Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Part 13

Were they unhappy then?--It cannot be-- Too many tears for lovers have been shed, Too many sighs give we to them in fee, Too much of pity after they are dead, Too many doleful stories do we see, Whose matter in bright gold were best be read; Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse Over the pathless waves towards him bows.

But, for the general award of love The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; Though Dido silent is in under-grove, And Isabella's was a great distress, Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less-- Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

She wept alone for pleasures not to be; Sorely she wept until the night came on, And then, instead of love, O misery!

She brooded o'er the luxury alone: What might have been too plainly did she see,[61]

And to the silence made a gentle moan, Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, And on her couch low murmuring "Where? O where?"

I heard from Rice this morning--very witty--and have just written to Bailey. Don't you think I am brus.h.i.+ng up in the letter way? and being in for it, you shall hear again from me very shortly:--if you will promise not to put hand to paper for me until you can do it with a tolerable ease of health--except it be a line or two. Give my Love to your Mother and Sisters. Remember me to the Butlers--not forgetting Sarah.

Your affectionate Friend

JOHN KEATS.

LII.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

Teignmouth, May 3d [1818].

My dear Reynolds--What I complain of is that 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 G.o.d 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 refres.h.i.+ng 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 with Sir Andrew[62] "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 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 with double charge

"Notus and Afer, black with thundrous clouds From Serraliona--"

I shall breathe worsted stockings[63] sooner than I thought for--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 say you to a black Letter Chaucer, printed in 1596: aye I've got one huzza! I shall have it bound en gothique--a nice sombre binding--it will go a little way to unmodernise. 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 your office, in my thought a little too early, for I do not see why a Mind like 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.[64] Were I to study physic or rather Medicine again, I feel it would not make the least 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 having given away my medical Books, which 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 pip-civilian. An extensive knowledge 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 Letter. The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this: in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again, without wings, and with all horror of a bare-shouldered Creature--in the former case, our shoulders are fledged, and we go through the same air and s.p.a.ce 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 ill "that flesh is heir to." With respect to the affections and Poetry you must know by a sympathy my thoughts that way, and I daresay these few lines will be but a ratification: I wrote them on Mayday--and intend to finish the ode all in good time--

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!

May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the sh.o.r.es of Baiae?

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 wors.h.i.+p 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"--you seem by that to have been going through with a more painful and acute zest the same labyrinth that I have--I have come to the same conclusion 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 proceeds from his seeing further or not than Wordsworth: And whether Wordsworth has in truth epic pa.s.sion, and martyrs himself to the human heart, the main region of his song. In regard to his genius alone--we find what he says true as far as we have experienced, and we can judge no further but by larger experience--for axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses. We read fine things, but never feel them to the full until we have gone 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 Venery as a b.e.s.t.i.a.l or joyless thing until he is sick of it, and therefore all philosophising 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, and other some 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 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 impossibility 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 Hazlitt to Patmore, and make Wordsworth and Coleman play at leap-frog, or keep one of them down a whole half-holiday at fly-the-garter--"From Gray to Gay, from Little to Shakspeare." Also as a long cause requires two or more sittings of the Court, so a long letter will require two or more sittings of the Breech, wherefore I shall resume after dinner--

Have you not seen a Gull, an orc, a Sea-Mew, or anything to bring this Line to a proper length, and also fill up this clear part; that like the Gull I may _dip_[65]--I hope, not out of sight--and also, like a Gull, I hope to be lucky in a good-sized fish--This crossing a letter is not without its a.s.sociation--for chequer-work leads us naturally to a Milkmaid, a Milkmaid to Hogarth, Hogarth to Shakspeare--Shakspeare to Hazlitt--Hazlitt to Shakspeare--and thus by merely pulling an ap.r.o.n-string we set a pretty peal of Chimes at work--Let them chime on while, with your patience, I will return to Wordsworth--whether or no he has an extended vision or a circ.u.mscribed grandeur--whether he is an eagle in his nest or on the wing--And to be more explicit and to show you how tall I 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 appearance, 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 intoxicated 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--but all dark--all leading to dark pa.s.sages--We see not the balance of good and evil--we are in a mist--we are now in that state--We feel the "burden of the Mystery."

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 explorative of those dark Pa.s.sages. Now if we live, and go on thinking, 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 Milton, though I think it has depended more upon the general and gregarious 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 his Philosophy, human and divine, may be tolerably understood by one not much advanced in years. In his time, Englishmen were just emanc.i.p.ated from a great superst.i.tion, and Men had got hold of certain points and resting-places in reasoning which were too newly born to be doubted, and too much opposed by the Ma.s.s of Europe not to be thought ethereal and authentically divine--Who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice, and Chast.i.ty in Comus, just at the time of the dismissal of a hundred disgraces? who would not rest satisfied with his hintings at good and evil in the Paradise Lost, when just free from the Inquisition 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 superst.i.tions then, as it were, regenerated, const.i.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 into the human heart as Wordsworth has done--Yet Milton as a Philosopher had sure as great powers as Wordsworth--What is then to be inferred? O many things--It proves there is really a grand march of intellect,--It proves that a mighty providence 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--I hope you may not have the same pain in this scribbling--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 certainly something real in the world--Moore's present to Hazlitt is real--I like that Moore, and am glad I saw him 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 in 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 Friends.h.i.+p--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 mony 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.

LIII.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

Hampstead, Thursday [May 28, 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 has weighed very much upon him, and driven him to scheme and turn over things 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 14 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 would not consent to his going alone;--no--but that objection is done away with: he will marry 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 pa.s.s that time with him.--And then I must set out on a journey of my own. Brown and I are going 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 from this feeling,--I wait for a proper temper. Now you ask for an immediate answer, I do not like to wait even till to-morrow. However, I 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 numbness; it does not take away the pain of Existence.

I don't know what to write.

Monday [June 1].

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 degenerating state--it must be--for when I should be writing about--G.o.d knows what--I am troubling you with 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 any Rational debt: there is a comfort in throwing oneself on the charity of one's friends--'tis like the albatross sleeping on its 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 Falerne 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 sufficient 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 a.n.a.lyse, and to discover whether a little more knowledge has not made us more ignorant.

Yours affectionately

JOHN KEATS.

LIV.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

London [June 10, 1818].

My dear Bailey--I have been very much gratified and very much hurt by your letters in the Oxford Paper:[66] 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 annihilate self--and it would perhaps be paying you an ill compliment. 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--and now I am never alone without rejoicing that there is such a thing as death--without placing my ultimate in the glory 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 "burden 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,[67] has grown into an affection "pa.s.sing 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 undergone, and I certainly derive some consolation from the thought of writing one or two more poems before it ceases.

I have heard some hints of your retiring to Scotland--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 _no_ on my return or I'll quarter myself on you next winter. I had known my sister-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 degree 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 circ.u.mstances--On my word it is extraordinary. Women must want Imagination, and they may thank G.o.d 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 pa.s.sage of Dante. If I take any book with me it shall be those minute volumes of Carey, for they will go into the aptest corner.

Reynolds is getting, I may say, robust, his illness has been of service to him--like every one just recovered, he is high-spirited--I hear also good accounts of Rice. With respect to domestic literature, the Edinburgh 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, among the snows of next winter. My Brothers' remembrances to you.

Your affectionate friend

JOHN KEATS.

LV.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.

[Hampstead,] Sunday Evening [June 21, 1818].

My dear Taylor--I am sorry I have not had time to