the
Preface soon. I wish it was all done ; for I want to
forget it, and make my mind free for something new.
Atkins the coachman, Bartlet the surgeon, Simmons
the barber, and the girls over at the bonnet-shop,
say we shall now have a month of seasonable weather
— warm, witty, and full of invention.
Write to me and tell me that you are well, or
thereabouts ; or, by the holy Beaucoeur, which I sup-
pose is the Virgin Mary, or the repented Magdalen,
(beautiful name, that Magdalen) I '11 take to my wings
and fly away to anywhere, but old or Nova Scotia.
I wish I had a little innocent bit of metaphysic in
my head, to criss-cross the letter : but you know a
favourite tune is hardest to be remembered when one
wants it most ; and you, I know, have, long ere this,
taken it for granted that I never have any specu-
lations without associating you in them, where they
are of a pleasant nature : and you know enough of
me to tell the places where I haunt most, so that if
you think for five minutes after having read this, you
will find it a long letter, and see written in the air
before you.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
JOHN KEATS. 113
Teignmouth,
25 March, 1818.
My dear Retnolds,
In hopes of cheering you through a
minute or two, I was detenniued, will he nill he, to
send you some lines, so you will excuse the uncon-
nected subject and cai'eless verse. You know, I am
sure. Claude's Enchanted Castle, and I wish you
may be pleased with my remembrance of it. The
rain is come on again. I think with me Devonshire
stands a verj^ poor chance. I shall damn it up hill
and down dale, if it keep up to the average of six
fine days in three weeks. Let me have better news
of you.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
Dear Reynolds ! as last night I lay in bed,
There came before my eyes that wonted thread
Of sh.ipes, and shadows, and remembrances,
That every other minute vex and please :
Things all disjointed come from north and south, —
Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth,
Voltaire with casque and sliield and habergeon,
And Alexander with his night-cap on :
Old Socrates a tying his cravat,
And Hazlitt playing vnth Miss Edgeworth's Cat ;
And Junius Brutus, pretty well, so so,
^Making the best of 's way towards Soho.
VOL. I. 1
114 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Few are there who escape these visitings, —
Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings,
And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose,
No wild-hoar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes ;
But flowers hursting out with lusty pride,
And young JEoM&n harps personified ;
Some Titian colours touch'd into real life, —
The sacrifice goes on ; the pontif knife
Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows.
The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows :
A white sail shows above the green-head clifi^,
Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiflF ;
The mariners join hymn with those on land.
You know the enchanted Castle, — it doth stand
Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake,
Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake
From some old magic-like Urganda's Sword.
O Phoebus ! that I had thy sacred word
To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise,
Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies !
You know it well enough, where it doth seem
A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream ;
You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles,
The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills.
All which elsevphere are but half animate ;
There do they look alive to love and hate.
To smiles and frowns ; they seem a lifted mound
Above some giant, pulsing underground.
Part of the Building was a chosen See,
Built by a banished Santon of Chaldee ;
The other part, two thousand years from him.
Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim ;
Then there 's a little wing, far from the Sun,
Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun ;
JOHN KEATS. 115
And many other juts of aged stone
Founded with many a mason-devirs groan.
The doors all look as if they oped themselves,
The windows as if latched by Fays and Elves,
And from them comes a silver flash of light,
As from the westward of a Summer's night ;
Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes
Gone mad thro' olden songs and poesies.
See ! what is coming from the distance dim !
A golden Galley all in silken trim !
Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles,
Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles ;
Towards the shade, under the Castle wall,
It comes in silence, — now 'tis hidden all.
The Clarion sounds, and from a Postern-gate
An echo of sweet music doth create
A fear in the poor Herdsman, who doth bring
His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring, —
He tells of the sweet music, and the spot.
To all his friends, and they believe him not.
O, that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake.
Would all their colours from the sunset take
From something of material sublime.
Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time
In the dark void of night. For in the world
AVe jostle, — but my flag is not unfurl'd
On the Admiral-staff, — and so philosophise
I dare not yet ! Oh, never will the prize.
High reason, and the love of good and ill.
Be my award ! Things cannot to the will
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought ;
Or is it that imagination brought
Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd,
Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind,
I 2
116 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Cannot refer to any standard law
Of either earth or heaven ? It is a flaw-
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn, —
It forces us in summer skies to mournj
It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.
Dear Reynolds ! I have a mysterious tale,
And cannot speak it : the first page I read
Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed
Among the breakers ; 'twas a quiet eve,
The rocks were silent, the wide sea did wave
An untumultuous fringe of silver foam
Along the flat brown sand ; I was at home
And should have been most happy, — but I saw
Too far into the sea, where every man
The greater on the less feeds evermore, —
But I saw too distinct into the core
Of an eternal fierce destruction,
And so from happiness I far was gone.
Still am I sick of it, and tho', to-day,
I've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay
Of periwinkle and wild strawberry.
Still do I that most fierce destruction see, —
The Shark at savage prey, — the Hawk at pounce, —
The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce,
Ravening a Worm, — Away, ye horrid moods !
Moods of one's mind ! You know I hate them well,
You know I 'd sooner be a clapping Bell
To some Kamtchatcan Missionary Church,
Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch.
JOHN KEAX.S. 117
Teignmouth,
•25 March, I8lii.
My dear Rice,
Being in the midst of your favourite
Devon, I should not, by right, pen one word but it
should contain a vast portion of wit, wisdom, and
learning ; for I have heard that Milton, ere he wrote
his answer to Salmasius, came into these parts, and fur
one whole month, rolled himself for three whole hours
a day, in a certain meadow hard by us, where the
mark of his nose at equidistances is still shown. The
exhibitor of the said meadow further saith, that, after
these rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all the seven
acres for seven years, and that from the said time a
new sort of plant was made from the whitethorn, of a
thomless nature, very much used by the bucks of the
present day to rap their boots withal. This account
made me very naturally suppose that the nettles and
thorns etherealised by the scholar's rotate ly motion,
and garnered in liis head, thence flew, after a process of
fermentation, against the luckless Salmasius, and
occasioned his well-known and unhappy end. What
a happy thing it would be if we could settle our
thoughts and make our minds up on any matter in
five minutes, and remain content, that is, build a sort
of mental cottage of feelings, quiet and pleasant — to
have a sort of philosophical back-garden, and cheerful
118 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
holiday-keeping front one. But, alas ! this never can
be ; for, as the material cottager knows there are such
places as France and Italy, and the Andes, and
burning mountains, so the spiritual cottager has know-
ledge of the terra semi-incognita of things unearthly,
and carmot, for his life, keep in the check-rein — or I
should stop here, quiet and comfortable in my theory
of — nettles. You will see, however, I am obliged to
run wild, being attracted by the lode-stone, concatena-
tion. No sooner had I settled the knotty point of
Salraasius, than the devil put this whim into my head
in the likeness of one of Pythagoras's questionings —
Did Milton do more good or harm in the world ? He
wrote, let me inform you (for I have it from a friend
who had it of ,) he wrote " Lycidas," " Comus."
" Paradise Lost," and other Poems, with much
delectable prose ; he was moreover an active friend
to man all his life, and has been since his death.
Very good. But, my dear fellow, I must let you
know that, as there is ever the same quantity of
matter constituting this habitable globe, as the ocean,
notwithstanding the enormous changes and revolutions
taking place in some or other of its demesnes, not-
withstanding waterspouts, whirlpools, and mighty
livers emptying themselves into it, it still is made up
of the same bulk, nor ever varies the number of its
atoms; and, as a certain bulk of water was instituted
JOHN KEATS, 119
at the creation, so, very likely, a certain portion of
intellect was spun forth into the thin air, for the
brains of man to prey upon it. You "vvill see my
drift, without any unnecessary parenthesis. That
which is contained in the Pacific could not be in the
hollow of the Caspian ; that which was in Milton's
head could not find room in Charles the Second's.
He, like a moon, attracted intellect to its flow — it has
not ebbed yet, but has left the shore-pebbles all bare
— I mean all bucks, authors of Hengist, and Castle-
reaghs of the present day, who, without Milton's gor-
mandising, might have been all wise men. Now for
as much as I was very predisposed to a country I
had heard you speak so highly of, I took particular
notice of everything during my journey, and have
bought some nice foHo asses skins for memorandums.
I have seen everything but the wind — and that they
say, becomes visible by taking a dose of acorns, or
sleeping one night in a hog-trough, with your tail to
the sow-sow-west.
I went yesterday to Dawlish fair.
" Over the Hill and over the Dale,
And over the Bourne to Dawlish,
Where ginger-bread wives have a scanty sale,
And ginger-bread nuts are smallish," &c. &c.
Your sincere friend,
John Keats.
120 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Mr. Reynolds seems to have objected to a Preface
written for " Endymion," and Keats thus manfully
and eloquently remonstrates : —
Teignmouth,
April 9th, 1818.
My dear Reynolds,
Since you all agree that the thing is
bad, it must be so — though I am not aware that
there is anything like Hunt in it, (and if there is, it
is my natural way, and I have something in common
with Hmit). Look over it again, and examine into
the motives, the seeds, from which every one sentence
sprang.
I have not the slightest feeling of humility towards
the public, or to anything in existence but the
Eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the
Memoiy of great Men. When I am writing for
myself, for the mere sake of the moment's enjoy-
ment, perhaps nature has its course with me ; but a
Preface is written to the public — a thing I cannot
help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot
address without feelings of hostility. If I write a
Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will not be in
character with me as a public speaker.
I would be subdued before my friends, and thank
them for subduing me ; but among multitudes of men
JOHN KEATS. I'^l
I have no feel of stoopiug ; I hate the idea of humility
to them.
I never wrote one single line of poetry with the
least shadow of public thought.
Forgive me for vexing you, and maldng a Trojan
horse of such a tritle, both with respect to the matter
m question, and myself ; but it eases me to tell you :
I could not live without the love of my friends ; I
would jump down ^tna for any great public good —
but I hate a mawkish popularity. I cannot be subdued
before them. My glory would be to daunt and dazzle
the thousand jabberers about pictures and books. I
see swarms of porcupines with their quills erect "like
lime-twigs set to catch my winged book," and I would
fright them away with a touch. You will say my
Preface is not much of a touch. It would have been
too insulting " to begin from Jove," and I could not
[set] a golden head upon a thing of clay. If there is
any fault in the Preface it is not affectation, but an
undersong of disrespect to the public. If I write
another Preface it must be done without a thought of
those people. I will think about it. If it should not
reach you in four or five days, tell Taylor to publish
it without a Preface, and let the Dedication simply
stand — " Inscxibed to the Memory of Thomas
Chatterton."
I had resolved last night to write to you this
122 LIFE AND LETTEKS OF
morning — I wish it had been about something else —
something to greet you towards the close of your long
illness. I have had one or two intimations of your
going to Hampstead for a space ; and I regret to see
your confounded rheumatism keeps you in Little
Britain, where I am sure the air is too confined.
Devonshire continues rainy. As the drops beat
against my window, they give me the same sensation
as a quart of cold water offered to revive a half-
drowned devil — no feel of the clouds dropping
fatness ; but as if the roots of the earth were rotten,
cold, and drenched. I have not been able to go to
Kent's ca[ve ?] at Babbicomb ; however, on one very
beautiful day I had a fine clamber over the rocks all
along as far as that place.
I shall be in town in about ten days. We go by
way of Bath on purpose to call on Bailey. I hope
soon to be writing to you about the things of the
north, purposing to wayfare all over those parts. I
liave settled my accoutrements in my own mind, and
will go to gorge wonders. However, we'll have some
days together before I set out.
I have many reasons for going wonder-ways ; to
make my winter chair free from spleen ; to enlarge
my vision; to escape disquisitions on poetry, and
Kingston-criticism ; to promote digestion and econo-
mise shoe-leather. I'll have leather buttons and
JOHN KEATS. 123
belt; and, if Brown holds bis mind, " over the hills
we go." If my books will help me to it, then will I
take all Europe in turn, and see the Idngdoms of
the earth and the glory of them. Tom is getting
better : he hopes you may meet him at the top of
the hill. My love to your nurse.
I am ever
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
Teignmouth,
April 10, 1818.
My dear Reynolds,
I am anxious you should find this Preface
tolerable. If there is an affectation in it 'tis natural
to me. Do let the printer's devil cook it, and let me
be as " the casing air."
You are too good in this matter ; were I in your
state, I am certain I should have no thought but of
discontent and illness. I might, though, be taught
patience. I had an idea of giving no Preface :
however, don't you think this had better go ? 1 let
it — one should not be too timid of committing faults.
The climate here weighs us [down] completely;
Tom is quite low-spirited. It is impossible to live in
a country which is continually under hatches. Who
would live in a region of mists, game laws, indemnity
124 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
bills, &c., when there is such a place as Italy? It is
said this England from its clime produces a spleen,
able to engender the finest sentiments, and covers
the whole face of the isle with green. So it ought,
I'm sure.
I should still like the Dedication simply, as 1 said
in my last.
I wanted to send you a few songs, written in your
favorite Devon. It cannot be ! Eain, rain, rain !
I am going this morning to take a facsimile of a letter
of Nelson's, very much to his hononr; you will be
greatly pleased when you see it, in about a week.
What a spite it is one cannot get out I The little
way I went yesterday, I found a lane banked on each
side with a store of primroses, while the earlier bushes
are beginning to leaf.
I shall hear a good account of you soon.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
I cannot lay hands on the first Preface, but here is
the second, which no one will regret to read again,
both from its intrinsic truth and its representation,
in the aptest terms, of the state of Keats 's mind
at this time, and of his honest judgment of himself.
■' Knowing within myself the manner in which this
JOHN KKATS. 125
Poem has been produced, it is uot witlaout a feeling
of regret that I make it public.
" What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the
reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience,
immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish
attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two
fii'st books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible
are uot of such completion as to warrant their passing
the press ; nor should they if I thought a year's cas-
tigation would do them any good ; it will not ; the
foundations are too sandy. It is just that this
youngster should die away : a sad thought for me, if
I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may
be plotting and fitting myself for verses fit to live.
" Tliis may be speaking too presumptuously and may
deserve a punishment ; but no feeling man will be
forward to inflict it ; he will leave me alone, with the
conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the
failure in a great object. This is not written with the
least atom of pui'pose to forestall criticisms, of course,
but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are
competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye
to the honour of English literature. The imagination
of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a
man is healthy ; but there is a space of life between,
in which the soul is in a ferment, the character unde-
cided, the way of life uncertam, the ambition thick-
126 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
sighted ; thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the
thousand bitters which those men I speak of must
necessarily taste in going over the following pages.
I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beau-
tiful mythology of Greece and dulled its brightness ;
for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell."
Teignmouth,
27 April, 1818.
My dear Reynolds,
It is an awful while since you have heard
from me. I hope I may not be punished, when I
see you well, and so anxious as you always are for
me, with the remembrance of my so seldom writing
when you were so horribly confined. The most
unhappy hours in our lives are those in which we
recollect times past to our own blushing. If we are
immortal, that must be the Hell. If I must be
immortal, I hope it will be after having taken a little
of " that watery labpinth," in order to forget some
of my school-boy days, and others since those.
I have heard from George, at different times, how
slowly you were recovering. It is a tedious thing ;
but all medical men will tell you how far a very
gradual amendment is preferable. You will be strong
after this, never fear.
JOHN KEATS. 127
We are here still enveloped in clouds. I laj-
awake last night listening to the rain, with a sense of
being drowned and rotted like a grain of wheat.
There is a continual courtesy between the heavens
and the earth. The heavens rain down their un-
welcomeness, and the earth sends it up again, to
be returned to-morrow.
Tom has taken a fancy to a physician here, Dr.
Turton, and, I think, is getting better; therefore I
shall, perhaps, remam here some months. I have
written to George for some books — shall learn Greek,
and very likely Italian ; and, in other ways, prepare
myself to ask Hazlitt, in about a year's time, the
best metaphysical road I can take. For, although I
take Poetry to be chief, yet there is something else
wanting to one who passes his life among books and
thoughts on books. I long to feast upon old Homer
as we have upon Shakspeare, and as I have lately
upon ]\Iilton. If you understand Greek, and would
read me passages now and then, explaining their
meaning, 'twould be, from its mistiness, perhaps, a
greater luxuiy than reading the thing one's self. I
shall be happy when I can do the same for you.
I have written for my folio Shakspeare, m which
there are the first few stanzas of my "Pot of IJasil."
I have the rest here, finished, and will copy the
whole out fair shortly, and George will bring it you.
128 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
The compliment is paid by us to Boccace, whether
Ave publish or no : so there is content in this world.
Mind [my Poem] is short ; you must be deliberate
about yours : you must not think of it till many
months after you are quite well : — then put your
passion to it, and I shall be bound up with you in
the shadows of mind, as we are in our matters of
human life. Perhaps a stanza or two will not be
too foreign to your sickness.
" Were they unhappy then ? It cannot be :
Too many tears," &c. &c.
" But for the general award of love," &c.
" She wept alone for pleasures," &c.
The fifth line ran thus : —
" What might have been, too plainly did she sec."
Give my love to your mother and sisters, Ptemember
me to the Butlers — not forgetting Sarah.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
This adaptation of Boccaccio was intended to form
part of a collection of Tales from the great Italian
novelist, versified by Mr. Reynolds and himself.
Two by Mr. Pteynolds appeared in the " Garden of
Florence ;" " Isabella " was the only other one Keats
completed.
JOHN KEATS.- 129
Teignmouth,
27 A2^nl, 1818.
My dear Taylor,
I think I did wrong to leave to you all
tlie trouble of " Endymion." But I could not help
it then — another time I shall be move bent to all
sorts of troubles and disagreeables. Young men, for
some time, have an idea that such a thing as happi-
ness is to be had, and therefore are extremely im-
patient under any unpleasant restraining. In time,
however, — of such stuff is the world about them, —
they know better, and instead of striving from
uneasiness, greet it as an habitual sensation, a
panier which is to weigh upon them through life.
And in proportion to my disgust at the task is my
sense of your kindness and anxiety. The book pleased
me much. It is veiy free from faults ; and, although
there are one or two words I should wish replaced, I
see in many places an improvement greatly to the
purpose.
I was proposing to travel over the North this
summer. There is but one thing to prevent me.
1 know nothing — I have read nothing — and I mean
to follow Solomon's directions, "Get learning — get
understanding." I find earlier days are gone by — I
find that I can have no enjojuient in the world but
continual drinldng of knowledge. I find there is no
VOL. I. K
130 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
worthy pursuit but the idea of doing some good to the
world. Some do it with their society; some with
their wit ; some with their benevolence ; some with a
sort of power of conferring pleasure and good humour
on aU they meet — and in a thousand ways, all dutiful
to the command of great Nature. There is but one
way for me. The road lies through application, study,
and thought. I will pursue it ; and, for that end,
purpose retiring for some years. I have been hovering
for some time between an exquisite sense of the
luxurious, and a love for philosophy : were I calcu-
lated for the former I should be glad. But as I am
not, I shall tuna all my soul to the latter.
My brother Tom is getting better, and I hope I
shall see both him and Reynolds better before I retire
from the world. I shall see you soon, and have
some talk about what books I shall take with me.
Your very smcere friend.
John Keats.
It is difficult to add anything to the passages in
these letters, which show the spirit in which
" Endymion " was written and published. This first
sustained work of a man whose undoubted genius
was idolised by a circle of affectionate friends, whose
JOHN KEATS. 131
weaknesses ■were I'ather encouraged than repressed
by the intellectual atmosphere in which he lived,
who had rarely been enabled to measure his spiritual
stature with that of persons of other schools of
thought and habits of mind, appears to have been
produced with a humility that the severest criticism
might not have engendered. Keats, it is clear, did
not require to be told how far he was from the perfect
Poet. The very consciousness of his capabiUty to do
something higher and better, which accompanies the
lowly estimate of his work, kept the ideal ever before
him, and ui'ged him to complete it rather as a process
of poetical education than as a triumph of contented
power. Xever was less presumption exhibited —
never the sharp stroke of contemptuous censure less
required. His own Preface was the more depre-
catoiy, in that it did not deny that he was himself
disappointed, and that he looked to future efforts to
justify his claims to others, and himself to himself.
This dissatisfaction with his book, and his brother's
ill-health, cast over his mind the gloom which he
hardly conceals in the letters of this period, though it
is remarkable how free they are, at all times, from any
merely querulous expressions, and from the vague
sentimentality attributed to some of his literary
associates.
132 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Teignmouth,
May 3, [1818.]
My deae Reynolds,
What I complain of is, tliat I have been
in so uneasy a state of mind as not to be fit to write
to an invalid. I cannot write to any length under
a disguised feeling. I should have loaded you with
an addition of gloom, which I am sure you do not
want. I am now, thank God, in a humour to give
you a good groat's worth ; for Tom, after a night
without a wink of sleep, and over-burthened with fever,
has got up, after a refreshing day-sleep, and is better
than he has been for a long time. And you, I trust,
have been again round the Common without any effect
but refreshment. As to the matter, I hope I can
say. \\ith Sir Andrew, " I have matter enough in my
head," in your favour. And now, in the second place,
for I reckon that I have finished my Imprimis,
I am glad you blow up the weather. All through
your letter there is a leaning towards a climate-
curse ; and you know what a delicate satisfaction
there is in having a vexation anathematised. One
would think that there has been growing up, for
these last four thousand years, a grand-child scion
of the old forbidden tree, and that some modern
Eve had just violated it ; and that there was come,
JOHN KEATS. 133
with double charge, "Notus and Afer (Auster",')
black with thunderous clouds from Serraliona." Tom
wants to be in town : we will have some such
days upon the heath like that of last summer —
and why not with the same book? or what do
you say to a black-letter Chaucer, printed in
1596 ? Aye, I have got one, huzza ! I shall have it
bound in Gothique — a nice sombre binding ; it will
go a little way to immodemize. And, also, I see no
reason, because I have been away this last month,
why I should not have a peep at your Spenserian —
notwithstanding you speak of yoiu' office, in my
thought, a little too early; for I do not see why a
mind Hke yours is not capable of harbouring and
digesting the whole mystery of Law as easily as
Parson Hugh does pippins, which did not hinder him
from his poetic canary. Were I to study Physic, or
rather Medicine again, I feel it would not make the
leasi difference in my poetry ; when the mind is in its
infancy a bias is in reality a bias, but when we have
acquired more strength, a bias becomes no bias.
Every department of knowledge we see excellent and
calculated towards a great whole. I am so convinced
of this that I am glad at not havuig given away my
medical books, wliich I shall again look over, to keep
alive the little I know thitherwards ; and moreover
intend, through you and Rice, to become a sort of
134 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
pip-civilian. An extensive knovrledge is needful to
thinking people; it takes away the heat and fever,
and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the
burden of the Mystery, a thing which I begin to
understand a little, and which weighed upon you in
the most gloomy and true sentence in your letters.
The difference of high sensations, with and without
knowledge, appears to me this : in the latter case we
are continually falling ten thousand fathoms deep,
and being blown up again, without wings, and with
all [the] horror of a bare-shouldered creatm-e ; in. the
former case, our shoulders are fledged, and we go
through the same air and space without fear. This is
running one's rigs on the score of abstracted benefit ;
when we come to human life and the affections, it is
impossible to know how a parallel of breast and head
can be drawn, (you will forgive me for thus privately
treading out [of] my depth, and take it for treading as
school-boys tread the water) ; it is impossible to know
how far knowledge will console us for the death of a
friend, and the " ills that flesh is heir to." With
respect to the aff'ections and poetry, you must know
by sympathy my thoughts that way, and I dare say
these few lines will be but a ratification. I wrote
them on May-day, and intend to finish the ode all in
good time,
JOHN KEATS. 135
Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia !
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baise ?
Or may I woo thee
In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,
By bards who died content on pleasant sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clan ?
O, give me their old vigour, and unheard
Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span
Of heaven and few ears.
Rounded by thee, my song should die away
Content as theirs.
Rich in the simple worship of a day.
You may perhaps be anxious to know for fact to
what sentence in your letter I allude. You say,
" I fear there is little chance of anything else in this
life." Y^ou seem by that to have been going through,
with a more painful and acute zest, the same laby-
rinth that I have — I have come to the same con-
clusion thus far. My branchings-out therefrom have
been numerous : one of them is the consideration of
Wordsworth's genius, and as a help, in the manner
of gold being the meridian line of worldly wealth,
how he differs from Milton, And here I have
nothing but surmises, from an uncertainty whether
Milton's apparently less anxiety for humanity pro-
ceeds from his seeing further or not than Wordsworth,
and whether Wordsworth has, in truth, epic passion,
and martyrs himself to the human heart, the main
136 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
region of Ms song. In regard to his genius alone,
we find what he says true, as far as we have expe-
rienced, and we can judge no further but by larger
experience ; for axioms in philosophy are not axioms
till they have been proved upon our pulses. We
read fine things, but never feel them to the full until
we have gone [over] the same steps as the author.
I know this is not plain ; you will know exactly my
meaning when I say that now I shall relish
" Hamlet" more than I ever have done — or better.
You are sensible no man can set down veneiy as a
bestial or joyless thing until he is sick of it, and
therefore all philosophizing on it would be mere
wording. Until we are sick, we understand not ; in
fine, as Byron says, " Knowledge is sorrow;" and I
go on to say that " Sorrow is wisdom ; " and further,
for aught we can know for certainty, "Wisdom is
folly." So you see how I have run away from
Wordsworth and Milton, and shall still run away
from what was in my head to observe, that some
kind of letters are good squares, others handsome
ovals, others orbicular, others spheroid — and why
should not there be another species with two rough
edges, like a rat-trap? I hope you will find all
my long letters of that species, and all will be
well ; for by merely touching .the spring delicately
and ethereally, the rough-edged will fly immediately
JOHN KEATS. 137
into a proper compactness ; and thus you may make
a good wholesome loaf, with your own leaven in it, of
my fragments. If you cannot find this said rat-trap
sufficiently tractable, alas ! for me, it being an im-
possibility in grain for my ink to stain otherwise.
If I scribble long letters, I must play my vagaries.
I must be too heavy, or too light, for whole pages ;
I must be quaint, and free of tropes and figures ;
I must play my draughts as I please, and for my
advantage and your erudition, crown a white with a
black, or a black with a white, and move into black
or white, far and near as I please ; I must go from
HazUtt to Patmore, and make Wordsworth and
Coleman play at leap-frog, or keep one of them down
a whole half-hohday at fly-the-garter ; "from Gray
to Gay, from Little to Shakespeare." I shall resume
after dinner.
* * * *
This crossing a letter is not without its association
— for chequer-work leads us naturally to a milkmaid,
a milkmaid to Hogarth, ^ogarth to Shakespeare ;
Shakespeai'e to Hazlitt, Hazlitt back to Shakespeare ;
and thus by merely pulling an apron-stiing wt; set a
pretty peal of chimes at work. Let them chime on,
while, mth your patience, I wiU return to Words-
worth — whether or no he has an extended vision or a
circumscribed grandeur — whether he is an eagle in
J 38 LIFE AJSTD LETTEKS OF
his nest or on the wing; and, to be more explicit,
and to show you how tall 1 stand by the giant, I will
put down a simile of human life as far as I now
perceive it ; that is, to the point to which I say we
both have arrived at. Well, I compare human life to
a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I
can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet
shut upon me. The first we step into we call the
Infant, or Thoughtless Chamber, in which we remain
as long as we do not think. We remain there a
long while, and notwithstanding the doors of the
second chamber remain wide open, showing a bright
ajjpearance, we care not to hasten to it, but are at
length imperceptibly impelled by the awakening of
the thinking principle within us. We no sooner get
into the second chamber, which I shall call the
Chamber of Maiden-thought, than we become intoxi-
cated with the light and the atmosphere. We see
nothing but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying
there for ever in delight. However, among the
effects this breathing is father of, is that tremendous
one of sharpening one's vision into the heart and
nature of man, of convincing one's nerves that the
world is full of misery and heartbreak, pain, sickness,
and oppression; whereby this Chamber of Maiden-
thought becomes gradually darkened, and at the same
time, on all sides of it, many doors are set open —
JOHN KEATS. ]89
but all dark — all leading to dark passages. We see
not the balance of good and evil ; we are in a mist,
we are in that state, v>e feel the " Burden of the
Mysterj'." To this point was Wordsworth come, as
far as I can conceive, when he wrote " Tintern
Abbey," and it seems to me that his genius is explo-
rative of those dark passages. Now if we live, and
go on thinldng. we too shall explore them. He is a
genius and superior [to] us, in so far as he can, more
than we, make discoveries and shed a light in them.
Here I must think Wordsworth is deeper than
]\Iilton, though I think it has depended more upon
the general and gi'egarious advance of intellect than
individual greatness of mind. From the " Paradise
Lost," and the other works of Milton, I hope it is
not too presuming, even between ourselves, to say,
that liis philosophy, human and divine, may be
tolerably understood by one not much advanced in
years. In his time. Englishmen were just emanci-
pated from a great superstition, and men had got
hold of certain points and resting-places in reasoning
which were too newly bom to be doubted, and too
much opposed by the rest of Europe, not to be
thought ethereal and authentically divine. Who
could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice, and chastity,
in " Comus," just at the time of the dismissal of
a hundred social disgraces? Who would not rest
140 LIFE AND LETTEfiS OF
satisfied with his hintings at good and evil in the
" Paradise Lost," when just free from the Inqui-
sition and burning in Smithfield ? The Reformation
produced such immediate and great benefits, that
Protestantism was considered under the immediate
eye of Heaven, and its own remaining dogmas and
superstitions then, as it were, regenerated, consti-
tuted those resting-places and seeming sure points
of reasoning. From that I have mentioned, Milton,
whatever he may have thought in the sequel, appears
to have been content with these by his writings. He
did not think with the human heart as Wordsworth
has done ; yet Milton, as a philosopher, had surely as
great powers as Wordsworth. What is then to be
inferred ? O ! many tilings : it proves there is really a
grand march of intellect ; it proves that a mighty Pro-
vidence subdues the mightiest minds to the service of
the time being, whether it be in human knowledge
or religion.
I have often pitied a tutor who has to hear
" Nom. Musa " so often dinn'd into his ears : T
hope you may not have the same pain in this scrib-
bling — I may have read these things before, but
I never had even a thus dim perception of them ;
and, moreover, I like to say my lesson to one who
will endure my tediousness, for my own sake.
After all there is something real in the world —
JOHN KEATS. 141
Moore's present to Hazlitt is real. I like that
Moore, and am glad I saw hira at the Theatre just
before I left town. Tom has spit a leetle blood this
afternoon, and that is rather a damper — but I know
— the truth is, there is something real m the world.
Your third Chamber of Life shall be a lucky and a
gentle one, stored with the wine of Love and the
bread of Friendship.
When you see George, if he should not have
received a letter from me, tell him he will find one at
home most likely. Tell Bailey I hope soon to see
him. Remember me to all. The leaves have been
out here for many a day. I have written to George
for the first stanzas of my " Isabel." I shall have
them soon, and will copy the whole out for you.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
Hampstead,
2b May, 1818.
My dear Bailey,
I should have answered your letter on
the moment, if I could have said Yes, to your
invitation. What hinders me is insuperable : I will
tell it at a little length. You know my brother
George has been out of employ for some time. It
142 LIFE AND LETTEKS OF
has weighed very much upon him, and driven him to
scheme and turn over tilings in his mind. The
result has been his resolution to emigrate to the
back settlements of America, become farmer, and
work with his own hands, after purchasing fourteen
hundred acres of the American Government. This,
for many reasons, has met with my entire consent —
and the chief one is this ; he is of too independent
and liberal a mind to get on in trade in this country,
in which a generous man with a scanty resource must
be ruined. I would sooner he should till the ground
than bow to a customer. There is no choice with
him : he could not bring himself to the latter. I
could not consent to his going alone ; — no ; but that
objection is done away with : he will many, before
he sets sail, a young lady he has known for several
years, of a nature liberal and high-spirited enough to
follow him to the banks of the Mississippi. He will
set off in a month or six weeks, and you will see how
I should wish to pass that time with him. — And then
I must set out on a journey of my own. Brown and
I are going on a pedestrian tour through the north
of England, and Scotland, as far as John o'Grot's.
I have this morning such a lethargy that I cannot
write. The reason of my delaying is oftentimes for
this feeling, — I wait for a proper temper. Now you
ask for an immediate answer, I do not like to wait
JOHN KEATS. 143
even till to-mon'ow. However, 1 am now so depressed
that I have not an idea to put to paper ; my hand
feels like lead. And yet it is an unpleasant numb-
ness ; it does not take away the pain of existence.
1 don't know what to write.
[Monday.] — You see how I have delayed ; and
even now I have but a confused idea of what I
should be about. My intellect must be in a dege-
nerating state — it must be — for when I should be
writing about — God knows what — I am troubling
you -nith moods of my own mind, or rather body,
for mind there is none. I am in that temper
that if I were under water I would scarcely kick
to come up to the top. I know very well 'tis all
nonsense. In a short time I hope I shall be in a
temper to feel sensibly your mention of my book.
In vain have I waited till Monday to have any
interest in that, or anything else. I feel no spur at
my brother's going to America, and am almost stony-
hearted about his wedding. All this will blow over.
All I am sorry for is having to write to you in such a
time — but I cannot force my letters in a hotbed.
I could not feel comfortable in making sentences for
you. I am your debtor ; I must ever remain so ;
nor do I wish to be clear of my rational debt : there
is a comfort in throwing oneself on the charity of
one's friends — ' tis like the albatross sleeping on its
144 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
wings. I will be to you wine in the cellar, and the
more modestly, or rather, indolently, I retire into
the backward bin, the more Faleme will I be at the
drinking. There is one thing I must mention : my
brother talks of sailing in a fortnight ; if so, I will
most probably be with you a week before I set out
for Scotland. The middle of your first page should
be sufl&cient to rouse me. What I said is true, and I
have dreamt of your mention of it, and my not
answering it has weighed on me since. If I come, I
will bring your letter, and hear more fully your
sentiments on one or two points. I will call about
the Lectures at Taylor's, and at Little Britain,
to-morrow. Yesterday I dined with Hazlitt, Barnes,
and Wilkie, at Haydon's. The topic was the
Duke of Wellington — very amusingly pro-and-con'd.
Reynolds has been getting much better ; and Rice
may begin to crow, for he got a little so-so at a
party of his, and was none the worse for it the next
morning. I hope I shall soon see you, for we must
have many new thoughts and feelings to analyse,
and to discover whether a little more knowledge has
not made us more ignorant.
Yours affectionately,
John Keats.
JOHN KEATS. 145
London,
June 10, 1818.
My dear Bailey,
I have been very much gratified and
very much hurt by your letters in the Oxford Paper ;
because, independent of that unlawful and mortal
feeling of pleasure at praise, there is a glory in
enthusiasm; and because the world is malignant
enough to chuckle at the most honourable simplicity.
Yes, on my soul, my dear Bailey, you are too simple
for the world, and that idea makes me sick of it.
How is it that, by extreme opposites, we have, as it
were, got discontented nerves ? You have all your
life (I think so) believed everybody. I have suspected
everybody. And, although you have been so deceived,
you make a simple appeal. The world has something
else to do, and I am glad of it. Were it in my choice,
I would reject a Petrarchal coronation — on account
of my dying day, and because women have cancers.
I should not, by rights, speak in this tone to you, for
it is an incendiary spirit that would do so. Yet I
am not old enough or magnanimous enough to anni-
hilate self — and it would, perhaps, be paying you an
ill compHment. I was in hopes, some little time back,
to be able to relieve your dulness by my spirits — to
point out things in the world worth your enjoyment
VOL. I. L
146 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
— and now I am never alone without rejoicing that
there is such a thing as death — without placing my
ultimate in the gloiy of dying for a great human
purpose. Perhaps if my affairs were in a different
state I should not have written the above — you shall
judge : I have two brothers ; one is driven, by the
" bui'den of society," to America ; the other, with an
exquisite love of life, is in a lingering state. My
love for my brothers, from the early loss of our
parents, and even from earlier misfortunes, has grown
into an affection, " passing the love of women." I
have been ill-tempered with them, I have vexed
them, — but the thought of them has always stifled
the impression that any woman might otherwise have
made upon me. I have a sister too ; and may not
follow them either to America or to the grave. Life
must be imdergone ; and I certainly derive some
consolation from the thought of writing oiie or two
more poems before it ceases.
I have heard some hints of your retiring to Scot-
land. I should like to know your feeling on it : it
seems rather remote. Perhaps Gleig will have a duty
near you. I am not certain whether I shall be able
to go any journey, on account of my brother Tom and
a little indisposition of my own. If I do not, you
shall see me soon, if not on my return, or 1 11 quarter
mvself on you next winter. I had known my sister-
JOHN KEATS. 147
in-law some time before she was my sister, and was
very fond of her. I like her better and better. She
is the most disinterested woman I ever knew — that is
to say, she goes beyond degrees in it. To see an
entirely disinterested girl quite happy is the most
pleasant and extraordinary thing in the world. It
depends upon a thousand circumstances. On my
word it is extraordinary. Women must want imagi-
nation, and they may thank God for it ; and so may
we, that a delicate being can feel happy without any
sense of crime. It puzzles me, and I have no sort of
logic to comfort me : I shall think it over. I am not
at home, and your letter being there I cannot look it
over to answer any particular — only, I must say I feel
that passage of Dante. If I take any book with me it
shall be those minute volumes of Carey, for they will
go into the aptest comer.
Reynolds is getting, I may say, robust. His illness
has been of sen'ice to him. Like every one just
recovered, he is high-spirited. I hear also good
accounts of Rice. With respect to domestic literature,
the " Edinbm'gh Magazine, " in another blow-up
against Hunt, calls me " the amiable Mister Keats,"
and I have more than a laurel from the " Quarterly
Reviewers," for they have smothered me in " Foliage."
I want to read you my " Pot of Basil." If you go to
Scotland, I should much like to read it there to you,
L 2
148 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
among the snows of next winter. My brother's
remembrance to you.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
" Foliage " was a volume of Poems chiefly classi-
cal, just published by Mr. Leigh Hunt. It contained
the following sonnets to Keats. The "Edinburgh
Magazine " was Blackwood's, and had begun the series
of articles on the " Cockney School," to which further
allusion will be made.
SONNET TO JOHN KEATS.
'Tis well you think me truly one of those
Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things ;
For surely as I feel the bird that sings
Behind the leaves, or dawn as it up grows,
Or the rich bee rejoicing as he goes.
Or the glad issue of emerging springs,
Or overhead the glide of a dove's wings,
Or turf, or tree, or, midst of all, repose :
And surely as I feel things lovelier still,
The human look, and the harmonious form
Containing woman, and the smile in ill.
And such a heart as Charles's,* wise and warm, —
As surely as all this, I see, ev'n now.
Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow.
* Charles Cowden Clarke.
JOHN KEATS. 149
ON RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM THE SAME.
A crown of ivy ! I submit my head
To the young hand that gives it, — young, 'tis true.
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.
How pleasant the leaves feel ! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes ! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness, — Fancy's rustling bed !
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes
Come dancing by, and downw.ird piping cheeks.
And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus old
Lumpishly home, and many trampling shapes, —
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus, — whose bride has of his hand fast hold.
ON THE SAME.
It is a lofty feeling and a kind.
Thus to be topped with leaves ; — to have a sense
Of honour-shaded thought, — an influence
As from great Nature's fingers, and be twined
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivj-bind.
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence
A head that bows to her benevolence,
'Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind.
'Tis what 's within us crowned. And kind and great
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires, —
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods,
Love of love's self, and ardour for a state
Of natural good befitting such desires.
Towns without gain, and haunted solitudes.
150 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Whatever extravagance a stranger might find in
these verses, was probably justified to the Poet by the
author's friendship, and in the Preface to " Foliage"
there is, among other ingenious criticisms, a passage
on Shakespeare's scholarship, which seems to me to
have more than an accidental bearing on the kind of
classical knowledge which Keats really possessed.
"Though not a scholar," writes Mr. Hunt, "he
needed nothing more than the description given by
scholars, good or indifferent, in order to pierce back
at once into all the recesses of the original country.
They told him where they had been, and he was there
in an instant, though not in the track of their footing ;
— Battendo Vali verso Vaurea fronde. The truth is,
he felt the Grecian mythology not as a set of school-
boy common-places which it was thought wrong to
give up, but as something which it requires more than
mere scholarship to understand — as the elevation of
the external world and of accomplished humanity to
the highest pitch of the graceful, and as embodied
essences of all the grand and lovely qualities of nature.
His description of Proserpine and her flowers, in the
'Winter's Tale,' of the characteristic beauties of some
of the Gods in ' Hamlet,' and that single couplet in
the ' Tempest,'
' Ye nymphs called Naiads of the wandering brooks.
With your sedged crowns and eter harmless looks,'
JOHN KEATS. 151
are in the deepest taste of antiquity, and show that
all great poets look at themselves and the fine world
about them in the same clear and ever-living foun-
tains."
Every word of this might have applied to Keats,
wlio, at this time, himself seems to have been study-
ing Shakespeare vdth the greatest diligence. Captain
Medwin, in his " Life of Shelley," mentions that he
has seen a folio edition of Shakespeare with Keats s
annotations, and he gives as a specimen part of Aga-
memnon's speech m " Troilus and Cressida," —
" Sith every action tliat has gone before,
Whereof we have record, trial did draw.
Bias, and thwart, not answering the aim,
And that unbodied figure of the thought
That gave it surmised shape."
On which Keats remarks: — " The genius of Shake-
speai'e was an innate universality ; wherefore he laid tlie
achievements of human intellect prostrate beneath his
indolent and kingly gaze : he could do easily men's
utmost — his plan of tasks to come was not of this
world. If what he proposed to do hereafter woukl
not, in the idea, answer the aim, how tremendous must
have been his conception of ultimates ! "
The agreeable diversion to his somewhat monoto-
nous life by a walking-tour through the Lakes and
159 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Highlands with his friend Mr. Brown was now put
into execution. They set off in the middle of June for
Liverpool, where they parted with George Keats, who
embarked with his wife for America. On the road
he stopped to see a former fellow-student at Guy's,
who was settled as a surgeon in a country town, and
whom he informed that he had definitively abandoned
that profession and intended to devote himself to
poetry. Mr. Stephens remembei's that he seemed
much delighted with his new sister-in law, who was a
person of most agreeable appearance, and introduced
her with e\'ident satisfaction. From Lancaster they
started on foot, and Mr. Brown has recorded the
rapture of Keats when he became sensible, for the
first time, of the full effect of mountain scenery. At
a turn of the road above Bowness, where the Lake of
Windermere first bursts on the view, he stopped as if
stupified with beauty. That evening he read aloud
the Poem of the " Pot of Basil," which he had just
completed. His disappointment at missing Words-
worth was very great, and he hardly concealed his
vexation when he found that he owed the privation to
the interest which the elder poet was taldng in the
general Election. This annoyance would perhaps
have been diminished if the two poets had happened
to be on the same side in politics ; but, as it was, no
views and objects could be more opposed.
JOHN KEATS. 153
A portion of a rambling journal of this tour remains
in various letters.
Keswick,
June 'l^, [1818].
My de.\k Tom,
I cannot make my journal as distinct and
actual as I could wish, from having been engaged in
writing to George, and therefore I must tell you,
without circumstance, that we proceeded from Amble-
side to Rydal, saw the waterfalls there, and called on
Wordsworth, who was not at home, nor was any one
of his family. I wrote a note and left it on the
mantel-piece. Thence, on we came to the foot of
Helvelljm, where we slept, but could not ascend it for
the mist. I must mention that from Kydal we passed
Thirlswater, and a fine pass in the mountains. From
Helvellyn we came to Keswick on Derwent Water.
The approach to Derwent Water surpassed Winder-
mere : it is richly wooded, and shut in with rich-toned
mountains. From Helvellyn to Keswick was eight
miles to breakfast, after which we took a complete
circuit of the lake, going about ten miles, and seeing
on our way the fall of Lodore. I had an easy cUmb
among the streams, about the fragments of rocks, and
should have got, I think, to the summit, but unfortu-
nately I was damped by slipping one leg into a squashy
hole. There is no great body of water, but the accom-
paniment is dehghtful ; for it oozes out from a cleft
154 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
in perpendicular rocks, all fledged with ash and otber
beautiful trees. It is a strange thing how they got
there. At the south end of the lake, the mountains
of Borrowdale are perhaps as fine as anything we have
seen. On our return from this circuit, we ordered
dinner, and set forth about a mile and a half on the
Penrith road, to see the Druid temple. We had a fag
up hill, rather too near dinner-time, which was ren-
dered void by the gratification of seeing those aged
stones on a gentle rise in the midst of the mountains,
which at that time, darkened all round, except at the
fresh opening of the Vale of St. John. We went to
bed rather fatigued, but not so much so as to hinder
us getting up this morning to mount Skiddaw. It
promised all along to be fair, and we had fagged and
tugged nearly to the top, when, at half-past six, there
came a mist upon us, and shut out the view. We did
not, however, lose anything by it : we were high
enough without mist to see the coast of Scotland, the
Irish Sea, the hills beyond Lancaster, and nearly all
the large ones of Cumberland and Westmoreland, par-
ticularly Helvellyn and Scawfell. It grew colder and
colder as we ascended, and we were glad, at about
three parts of the way, to taste a little rum which the
guide brought with him, mixed, mind ye, with moun-
tain water. I took two glasses going and one return-
ing. It is about six miles from where I am writing
JOHN KEATS. 155
to the top ; so we have walked ten miles before break-
fast to-day. We went up with two others, very good
sort of fellows. x\ll felt, on arising into the cold air,
that same elevation which a cold bath gives one. I
felt as if I were going to a tournament.
Wordsworth's house is situated just on the rise of
the foot of Mount Rydal ; his parlour-window looks
directly down Windermere ; I do not thmk I told you
how fine the Vale of Grassmere is, and how I dis-
covered "the ancient woman seated on Helm Crag."
July 1st. — We are this morning at Carlisle. After
Skiddaw, we walked to Treby, the oldest market town
in Cumberland, where we were greatly amused by a
country dancing-school, holden at the "Tun." It was
indeed " no new cotillion fresh from France." No,
they kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordinary,
and wliiskit, and friskit, and toed it, and go'd it, and
twirl'd it, and whirl'd it, and stamped it, and sweated
it, tattooing the floor like mad. The difference
between our country dances and these Scottish figures
is about the same as leisurely stirring a cup of tea
and beating up a batter-pudding. I was extremely
gratified to think that, if I had pleasures they knew
nothing of, they had also some into which I could not
possibly enter. I hope I shall not return without
having got the Highland fling. There was as fine a
row of boys and guis as you ever saw ; some beautiful
156 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
faces, and one exquisite mouth. I never felt so near
the gloiy of patriotism, the glory of making, by any
means, a country happier. This is what I like better
than scenery. I fear our continued moving from
place to place "will prevent our becoming learned in
village afifairs : we are mere creatures of rivers, lakes,
and mountains. Our yesterday's journey was from
Treby to Wigton, and from Wigton to Carlisle. The
cathedral does not appear very fine; the castle is
very ancient, and of brick. The city is very various :
old, white- washed narrow streets, broad, red-brick ones,
more modern. I will tell you anon whether the
inside of the cathedral is worth looking at. It is
built of sandy red stone, or brick. We have now
walked 114 miles, and are merely a little tired in the
thighs and a little blistered. We shall ride 38 miles
to Dumfries, when we shall linger awhile about Niths-
dale and Galloway. I have written two letters to
Liverpool. I found a letter from sister George ; very
delightful indeed : I shall preserve it in the bottom of
my knapsack for you.
Jaly 2nd.
ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS.
The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun.
The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
Though beautiful, cold — strange — as in a dream,
I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
JOHN KEATS. 157
The short-lived, paly, Summer is but won
From Winter's; ague, for one hour's gleam ;
Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam :
All is cold Beauty ; pain is never done :
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
Sickly imagination and sick pride
Cast wan upon it ! Bums ! with honour due
I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide
Thy face ; I sin against thy native skies.
You will see by this sonnet that I am at Dumfries.
We have dined in Scotland. Bums's tomb is in the
church-yard comer, not veiy much to my taste, though
on a scale lai'ge enough to show they wanted to honour
him. Mrs. Bums lives in this place; most likely
we shall see her to-morrow. This sonnet I have
written in a strange mood, half-asleep. I know not
how it is, the clouds, the sky, the houses, all seem
anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish. I will endea-
vour to get rid of my prejudices and tell you fairly
about the Scotch.
In Devonshire they say, " Well, where be ye
going?" Here it is, "How is it wi' yoursel?''
A man on the coach, said the horses took a " hellish
heap o' drivin ; " the same fellow pointed out Bums's
Tomb with a deal of life — " There ! de ye see it,
aniang the trees — white, wi' a roond tap ? " The first
well-dressed Scotchman we had any conversation with,
to our sui-pi'ise, confessed himself a deist. The careful
158 LIFE AND LETTEKS OF
manner of delivering his opinions, not before he had
received several encouraging hints from us, was very
amusing. Yesterday was an immense horse-fair at
Dumfries, so that we met numbers of men and women
on the road, the women nearly all barefoot, with their
shoes and clean stockings in hand, ready to put on and
look smart in the towns. There are plenty of wretched
cottages whose smoke has no outlet but by the
door. We have now begun upon whisky, called here
" whuskey," — very smart stuflf it is. Mixed like
our liquors, with sugar and water, 'tis called toddy ;
very pretty drink, and much praised by Burns.
Besides the above sonnet, Keats wrote another in
the whisky-shop, into which the cottage where Bums
was born was converted, which seems to me much
the better of the two. The "local colour" is strong
in it : it might have been written where " Willie
brewed a peck o' maut," and its geniality would have
delighted the object of its admiration. Nevertheless the
author wrote of it to Haydon thus disparagingly : —
" The ' bonnie Doon' is the sweetest river I ever
saw — overhung with fine trees as far as we could see.
We stood sometime on the 'brig' o'er which Tam o'
Shanter fled — we took a pinch of snuff on the key
stone — then we proceeded to the auld Kirk of Alloway.
JOHN KEATS. 159
Then we went to the cottage in which Burns was
liorn ; there was a board to that effect by the door's
side ; it had the same effect as the same sort of
memorial at Stratford-upon-Avon. We drank some
toddy to Burns's memory with an old man who knew
him. There was something good in his description
of Burns's melancholy the last time he saw him.
I was determined to write a sonnet in the cottage :
I did, but it was so bad I cannot venture it here."
SONNET.
This mortal body of a thousand days
Now fills, Bums, a space in thine own room,
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom !
My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree,
My head is light with pledging a great soul,
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see.
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal ;
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor.
Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er, —
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, —
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, —
O smile among the shades, for this is fame !
The pedestrians passed by Solway Frith through
that delightful part of Kirkcudbrightshire, the scene
of " Guy Mannering." Keats had never read the
novel, but was much struck with the character of
160 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Meg Merrilies as delineated to him by Brown. He
seemed at once to realise the creation of the
novelist, and, suddenly stopping in the pathway, at a
point where a profusion of honeysuckles, wild rose,
and fox-glove, mingled with the bramble and broom
that filled up the spaces between the shattered rocks,
he cried out, " Without a shadow of doubt on that
spot has old Meg Merrilies often boiled her kettle."
AUCHTERCAIRN,
•irdJuly, [1818.]
My dear Tom,
We are now in Meg Merrilies' coimtry,
and have, this morning, passed through some parts
exactly suited to her. Kirkcudbright County is
very beautiful, very wild, with craggy hills, somewhat
in the Westmoreland fashion. We have come down
from Dumfries to the sea-coast part of it. The
following song you will have from Dilke, but perhaps
you would like it here : —
Old Meg she was a gipsy.
And lived upon the moors ;
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants, pods o' broom ;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a church-yard tomb.
JOHN KEATS. 161
Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees ;
Alone with her great family
She lived as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And, 'stead of supper, she would stare
Full hai'd against the moon.
But every morn, of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding.
And, every night, the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers, old and brown.
She plaited mats of rushes.
And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen,
And tall as Amazon ;
An old red blanket cloak she wore,
A ship-hat had she on :
God rest her aged bones somewhere !
She died full long agone !
Yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright ; the
country is very rich, very fine, and with a little of
Devon. I am now writing at Newton Stewart, six
mUes from Wigtown. Our landlady of yesterday
said, " very few Southerners passed hereaways." The
children jabber away, as if in a foreign language ; the
bare-footed girls look very much in keepmg, — I mean
with the scenery about them. Brown praises theic
cleanliness and appearance of comfort, the neatness
162 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
of their cottages, &c. It may be. They are very
squat among trees and fem, and heath and broom,
on levels, slopes, and heights ; but I wish they were
as snug as those up the Devonsliire vallies. We are
lodged and entertained in great varieties. We dined,
yesterday, on dirty bacon, dirtier eggs, and dirtiest
potatoes, with a slice of salmon ; we breakfast,
this morning, in a nice carpeted room, with sofa,
hair-bottomed chairs, and green-baized mahogany.
A spring by the road-side is always welcome :
we drink water for dinner, diluted with a gill of
whisky.
July Qth. — Yesterday morning we set out for Glen-
luce, going some distance round to see some rivers :
they were scarcely worth the while. We went on to
Stranraer, in a burning sun, and had gone about six
miles when the mail overtook us : we got up, were at
Port Patrick in a jiffey, and I am writing now in
little Ireland. The dialects on the neighbouring shores
of Scotland and Ireland are much the same, yet I can
perceive a great difference in the nations, from the
chamber-maid at this natc Toone kept by Mr. Kelly.
She is fair, kind, and ready to laugh, because she is
out of the horrible dominion of the Scotch Kirk.
These Kirk-men have done Scotland good. They
have made men, women, old men, young men, old
women, young women, boys, girls, and all infants,
JOHN KEATS. 163
careful ; so that they are formed into regular pha-
langes of savers aud gainers. Such a thiifty army
cannot fail to enrich their countiy, and give it a
greater appearance of comfort than that of their
poor rash neighbourhood. These Kirk-men have
done Scotland harm ; — they have banished puns,
love, and laughing. To remind you of the fate of
Burns : — poor, unfortunate fellow ! his disposition
was Southern ! How sad it is when a luxurious
imagination is obliged, in self-defence, to deaden
its delicacy in vulgarity and in things attainable,
that it may not have leisure to go mad after things
that are not ! No man, in such matters, will be
content with the experience of others. It is true
that out of suffering there is no dignity, no great-
ness, that in the most abstracted pleasure there is no
lasting happiness. Yet, who would not like to dis-
cover, over again, that Cleopatra was a gipsy, Helen
a rogue, and Ruth a deep one ? I have not suflS-
cient reasoning faculty to settle the doctrine of
thrift, as it is consistent with the dignity of human
society — with the happiness of cottagers : all I can
do is by plump contrasts : were the lingers made to
squeeze a guinea or a white hand ? — were the lips
made to hold a pen or a kiss ? And yet, in cities,
man is shut out from his fellows if he is poor ; the
cottager must be very dirty, aud very wretched, if
M 2
164 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
she be not thrifty — the present state of society
demands this, and this convinces me that the world
is very young, and in a ver}'- ignorant state. We
live in a barbarous age. I would sooner be a wild
deer, than a girl under the dominion of the Kirk ;
and I would sooner be a wild hog, than be the
occasion of a poor creature's penance before those
execrable elders.
It is not so far to the Giant's Causeway as we
supposed : we thought it seventy, and hear it is only
forty-eight miles ; — so we shall leave one of our
knapsacks here at Donaghadee, take our immediate
wants, and be back in a week, when we shall proceed
to the County of Ayr. In the Packet, yesterday,
we heard some ballads from two old men. One
was a Romance, which seemed very poor; then
there was " The Battle of the Boyne, " then
" Robin Hiiid," as they call him — " Before the
King you shall go, go, go ; before the King you
shall go."
Juhj Qth. — We stopped very little in Ireland ; and
that you may not have leisure to marvel at our
speedy return to Port Patrick, I will tell you that it
is as dear living in Ireland as at the Hummums —
thrice the expence of Scotland — it would have cost us
£15 before our return; moreover we found those forty-
eight miles to be Irish ones, which reach to seventy
JOHN KEATS. 10. ">
English ; so having walked to Belfast one day, and
back to Donaghadee the next, we left Ireland with a
fair breeze. We slept last night at Port Patrick when
I was gratified by a letter from you. On our walk in
Ireland, we had too much oppoilunity to see the worse
than nakedness, the rags, the dirt, and misery of the
poor common Irish. A Scotch cottage, though in
that sometimes the smoke has no exit but at the
door, is a palace to an Irish one. We had the plea-
sure of finding our way through a peat-bog, three
miles long at least — di'ear5% flat, dank, black, and
spongy — ^here and there were poor dirty creatures,
and a few strong men cutting or carting peat. We
heard, on passing into Belfast, through a most
wretched suburb, that most disgusting of all noises,
worse than the bag-pipes, the laugh of a monkey, the
chatter of women, the scream of macaw — I mean the
sound of the shuttle. What a tremendous difficulty
is the improvement of such people. I cannot conceive
how a mind " with child " of philanthropy could
grasp at its possibility — ^with me it is absolute despair.
At a miserable house of entertainment, half-way
between Donaghadee and Belfast, were two men
sitting at whisky — one a labourer, and the other I
took to be a drunken weaver : the labourer took me
to be a Frenchman, and the other hinted at bounty-
money, saying he was ready to take it. On calling
166 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
for the letters at Port Patrick, the man snapped out,
" What regiment ? " On our return from Belfast we
met a sedan — the Duchess of Dunghill. It is no
laughing matter though. Imagine the worst dog-
kennel you ever saw, placed upon two poles from a
mouldy fencing. In such a wretched thing sat a
squalid old woman, squat like an ape half-starved from
a scarcity of biscuit in its passage fi'om Madagascar
to the Cape, with a pipe in her mouth, and looking
out with a round-eyed, skinny-lidded inanity, with a
sort of horizontal idiotic movement of her head : squat
and lean she sat, and puffed out the smoke, wliile two
ragged, tattered girls carried her along. What a
thing would be a histoiy of her life and sensations ; I
shall endeavour, when I have thought a little more,
to give you my idea of the difference between the
Scotch and Irish. The two Irishmen I mentioned
were spealdng of their treatment in England, when
the weaver said — " Ah ! you were a civil man, but I
was a drinker."
Till further notice, you must direct to Inverness.
Your most affectionate Brother,
John.
Returning from Ireland, the travellers proceeded
northwards by the coast, Ailsa Rock constantly in
their view. That fine object first appeared to them.
JOHN KEATS. 1(37
in the full sunlight, like a transparent tortoise asleep
upon the calm water, then, as they advanced, displaying
its lofty shoulders, and, as they still went on, losing
its distinctness in the mountains of Arran and the
extent of Cantire that rose behind. At the inn at
Girvan Keats wrote this
SONNET ON AILSA ROCK*
Hearken, thou craggy ocean-pyramid,
Give answer by thy voice — the sea-fowls' screams !
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams ?
When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid ?
How long is 't since the mighty Power bid
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams —
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams —
Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid ?
Thou answcr'st not ; for thou art dead asleep.
Thy life is but two dead eternities.
The last in air, the former in the deep !
First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies !
Drowii'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steeji,
Another cannot wake thy giant size !
Maybole,
JulyU [1818].
My dear Reynolds,
I '11 not i-un over the ground we have
passed ; that would be nearly as bad as telling a
dream — imless, perhaps, I do it in the manner of
* In the collected Works.
168 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
the Laputan printing press ; that is, I put down
mountains, rivers, lakes, dells, glens, rocks, with
beautiful, enchanting, gothic, picturesque, fine,
delightful, enchanting, grand, sublime — a few blisters,
&c. — and now you have our journey thus far ; where
I begin a letter to you because I am approaching
Burns's cottage very fast. We have made continual
enquiries from the time we left his tomb at Dumfries.
His name, of course, is known all about : his great
reputation among the plodding people is, " that he
wrote a good mony sensible things." One of the
pleasantest ways of annulling self is approaching such
a shrine as the Cottage of Bums : we need not think
of his misery — that is all gone, bad luck to it ! I
shall look upon it hereafter with unmixed pleasure,
as I do on my Stratford-on-Avon day with Bailey. I
shall fill this sheet for you in the Bardie's country,
going no further than this, till I get to the town of
Ayr, which will be a nine mUes walk to tea.
We were talking on different and mdifferent things,
when, on a sudden, we turned a corner upon the
immediate country of Ayr. The sight was as rich as
possible. I had no conception that the native place
of Burns was so beautiful ; the idea I had was more
desolate : his "Rigs of Barley " seemed always to me
but a few strips of green on a cold hill — Oh, preju-
dice ! — It was as rich as Devon. I endeavoured to
JOHN KEATS. 169
drink in the prospect, that I might spin it out to you,
as the silk-womi makes silk from mulberiy leaves. I
canuot recollect it. Besides all the beauty, there
were the mountains of Annan Isle, black and huge
over the sea. We came down upon everything sud-
denly; there were in oiu: way the "bonny Doon,"
with the brig that Tam o' Shanter crossed. Kirk
Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr.
First we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon, sur-
rounded by every phantasy of green in tree, meadow,
and hiU : the stream of the Doon, as a farmer told us,
is covered with trees " from head to foot." You know
those beautiful heaths, so fresh against the weather of
a summer's evening ; there was one stretching along
behind the trees.
I wish I knew always the humour my friends would
be in at opening a letter of mine, to suit it to them as
nearly as possible. I could always find an egg-shell
for melancholy, and, as for merriment, a witty humour
will turn anything to account. My head is sometimes
in such a whirl in considering the million likings and
antipathies of our moments, that I can get into no
settled strain in my letters. My wig ! Burns and
sentimentality coming across you and Frank Flood-
gate in the office. Oh, Scenery, that thou shouldst be
crushed between two puns ! As for them, I venture
the rascalUest in the Scotch region I hope Brown
170 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
does not put them in his journal : if he does, 1 must
sit on the cutty-stool all next winter. We went to
Kirk Alio way. " A prophet is no prophet in his own
country." We went to the Cottage and took some
whisky. I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of
writing some lines under the roof : they are so had I
cannot transcribe them. The man at the cottage was
a great bore with his anecdotes. I hate the rascal.
His life consists in fuzy, fuzzy, fuzziest. He drinks
glasses, five for the quarter, and twelve for the hour ;
he is a mahogany-faced old jackass who knew Burns :
he ought to have been kicked for having spoken to
him. He calls himseK " a curious old bitch," but he
is a flat old dog. I should like to employ Caliph
Vathek to kick him. Oh, the flummery of a birth-
place ! Cant I cant ! cant ! It is enough to give a
spirit the guts-ache. Many a true word, they say, is
spoken in jest — this may be because his gab hindered
my sublimity: the flat dog made me write a flat
sonnet. My dear Reynolds, I cannot write about
scenery and visitings. Fancy is indeed less than
present palpable reality, but it is greater than remem-
brance. You would lift your eyes from Homer only
to see close before you the real Isle of Tenedos. You
would rather read Homer afterwards than remember
yourself. One song of Burns's is of more worth
to you than all I could think for a whole year
JOHN KEATS. 171
in his native country. His misery is a dead weight
upon the nimbleness of one's quill ; I tried to forget
it — to drink toddy without any care — to write a merry
S(jnnet — it won't do — he talked, he drank with black-
guards ; he was miserable. We can see horribly
clear, in the works of such a man, his whole life, as if
we were God's spies. What were his addresses to
Jean in the after part of his life ? I should not speak
so to you — Yet, why not ? You are not in the same
case — you are in the right path, and you shall not be
deceived. I have spoken to you against marriage,
but it was general. The prospect in those matters
has been to me so blank, that I have not been
unwilling to die. I would not now, for I have induce-
ments to life — I must see my little nephews in
America, and I must see you marrj' your lovely wife.
My sensations are sometimes deadened for weeks
together — but, believe me, I have more than once
yeaiTied for the time of your happiness to come, as
much as I could for myself after the lips of Juliet.
I-'rom the tenor of my occasional rhodomontade in
chit-chat, you might have been deceived concerning
me in these points. Upon my soul, I have been
getting more and more close to you every day, ever
since I knew you, and now one of the first pleasures
I look to is your happy marriage — the more, since I
have felt the pleasure of loving a sister-in-law. I did
172 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
not tliink it possible to become so much attached iu
so short a time. Things Hke these, and they are
real, have made me resolve to have a care of my
health — you must be as careful.
The ram has stopped us to-day at the end of a
dozen miles, yet we hope to see Loch Lomond the
day after to-morrovr. I will piddle out my informa-
tion, as Rice says, next winter, at any time when a
substitute is wanted for Vingt-un. We bear the
fatigue very well : twenty miles a day hi general.
A cloud came over us in getting up Skiddaw — I
hope to be more lucky in Ben Lomond — and more
lucky still in Ben Nevis. What I think you would
enjoy is, picking about ruins, sometimes Abbey,
sometimes Castle.
Tell my friends I do all I can for them, that is,
drink their health in Toddy. Perhaps I may have
some lines, by and by, to send you fresh, on your own
letter.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
Part of the next letter illustrates, with singular
felicity, the peculiar action of a high imagination on
the ordinary relations of the sexes. The youthful
companions of Keats, who saw how gentle and cour-
JOHN KEATS. 173
teous was his manner to women, and who held the
common belief that every Poet was essentially senti-
mental, could not comprehend his frequent avoidance
of female society, and the apparent absence of any
engrossing passion ; the pardonable conceit of con-
scious genius suggested itself to them as the probable
cause of this defective sjTnpathy, and, when he mani-
fested an occasional interest in any one person, it was
attributed rather to satisfied vanity than to awakened
love. But the careful study of the poetical character at
once disproves these superficial interpretations, and the
simple statement of his own feelings by such a man
as Keats is a valuable addition to our knowledge
of the most delicate and wonderful of the works of
Nature — a Poet s heart. For the time was at hand,
when one intense affection was about to absorb his
entire being, and to hasten, by its very violence, the
calamitous extinction against which it struggled in
vain.
Inverary,
July ]« [1818].
My dear Bailey,
The only day I have had a chance of
seeing you when you were last in London I took
every advantage of — some devil led you out of the way.
174 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Now I have writteu to Reynolds to tell me where
you will be in Cumberland — so that I cannot miss you.
And here, Bailey, I will say a few words, written in a
sane and sober mind (a very scarce thing with me)
for they may, hereafter, save you a great deal of
trouble about me, which you do not deserve, and for
which I ought to be bastinadoed. I carry all matters
to an extreme ; so that when I have any little vexa-
tion, it grows, in five minutes, into a theme for
Sophocles. Then, and in that temper, if I write to
any friend, I have so little self-possession, that I give
him matter for grieving, at the very time, perhaps,
when I am laughing at a pun. Your last letter made
me blush for the pain I had given you. I Imovv my
own disposition so well that I am certain of writuig
many times hereafter in the same strain to you : now,
you know how far to believe in them. You must
allow for Imagination. I know I shall not be able to
help it.
I am sorry you are grieved at my not continuing
my visits to Little Britain. Yet I think I have, as
far as a man can do who has books to read and
subjects to think upon. For that reason I have been
no where else except to Wentworth Place, so nigh at
hand. Moreover, I have been too often in a state of
health that made it prudent not to hazard the night
air. Yet, further, I will confess to you that I cannot
JOHN KEATS. 175
enjoy society, small or numerous. I am certain that
our fair are glad I should come for the mere sake
of my coming ; but I am certain I bring vrith me a
vexation they are better without. If I can possibly,
at any time, feel my temper coming upon me, I
refrain even from a promised visit. I am certain
I have not a right feeling towards women — at this
moment I am striving to be just to them, but I
cannot. Is it because they fall so far beneath my
boyish imagination ? When I was a schoolboy I
thought a fair woman a pure goddess ; my mind was
a soft nest in which some one of them slept, though
she knew it not. I have no right to expect more than
their reality. I thought them ethereal, above men.
I find them perhaps equal — great by comparison is
very small. Insult may be inflicted in more ways
than by word or action. One who is tender of being
insulted does not like to think an insult against
another. I do not like to thmk insults in a lady's
company. I commit a crime with her which absence
would not have known. Is it not extraordinary ? —
when among men, I have no evil thoughts, no malice,
no spleen ; I feel free to speak or to be silent ; I
can listen, and from eveiy one I can learn ; my
hands are in my pockets, 1 am free from all suspicion,
and comfortable. When I am among women, I
have evil thoughts, malice, spleen ; I cannot speak.
176 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
or be silent ; I am full of suspicions, and therefore
listen to nothing ; I am in a hurry to be gone. You
must be charitable, and put all this perversity to my
being disappointed since my boyhood. Yet with such
feelings I am happier alone, among crowds of men,
by myself, or with a friend or two. With all this,
trust me, I have not the least idea that men of
different feelings and inclinations are more short-
sighted than myself. I never rejoiced more than
at my brother's marriage, and shall do so at that
of any of my friends. I must absolutely get
over this — but how? the only way is to find the
root of the evil, and so cure it, " with backward
mutters of dissevering power." That is a difficult
thing; for an obstinate prejudice can seldom be
produced but from a gordian complication of feelings,
which must take time to unravel, and care to
keep unravelled. I could say a good deal about
this, but I will leave it, in hopes of better and
more worthy dispositions — and, also, content that I
am wronging no one, for, after all, I do think better
of womankind than to suppose they care whether
Mister John Keats, five feet high, likes them or not.
You appeared to wish to know my moods on this
subject : don't think it a bore, my dear fellow, — it
shall be my Amen.
I should not have consented to myself, these four
JOHN KEATS. 177
months, tramping in the Highlands, but that I
thought it •would give me more experience, rub off
more prejudice, use [me] to more hardship, identify
finer scenes, load me with grander mountains, and
strengthen more my reach in poetiy, than would
stopping at home among books, even though I should
reach Homer. By this time I am comparatively a
mountaineer; I have been among wilds and moun-
tains too much to break out much about their
grandeur. I have not fed upon oat-cake long enough
to be very much attached to it. The first mountains
I saw, though not so large as some I have since
seen, weighed very solemnly upon me. The effect is
wearing away, yet I like them mainly. We have
come this evening with a guide — for without was
impossible — into the middle of the Isle of Mull,
pursuing our cheap journey to lona, and perhaps
Staffa. We would not follow the common and
fashionable mode, for the great imposition of expense.
We have come over heath, and rock, and river, and
bog, to what, in England, would be called a horrid
place. Yet it belongs to a shepherd pretty well
off. The family speak not a word but Gaelic, and
we have not yet seen their faces for the smoke,
which, after visiting eveiy cranny (not excepting my
eyes, verj^ much incommoded for writing), finds its
way out at the door. I am more comfortable than
VOL. I. N
178 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
I could have imagined in such a place, and so is
Brown. The people are all very kind. We lost our
way a little, yesterday; and inquiring at a cottage,
a young woman, without a word, threw on her cloak,
and walked a mile in a mizzling rain and splashy
way, to put us right again.
I could not have had a greater pleasure in these
parts than your mention of my sister. She is very
much prisoned for me. I am afraid it will be
some time before I can take her to many places I
wish.
I trust we shall see you ere long in Cumberland —
at least I hope I shall, before my visit to America,
more than once. I intend to pass a whole year
there, if I live to the completion of the three next.
My sister's welfare, and the hopes of such a stay in
America, wUl make me obsei^ve your advice. I shall
be prudent, and more careful of my health than I
have been.
I hope you will be about paying your first visit to
town, after settling when we come into Cumberland,
Cumberland, however, will be no distance to me after
my present journey. I shall spin to you [in] a
minute. I begin to get rather a contempt of dis-
tances. I hope you will have a nice convenient
room for a library. Now you are so well in health,
do keep it up by never missing your dinner, by not
JOHN KEATS. 179
reading hard, and by taking proper exercise. You '11
have a horse, I suppose, so you must make a point
of sweating him. You say I must study Dante :
well, the only books I have with me are those
three little volumes. I read that fine passage you
mention a few days ago. Your letter followed me
from Hampstead to Port Patrick, and thence to
Glasgow. Y^'ou must think me, by tliis time, a very
pretty fellow.
One of the pleasantest bouts we have had was
our walk to Bums's Cottage, over the Doon, and
past Kirk Alloway. I had determined to write a
somiet in the Cottage. I did ; but it was so wretched
I destroyed it : however, in a few days afterwards I
wrote some lines cousin-german to the circumstance,
which I will transcribe, or rather cross-scribe in the
front of this.
Reynolds's illness has made him a new man ; he
will be stronger than ever : before I left London he
was really gettmg a fat face.
Brown keeps on writing volumes of adventures to
Dilke. When we get in of an evening, and I have
perhaps taken my rest on a couple of chairs, he
affronts my indolence and luxury, by pulling out of
his knapsack, first, his paper; secondly, his pens; and
lastly, his ink. Now I would not care if he would
change a little. I say now, why not, Bailey, take out
180 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
his pens first sometimes. But I might as well tell a
hen to hold up her head before she drinks, instead of
afterwards.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle had been fought, where glory had the gain ;
There is a pleasure on the heath, where Druids old have been,
Where mantles grey have rustled by, and swept the nettled green ;
There is a joy in every spot made known in times of old,
New to the feet altho' each tale a hundred times be told ;
There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart,
More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
^^'hen weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,
Upon Lot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron surf,
Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.
Light heather-bells may tremble then, — but they are far away ;
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, — the Sun may hear his lay ;
Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear, —
But their low voices are not heard, tho' come on travels drear ;
Blood-red the Sun may set behind black mountain peaks,
Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy
creeks.
Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air,
Ring-doves may fly convulsed across to some high cedared lair, —
But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,
As Palmer's that with weariness mid-desert shrine hath found.
At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain,
Forgotten is the worldly heart, — alone, it beats in vain !
JOHN KEATS. 181
Aye, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day,
To tell his forehead's swoon and faint, when first hegan decay,
He might make tremble many a one, whose spirit had gone forth
To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent north !
Scanty the hour, and few the steps, beyond the bourn of care.
Beyond the sweet and bitter world, — beyond it unaware !
Scanty the hour, and few the steps, — because a longer stay
Would bar return and make a man forget his mortal way !
O horrible ! to lose the sight of well-remembered face.
Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow, — constant to every place,
Filling the air as on we move with portraiture intense.
More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense,
When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old,
Locks shining black, hair scanty grey, and passions manifold !
No, no, — that horror cannot be ! for at the cable's length
Man feels the gentle anchor pull, and gladdens in its strength :
One hour, half idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall.
But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial ;
He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit
down.
Upon rough marble diadem, that hill's eternal crown.
Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer.
That man may never lose his mind in mountains black and bare ;
That he may stray, league after league, some great birthplace to find,
And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.
DUNANCOLLEN,
July 23d, [1818.]
My dear Tom,
Just after my last had gone to the post,
in came one of the men with whom we endeavoured
to agree about going to Staffa : he said what a pity it
189 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
was we should turn aside, and not see the cunosities.
So we had a Httle tattle, and finally agi'eed that he
should be our guide across the Isle of Mull. We
set out, crossed two ferries, one to the Isle of Kerrera,
of little distance ; the other from Kerrera to Mull,
nine miles across. We did it in forty minutes, with
a fine breeze. The road through the island, or rather
track, is the most dreary you can think of ; between
dreary mountains, over bog, and rock, and river, with
our breeches tucked up, and our stockings in hand.
About eight o'clock we arrived at a shepherd's hut,
into which we could scarcely get for the smoke,
through a door lower than my shoulders. We found
our way into a little compartment, with the rafters
and turf-thatch blackened with smoke, the earth-
floor full of hills and dales. We had some white
bread with us, made a good supper, and slept in our
clothes in some blankets ; our guide snored in another
little bed about an arm's length off. This morning
we came about sax miles to breakfast, by rather a
better path, and we are now in, by comparison, a
mansion. Our guide is, I think, a very obliging
fellow. In the way, this morning, he sang us two
Gaelic songs — one made by a Mrs. Brown, on her
husband's being drowned — the other a Jacobin one on
Charles Stuart. For some days Brown has been
inquiring out his genealogy here ; he thinks his
JOHN KEATS. ' 183
grandfather came from Long Island. He got a
pai'cel of people round him at a cottage door last
evening, chatted with one who had been a Miss
Brown, and who, I think, from a likeness, must have
been a relation : he jawed with the old woman, flat-
tered a young one, and kissed a child, who was afraid
of his spectacles, and finally drank a pint of milk.
They handle his spectacles as we do a sensitive leaf.
July 26th. — Well ! we had a most wretched walk
of thirty-seven miles, across the Island of Mull, and
then we crossed to lona, or Icolmkill ; from Icolmkill
we took a boat at a bargain to take us to Staffa, and
land us at the head of Loch Nakeal, whence we should
only have to walk half the distance to Oban again
and by a better road. All this is well passed and
done, with this singular piece of luck, that there was
an inteniiption in the bad weather just as we saw
Staifa, at which it is impossible to land but in a tole-
rably calm sea. But I will first mention Icolmkill.
I know not whether you have heard much about this
island ; I never did before I came nigh it. It is rich
in the most interesting antiquities. Who would
expect to find the ruins of a fine cathedral church, of
cloisters, colleges, monasteries, and nunneries, in so
remote an island '? The beginning of these things
was in the sixth century, under the superstition of a
would-be-bishop-saint, who landed from Ireland, and
184 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
chose the spot for its beauty; for, at that time, the
now treeless place was covered with magnificent
woods. Columba in the Gaelic is Colm, signifying
" dove ; " "kill " signifies " church ; " and I is as good
as island : so I-colm-ldll means, the Island of St.
Columba's Church. Now this St. Columba became the
Dominic of the Barbarian Christians of the North,
and was famed also far south, but more especially waS
reverenced by the Scots, the Picts, the Norwegians,
and the Irish. In a com'se of years, perhaps the
island was considered the most holy ground of the
north ; and the old kings of the afore-mentioned
nations chose it for their burial-place. We were
shown a spot in the church-yard where they say
sixty-one kings are buried ; forty-eight Scotch, from
Fergus II. to Macbeth ; eight Irish ; four Norwe-
gians ; and one French. They lay in rows compact.
Then we were shown other matters of later date, but
still very ancient, many tombs of Highland chief-
tains — their effigies in complete armour, face upward,
black and moss-covered ; abbots and bishops of the
island, always of the chief clans. There were plenty
Macleans and Macdonalds ; among these latter, the
famous Macdonald, Lord of the Isles. There have
been three hundred crosses in the island, but the
Presbyterians destroyed all but two, one of which is
a very fine one, and completely covered with a shaggy,
JOHN KEATS. 185
coarse moss. The old school-master, an ignorant
little man, but reckoned very clever, showed us
these things. He is a Maclean, and as much above
four feet as he is under four feet three inches. He
stops at one glass of whisky, imless you pi'ess another,
and at the second, unless you press a third.
I am puzzled how to give you an idea of Staffa.
It can only be represented by a first-rate drawing.
One may compare the surface of the island to a roof :
this roof is supported by grand pillars of basalt,
standing together as thick as honeycomb. The finest
thing is Fingal's Cave. It is entirely a hollowing
out of basalt pillars. Suppose, now, the giants who
rebelled against Jove, had taken a whole mass of
black columns and bound them together like bunches
of matches, and then, with immense axes, had made
a cavern in the body of these columns. Of com*se
the roof and floor must be composed of the ends of
these columns. Such is Fingal's Cave, except that
the sea has done the work of excavation, and is con-
tinually dashing there. So that we walk along the
sides of the cave, on the pillars which are left, as if
for convenient stairs. The roof is arched somewhat
Gothic-wise, and the length of some of the entire
side-pillars is fifty feet. About the island you might
seat an army of men, each on a pillar. The length
of the cave is 120 feet, and from its extremity, the
186 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
view into the sea, through the large arch at the
entrance, is sublime. The colour of the columns is
black, with a lurking gloom of purple therein. For
solemnity and grandeur, it far surpasses the finest
cathedrals. At the extremity of the cave there is a
small perforation into another cave, at which, the
waters meeting and buffeting each other, there is
sometimes produced a report as if of a cannon, heard
as far as lona, which must be twelve miles. As
we approached in the boat, there was such a fine
swell of the sea that the pillars appeared immediately
arising from the crystal. But it is impossible to
describe it.
Not Aladdin magian
Ever such a work began ;
Not the wizard of the Dee
Ever such a dream could see ;
Not St, John, in Patmos'' isle,
In the passion of his toil,
\\Tien he saw the churches seven,
Golden aisled, built up in heaven.
Gazed at such a rugged wonder ! —
As I stood its roofing under,
Lo ! I saw one sleeping there.
On the marble cold and bare ;
While the surges washed his feet,
And his garments white did beat
Drenched about the sombre rocks ;
On his neck his well-grown locks,
Lifted dry above the main,
Were upon the curl again.
JOHN KEATS. 1°'
« What is this? and what art thou?"
Whispered I, and touch'd his hrow ;
« What art thou ? and what is this?"
Whispered I, and strove to kiss
The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes ;
Up he started in a trice :
" I am Lycidas," said he,
« Fam'd in fun'ral minstrelsy !
This was architectur'd thus
By the great Oceanus! —
Here his mighty waters play
Hollow organs all the day ;
Here, by turns, his dolphins all,
Finny palmers, great and small.
Come to pay devotion due, —
Each a mouth of pearls must strew !
Many a mortal of these days,
Dares to pass our sacred ways ;
Dares to touch, audaciously,
This cathedral of the sea !
I have been the pontiff-priest,
Where the waters never rest,
Where a fledgy sea-bird choir
Soars for ever ! Holy fire
1 have hid from mortal man ;
Proteus is my Sacristan !
But the dulled eye of mortal
Hath passed beyond the rocky portal ;
So for ever will I leave
Such a Uint, and soon unweave
All the magic of the place."
So saying, with a Spirit's glance
He dived !
1 am sorry I am so indolent as to write such stufF
as this. It can't be helped.
188 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
The western coast of Scotland is a most strange
place ; it is composed of rocks, mountains, moun-
tainous and rocky islands, intersected by lochs ; you
can go but a short distance anywhere from salt-water
in the Highlands.
I assure you I often long for a seat and a cup o' tea
at Well Walk, especially now that mountains, castles,
and lakes are becoming common to me. Yet I would
rather summer it out, for on the whole I am happier
than when I have time to be glum : perhaps it may
cure me. Immediately on my return I shall begin
studying hard, with a peep at the theatre now and then.
I have a slight sore throat, and think it better to stay
a day or two at Oban ; then we shall proceed to Fort
William and Inverness. Bi'own, in his letters, puts
down every little circumstance ; I should like to do
the same, but I confess myself too indolent, and
besides, next winter they will come up in prime order
as we speak of such and such things.
Remember me to all, including Mr. and Mrs.
Bentley.
Your most aflfectionate brother,
John.
From Fort William Keats mounted Ben Nevis.
When on the summit a cloud enveloped him, and
sitting on the stones, as it slowly wafted away, showing
JOHN KEATS. 189
a tremendous precipice into the valley below, he
wrote these lines : —
Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud
Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist !
I look into the chasms, and a shroud
Vapourous doth hide them, — ^just so much I wist
Mankind do know of hell ; I look o'erhead,
And there is sullen mist, — even so much
Mankind can tell of heaven ; mist is spread
Before the earth, beneath me, — even such,
Even so vague is man's sight of himself !
Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, —
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,
I tread on them, — that all my eye doth meet
Is mist and crag, not only on this height,
But in the world of thought and mental might !
To Mrs. Wylie, the mother of his sister-in-law .
Inverness,
AiigustG, [1818.]
My deak Madam,
It was a great regret to me that I should
leave all my friends, just at the moment when I
might have helped to soften away the time for them.
I wanted not to leave my brother Tom, but more
especially, believe me, I should like to have remained
near you, were it but for an atom of consolation after
parting with so dear a daughter. My brother George
has ever been more than a brother to me ; he has
190 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
been my greatest friend, and I can never forget the
sacrifice you have made for his happiness. As I walk
along the mountains here I am full of these things,
and lay in wait, as it were, for the pleasure of seeing
you immediately on my return to town. I wish,
above all things, to say a word of comfort to you, but
I know not how. It is impossible to prove that black
is white ; it is impossible to make out that sorrow is
joy, or joy is sorrow.
Tom tells me that you called on Mrs. Haslam,
with a newspaper giving an account of a gentleman in
a fur cap, falling over a precipice in Kirkcudbright-
shire. If it was me, I did it in a dream, or in some
magic interval between the first and second cup of
tea ; which is nothing extraordinary when we hear
that Mahomet, in getting out of bed, upset a jug of
water, and, whilst it was falling, took a fortnight's
trip, as it seemed, to Heaven ; yet was back in time
to save one drop of water being spilt. As for fur
caps, I do not remember one beside my own, except
at Carlisle : this was a veiy good fur cap I met in
High Street, and I dare say was the unfortunate one.
I dare say that the Fates, seeing but two fur caps in
the north, thought it too extraordinaiy, and so threw
the dies which of them should be drowned. The
lot fell upon Jones : I dare say his name was Jones.
All I hope is that the gaunt ladies said not a word
JOHN KEATS. 191
about hanging ; if they did I shall repeat that I was
not half-di'owned in Kircudbright. Stop ! let me
see ! — being half-drowned by falling from a preci-
pice, is a very romantic aflfair : why should I not
take it to myself '? How glorious to be introduced in
a drawing-room to a lady who reads novels, with
" Mr. So-and-so — Miss So-and-so ; Miss So-and-so,
this is Mr. So-and-so, who fell off a precipice and was
half-drowned." Now I refer to you, whether I should
lose so fine an opportunity of making my fortune.
No romance lady could resist me — none. Being run
under a wagon ; side-lamed in a playhouse ; apo-
plectic through brandy; and a thousand other tolerably
decent things for badness, would be nothing ; but
being tumbled over a precipice into the sea — oh ! it
would make my fortmie — especially if you could con-
tinue to hint, from this bulletin's authority, that I
was not upset on my own account, but that I dashed
into the waves after Jessy of Dumblane, and pulled
lier out by the hair ; — but that, alas ! she was dead,
or she would have made me happy with her hand.
However, in this you may use your own discretion.
But I must leave joking, and seriously aver, that I
have been veiy romantic indeed among these moun-
tains and lakes. I have got wet through, day after
day ; eaten oat-cake, and drank whisky ; walked up
to my knees in bog ; got a sore throat ; gone to see
192 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Icolmkill and Staflfa ; met with unwholesome food,
just here and there, as it happened ; went up Ben
Nevis, and — N.B., came down again : sometimes,
when I am rather tired, I lean rather languishingly
on a rock, and long for some famous beauty to get
down from her palfrey in passing, approach me, with
— her saddle-bags, and give me — a dozen or two
capital roast-beef sandwiches.
When I come into a large town, you know there is
no putting one's knapsack into one's fob, so the
people stare. We have been taken for spectacle-
vendors, razor-sellers, jewellers, travelling linen-
drapers, spies, excisemen, and many things I have
no idea of. When I asked for letters at Port Patrick,
the man asked, — What regiment ? I have had a peep
also at Little Ireland. Tell Henry I have not camped
quite on the bare earth yet, but nearly as bad, in
walking through Mull ; for the shepherds' huts you
can scarcely breathe in for the smoke, which they
seem to endeavour to preserve for smoking on a large
scale.
I assure you, my dear Madam, that one of the
greatest pleasures I shall have on my return, will
be seeing you, and that I shall ever be
Yours, with the greatest respect and sincerity,
John Keats.
JOHN KEATS. 193
It was Keats "s intention to return by Edinburgh ;
but, on arriving at Inverness, the inflammation in
his throat, brought on by the accidents and incon-
venience of travel, caused him, at his friend's sohci-
tation, to return at once to London. Some mutual
friend had forwarded him an invitation from Messrs.
Blackwood, injudiciously adding the suggestion, that
it would be very advisable for him to visit the Modern
Athens, and endeavour to conciliate his literary
enemies in that quarter. The sensibility and moral
dignity of Keats were outraged by this proposal : it may
be imagined what answer he returned, and also that
this chcumstance may not have been unconnected with
the article on him which appeared in the August num-
ber of the " Edinburgh Magazine," as part of a series
that had commenced the previous year, and concern-
ing which he had ah-eady expressed himself freely.
Outside sheet of a letter to Mr. Bailey.
" There has been a flaming attack upon Hunt in
the 'Edinburgh Magazine.' I never read anything
so virulent — accusing him of the greatest crimes,
depreciating his wife, his poetry, his habits, his com-
pany, his conversation. These philippics are to
come out in numbers — called, ' The Cockney School
of Poetry.' There has been but one number pub-
lished — that on Hunt — to which they have prefixed
194 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
a motto from one Cornelius Webb, ' Poetaster ' — who,
unfortmiately, ■was of our party occasionally at
Hampstead, and took it into his head to write the
following : something about, ' We '11 talk on Words-
worth, Byron, a theme we never tire on ; ' and so
forth till he comes to Hunt and Keats. In the
motto they have put Hunt and Keats in large letters.
I have no doubt that the second number was
intended for me but have hopes of its non-appearance,
from the following advertisement in last Sunday's
Examiner : — 'To Z. — ■ The writer of the article
signed Z, in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, for
October, 1817, is invited to send his address to the
printer of the Examiner, in order that justice may
be executed on the proper person.' I do n't mind the
thing much — but if he should go to such lengths
with me as he has done with Hunt, I must infallibly
call him to account, if he be a human being, and
appears in squares and theatres, where we might
' possibly meet.' "
Keats 's first volume had been inscribed to Leigh
Hunt, and contained an ardent and affectionate
Sonnet, written " on the day when Mr. Leigh Hunt
left prison." It was therefore at once assumed by the
critics that Keats was not only a bad poet, but a bad
JOHN KEATS. 195
citizen. At this time literary criticism had assumed
au unusually political complexion. The triumph of
the advocates of established rights and enforced order,
over all the hopes and dreams that the French
Revolution had generated, was complete, and it was
accompanied with the insolence of men whose cause
had little in it to move the higher impulses of our
nature. Proud of the overthrow of that fatal ambi-
tion, which had turned into the gall of selfishness
all the wholesome sympathy of a liberated nation
for the wrongs of others, and rejoicing in the
pacification of Europe, they cared little for the.
preservation of national liberties from arbitrary
power, or for the extirpation of those abuses and
that injustice, which had first provoked the contest
and would surely lead to its renewal, if tolerated or
sustained. It was, perhaps, too much to expect a
recognition of what the French Revolution had done
for the mind of man, from those who had spent their
blood and treasure in resisting its immediate con-
sequences, and some intolerance was to be forgiven
in those who, when conjured in the name of Liberty,
could point to the system of Napoleon, or in that of
Humanity, to the " Reign of Terror." The pious
Wordsworth and the politic Southey, who had
hailed the day-star with songs of triumph, had fled
affrighted from its bloody noon, and few persons of
o 2
196 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
generous temper and honest pui'pose remained, whose
imagination had not been tamed down before the
terrible realities, or whose moral sense had not been
shocked into despair.
Among these, however, were the men of letters,
who were designated, in ridicule, " The Cockney
School." The epithet had so much meaning as con-
sisted in some of the leaders being Londoners, and
engaged in the editorship of the public press of the
metropolis. The strong and immediate contrasts
between town and country, seemed also to have the
effect of rendering many of these writers insensible
to that discrimination of the relative worth and impor-
tance of natural objects, wliieh habit and taste requires,
but which reason cannot strictly define. It is perfectly
true that a blade of grass is, to the reverential
observer, as great a miracle of divine workmanship as
the solar system — that the valves of an unseemly
shell may have, to the physiologist, all the importance
of the circumfluent ocean — and that the Poet may well
find in a daisy," thoughts too deep for tears " — but there
ever will be gradations of interest in the susceptibili-
ties even of educated and accomplished men, and the
admiration which would be recognised as just when
applied to a rare or expansive object, will always appear
unreal and coxcombical when lavished on what is trivial
and common. Nor could these writers, as a School, be
JOHN KEATS. 197
held altogether guiltless of the charge of literaiy con-
ceit. The scantiness of general sympathy drove them
into a coterie; and the evils inseparable from a limited
intercourse with other minds grew up and flourished
abundantly amongst them. They drew their inspira-
tion from books and from themselves, and became,
in many cases miconsciously, imitators of the peculi-
arities, as well as of the beauties, of the elder models
of language and style. It was not so much that they
were guilty of affected archaisms, as that they delighted
in giving that prominence to individual peculiarities,
great and small, which impart to the works of some
early poets an antiquarian as well as literary interest,
but which had an almost comic effect when transferred
to the habits and circumstances of a particular set
of men in our own times. They fell into the error of
demanding public and permanent attention for mat-
ters that could only claim a private and occasional
interest, and thus have they not only damaged their
contemporary reputation, but have barred up, in a
great degree, their access to future fame.
Literary liistory affords us a singular parallel to
the fate of this school, in that of the Italian-French
poets of the seventeenth century, of whom Maiino
was the founder, and Boileau the destroyer. Allo-wing
for the discrepancies of times and nations — the rich
and indiscriminate diction, the copious and minute
198 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
exercise of fancy, the constant disproportion between
the matter and the form, which caused the author of
the " Adonis " to be crowned at Naples, adored at
Paris, and forgotten by posterity, were here revived,
with indeed less momentary popularity, but, it is to
be hoped, with a better chance of being remembered
for what is really excellent and beautiful in their works.
The spirit of Saint Amant, unequal in its conceptions,
but admirable in its execution, might have lived again
at Hampstead, with all its ostentatious contempt of
superficial morality, but with its real profligacy con-
verted into a jaunty freedom and sentimental good-
nature. There too the spirit of Theophile de Viau
might have audaciously confronted what appeared to
liim as the superstition of his time, and when vilified
as " Roi des Libertins " by brutal and ignorant men, in
comparison with whom his life was singularly pure,
he might have been hunted thence as a felon over
the face of Europe in the name of loyalty and reli-
gion. But while, in France, an ungenial and delusive
criticism held up those remarkable authors to public
ridicule and obloquy, at least the victims of Boileau
recognised some power and faculty in the hand that
struck them, whereas the reviewers of " Blackwood "
and the " Quarterly " were persons evidently destitute
of all poetic perception, directing an unrefined and
unscrupulous satire against political opponents, whose
JOHN KEATS. 190
intellectual merits they had no means of understand-
ing. This, indeed, was no combat of literary principles,
no struggle of thoughts, no competition of modes of
expression, it was simply the judgment of the police-
man and the beadle over mental efforts and spiritual
emanations.
The article which appeared in the "Quarterly" was
dull as well as ungenerous. It had no worth as criti-
cism, for the critic (as indeed the man) must be tested
by what he admires and loves, not only by what he
dislikes and abuses ; and it was eminently stupid, for
although the best burlesque is often but the reverse of
the most valuable work of art, and the richest harvest
of humour is among the high and goodly growths
of human intelligence, this book, as far as the re-
viewer was capable of understanding it, might just
as well have been one of those merely extrava-
gant and ridiculous productions which it is sheer
waste of time to notice in any way. The only impres-
sion the review would have left on the mind of a
judicious reader, would have been that the writer
knew nothing to enable him to discuss the subject
of poetry in any way, and his avowal that he had not
read, or could not read, the work he undertook to
criticise, was a \Talgar impertinence which should have
prevented any one from reading his criticism. The
notice in " Blackwood " was still more scrn'rilous, but
200 LIFE AKD LETTEES OF
more amusing, and inserted quotations of some length,
which no doubt led the minds of many readers to
very different conclusions from those of the writer.
The circumstance of Keats having been brought up a
surgeon, is the staple of the jokes of the piece — he is
told, " it is a better and a wiser thing to be a starved
apothecary, than a starved poet," and is bidden
" back to his gallipots; "just as an orthodox Jew might
have bidden Simon Peter back to his nets. At any
rate, this was hardly the way to teach refinement to
low-bom poets, and to show the superior breeding
of aristocratic reviewers.
On looking back at the reception of Keats by his
literary contemporaries, the somewhat tardy appear-
ance of the justification of his genius by one who then
held a wide sway over the taste of his time, appears
as a most unfortunate incident. If the frank acloiow-
ledgment of the respect with which Keats had inspired
Mr. Jeffrey, had been made in 1818 instead of 1820,
the tide of public opinion would probably have been
at once turned in his favour, and the imbecile abuse
of his political, rather than literary, antagonists, been
completely exposed. In the very first sentence of his
essay, indeed, Mr. Jeffrey lamented that these works
had not come under his notice earlier, and, in the
late edition of his collected articles, he expresses
" the additional regret that he did not even then go
JOHN KEATS. '201
more largely into the exposition of the merits of one,
whom he ever regards as a poet of great power and
promise, lost to iis by a premature death." This
notice in the "Edinburgh Review" referred prin-
cipally to "Endymion," of which, after a fair state-
ment of objections to certain exaggerations and imper-
fections, it summed up the character and value as
follows ; and I think it nearly impossible to express,
in fewer or better words, the impression usually left
by this poem on those minds which, from their constitu-
tion, can claim to possess an opinion on the question.
" It [Endymion] is, in truth, at least as full of
genius as of absurdity, and he who does not find a
great deal in it to admire and to give delight, cannot,
in his heart, see much beauty in the two exquisite
dramas to which we have already alluded [the ' Faithful
Shepherdess ' of Fletcher, and the ' Sad Shepherd ' of
Ben Jonson,] or find any great pleasure in some of the
finest creations of Milton and Shakspeare. There are
very many such persons we readily believe, even
among the reading and judicious pai't of the commu-
nity — correct scholars we have no doubt many of them,
and, it may be, very classical composers in prose and
in verse, but utterly ignorant of the true genius of
English poetry, and incapable of estimating its
appropriate and most exquisite beauties. With that
spirit we have no hesitation in saying Mr. Keats is
202 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
deeply imbued, and of those beauties he has presented
us with many sterling examples. We are very much
inclined, indeed, to add, that we do not know any book
which we would sooner employ, as a test to ascertain
whether any one had in him a native relish for poetry,
and a genuine sensibility to its intrinsic charm."
This peculiar treatment of the Greek mythology,
which was merely repulsive to the unscholarly views
of pedants, and quite unintelligible to those who,
knowing no more than Keats himself did of the
Grecian language, were utterly incapable of compre-
hending the faculty by which the Poet could com-
municate with Grecian natm-e, is estimated by Mr.
Jeffrey, with remarkable justice and force ; but,
perhaps, without a full conception of the process
by which the will of Keats came into such entire
harmony with the sensuous workings of the old
Grecian spirit, that not only did his imagination
delight in the same objects, but that it was, in truth,
what theirs under certain cu'cumstances might have
been. He writes,
"There is something veiy curious in the way in
which Mr. Keats, and Mr. Barry Cornwall also,
have dealt with the pagan mythology, of which
they have made so much use in their poetry.
Instead of presenting its imaginary persons under
the trite and vulgar traits that belong to them in
JOHN KEATS. 203
tlie ordinary systems, little more is borrowed
from these than the general conception of their
conditions and relations, and an original character
and distinct individuality is bestowed upon them,
which has all the merit of invention and all the
grace and attraction of the fictions on which it is
engrafted. The ancients, though they probably did
not stand in any great awe of their deities, have yet
abstained, very much, from any minute or dramatic
representation of their feelings and affections. In
Hesiod and Homer they are coarsely delineated, by
some of their actions and adventures, and introduced
to us merely as the agents in those particular
transactions, while in the Hymns, from those ascribed
to Oi-pheus and Homer down to those of Callimachus,
we have little but pompous epithets and invocations,
with a flattering commemoration of their most
famous exploits, and are never allowed to enter into
their bosoms, or follow out the train of their feelings
with the presumption of our human sympathy.
Except the love-song of the Cyclops to his sea-
nymph in Theocritus — the Lamentation of Venus for
Adonis in Moschus, — and the more recent Legend of
Apuleius, we scarcely recollect a passage in all the
writings of antiquity in which the passions of an
Immortal are fairly disclosed to the scrutiny and
observation of men. The author before us, however,
1^04 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
and some of his contemporaries, have dealt differently
with the subject, and sheltering the violence of the
fiction under the ancieijt traditionary fable, have
created and imagined an entire new set of characters,
and brought closely and minutely before us the loves
and sorrows, and perplexities of beings, with whose
names and supernatural attributes we had long been
familiar, without any sense or feeling of their personal
character."
It appears from the " Life of Lord Byron " that he
was excited by this article into a rage of jealous
injustice. The recognition, by so high an authoiity, of
Keats as a Poet, already great and becoming greater,
was more than his patience could endure : for though
he had been very well content to receive the hearty
and honest admiration of Mr. Leigh Hunt and his
friends, and to hold out a pretended liberal sympathy
with their views and objects, yet when they came to
see one another closer, as they did in the latter years
of his life, the mutual repugnance could no longer be
concealed, and flamed up almost into hatred. The
noble poet wrote to the editor of the rival review,
to send him — " no more Keats, I entreat : flay him
alive — if some of you don't, I must skin him myself.
There is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the
manikin." Again he writes, " Of the praises of that
little * * * Keats — I shall observe, as Johnson
JOHN KEATS. 205
did when Sheridan the actor got a pension — ' What !
has he got a pension? — Then it is time I should
give up mine ! ' Nobody could be prouder of the
praise of the ' Edinburgh ' than I was, or more alive
to their censure, as I showed in ' English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers.' At present all the men they
have ever praised are degraded by that insane article.
Why do n't they review and praise ' Solomon's Guide
to Health ? ' it is better sense, and as much poetry
as Johnny Keats."
After this unmeasured language, one is surprised
to find Lord Byron not only one of the sharpest
reprovers of the critics upon Keats, but emphatic in
the acknowledgment of his genius. In a long note
(Nov. 1831), he attributes his indignation to Keats 's
depreciation of Pope, which, he says, "hardly permitted
me to do justice to his own genius which, mahjre all
the fantastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of
great promise. His fragment of ' Hypenon ' seems
actually inspired by the Titians, and is as sublime as
jEschylns. He is a loss to our literature, and the more
so, as he himself, before his death, is said to have been
persuaded that he had not taken the right line, and was
refonning his style upon the more classical models of
the language." To Mr. Murray himself, a short time
before, Byron had written, " You know very well that
I did not approve of Keats 's poetry, or principles of
206 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
poetry, or of his abuse of Pope ; but, as he is dead,
omit all that is said about him, in any MSS. of mine
or publication. His ' Hyperion ' is a fine monument,
and will keep his name." This injunction, however,
has been so little attended to by those who should have
respected it, that the later editions of Lord Byron's
works contain all the ribald abuse I have quoted,
although the exclusion would, in literal terms, even
extend to the well-known flippant and false, but not
ill-natured, stanza of the 11th canto of " Don Juan."
" John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique,
Just as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible, without Greek
Contrived to talk about the Gods of late.
Much as they might have been supposed to speak.
Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ;
'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle.
Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article."
The excuse ofiered by Byron for all this inconsis-
tency is by no means satisfactory, and this sort of
repentant praise may be attributed to a mixed feeling
of conscious injustice, and to a certain gratification at
the notion that Keats had fallen victim to a kind of
attack which his own superior vigour and stouter fibre
had enabled him triumphantly to resist. In a letter
to Murray (1821) Byron writes, " I knew, by experi-
ence, that a savage review is hemlock to a sucking
author : and the one on me (which produced the
JOHN KEATS. 207
' English Bards,' &c.) knocked me down — but I got up
again. Instead of breaking a blood-vessel I drank
three bottles of claret, and began an answer, finding
that there was nothing in the article for which I
could, lawfully, knock Jeffrey on the head, in an
honourable way. However, I would not be the
person who wi'ote that homicidal article, for all the
honour and glory in the world ; though I by no means
approve of that school of scribbling which it treats
upon." Keats, as has been shown, was very far from
requiring three bottles of claret to give him the incli-
nation to fight the author of the slander, if he could
have found him, — but the use he made of the attack
was, to puiify his style, correct his tendency to exag-
geration, enlarge his poetical studies, and produce,
among other improved efforts, that veiy " Hypeiion"
W'hich called forth fi'om Byron a eulogy as violent and
unqualified as the former onslaught.
" Review people,'" again wrote Lord Byron, "have no
more right to kill than any other footpads. However,
he who would die of an article in a review would have
died of something else equally trivial . The same nearly
happened to Kirke White, who died afterwards of a con-
sumption." Now the cases of Keats and Kirke White
are just so far parallel, that Keats did die shortly after
the criticisms upon him, and also of consumption: his
friends also, while he still lived, spent a great deal
208 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
of useless care upon these critics, and, out of an
honest anger, gave encouragement to the notion that
their brutality had a most injurious effect on the
spirit and health of the Poet ; but a conscientious
inquiry entirely dispels such a supposition. In all
this correspondence it must be seen how little impor-
tance Keats attaches to such opinions, how rarely he
alludes to them at all, and how easily, when he
does so ; how lowly was his own estimate of the very
works they professed to judge, in comparison with
what he felt himself capable of producing, and how
completely he, in his world of art, rested above such
paltry assailants. After his early death the accusa-
tion was revived by the affectionate indignation of Mr.
Brown ; and Shelley, beuag in Italy, readily adopted
the same tone. On the publication of the volume con-
taining " Lamia," " Isabella," " St. Agnes' Eve," and
"Hyperion," Shelley wrote a letter which, on second
thoughts, he left unfinished : it shows, however, how
entirely he believed Keats to be at the mercy of the
critics, and how he could bend for others that pride
wliich ever remained erect for himself.
" To the Editor of the 'Quarterly Review.'
" Sir,
" Should you cast your eye on the signa-
ture of this letter before you read the contents, you
JOHN KEATS. 209
miglit imagine that they related to a slanderous
paper -which appeared in your Review some time
since. I never notice anonymous attacks. The
wretch who -wrote it has doubtless the additional
reward of a consciousness of his motives, besides the
thirty guineas a sheet, or whatever it is that you
pay him. Of course you cannot be answerable for
all the writings which you edit, and I certainly bear
you no ill-will for having edited the abuse to which
I allude — indeed, I was too much amused by being
compared to Pharaoh, not readily to forgive editor,
printer, publisher, stitcher, or any one, except the
despicable writer, connected -with something so exqui-
sitely entertaining. Seriously speaking, I am not in
the habit of permitting myself to be disturbed by
■what is said or written of me, though, I dai'e say,
I may be condemned sometimes justly enough. But
I feel, in respect to the -writer in question, that ' I
am there sitting, where he durst not soar.'
" The case is different with the unfortunate subject
of this letter, the author of ' Endymion,' to whose
feelings and situation I entreat you to allow me to
call your attention. I -wiite considerably in the
dark ; but if it is Mr. Giflford that I am addressing,
I am persuaded that, in an appeal to his humanity
and justice, he will acknowledge the fas ah hoste
doceri. I am aware that the first duty of a Reviewer
210 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
is towards the public, and I am willing to confess
that the ' Endymion ' is a poem considerably
defective, and that, perhaps, it deserved as much
censure as the pages of your Review record against
it ; but, not to mention that there is a certain
contemptuousness of phraseology from which it is
difl&cult for a critic to abstain, in the review of
' Endymion,' I do not think that the writer has
given it its due praise. Surely the poem, with all its
faults, is a very remarkable production for a man of
Keats 's age, and the promise of ultimate excellence
is such as has rarely been afforded even by such as
have afterwards attained high literary eminence.
Look at book ii., line 833, &c., and book iii., line
113 to 120; read down that page, and then again
from line 193. I could cite many other passages,
to convince you that it deserved milder usage. Why
it should have been reviewed at all, excepting for the
purpose of bringing its excellences into notice, I
cannot conceive, for it was very little read, and there
was no danger that it should become a model to the
age of that false taste, with which I confess, that it
is replenished.
" Poor Keats was thrown into a dreadful state of
mind by this review, which, I am persuaded, was not
written with any intention of producing the effect,
to which it has, at least, greatly contributed, of
JOHN KEATS. '^11
embittering his existence, and inducing a disease,
from which there are now but faint hopes of his
recovery. The first effects are described to me to
have x'esembled insanity, and it was by assiduous
watching that he was I'estrained from effecting pur-
poses of suicide. The agony of his sufferings at
length produced the rupture of a blood-vessel in the
lungs, and the usual process of consumption appears
to have begun. He is coming to pay me a visit in
Italy ; but I fear that, unless his mind can be kept
tranquH, little is to be hoped from the mere influence
of climate.
" But let me not extort anything from your pity.
I have just seen a second volume, published by him
evidently in careless despair. I have desired my
bookseller to send you a copy, and allow me to solicit
your especial attention to the fragment of a poem
entitled ' Hyperion,' the composition of which was
checked by the Review in question. The great pro-
portion of this piece is surely in the veiy highest
style of poetry. I speak impartially, for the canons
of taste to which Keats has conformed in his other
compositions, are the very reverse of my own. I
leave you to judge for yourself; it would be an insult
to you to suppose that, from motives however honour-
able, you would lend yourself to a deception of the
public." *****
p2
212 LIFE AND LETTEKS OF
■ This letter was never sent ; but, in its place, when
Keats was dead, Shelley used a very different tone,
and hurled his contemptuous defiance at the anony-
mous slanderer, in these memorable lines : —
" Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh !
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ?
The nameless worm would now itself disown :
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver IjTe unstrung.
" Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame !
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me.
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name !
But be thyself, and know thyself to be !
And ever in thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow :
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee ;
Hot Shame shall bum upon thy secret brow.
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now.
Adonais — Stanzas 36, 37.
Now, from the enthusiastic friend, let us turn, joy-
fully, to the undeniable testimony of the Poet himself,
writing confidentially to his publisher. Mr. Hessey
had sent him a letter that appeared in the Morning
Chronicle, of October 3rd, earnestly remonstrating
against these examples of tyrannous criticism, and
asking whether they could have proceeded from the
JOHN KEATS. 213
translator of Juvenal [Mr. Gifford], who had pre-
fixed to his work " that manly and pathetic narrative
of genius oppressed and struggling with innumerable
difticulties, yet finally triumphing under patronage
and encoiiragement ; or from the biographer of
Kirke White [Mr. Southey], who had expostulated
with the monthly reviewer, who sat down to blast
the hopes of a boy who had confessed to him all his
hopes and all his difiiculties." The letter was signed
"J. S.," and its author remained unknown. The
newspapers generally spoke favourably of " Endy-
mion," so that Keats could not even regard the offen-
sive articles as the general expression of the popular
voice : he may, indeed, have experienced a momentary
annoyance, but, if no other evidence survived, the
noble candour and simplicity of this answer is quite
sufficient to place the question in its true light,
and to silence for ever the exclamations either of
honest wrath or contemptuous compassion. Still the
malice was weak only because the genius was strong ;
the arrows were poisoned, though the armour they
struck was proof and able to save the life within.
9th Oct, 1818.
My dear Hessey,
You are very good in sending me the
letters from the Chronicle, and I am very bad in
214 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
not acknowledging such a kindness sooner : pray
forgive me. It has so chanced that I have had that
paper every day. I have seen to-day's. I cannot
but feel indebted to those gentlemen who have taken
my part. As for the rest, I begin to get a little
acquainted with my own strength and weakness.
Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the
man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him
a severe critic on his own works. My own domestic
criticism has given me pain without comparison
beyond what " Blackwood " or the " Quarterly " could
inflict : and also when I feel I am right, no external
praise can give me such a glow as my own solitaiy
reperception and ratification of what is fine. J. S.
is perfectly right in regard to the " slip-shod Endy-
mion." That it is so is no fault of mine. No ! though
it may sound a little paradoxical, it is as good as I
had power to make it by myself. Had I been nervous
about it being a perfect piece, and with that view
asked advice, and trembled over every page, it would
not have been written ; for it is not in my nature to
fumble. I will write independently. I have written
independently without judgment. I may write inde-
pendently, and with judgment, hereafter. The
Genius of Poetry must work out its own salvation
in a man. It cannot be matured by law and
precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in
JOHN KEATS. 215
itself. That which is creative must create itself.
In " Endymion " I leaped headlong into the sea, and
thereby have become better acquainted with the
soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I
had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly
pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice. I was
never afraid of failure ; for I would sooner fail than
not be among the greatest. But I am nigh getting
into a rant ; so, with remembrances to Taylor and
Woodhouse, &c., I am.
Yours very sincerely,
John Keats.
On returning to the south, Keats found his
brother alarmingly ill, and immediately joined him at
Teignmouth. They returned together to Hampstead,
where he gradually sunk under the disease, affection-
ately tended and fraternally mourned. He was of
a most gentle and witty nature, and resembled John
in character and appearance. In Keats's copy of
Shakspeare, the words Poor Tom, in " King Lear,"
are pathetically underlined.
Teignmouth,
Sept. 1818.
My dear Bailey,
When a poor devil is drowning, it is said
he comes thrice to the surface before he makes his
216 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
final sink; if, however, at the third rise, he can
manage to catch hold of a piece of weed or rock, he
stands a fair chance, as I hope I do now, of being
saved. I have sunk twice in our correspondence, ij
have risen twice, and have been too idle, or some- '
thing worse, to extricate myself. I have sunk the
third time, and just now risen again at this two of
the clock P.M., and saved myself from utter perdition
by beginning this, all drenched as I am, and fresh
from the water. And I would rather endure the
present inconvenience of a wet jacket than you should
keep a laced one in store for me. Why did I not
stop at Oxford in my way ? How can you ask such
a question ? Why did I not promise to do so ? Did
I not, in a letter to you, make a promise to do so ?
Then how can you be so unreasonable as to ask me
why I did not ? This is the thmg — (for I have been
rubbing my invention ; trying several sleights : I
first polished a cold, felt it in my fingers, tried it on
the table, but could not pocket it : I tried chilblains,
rheumatism, gout, tight boots, — nothing of that sort
would do, — so this is, as I was going to say, the
thing) — I had a letter from Tom, saying how much
better he had got, and thinking he had better stop.
I went down to prevent his coming up. Will not
this do ? Turn it which way you like — it is sel vaged
all round. I have used it, these three last days, to
JOHK KEATS. 217
keep out the abomiiaable Devonshire weather. By
the by, you may say what you will of Devonshire :
the truth is, it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy,
foggy, haily, floody, muddy, slipshod county. The
hills are very beautiful, when you get a sight of em ;
the primroses are out, — but then you are in; the
cliffs ai'e of a fine deep colour, but then the clouds
are continually vieing with them. The women like
your London people in a sort of negative way — because
the native men are the poorest creatures in England.
When I think of Wordsworth's Sonnet, " Vanguard
of Liberty ! ye men of Kent ! " the degenerated
race about me are pulvis Ipecac, simplex — a strong
dose. Were I a corsair, I 'd make a descent on the
south coast of Devon ; if I did not run the chance of
having cowardice imputed to me. As for the men,
they 'd run away into the Methodist meeting-houses ;
and the women would be glad of it. Had England
been a large Devonshire, we should not have won the
Battle of Waterloo. There are knotted oaks, there are
lusty rivulets, there are meadows such as are not
elsewhere, — but there are no thews and sinews.
"Moore's Almanack" is here a curiosity: arms, neck,
and shoulders may at least be seen there, and the
ladies read it as some out-of-the-way romance. Such
a quelling power have these thoughts over me that I
fancy the very air of a deteriorating quality. I fancy
218 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
the flowers, all precocious, have an Acrasian spell
about them ; I feel able to beat off the Devonshire
waves like soap-froth. T think it well, for the lionour
of England, that Julius Caesar did not first land in
this county. A Devonsliirer, standing on his native
hills, is not a distinct object ; he does not show
agamst the light ; a wolf or two would dispossess him.
I like, I love England — I like its living men —
give me a long brown plain for my money, so I
may meet with some of Edmund Ironside s descen-
dants ; give me a barren mould, so I may meet
with some shadowing of Alfred in the shape of a
gipsey, a huntsman, or a shepherd. Scenery is fine,
but human nature is finer ; the sward is richer for
the tread of a real nervous English foot; the
eagle's nest is finer, for the mountaineer having
looked into it. Are these facts or prejudices ?
Whatever they be, for them I shall never be able
to relish entirely any Devonsliire scenery. Homer
is fine, Achilles is fine, Diomed is fine, Shakspeare
is fine — Hamlet is fine, Lear is fine — but dwindled
Englishmen are not fine. Where, too, the women
are so passable, and have such English names, such
as Ophelia, Cordelia, &c., that they should have such
paramours, or rather imparamours ! As for them, I
cannot, in thought, help wishing, as did the cruel
emperor, that they had but one head, and I might
JOHN KEATS. 219
cut it off, to deliver them from any horrible courtesy
they may do their undeserving countx'ymen. I
wonder I meet with no born monsters. ! Devon-
shire, last night I thought the moon had dwindled
in heaven.
I have never had your Sermon from Wordsworth,
but Mr. Dilke lent it me. You know my ideas about
Religion. I do not think myself more in the right
than other people, and that nothing in this world is
proveable. I wish I could enter into all your feelings
on the subject, merely for one short ten minutes, and
give you a page or two to your liking. I am some-
times so very sceptical as to think Poetry itself a
mere Jack o' Lanthom to amuse whoever may chance
to be struck with its brilliance. As tradesmen say
eveiy thing is worth what it will fetch, so probably
every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from
the ardour of the pursuer — being in itself a nothing.
Ethereal things may at least be thus real, divided
mider three heads — things real, things semi-real,
and nothings : things real, such as e.x.istences of sim,
moon, and stars, and passages of Shakspeare ;
things semi-real, such as love, the clouds, &c., which
require a greeting of the spirit to make them wholly
exist ; and nothings, which are made great and dig-
nified by an ardent pursuit — which, by the by, stamp
the Biirgundy-mark on the bottles of our minds,
220 LIFE AND LETTERS OP
insomuch as they are able to " consecrate whatever they
look upon." I have written a sonnet here of a
somewhat collateral nature. So don't imagine it is
" apropos des hottes."
" Four seasons fill the measure of the year," &c.*
Aye, this may be carried — but what am I talking
of ? It is an old maxim of mine, and of course must
be well known, that eveiy point of thought is the
centre of an intellectual world. The two uppermost
thoughts in a man's mind are the two poles of his
world ; he revolves on them, and every thing is
southward and northward to him through their
means. We take but three steps from feathers to
iron. Now, my dear fellow, I must, once for all, tell
you I have not one idea of the truth of any of my
speculations : I shall never be a reasoner, because
I care not to be in the right, when retired from
bickering and in a proper philosophical temper. So
you must not stare, if, in any future letter, I endea-
vour to prove that Apollo, as he had catgut strings
to his lyre, used a cat's paw as a pecten — and, further,
from [the] said pecten's reiterated and continual
teasing, came the term hen-pecked.
My brother Tom desires to be remembered to you ;
* See the " Literary Remains.'"
JOHN KEATS. 221
he has just this moment had a spitting of blood,
poor fellow ! Remember me to Grey and Wliitehead.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
[Post-marh, Hampstead, 27 Oct. 1818.]
My dear Woodhouse,
Your letter gave me great satisfaction,
more on account of its friendliness than any rehsh of
that matter in it which is accounted so acceptable in
the " genus irritabUe." The best answer I can give
you is in a clerklike manner to make some observa-
tions on two principal points which seem to point like
indices into the midst of the whole pro and con
about genius, and views, and achievements, and
ambition, et cater a. 1st. As to the poetical character
itself (I mean that sort, of which, if I am anytliing,
I am a member; that sort distinguished from the
Wordsworthian, or egotistical subhme ; which is a
thing inr se, and stands alone), it is not itself — it has
no self — it is every thing and nothing — it has no
character — it enjoys light and shade — it lives in
gusts, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor,
mean or elevated, — it has as much delight in con-
ceiving an lago as an Imogen. What shocks the
virtuous philosopher delights the cameleon poet. It
does no harm from its relish of the dark side of
2-2'2 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
things, any more than from its taste for the bright
one, because they both end in speculation. A poet
is the most unpoetical of anything in existence,
because he has no identity ; he is continually in for,
and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon,
the sea, and men and women, who are creatures of
impulse, are poetical, and have about them an
unchangeable attribute ; the poet has none, no iden-
tity. He is certainly the most unpoetical of all
(jrod's creatures. If, then, he has no self, and if I
am a poet, where is the wonder that I should say
I would write no more ? Might I not at that very
instant have been cogitating on the characters of
Saturn and Ops ? It is a wretched tiling to confess,
but it is a veiy fact, that not one word I ever
utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing
out of my identical nature. How can it, when I
have no nature? When I am in a room with people,
if I am free from speculating on creations of my own
brain, then, not myself goes home to myself, but the
identity of every one in the room begins to press
upon me, [so] that I am in a very little time annihil-
ated — not only among men ; it would be the same
in a nursery of children. I know not whether I
make myself wholly understood : I hope enough to
let you see that no dependence is to be placed on
what I said that day.
JOHN KEATS. 2'23
In the second place, I will speak of my views, and
of the life I purpose to myself. I am ambitious of
doing the world some good : if I should be spared,
that may be the work of future years — in the interval
I will assay to reach to as high a summit in poetry
as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer. The
faint conceptions I have of poems to come bring the
blood frequently into my forehead. x\ll I hope is,
that I may not lose all interest in human affairs —
that the solitary indifference I feel for applause, even
from the finest spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of
vision I may have. I do not think it wUl. I feel
assured I should write from the mere yeammg and
fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's
labours should be burnt eveiy morning, and no eye
ever shine upon them. But even now I am perhaps
not speaking from myself, but from some character
in whose soul I now live.
I am sure, however, that this next sentence is
from myself. — I feel your anxiety, good opinion, and
friendship, in the highest degree, and am
Yours most smcerely,
John Keats.
224 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Oct. 29, 1818.
My deak George,
There was a part in your letter which gave
me great pain ; that where you lament not receiving
letters from England. I intended to have written
immediately on my return from Scotland (which was
two months earlier than I intended, on account of
my own, as well as Tom's health), but then I was
told by Mrs. W. that you had said you did not wish
any one to write, till we had heard from you. This
I thought odd, and now I see that it could not have
been so. Yet, at the time, I suffered my unreflecting
head to be satisfied, and went on in that sort of
careless and restless life with which you are well
acquainted. I am grieved to say that I am not
sorry you had not letters at Philadelphia : you could
have had no good news of Tom; and I have been
withheld, on his account, from beginning these many
days. I could not bring myself to say the truth, that
he is no better, but much worse : however, it must
be told, and you, my dear brother and sister, take
example from me, and bear up against any calamity,
for my sake, as I do for yours. Ours are ties, which,
independent of their own sentiment, are sent us by
Providence, to prevent the effects of one great solitary
JOHN KEATS. 225
grief: I have Fanny,* and I have you — three people
whose happiness, to me, is sacred, and it does annul
that selfish sorrow which I should otherwise fall into,
li\ing, as I do, with poor Tom, who looks upon me as
his only comfort. The tears will come into your eyes :
let them ; and embrace each other : thank Heaven
for what happiness you have, and, after thinking
a moment or two that you suffer in common with
all mankind, hold it not a sin to regain yom' cheer-
fulness.
Your welfare is a delight to me which I cannot
express. The moon is now shining full and brilliant;
she is the same to me in matter that you are in spirit.
If you were here, my dear sister, I could not pro-
nounce the words which I can write to you from a
distance. I have a tenderness for you, and an admi-
ration which I feel to be as great and more chaste
than I can have for any woman in the world. You
will mention Fanny — her character is not formed;
her identity does not press upon me as youi'S does.
I hope from the bottom of my heart that I may one
day feel as much for her as I do for you. I know not
how it is, my dear brother, I have never made any
acquaintance of my own — nearly all through your
medium ; through you I know, not only a sister, but
a glorious human bemg ; and now I am talking of
* His sister.
VOL. I. Q
226 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
those to whom you have made me known, I cannot
forbear mentioning Haslam, as a most kind, and
obliging, and constant friend. His behaviour to
Tom during my absence, and since my return, has
endeared him to me for ever, besides his anxiety
about you.
To-morrow I shall call on your mother and
exchange information with her. I intend to write
you such columns that it will be impossible for me to
keep any order or method in what I write ; that
will come first which is uppermost in my mind ; not
that which is uppermost in my heart. Besides, I
should wish to give you a picture of our lives here,
whenever by a touch I can do it.
I came by ship from Inverness, and was nine days
at sea without being sick. A little qualm now and
then put me in mind of you ; however, as soon as you
touch the shore, all the horrors of sickness are soon
forgotten, as was the case with a lady on board, who
could not hold her head up ail the way. We had not
been into the Thames an hour before her tongue began
to some tune — ^paying off, as it was fit she should, all
old scores. I was the only Englishman on board.
There was a downright Scotchman, who, hearing that
thei-e had been a bad crop of potatoes in England,
had brought some triumphant specimens from Scot-
land. These he exhibited with natural pride to all
JOHN KEATS. 227
the ignorant lightermen and -watermen from the Nore
to the Bridge. I fed upon beef all the way, not
being able to eat the thick porridge which the ladies
managed to manage, with large, awkward, horn-spoons
into the bai'gain. Reynolds has returned from a six-
weeks' enjoyment in Devonshire ; he is well, and per-
suades me to publish my "Pot of Basil," as an answer
to the attack made on me in " Blackwood's Magazine"
and the " Quarterly Review." There have been two
letters in my defence in the Chronicle, and one in
the Examiner, copied from the Exeter paper, and
written by Reynolds. I don't know who wrote those
in the Chronicle. This is a mere matter of the
moment : I think I shall be among the English
Poets after my death. Even as a matter of present
interest, the attempt to crush me in the "Quarterly"
has only brought me more into notice, and it is a
common expression among book-men, " I wonder the
'Quarterly' should cut its own throat." It does me
not the least harm in society to make me appear
little and ridiculous : I know when a man is superior
to me, and give him all due respect ; he will be the
last to laugh at me ; and, as for the rest, I feel that
I make an impression upon them which ensures me
personal respect while I am in sight, whatever they
may say when my back is turned.
The Misses are very kind to me, but they
«2
Q2S LIFE AND LETTERS OF
have lately displeased me much, and in this way : —
now I am coming the Kichardson ! — On my return,
the first day I called, they were in a sort of taking or
bustle about a cousin of theirs, who, having fallen
out with her grandpapa in a serious manner, was
invited by Mrs. to take asylum in her house.
She is an East-Indian, and ought to be her grand-
father's heir. At the time I called, Mrs was
in conference with her up stairs, and the young ladies
were warm in her praise down stairs, calling her
genteel, interesting, and a thousand other pretty
thmgs, to which I gave no heed, not being partial to
nine days' wonders. Now all is completely changed :
they hate her, and, from what I hear, she is not
without faults of a real kind ; but she has others,
which are more apt to make women of inferior claims
hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, but is, at least, a
Charmian : she has a rich Eastern look ; she has fine
eyes, and fine manners. When she comes into the
room she makes the same impression as the beauty
of a leopardess. She is too fine and too conscious
of herself to repulse any man who may address her :
from habit she thinks that nothing particular. I
always find myself more at ease with such a woman :
the picture before me always gives me a life and
animation which I cannot possibly feel with anything
inferior. I am, at such times, too much occupied in
JOHN KEATS. S'29
admiriug to be awkward or in a tremble: I forget
myself entirely, because I live in her. You will, by
this time, think I am in love with her, so, before I
go any further, I will tell you I am not. She kept
me awake one night, as a tune of Mozart's might do.
I speak of the thing as a pastime and an amusement,
than which I can feel none deeper than a conver-
sation with an imperial woman, the very " yes " and
"no" of whose life is to me a banquet. I don't cry
to take the moon home with me in my pocket, nor
do I fret to leave her behind me. I like her, and
her like, because one has no sensations : what we
both are is taken for granted. You will suppose
I have, by this, had much talk with her — no such
thing; there are the Misses on the look out.
They think I do n't admire her because I do n't stare
at her ; they call her a flirt to me — what a want of
knowledge I She walks across a room in such a
manner that a man is drawn towards her with a
magnetic power ; this they call flirting ! They do
not know things ; they do not luaow what a woman
is. I believe, though, she has faults, the same as
Charmian and Cleopatra might have had. Yet she
is a fine thing, speaking in a worldly way ; for there
are two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge
of things — the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical ;
and the unearthly, spiritual and ethereal. In the
230 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
former, Bonaparte, Lord Byron, and this Charmian,
hold the first place in our minds ; in the latter, John
Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child's cradle,
and you, my dear sister, are the conquering feelings.
As a man of the world, I love the rich talk of a
Channian ; as an eternal being, I love the thought
of you. I should like her to ruin me, and I should
like you to save me.
" I am free from men of pleasure's cares,
By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs."
This is " Lord Byron," and is one of the finest things
he has said.
I have no town-talk for you : as for politics, they
are, in my opinion, only sleepy, because they will
soon be wide awake. Perhaps not ; for the long-
continued peace of England has given us notions of
personal safety which are likely to prevent the re-
establishment of our national honesty. There is, of
a tmth, nothing manly or sterling in any part of the
Government. There are many madmen in the
country, I have no doubt, who would like to be be-
headed on Tower-hill, merely because of the sake of
edat ; there are many men, who, like Hunt, from a
principle of taste, would like to see things go on
better ; there are many, like Sir F. Burdett, who
like to sit at the head of political dinners ; — but
JOHN KEATS. S31
there are none prepared to suffer in obscurity for
theii" countr}'. The motives of our worst men are
interest, and of our best vanity ; we have no Milton,
or Algernon Sidney. Governors, in these days, lose
the title of man, in exchange for that of Diplomate
or Minister. We breathe a sort of ofl&cial atmosphere.
All the departments of Government have strayed far
from simplicity, which is the greatest of strength.
There is as much difference in this, between the
present Government and Oliver Cromwell's, as there
is between the Twelve Tables of Kome and the vo-
lumes of Civil Law which were digested by Justinian.
A man now entitled Chancellor has the same honour
paid him, whether he be a hog or a Lord Bacon.
No sensation is created by greatness, but by the
number of Orders a man has at his button-hole.
Notwithstanding the noise the Liberals make in
favour of the cause of Napoleon, I cannot but think
he has done more harm to the life of Liberty than
any one else could have done. Not that the Divine
Right gentlemen have done, or intend to do, any
good — no, they have taken a lesson of him, and will
do all the further harm he would have done, without
any of the good. The worst thing he has taught
them is, how to organise their monstrous armies.
The Emperor Alexander, it is said, intends to divide
his Empire, as did Dioclesian, creating two Czars
232 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
besides himself, and continuing supreme monarch of
the -whole. Should he do so, and they, for a series of
years, keep peaceable among themselves, Russia may
spread her conquest even to China. I think it a very
likely thing that China may fall of itself : Turkey cer-
tainly will. Meanwhile European North Russia will
hold its horn against the rest of Eiu'ope, intriguing
constantly with France. Dilke, whom you know
to be a Godwin-perfectibility man, pleases liimself
with the idea that America will be the country to
take up the human intellect where England leaves
off. I differ there with him greatly : a country like
the United States, whose greatest men are Franklins
and Washingtons, will never do that : they are great
men doubtless ; but how are they to be compared to
those, our countrymen, Milton and the two Sidneys?
The one is a philosophical Quaker, full of mean and
thrifty maxims ; the other sold the very charger who
had taken him through all his battles. Those Ame-
ricans are great, but they are not sublime men ; the
humanity of the United States can never reach the
sublime. Birkbeck's mind is too much in the Ame-
rican style ; you must endeavour to enforce a little
spirit of another sort into the settlement, — always
with great caution; for thereby you may do your
descendants more good than you may imagine. If I
had a prayer to make for any great good, next to
JOHX KEATS. 233
Tom's recovery, it should be that one of your children
should be the first American poet. I have a great
mind to make a prophecy ; and they say that prophecies
work out their own fulfilment.
'Tis the witching hour of night,
Orbed is the moon and bright,
And the stars they glisten, glisten.
Seeming with bright eyes to listen —
For what listen they .'
For a song and for a charm.
See they glisten in alarm,
And the moon is waxing warm
To hear what I shall sav.
Moon ! keep wide thy golden ears —
Hearken, stars ! and hearken, spheres ! —
Hearken, thou eternal sky !
I sing an infant's lullaby.
A pretty lullaby.
Listen, listen, listen, listen.
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my lullaby !
Though the rushes that will make
Its cradle still are in the lake —
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe, is on the cotton tree —
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm, is on the silly sheep —
Listen, starlight, listen, listen,
Ghsten, glisten, glisten, glisten.
And hear my lullaby !
Child, I see thee ! Child, I've found thee
Midst of the quiet all around thee !
234 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Child, I see thee ! Child, I spy thee !
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee !
Child, I know thee ! Child, no more.
But a poet evermore !
See, see, the lyre, the lyre,
In a flame of fire.
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring,
Past the eyesight's bearing.
Awake it from its sleep.
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze —
Amaze, amaze !
It stares, it stares, it stares.
It dares what no one dares !
It lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharmed, and on the strings
Paddles a little tune, and sings,
"With dumb endeavour sweetly —
Bard art thou completely !
Little child
O' th' western wild.
Bard art thou completely !
Sweetly with dumb endeavour,
A poet now or never,
Little child
O' th' western wild,
A poet now or never !
Notwithstanding your happiness and your recom-
mendations, I hope I shall never marry : though the
most beautiful creatiire were waiting for me at the
end of a journey or a walk ; though the carpet were
of silk, and the curtains of the morning clouds, the
chairs and sofas stuffed with cygnet's down, the food
JOHN KEATS. 235
manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening
on Winandermere, I should not feel, or rather
my happiness should not be, so fine ; my solitude is
sublime — for, instead of what I have described,
there is a sublimity to welcome me home ; the roar-
ing of the wind is my ■nife ; and the stars through my
window-panes are my children ; the mighty abstract
Idea of Beauty in all things, I have, stifles the more
divided and minute domestic happiness. An amiable
wife and sweet children I contemplate as part of that
Beauty, but I must have a thousand of those beau-
tiful particles to fill up my heart. I feel more and
more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that
I do not live in this world alone, but in a thousand
worlds. Xo sooner am I alone, than shapes of epic
greatness are stationed around me, and serve my
spirit the office which is equivalent to a King's Body-
guard : " then Tragedy with scepter'd pall comes
sweeping by :" according to my state of mind, I am
with Achilles shouting in the trenches, or with Theo-
critus in the vales of Sicily ; or throw my whole being
into Troilus, and, repeating those lines, " I wander
like a lost soul upon the Stygian bank, staying for
waftage," I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so
dehcate, that I am content to be alone. Those things,
combined with the opinion I have formed of the
generality of women, who appear to me as children
236 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
to whom I would rather give a sugar-plum than my
time, form a barrier against matrimony which I re-
joice in. I have written this that you might see that
I have my share of the highest pleasures of life, and
that, though I may choose to pass my days alone, I
shall be no solitary; you see there is nothing sple-
netic in all this. The only thing that can ever affect
me personally for more than one short passing day,
is any doubt about my powers for poetry : I seldom
have any ; and I look with hope to the nighing time
when I shall have none. I am as happy as a man
can be — that is, in myself; I should be happier if
Tom were well, and if I knew you were passing plea-
sant days. Then I should be most enviable — with
the yearning passion I have for the Beautiful, con-
nected and made one with the ambition of my intel-
lect. Think of my pleasure in solitude in comparison
with my commerce with the world : there I am a
child, there they do not know me, not even my most
intimate acquaintance ; I give into their feelings as
though I were refraining from imitating a little child.
Some think me middling, others silly, others foolish :
every one thinks he sees my weak side against my
will, when, in truth, it is with my will. I am content
to be thought all this, because I have in my own
breast so great a resource. This is one great reason
why they like me so, because they can all show to
JOHN KEATS. 237
advantage in a room, and eclipse (from a certain tact)
one who is reckoned to be a good poet. I hope I am
not here playing tricks "to make the angels -weep."
I think not ; for I have not the least contempt for
my species ; and, though it may sound paradoxical,
my greatest elevations of soul leave me every time
more humbled. Enough of this, though, in your love
for me, you will not think it enough.
Tom is rather more easy than he has been, but is
still so nervous that I cannot speak to him of you ; —
indeed it is the care I have had to keep his mind
aloof from feelings too acute, that has made this
letter so rambling. I did not like to Avrite before
him a letter he knew was to reach your hands ; I
cannot even now ask him for any message ; his heart
speaks to you.
Be as happy as you can, and believe me, dear
Brother and Sister, your anxious and affectionate
Brother,
J
OHN.
This is my birth-day.
Well Walk,
Nov. 24th, 1818.
My dear PiicE,
Youv amende honorable I must call " un
surcroit cVamitie" for I am not at all sensible of any-
thing but that you were unfortunately engaged, and I
238 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
was unfortunately in a hurry. I completely under-
stand your feeling in this mistake, and find in it that
balance of comfort which remains after regrettiag
your uneasiness. I have long made up my mind to
take for granted the genuine-heartedness of my
friends, notwithstanding any temporary ambiguousness
in their beha^iour or their tongues, — nothing of
which, however, I had the least scent of this morning.
I say, completely understand ; for I am everlastingly
getting my mind into such like painful trammels —
and am even at this moment suffering under them in
the case of a friend of ours. I will tell you two
most unfortunate and parallel slips — it seems down-
right pre-intention : A friend says to me, "Keats, I
shall go and see Severn this week." — "Ah ! (says I)
you want him to take your portrait." And again,
" Keats," says a friend, '* when will you come to
town again?" " I will," says I, "let you have the
MS. next week." In both these cases I appeared to
attribute an interested motive to each of my friends'
questions — the first made him flush, the second made
him look angry : — and yet I am innocent in both
cases ; my mind leapt over every interval, to what I
saw was, per se, a pleasant subject with him. You
see I have no allowances to make — you see how far
I am from supposing you could show me any neglect.
I very much regret the long time I have been
JOHN KEATS. 230
obliged to exile from you; for I have one or two
rather pleasant occasions to confer upon with you.
^Vliat I have heard from George is favourable. I
expect a letter from the settlement itself.
Your sincere friend,
John Keats.
I cannot give any good news of Tom.
Wentworth Place, Hampstead,
18 Dec. 1818.
My dear Woodhouse,
I am greatly obliged to you. I must needs
feel flattered by making an impression on a set of
ladies. I should be content to do so by meretricious
romance verse, if they alone, and not men, were to
judge. I should like very much to know those
ladies — though look here, Woodhouse — I have a new
leaf to turn over : I must work ; I must read ; I
must write. I am unable to afford time for new
acquaintances. I am scarcely able to do my duty to
those I have. Leave the matter to chance. But
do not forget to give my remembrances to your
cousin.
Yours most sincerely,
John Keats.
240 life and lettees of
My dear Reynolds,
Believe me, I have rather rejoiced at
your happiness than fretted at your silence. Indeed
I am grieved, on your account, that I am not at the
same time happy. But I conjure you to think, at pre-
sent, of nothing but pleasure ; " Gather the rose," &c.,
gorge the honey of life. I pity you as much that it
cannot last for ever, as I do myself now drinking
bitters. Give yourself up to it — you cannot help it
— and I have a consolation in thinking so. I never
was in love, yet the voice and shape of a woman has
haunted me these two days — at such a time when
the relief, the feverish relief of poetry, seems a much
less crime. This morning poetry has conquered — I
have relapsed into those abstractions which are my
only life — I feel escaped from a new, strange, and
threatening sorrow, and I am thankful for it. There
is an awful warmth about my heart, like a load of
Immortality.
Poor Tom — that woman and poetry were ringing
changes in my senses. Now I am, in comparison,
happy. I am sensible this mil distress you — you
must forgive me. Had I known you would have set
out so soon I would have sent you the " Pot of
Basil," for I had copied it out ready. Here is a free
translation of a Sonnet of Pionsard, which I think
JOHN KEATS. 241
will please you. I liave the loan of his •works — they
have great beauties.
" Nature withlield Cassandra in the skies,
For more adornment, a full thousand years ;
She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dies,
And shaped and tinted her above all Peers :
Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings,
And underneath their shadow filled her eyes
With such a richness that the cloudy Kings
Of high Olympus uttered slavish sighs.
When from the Heavens I saw her first descend,
My heart took fire, and only burning pains,
They were my pleasures — they my Life's sad end ;
Love poured her heauty into my warm veins,
[So that her image in my soul upgrew,
The only thing adorable and true." — Ed.'\ *
* The second sonnet in the " A.mours de Cassandre : " she was
a damosel of Blois — " Ville de Blois — naissance de ma dame."
" Nature omant Cassandre, qui deuoit
De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles.
La composa de cent beautez nouuelles
Que des mille ans en espargne elle auoit. —
De tous les biens qu' Amour au Ciel couuoit
Comme vu tresor cherement sous ces ailles,
Elle enrichit les Graces immortelles
De son bel ceil qui les Dieux esmouuoit. —
Du Cicl a peine elle estoit descendue
Quand ie la vey, quand mon asme esperdue
En deuint folic, et d'vn si poignant trait,
Amour couler ses beautez en mes veines,
Qu' autres plaisirs ie ne sens que mes peines,
Ny autre bien qu' adorer son portrait."
242 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
I had not the original by me when I wrote it, and
did not recollect the purport of the last lines.
I should have seen Rice ere this, but I am con-
fined by Sawney's mandate in the house now, and
have, as yet, only gone out in fear of the damp night.
I shall soon be quite recovered. Your offer I shall
remember as though it had even now taken place in
fact. I think it cannot be. Tom is not up yet — I
cannot say he is better. I have not heard from
George.
Your affectionate friend,
John Keats.
It may be as well at once to state that the lady
alluded to in the above pages inspired Keats with the
passion that only ceased with his existence. Where
personal feelings of so profound a character are con-
cerned, it does not become the biographer, in any
case, to do more than to indicate their effect on the
life of his hero, and where the memoir so nearly
approaches the times of its subject that the persons
in question, or, at any rate, their near relations, may
be still alive, it will at once be felt how indecorous
would be any conjectural analysis of such sentiments,
or, indeed, any more intrusive record of them than is
absolutely necessary for the comprehension of the
JOHN KEATS. 243
real man. True, a poet's love is, above all other
things, his life ; true, a nature, such as that of Keats,
in -which the sensuous and the ideal were so inter-
penetrated that he might be said to think because he
felt, cannot be understood without its affections ; but
no comment, least of all that of one personally a
stranger, can add to the force of the glowing and
solemn expressions that appear here and there in his
correspondence. However sincerely the devotion of
Keats may have been requited, it will be seen that
his outward ckcumstances soon became such as to
render a union very difficult, if not impossible. Thus
these years were past in a conflict in which plain
poverty and mortal sickness met a radiant imagina-
tion aud a redmidant heart. Hope was there, with
Genius, his everlasting sustaiuer, and Fear never
approached but as the companion of Necessity. The
strong power conquered the physical man, and made
the very intensity of his passion, in a certain sense,
accessor}' to his death : he might have lived longer
if he had lived less. But this should be no matter of
self-reproach to the object of his love, for the same
may be said of the very exercise of his poetic faculty,
and of all that made him what he was. It is enough that
she has presei'ved his memoiy with a sacred honour,
and it is no vain assumption, that to have inspired
and sustained the one passion of this noble being has
244 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
been a source of grave delight and earnest thank-
fulness, through the changes and chances of her
earthly pilgrimage.
When Keats was left alone by his brothers death,
which took place early in December, Mr. Brown
pressed on him to leave his lodgings and reside
entirely in his house : this he consented to, and
the cheerful society of his friend seemed to bring
back his spirits, and at the same time to excite him
to fresh poetical exertions. It was then he began
" Hyperion ; " that poem full of the " large utterance
of the early Gods," of which Shelley said, that the
scenery and drawing of Satm'n dethroned by the fallen
Titans surpassed those of Satan and his rebellious
angels, in " Paradise Lost." He afterwards published
it as a fragment, and still later re-cast it into the
shape of a Vision, which remains equally unfinished.
Shorter poems were scrawled, as they happened to
suggest themselves, on the first scrap of paper at
hand, which was afterwards used as a mark for a
book, or thrown anywhere aside. It seemed as if,
when his imagination was once relieved, by writing
down its effusions, he cared so little about them that
it required a friend at hand to prevent them from
being utterly lost. The admirable "Ode to a
Nightingale " was suggested by the continual song of
the bird that, in the spring of 1819, had built her
JOHN KEATS. 245
nest close to the house, and which often threw Keats
into a sort of trance of tranquil pleasure. One
morning he took his chair from the brealifast-table,
placed it on the grass-plot under a plum-tree, and sat
there for two or three hours with some scraps of
paper in his hands. Shortly afterwards Mr. Brown
saw him thrusting them away, as waste paper, behind
some books, and had considerable difl&culty in putting
together and arranging the stanzas of the Ode.
Other poems as literally " fugitive " were rescued in
much the same way — for he permitted Mr. Brown
to copy whatever he could pick up, and sometimes
assisted him.
The odes " To the Nightingale " and " To a
Grecian Uni" were first published in a periodical
entitled the " Annals of Fine Arts." Soon after he
had composed them, he repeated, or rather chanted,
them to Mr. Haydon, in the sort of recitative that so
well suited his deep grave voice, as they strolled
together through Kilburn meadows, leaving an inde-
lible impression on the mind of his sm'vi^dng friend.
The journal-letters to his brother and sister in
America are the best records of his outer existence. I
give them in their simplicity, being assured that thus
they are best. They are full of a genial life which
will be understood and valued by all to whom a
book of this nature presents any interest whatever :
246 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
and, when it is remembered how carelessly they are
written, how little the writer ever dreamt of their
being redeemed from the far West or exposed to any
other eyes than those of the most familiar affection,
they become a mirror in which the individual character
is shown with indisputable truth, and from which the
fairest judgment of his very self can be drawn.
[1818—19.]
My dear Beothee and Sister,
You will have been prepared, before this
reaches you, for the worst news you could have, nay,
if Haslam's letter arrived in proper time, I have a
consolation m thinking the first shock will be passed
before you receive this. The last days of poor Tom
were of the most distressing nature ; but his last
moments were not so painful, and his very last
was without a pang. I will not enter into any
parsonic comments on death. Yet the commonest
observations of the commonest people on death are
true as their proverbs. I have a fimi belief in
immortality, and so had Tom.
During poor Tom's illness I was not able to write,
and since his death the task of beginning has been a
hindrance to me. Within this last week I have been
everj^where, and I will tell you, as nearly as possible,
how I go on. I am going to domesticate with Brown,
JOHN KEATS. 247
that is, we shall keep house together. I shall have the
front-parlour, and he the back one, by which I shall
avoid the noise of Bentley's children, and be able to
go on with my studies, which have been greatly inter-
rupted lately, so that I have not the shadow of an
idea of a book in my head, and my pen seems to have
gro^^^l gouty for verse. How are you going on now ?
The going on of the world makes me dizzy. There
you are with Birkbeck, here I am with Brown;
sometimes I imagine an immense separation, and
sometimes, as at present, a direct communication of
spirit with you. That will be one of the grandeurs
of immortality. There will be no space, and conse-
quently the only commerce between spirits will be by
then* intelligence of each other — when they will
completely understand each other, while we, in this
world, merely comprehend each other in different
degi-ees ; the higher the degree of good, so higher
is our Love and Friendship. I have been so little
used to writing lately that I am afraid you will not
smoke my meaning, so I will give you an example.
Suppose Brown, or Haslam, or any one else, whom I
understand in the next degi'ee to what I do you,
were in America, they would be so much the further
from me in proportion as their identity was more
impressed upon me. Now the reason why I do not
feel, at the present moment, so far from you, is that
248 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
I remember your ways, and manners, and actions ; I
know your manner of thinking, your manner of feeling ;
I know what shape your joy or your sorrow would take ;
I know the manner of your walking, standing, saun-
tering, sitting down, laughing, punning, and every
action, so truly that you seem near to me. You will
remember me in the same manner, and the more
when I tell you that I shall read a page of
Shakspeare every Sunday at ten o'clock; you read
one at the same time, and we shall be as near each
other as blind bodies can be in the same room.
Thursday. — This morning is very fine. What are
you doing this morning? Have you a clear hard
frost, as we have ? How do you come on with the
gun ? Have you shot a Buffalo ? Have you met with
any Pheasants ? My thoughts are very frequently in
a foreign country. I live more out of England than
in it. The mountains of Tartary are a favorite
lounge, if I happen to miss the Alleghany ridge, or
have no whim for Savoy. There must be great
pleasure in pursuing game — pointing your gun — no,
it won't do — now — no — rabbit it — now, bang — smoke
and feathers — where is it ? Shall you be able to
get a good pointer or so ? Now I am not addressing
myself to G. Minor — and yet I am, for you are
one. Have you some warm furs? By your next
letter I shall expect to hear exactly how you get
JOHN KEATS. 249
on ; smother nothing ; let us have all — fair and foul
— all plain. Will the little bairn have made his
entrance before you have this ? Kiss it for me, and
when it can first know a cheese from a caterpillar show
it my picture twice a week. You will be glad to hear
that Gilford's attack upon me has done me service —
it has got my book among several sets, nor must I
forget to mention, once more, what I suppose Haslam
has told you, the present of a 25L note I had
anonymously sent me. Another pleasing circum-
stance I may mention, on the authority of Mr.
Neville, to whom I had sent a copy of " Endymion."
It was lying on his cousin's table, where it had been
seen by one of the Misses Porter, (of Romance
celebrity,) who expressed a wish to read it ; after
having dipped into it, in a day or two she returned
it, accompanied by the following letter : —
" Deab Sir,
" As my brother is sending a messenger to
Esher, I cannot but make the same the bearer of
my regrets for not having had the pleasure of seeing
you the morning you called at the gate. I had given
orders to be denied, I was so very unwell with my still
adhesive cold ; l)ut had I known it was you, I should
have broken off the interdict for a few minutes, to say
how very much I am delighted with ' Endymion.' 1
250 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
had just finished the poem, and have now done as you
permitted, lent it to Miss Fitzgerald.
" I regret you are not personally acquainted with
the author, for I should have been happy to have
acknowledged to him, through the advantage of your
communication, the very rare delight my sister and
myself have enjoyed from this first fruits of his
genius. I hope the ill-natured review will not have
damped such true Parnassian fire. It ought not, for
when life is gi'anted to the possessor, it always bums
its brilliant way through every obstacle. Had
Chatterton possessed sufficient manliness of mind to
know the magnanimity of patience, and been aware
that great talents have a commission from heaven,
he would not have deserted his post, and his name
might have paged with Milton.
" Ever much yours,
" Jane Porter,"
" Bitfon Cottage, Bee. 4, 1818.
" To H. Neville, Esq., Esher."
Now I feel more obliged than flattered by this —
so obliged that I will not, at present, give you an
extravaganza of a Lady Romance. I will be introduced
to them first, if it be merely for the pleasure of
writing you about them. Hunt has asked me to
meet Tom Moore, so you shall hear of him also
some day.
JOHN KEATS. 251
I am passing a quiet day, ■which I have not done
for a long time, and if I do continue so, I feel I
must again begin with my poetry, for if I am not in
action, mind or body, I am in pain, and from that I
suffer greatly by going into parties, when from the
rules of society and a natural pride, I am obliged to
smother my spirits and look like an idiot, because I
feel my impulses, if given way to, would too much
amaze them. I live under an everlasting restraint,
never relieved except when I am composing, so I
will write away.
Friday. — I think you knew before you left Eng-
land, that my next subject would be the " Fall of
Hyperion," I went on a little with it last night, but
it will take some time to get into the vein again. I
will not give you any extracts, because I wish the
whole to make an impression. I have, however, a
few poems which you will like, and I will copy them
out on the next sheet. I will write to Haslam this
morning to know when the packet sails, and till it
does I will write something every day. After that
my journal shall go on like clockwork, and you must
not complain of its dulness ; for what I wish is to
write a quantity to you, knowing well that dulness
itself from me will be instructing to you. You may
conceive how this not having been done has weighed
upon me. I shall be better able to judge from your
352' LIFE AND LETTERS OF
next what sort of information will be of most service
or amusement to you. Perhaps, as you are fond of
giving me sketches of characters, you may like a little
pic-nic of scandal, even across the Atlantic. Shall
I give you Miss ? She is about my height,
with a fine style of countenance of the lengthened
sort ; she wants sentiment in every feature ; she
manages to make her hair look well; her nostrils
are very fine, though a little painful; her mouth is
bad and good; her profile is better than her full
face, which, indeed, is not full, but pale and thin,
without showing any bone ; her shape is very grace-
ful, and so are her movements; her arms are good,
her hands bad-ish, her feet tolerable. She is not
seventeen, but she is ignorant ; monstrous in her
behaviour, flying out in all directions, calling people
such names that I was forced lately to make use of
the term — Minx : this is, I think, from no innate
vice, but from a penchant she has for acting stylishly.
I am, however, tired of such style, and shall decline
any more of it. She had a friend to visit her lately ;
you have Itnown plenty such — she plays the music,
but without one sensation but the feel of the ivory
at her fingers ; she is a downright Miss, without
one set-off. We hated her, and smoked her, and
baited her, and, I think, drove her away. Miss ,
thinks her a paragon of fashion, and says she is the
JOHN KEATS, 253
only womaB in the world she would change persons
^^•ith. What a stupe — she is as superior as a rose to
a dandelion.
It is some days since I wrote the last page, but 1
never know ; but I must write. I am looking into
a book of Dubois' — he has written directions to the
players. One of them is very good, " In singing,
never mind the music — observe what time you please.
It would he a pretty degradation indeed, if you were
obliged to confine your genius to the dull regularity
of a fiddler — horse-hah- and cat-guts. No, let him
keep your time and play your time ; dodge 7iim." I
will now copy out the sonnet and letter I have spoken
of. The outside cover was thus directed, " Messrs.
Taylor and Hessey, Booksellers, 93, Fleet-street,
London," and it contained this: "Messrs. Taylor
and Hessey are requested to forward the enclosed
letter by some safe mode of conveyance to the
author of 'Endymion,' who is not known at Teign-
mouth; or, if they have not his address, they will
return the letter by post, directed as below, within
a fortnight. Mr. P. Fenbank, P. O., Teign-
mouth, 9th November, 1818." In this sheet was
enclosed the following, with a superscription, "Mr.
John Keats, Teignmouth;" then came " Sonnet to
John Keats," which I could not copy for any in
the world but you, who know that I scout " mild
254 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
light and loveliness," or any such nonsense, in
myself.
" Star of high promise ! Not to this dark age
Do thy mild light and loveliness helong ;
For it is blind, intolerant, and wrong.
Dead to empyreal soarings, and the rage
Of scoffing spirits bitter war doth wage
With all that bold integrity of song ;
Yet thy clear beam shall shine through ages strong,
To ripest times a light and heritage.
And those breathe now who dote upon thy fame,
Whom thy wild numbers wrap beyond their being.
Who love the freedom of thy lays, their aim
Above the scope of a dull tribe unseeing.
And there is one whose hand will never scant,
From his poor store of fruits, all thou canst want.
{Turn over.)"
I turned over, and found a 25Z. note. Now this
appears to me all veiy proper ; if I had refused it, I
should have behaved in a very braggadocio dunder-
headed manner ; and yet the present galls me a little,
and I do not know that I shall not return it, if I ever
meet with the donor, after whom to no purpose have
I written.
I must not forget to tell you that a few days since
I went with Dilke a-shooting on the heath, and shot
a tomtit ; there were as many guns abroad as birds.
Thursday. — On my word, I think so Httle, I have
not one opinion ujdou anything except in matters of
JOHN KEATS. 255
taste. I never caai feel certain of any trutli, but from a
clear perception of its beauty, and I find myself very
young-minded, even in tbat perceptive power, which
I hope will increase. A year ago I could not under-
stand, in the slightest degi'ee, Raphael's Cartoons ;
now I begin to read them a little. And how did I
leai'u to do so ? By seeing something done in quite
an opposite spirit ; I mean a picture of Guide's, in
which all the Saints, instead of that heroic simplicity
and unaffected grandeur, which they inherit from
Eaphael, had, each of them, both in countenance and
gesture, all the canting, solemn, melo-dramatic maw-
kishness of Mackenzie's Father Nicholas. When I
was last at Haydon's, I looked over a book of prints,
taken from the fresco of the church at Milan, the
name of which I forget. In it were comjDrised speci-
mens of the first and second age in Art in Italy. I
do not think I ever had a greater treat, out of Shak-
speare ; full of romance and the most tender feeling;
magnificence of drapery beyond everything I ever
saw, not excepting Raphael's, — but grotesque to a
curious pitch ; yet still making up a fine whole, even
finer to me than more accomplished worlcs, as there
was left so much room for imagination. I have not
heard one of this last course of Hazlitt's Lectures.
They were upon Wit and Humour, the English Comic
Writers, &c.
i256 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
I do not think I have anything to say in the busi-
ness-way. You will let me know what you would
wish done with your property in England — what
things you would wish sent out. But I am quite in
the dark even as to your anival in America. Your
first letter will be the key by which I shall open your
hearts and see what spaces want filling with any par-
ticular information. Whether the affairs of Em'ope
are more or less interesting to you; whether you
would like to hear of the Theatres, the Bear-Garden,
the Boxers, the Painters, the Lecturers, the Dress,
the progress of Dandyism, the progress of Courtship,
or the fate of Mary M , being a full, true, and
tres particular account of Miss Mary's ten suitors ;
how the first tried the effect of swearing, the second
of stammering, the third of whispering, the fourth of
sonnets, the fifth of Spanish-leather boots, the sixth
of flattering her body, the seventh of flattering her
mind, the eighth of flattering himself, the ninth of
sticking to the mother, the tenth of kissing the
chamber-maid and bidding her tell her mistress, — but
he was soon discharged.
And now, for the time, I bid you good-bye.
Your most affectionate Brother,
John.
JOHN KEATS. 257
February 14, [1819.]
My del\r Brother and Sister,
How is it that we have not heard from you
at the Settlement ? Surely the letters have miscar-
ried. I am still at Wentworth Place ; indeed, I
have kept in doors lately, resolved, if possible, to rid
myself of my sore throat ; consequently I have not
been to see your mother since my return from Chi-
chester. Nothing worth speaking of happened at
either place. I took down some of the thin paper,
and wrote on it a little poem called "St. Agnes'
Eve," which you will have as it is, when I have
finished the blank part of the rest for you. I went
out twice, at Chichester, to old dowager card-parties.
I see veiy little now, and very few persons, — being
almost tired of men and things. Brown and Dilke
are very Idnd and considerate towards me. Another
satire is expected from Lord Byron, called " Don
Giovamii." Yesterday I went to town for the first
time these three weeks. I met people from all parts
and of all sects. Mr. Woodhouse was looking up at
a book-window in Newgate-street, and, being short-
sighted, twisted his muscles into so queer a style,
that I stood by, in doubt whether it was him or his
brother, if he has one : and, turning round, saw
VOL. I. s
258 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Mr. Hazlitt, with his son. Woodhouse proved to
be Woodhouse, and not his brother, on his features
subsiding. I have had a little business with Mr.
Abbey ; from time to time he has behaved to me with
a little h-usquerie ; this hm't me a little, especially
when I knew him to be the only man in England
who dared to say a thing to me I did not approve of,
without its being resented, or, at least, noticed ; — so
I wrote him about it, and have made an alteration in
my favour. I expect from this to see more of Fanny,
who has been quite shut up from me. I see Cobbett
has been attacking the Settlement ; but I cannot tell
what to believe, and shall be all at elbows till I hear
from you. Mrs. S. met me the other day. I heard
she said a thing I am not at all contented with.
Says she, " O, he is quite the little poet." Now this
is abominable ; you might as well say Bonaparte is
"quite the little soldier." You see what it is to be
under six feet, and not a Lord.
;;: ^ :{< ^
In my next packet I shall send you my " Pot of
Basil," " St. Agnes' Eve," and, if I should have
finished it, a little thing, called the " Eve of St.
Mark." You see what fine Mother Kadcliffe names I
have. It is not my fault; I did not search for
them. I have not gone on with "Hyperion," for,
to tell the truth, I have not been in great cue for
JOHN KEATS. 259
writing lately. I must wait for the spring to rouse
me a little.
Friday, ISth February. — The clay before yester-
day I went to Komney-street ; your mother was not
at home. We lead veiy quiet lives here ; Dilke is,
at present, at Greek history and antiquities; and
talks of nothing but the Elections of Westminster
and the Retreat of the Ten Thousand. I never
drink above three glasses of wine, and never any
spirits and water; though, by the bye, the other day
Woodhouse took me to his coffee-house, and ordered
a bottle of claret. How I like claret ! when I can
get claret, I must drink it. 'Tis the only palate affair
that I am at all sensual in. Would it not be a good
spec, to send you some vine-roots ? Could it be
done ? 1 11 inquire. If you could make some wine
like claret, to drink on summer evenings in an
arbour ! It fills one's mouth vrith a gushing fresh-
ness, then goes down cool and feverless: then, you
do not feel it quarrelling with one's liver. No ; 'tis
rather a peace-maker, and lies as quiet as it did in
the grape. Then it is as fragrant as the Queen Bee,
and the more ethereal part mounts into the brain,
not assaulting the cerebral apartments, like a bully
looldng for his tinill, and hm*rying from door tu
door, bouncing against the wainscot, but rather
walks like Aladdin about his enchanted palace, so
s2
260 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
gently that you do not feel his step. Other wines of
a heavy and spirituous nature transform a man into
a Silenus, this makes him a Hermes, and gives a
woman the soul and immortality of an Ariadne, for
whom Bacchus always kept a good cellar of claret,
and even of that he never could persuade her to take
above two cups. I said this same claret is the only
palate-passion I have ; I forgot game ; I must plead
guilty to the breast of a partridge, the back of a hare,
the back-bone of a grouse, the whig and side of a
pheasant, and a wood-cock passim. Talking of game
(I wish I could make it), the lady whom I met at
Hastings, and of whom I wrote you, I think, has
lately sent me many presents of game, and enabled
me to make as many. She made me take home a
pheasant the other day, which I gave to Mrs. Dilke.
The next I intend for your mother. I have not said in
any letter a word about my own affairs. In a word, I am
in no despair about them. My poem has not at all suc-
ceeded. In the course of a year or so I think I shall
try the public again. In a selfish point of view I
should suflfer my pride and my contempt of public
opinion to hold me silent ; but for yours and Fanny's
sake, I will pluck up spuit and try it again. I have
no doubt of success in a course of years, if I perse-
vere ; but I must be patient ; for the reviewers have
enervated men's minds, and made them indolent ;
JOHN KEATS. 261
few tliiuk for themselves. These reviews are getting
more and more powerful, especially the " Quarterly."
They are like a superstition, wliich, the more it pros-
ti'ates the crowd, and the longer it continues, the
more it becomes powerful, just in proportion to their
increasing weakness. I was in hopes that, as people
saw, as they must do now, all the trickery and
iniquity of these plagues, they would scout them ; but
no ; they are like the spectators at the Westminster
cock-pit, they like the battle, and do not care who
wins or who loses.
On Monday w'e had to dinner Severn and Caw-
thorn, the bookseller and print-virtuoso ; in the
evening Severn went home to paint, and we other
three went to the play, to see Sheil's new tragedy
ycleped "Evadue." In the morning Severn and I
took a turn I'ouud the Museum ; there is a sphinx
there of a giant size, and most voluptuous Egyptian
expression; I had not seen it before. The play
was bad, even in comparison wth 1818, the " Augus
tan age of the drama." The whole was made
up of a virtuous young woman, an indignant brother,
a suspecting lover, a libertine prince, a gratuitous
villain, a street in Naples, a cj-press grove, lilies
and roses, virtue and vice, a bloody sword, a spangled
jacket, one " Lady Ohvia," one Miss O'Neil, alias
" Evadne," alias " Bellamira." The play is a fine
263 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
amusement, as a friend of mine once said to me :
" Do what you will," says he, " a poor gentleman
who wants a guinea cannot spend his two shilHngs
better than at the playhouse." The pantomime was
excellent ; I had seen it before, and enjoyed it again.
Your mother and I had some talk about Miss
. Says I, " Will Henry have that Miss ,
a lath with a boddice, she who has been fine-drawn,
— fit for nothing but to cut up into cribbage-pins ;
one who is all muslin ; all feathers and bone ?
Once, in travelling, she was made use of as a linch-
pin. I hope he will not have her, though it is
no uncommon thing to be smitten with a staff; —
though she might be useful as his walking-stick, his
fishing-rod, his tooth-pick, his hat-stick (she runs so
much in his head). Let him turn farmer, she would
cut into hurdles ; let him write poetry, she would be
his turn-style. Her gown is like a flag on a pole :
she would do for him if he turn freemason ; I hope
she will prove a flag of truce. "When she sits lan-
guishing, with her one foot on a stool, and one elbow
on the table, and her head inclined, she looks like
the sign of the Crooked Billet, or the frontispiece
to 'Cinderella,' or a tea-paper wood-cut of Mother
Shipton at her studies."
The nothing of the day is a machine called the
" Velocipede." It is a wheel-carriage to ride cock-
JOHN KEATS. 263
horse upon, sitting astride and pushing it along with
the toes, a rudder-wheel in hand. They will go
seven mUes an hour. A handsome gelding will come
to eight guineas ; however, they will soon be cheaper,
unless the army takes to them.
I look back upon the last month, and find nothing
to writ€ about ; indeed, I do not recollect one thing
particular in it. It's all alike ; we keep on breathing ;
the only amusement is a little scandal, of however
fine a shape, a laugh at a pun, — and then, after all,
we wonder how we could enjoy the scandal, or laugh
at the pun.
I have been, at different times, turning it in my
head, whether I should go to Edinburgh, and study
for a physician. I am afraid I should not take
Idndly to it ; I am sure I could not take fees : and
yet I should like to do so ; it is not worse than
writing poems, and hanging them up to be fly-blown
on the Keview shambles. Every body is in his own
mess : here is the Parson at Hampstead quarrelling
with all the world ; he is in the wrong by this same
token ; when the black cloth was put up in the
church, for the Queen's mourning, he asked the work-
men to hang it the wrong side outwards, that it might
be better when taken down, it being his perquisite.
Friday, 19th March. — This morning I have been
reading " The False One." Shameful to say, I
264 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
was in bed at ten — I mean, this morning. The
"Blackwood's Reviewers" have committed themselves
to a scandalous heresy ; they have been putting up
Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, against Bums : the
senseless Adllains ! The Scotch cannot manage them-
selves at all, they want imagination ; and that is why
they are so fond of Hogg, who has so little of it.
This morning I am in a sort of temper, indolent and
supremely careless ; I long after a stanza or two
of Thomson's " Castle of Indolence ; " my passions
are all asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly
eleven, and weakened the animal fibre all over me, to
a delightful sensation, about three degrees on this
side of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl, and the
breath of lilies, I should call it languor ; but, as I
am, I must call it laziness. In this state of effemi-
nacy, the fibres of the braia are relaxed, in common
with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree,
that pleasure has no show of enticement, and pain no
unbearable frown ; neither Poetry, nor Ambition, nor
Love, have any alertness of countenance ; as they
pass by me, they seem rather like three figures on a
Greek vase, two men and a woman, whom no one but
myself could distinguish in their disguisement. This
is the only happiness, and is a rare instance of
advantage in the body overpowering the mind.
I have this moment received a note from Haslam,
JOHN KEATS. 265
in which he writes that he expects the death of his
father, who has been for some time in a state of
uisensibility ; I shall go to town to-morrow to see
him. This is the world ; thus we cannot expect to
give away many hours to pleasure ; circumstances
are like clouds, continually gatheruig and bursting ;
while we are laughing, the seed of trouble is put into
the wide arable land of events ; while we are
laughing, it sprouts, it gi'ows, and suddenly bears a
poisonous fruit, which we must pluck. Even so we
have leisure to reason on the misfortunes of our
friends : our own touch us too nearly for words.
Very few men have ever arrived at a complete disin-
terestedness of mind ; very few have been interested
by a pure desire of the benefit of others : in the
greater part of the benefactors of humanity, some
meretricious motive has sullied their greatness, some
melo-dramatic scenery has fascinated them. From
the manner in which I feel Haslam's misfortune I
perceive how far I am from any humble standard of
disinterestedness ; yet this feeling ought to be carried
to its highest pitch, as there is no fear of its ever
injuring society. In wild nature, the Hawk would
lose his breakfast of robins, and the Robin his
of worms ; the Lion must starve as well as the
Swallow. The great part of men sway their way
with the same instinctiveness, the same unwandering
266 LIFE AND LETTEES OF
eye from their purposes, the same animal eagerness,
as the Hawk : the Hawk wants a mate, so does the
Man ; look at them hoth ; they set about it, and
procure one in the same manner; they want both
a nest, and they both set about one in the same
manner. The noble animal, Man, for his amusement,
smokes his pipe, the Hawk balances about the clouds :
that is the only difference of their leisures. This is
that which makes the amusement of life to a specu-
lative mind ; I go among the fields, and catch a
glimpse of a stoat or a field-mouse, peeping out of
the withered grass ; the creature hath a purpose, and
its eyes are bright with it ; I go amongst the build-
ings of a city, and I see a man hurrying along — to
what ? — the creature hath a purpose, and its eyes are
bright with it : — but then, as Wordsworth says, " We
have all one human heart ! " There is an electric
fire in human nature, tending to purify ; so that,
among these human creatures, there is continually
some birth of new heroism ; the pity is, that we must
wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in
rubbish. I have no doubt that thousands of people,
never heard of, have had hearts completely disin-
terested. I can remember but two, Socrates and
Jesus. Their histories evince it. What I heard
Taylor observe with respect to Socrates is true of
Jesus : that, though he transmitted no writing of his
JOHN KEATS. 367
own to posterity, we have his mind, and his sayings,
and liis greatness, handed down to us by others.
Even here, though I am pursuing the same instinctive
course as the veriest animal you can think of — I am,
however, young, and writing at random, straining
after particles of light in the midst of a great
darkness, without knowing the bearing of any one
assertion, of any one opinion — yet, in this may I
not be free from sin ? May there not be supe-
rior beings, amused with any gi'aceful, though
instinctive, attitude my mind may fall into, as I am
entertained with the alertness of the stoat, or the
anxiety of the deer ? Though a quarrel in the street
is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it
are fine ; the commonest man shows a grace in his
quarrel. By a superior Being our reasonings may
take the same tone ; though erroneous, they may be
fine. This is the very thing in which consists Poetry,
and if so, it is not so fine a thing as Philosophy, for
the same reason that an eagle is not so fine a thing
as truth. Give me this credit, do you not thmk I
strive to know myself? Give me tliis credit, and
you will not think, that on my own account I repeat
the lines of Milton : —
" How charming is divine philosophy,
Not harsh and crabbed, .is dull fools suppose.
But musical as is Apollo's lute."
368 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
No, not for myself, feeling grateftil, as I do, to have
got into a state of mind to relish them properly.
Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced ;
even a proverb is no proverb to you till life has illus-
trated it.
I am afraid that your anxiety for me leads you to
fear for the violence of my temperament, continually
smothered down : for that reason, I did not intend to
have sent you the following Sonnet ; but look over
the two last pages, and ask yourself if I have not that
in me which will bear the buffets of the Avorld. It
will be the best comment on my Sonnet ; it will show
you that it was written with no agony but that of
ignorance, with no thirst but that of knowledge, when
pushed to the point ; though the first steps to it were
through my human passions, they went away, and I
wrote with my mind, and, perhaps, I must confess, a
little bit of my heart.
" Why (lid I laugh to-night? No voice will tell," &c.*
I went to bed and enjoyed uninterrupted sleep :
sane I went to bed, and sane I arose.
16th April. — You see what a time it is since I
wrote ; all that time I have been, day after day,
expecting letters from you. I write quite in the
* See the " Literary Remains."
JOHN KEATS. 269
dai'k. In hopes of a letter to-day I deferred till
night, that I might write in the light. It looks so
much like rain, I shall not go to town to-day, but put
it off till to-morrow. Brown, this morning, is writing
some Spenserian stanzas against Miss B and
me : so I shall amuse myself with him a Uttle, in the
manner of Spenser.
" He is to weet a melancholy carle :
Thin in the waist, vnth bushy head of hair,
As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle
It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
Its light balloons into the summer air ;
Therto his beard had not begun to bloom,
No brush had touched his chin, or razor sheer ;
No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,
But new he was, and bright, as scarf from Persian loom .
" Ne cared he for wine or half-and-half ;
Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl ;
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;
He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl ;
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl ;
Ne with sly lemans in the scomer's chair;
But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul
Panted, and all his food was woodland air ;
Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.
" The slang of cities in no wise he knew.
Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek ;
He sipped no " olden Tom," or " ruin blue,"
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drank full meek
By many a damsel brave, and rouge of cheek ;
270 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,
Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek
For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat,
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet."
This character ■would ensure him a situation in the
establishment of the patient Griselda. Brown is gone
to bed, and I am tired of writing ; there is a north
wind playing green-gooseberry with the trees, it blows
so keen. I don't care, so it helps, even with a side-
wind, a letter to me.
The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and
more ; it is that one in which he meets with Paulo
and Francesca. I had passed many days in rather
a low state of mind, and in the midst of them I dreamt
of being in that region of Hell. The dream was one
of the most delightful enjoyments I ever had in my
life ; I floated about the wheeling atmosphere, as it
is described, with a beautiful figure, to whose lips
mine were joined, it seemed for an age ; and in the
midst of all this cold and darkness I was warm ; ever-
ilowery tree-tops sprung up, and we rested on them,
sometimes with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind
blew us away again. I tried a Sonnet on it : there
are fourteen lines in it, but nothing of what I felt.
Oh ! that I could dream it every night.
" When lulled Argus, baffled, swooned and slept," &c.*
See the " Literary Remains."
JOHN KEATS. 271
I want very much a little of your wit, my dear
sister — a letter of yours just to baudy back a pun or
two across the Atlantic, and send a quibble over the
Floridas. Now, by this time you have crumpled up
your large bonnet, what do you wear ? — a cap ! Do
you put your hair in paper of nights ? Do you pay the
Misses Birkbeck a morning visit ? Have you any tea,
or do you milk-and-water with them ? What place of
worship do you go to — the Quakers, the Moravians,
the Unitarians, or the Methodists? Are there any
flowers in bloom you like ? Any beautiful heaths ?
Any streets full of corset-makers ? What sort of
shoes have you to put those pretty feet of yours in ?
Do you desire compliments to one another? Do you
ride on horseback ? What do you have for brealifast,
dinner, and supper, without mentioning lunch and
bite, and wet and snack, and a bit to stay one's
stomach ? Do you get any spirits ? Now you might
easily distil some whisky, and, going into the woods,
set up a whisky-shop for the monkeys ! Do you and
the other ladies get groggy on anything ? A little
so-so-ish, so as to be seen home with a Ian thorn ?
You may perhaps have a game at Puss-in-the-comer:
ladies ai'e warranted to play at this game, though they
have not whiskers. Have you a fiddle in the Settle-
ment, or, at any rate, a Jew's-harp which will play in
spite of one's teeth? When you have nothing else
272 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
to do for a whole day, I '11 tell you how you may
employ it : first get up, and when you are dressed,
as it would be pretty early, with a high wind in the
woods, give George a cold pig, with my compliments,
then you may saunter into the nearest coffee-house,
and after taking a dram and a look at the " Chronicle,"
go and frighten the wild bears on the strength of it.
You may as well bring one home for breakfast,
serving up the hoofs, garnished with bristles, and a
grunt or two, to accompany the singing of the kettle.
Then, if George is not up, give him a colder pig,
always with my compliments. After you have
eaten your breakfast, keep your eye upon dinner,
it is the safest way ; you should keep a hawk's eye
over your dinner, and keep hovering over it till
due time, then pounce upon it, taking care not to
break any plates. While you are hovering with
your dinner in prospect, you may do a thousand
things — put a hedge-hog into George's hat, pour a
little water into his rifle, soak his boots in a pail of
water, cut his jacket round into shreds, like a Koman
kilt, or the back of my grandmother's stays, tear off
his buttons
The following poem, the last I have written, is the
first and only one with which I have taken even
moderate pains ; I have, for the most part, dashed off
my lines in a hurry ; this one I have done leisurely ;
JOHN KEATS. 273
I think it reads the more richly for it, axid it will I
hope encourage me to Tviite other things in even a
more peaceable and healthy spirit. You must recol-
lect that Psyche was not embodied as a goddess
before the time of Apuleius the Platonist, who lived
after the Augustan age, and consequently the goddess
was never worshipped or sacrificed to with any of the
ancient fervour, and perhaps never thought of in the
old religion : I am more orthodox than to let a heathen
goddess be so neglected.
(Herefollous the "Ode to Psyche" already published.)
I have been endeavouring to discover a better
Sonnet stanza than we have. The legitimate does
not suit the language well, from the pouncing
rhymes ; the other appears too elegiac, and the
couplet at the end of it has seldom a pleasing efiect.
I do not pretend to have succeeded. It will explain
itself : —
" If by dull rhymes our English must be chained," &c.*
This is the third of May, and everything is in
delightful forwai'dness : the violets are not withered
before the peeping of the first rose. You must let
• See the " Literary Remains."
vol.. I. T
274 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
me know everything, now parcels go and come — what
papers you have, and what newspapers you want, and
other things. God bless you, my dear brother and
sister,
Your ever affectionate brother,
John Keats.
The family of George Keats in America possess a
Dante covered with his brother's marginal notes and
observations, and these annotations on " Paradise
Lost," appeared in an American periodical of much
literary and philosophical merit, entitled " The Dial; "
they were written in the fly-leaves of the book, and
are in the tone of thought that generated " Hyperion."
NOTES ON MILTON.
" The genius of Milton, more particularly in respect
to its span in immensity, calculated him by a sort of
birth-right for such an argument as the ' Paradise
Lost.' He had an exquisite passion for what is
properly, in the sense of ease and pleasure, poetical
luxury ; and with that, it appears to me, he would
fain have been content, if he could, so doing, preserve
his self-respect and feeling of duty performed ; but
there was working in him, as it were, that same sort
of thing which operates in the great world to the
end of a prophecy's being accomplished. Therefore
JOHN KEATS. 275
he devoted himself rather to the ardours than the
pleasures of song, solacing himself, at intervals, with
cups of old wine ; and those are, with some ex-
ceptions, the finest parts of the poem. With some
exceptions ; for the spirit of mounting and adventure
can never be unfruitful nor unrewarded. Had he
not broken through the clouds which envelope so
deliciously the Elysian fields of verse, and com-
mitted himself to the extreme, we should never have
seen Satan as described.
* But his face
Deep scars of tbunder had entrenched, &c.
•• There is a greatness which the ' Paradise Lost '
possesses over every other Poem, the magnitude of
contrast, and that is softened by the contrast being
ungrotesque to a degree. Heaven moves on like
music throughout.
" Hell is also peopled with angels ; it also moves on
like music, not grating and harsh, but like a grand
accompaniment in the bass to Heaven.
"There is always a great charm in the openings of
great Poems, particularly where the action begins, as
that of Dante's Hell. Of Hamlet, the first step must
be heroic and full of power ; and nothing can be
T 2
276 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
more impressive and shaded than the commencement
here : —
' Round he throws his baleful eyes
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
Mixed with obdurate pride and stedfast hate ; ' &c.
Par. Lost, Book I., 1. 56.
" ' To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven.'
Book I., 1. 321.
"There is a cool pleasure in the veiy sound of vale.
"The English word is of the happiest chance
[choice]. Milton has put vales in Heaven and Hell
with the very utter affection and yearning of a great
Poet. It is a sort of Delphic abstraction, a beautiful
thing made more beautiful by being reflected and put
in a mist. The next mention of ' vale' is one of the
most pathetic in the whole range of poetiy.
' Others more mild
Retreated in a silent valley, sing.
With notes angelical, to many a harp,
Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall ~
By doom of battle ! and complain that fate
Free virtue should inthrall to force or chance.
Their song was partial ; but the harmony
(What could it less when spirits immortal sing ?)
Suspended hell, and took with ravishment
The thronging audience.'
Book II., 1. 547.
" How much of the charm is in the word valley!
JOHN KKATS. 277
" The light and shade, the sort of black brightness,
the ebon diamonding, the Ethiop immortality, the
sorrow, the pain, the sad sweet melody, the phalanges
of spirits so depressed as to be ' uplifted beyond
hope,' the short mitigation of misery, the thousand
melancholies and maguificeucies of the following
lines leave no room for anything to be said thereon,
but ' so it is.'
' That proud honor claimed
Azazel as his right, a cherub tall.
Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurled
The imperial ensign, which, full high advanced,
Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind.
With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,
Seraphic arms and trophies ; all the while
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds ;
At which the universal host up-sent
A shout, that tore hell's concave, and beyond
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
All in a moment through the gloom were seen
Ten thousand banners rise into the air
With orient colours waving ; with them rose
A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms
Appeared, and serried shields in thick array,
Of depth immeasurable ; anon they move
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft recorders ; such as raised
To height of noblest temper heroes old
Arming to battle ; and instead of rage
Deliberate valour breathed, firm and unmoved
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat ;
Nor wanting power to mitigate and suage
With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase
278 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they
Breathing united force, with fixed thought,
Moved on in silence to soft pipes, that charmed
Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil ; and now
Advanced in view they stand, a horrid front
Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise
Of warriors old with ordered spear and shield,
Awaiting what command their mighty chief
Had to impose.'
Book I., 1. 533—567.
" How noble and collected an indignation against
kings, line 595, Book 1st. His very wishing should
have had power to pluck that feeble animal Charles
from his bloody throne. The evil days had come to
him ; he hit the new system of things a mighty
mental blow ; the exertion must have had, or is yet
to have, some sequences.
" The management of this poem is Apollonian.
Satan first ' throws round his baleful eyes,' then
awakes his legions ; he consults, he sets forward on
his voyage, and just as he is getting to the end of it,
see the Great God and our first Parent, and that
same Satan, all brought in one vision ; we have the
invocation to light before we mount to heaven, we
breathe more freely, we feel the great author's conso-
lations coming thick upon him at a time when he
JOHN KEATS. 279
complains most ; we are getting ripe for diversity ; the
immediate topic of the poem opens with a grand per-
spective of all concerned.
" Book IV. A friend of mine says this book has
the finest opening of any ; the point of time is gigan-
tically critical, the wax is melted, the seal about to be
applied, and MUton breaks out,
' O for that warning voice,' &c.
There is, moreover, an opportunity for a grandeur of
tenderness. The opportunity is not lost. Nothing
can be higher, nothing so more than Delphic.
" There are two specimens of a very extraordinary
beauty in the ' Paradise Lost ; ' they are of a nature,
so far as I have read, unexampled elsewhere ; they
are entirely distinct from the brief pathos of Dante,
and they are not to be found even in Shakspeare.
These are, according to the great prerogative of
poetry, better described in themselves than by a
volume. The one is in line 268, Book IV.
' Not that fair field
Of Enna, where Proseq)ine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world.'
S80 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
" The other is that ending ' nor could the Muse
defend her son.' ,
' But drive far off the barbarous dissonance
Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race
Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard
In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears
To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned
Both harp and voice J nor could the Muse defend
Her son.'
"These appear exclusively Miltonic, without the
shadow of another mind ancient or modern.
" Book VI., line 58. Reluctant, with its original and
modern meaning combined and woven together, with
all its shades of signification, has a powerful effect.
"Milton in many instances pursues his imagination
to the utmost, he is ' sagacious of his quarry,' he
sees beauty on the wing, poimces upon it, and gorges
it to the producing his essential verse.
' So from the root springs lither the green stalk.'
"But in no instance is this sort of perseverance
more exemplified, than in what may be called his
stationing or statiumj. He is not content with simple
description, he must station ; thus here we not only
see how the birds ' ivith clang despised the ground,'
JOHN KEATS. 281
but we see them ' under a cloud in i^rospect.' So
we see Adam 'fair indeed, and tall,' ' binder a
plantain,' aud so 'we see Satan 'disfigured' 'on the
Assyrian mount.' "
The copy of " Spenser " which Keats had in daily
use, contains the following stanza, inserted at the
close of Canto ii. Book v. His sympathies were
very much on the side of the revolutionary " Gyant,"
who " undertook for to repair" the "realms and nations
run awry," and to suppress " tyrants that make men
subject to their law," " and lordings curbe that
commons over-aw," while he grudged the legitimate
victory, as he rejected the conservative philosophy, of
the " righteous Artegall " and his comrade, the fierce
defender of privilege and order. And he expressed,
in this ex j)ost facto prophecy, his conviction of the
ultimate triumph of freedom and equality by the
power of transmitted knowledge.
" In after-time, a sage of mickle lore
Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took,
And did refit his limbs as heretofore.
And made him read in many a learned book,
And into many a lively legend look ;
Thereby in goodly themes so training him,
That all his brutishness he quite forsook,
When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim.
The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim."
^82 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
The " Literary Remains " will contain many son-
nets and songs, written during these months, in the
intervals of more complete compositions ; but the
following pieces are so fragmentary as more becom-
ingly to take their place in the narrative of the author's
life, than to show as substantive productions. Yet it
is, perhaps, just in verses like these that the indivi-
dual character pronounces itself most distinctly, and
confers a general interest which more care of art at
once elevates and diminishes. The occasional verses of
a great poet are records, as it were, of his poetical table-
talk, remembrances of his daily self and its intellectual
companionship, more delightful from what they recall,
than for what they are — more interesting for what they
suggest, than for what they were ever meant to be.
FRAGMENT.
Where 's tlie Poet ? show him ! show him !
Muses nine ! that I m<ay know him !
'Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato ;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts ; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth ;
And to him the Tiger's yell
JOHN KEATS. 283
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.
MODERN LOVE.
And what is love? It is a doll dress'd up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle ;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots ;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven.
And Anthony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools ! if some passions high have warm'd the world,
If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools ! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I '11 say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.
FRAGMENT OF THE " CASTLE BUILDER."
To-night I 'U have my friar, — let me think
About my room, — I '11 have it in the pink ;
It should be rich and sombre, and the moon,
Just in its mid-life in the midst of June,
Should look thro' four large windows and display
Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way.
Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor ;
The tapers keep aside, an hour and more,
284 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
To see what else the moon alone can show ;
While the night-breeze doth softly let us know
My terrace is well bower'd with oranges.
Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees
A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove
Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love ;
A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there,
All finished but some ringlets of her hair ;
A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon
A glorious folio of Anacreon ;
A skull upon a mat of roses lying,
Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying ;
An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails
Of passion-flower ; — just in time there sails
A cloud across the moon, — the lights bring in !
And see what more my phantasy can win.
It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad ;
The draperies are so, as tho' they had
Been made for Cleopatra's winding sheet ;
And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet
A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face,
In letters raven-sombre, you may trace
Old " Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin."
Greek busts and statuary have ever been
Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far
Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar ;
Therefore 'tis sure a want of attic taste
That I should rather love a gothic waste
Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay,
Than on the marble fairness of old Greece.
My table-coverUts of Jason's fleece
And black Numidian sheep wool should be wrought.
Gold, black, and heavy from the Lama brought.
My ebon sofas should delicious be
With down from Leda's cygnet progeny.
My pictures all Salvator's, save a few
Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new,
JOHN KEATS. 285
Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificenre.
My wine — O good ! 'tis here at my desire,
And I must sit to supper with my friar.
FRAGMENT.
" Under the flag
Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryo atoms."
Milton.
Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe's weed, and Herme's feather ;
Come to-day, and come to-morrow,
I do love you both together ! —
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather ;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder ;
Fair and foul I love together :
Meadows sweet where flames are under.
And a giggle at a wonder ;
Visage sage at pantomime ;
Funeral, and steeple-chime ;
Infant playing with a skull ;
Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull ;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ;
Serpents in red roses hissing ;
Cleopatra regal-dress'd
With the aspic at her breast ;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad ;
Muses bright, and muses pale ;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale ; —
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again ;
Oh the sweetness of the pain !
286 LIFE AND LETTERS OF
Muses bright, and muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil ;
Let me see : and let me write
Of the day, and of the night —
Both together : — let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache !
Let my bower be of yew,
Inter wreath'd with myrtles new ;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom.
And my couch a low grass tomb.
A singular instance of Keats's delicate perception
occurred in the composition of the '• Ode on Melan-
choly." In the original manuscript, he had intended
to represent the vulgar connection of Melancholy with
gloom and horror, in contrast with the emotion that
incites to,
" glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;"
and which essentially
" lives in Beauty — Beauty that must die,
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu."
The first stanza, therefore, was the following : as
grim a picture as Blake or Fuseli could have dreamed
and painted : —
JOHN KEATS. 287
" Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones,
And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,
Stitch shrouds together for a sail, with groans
To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast ;
Although your rudder be a dragon's tail
Long severed, yet still hard with agony.
Your cordage large uprootings from the skull
Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail
To find the Melancholy — whether she
Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull."
But no sooner was this written, than the poet became
conscious that the coarseness of the contrast would
destroy the general effect of luxuiious tenderness
which it was the object of the poem to produce, and
he confined the gross notion of Melancholy to less
\aolent images, and let the ode at once begin, —
" No, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine," &c.
The " Eve of St. Agnes " was begun on a visit in
Hampshhe, at the commencement of this year, and
finished on his return to Hampstead. It is wi-itten
still under Spenserian influences, but with a striking
improvement in form, both of diction and versifica-
tion; the story is easily conducted, and the details
288 LIFE AND LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS.
picturesque in the highest degree, without the intri-
cate designing of the earlier poems. Lord Jeflfrey
remarks : " The glory and charm of the poem is the
description of the fair maiden's antique chamber and
of all that passes in that sweet and angel-guarded
sanctuary, every part of which is touched with colours
at once rich and delicate, and the whole chastened
and harmonised in the midst of its gorgeous distinct-
ness by a pervading grace and purity, that indicate
not less clearly the exaltation, than the refinement
of the author's fancy."
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON :
ir.iDBURT 4ND ETANS, PRINTEKS, WHlTEfRIAES
THE LIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF
NORTH CAROLINA
THE
HANES FOUNDATION
FOR THE STUDY OF THE
ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT
OF THE BOOK
ESTABLISHED BY THE CHILDREN OF
JOHN WESLEY AND
ANNA HODGIN HANES
RARE BOOK COLLECTION
Keats
PR4836
.M5
1848
v.l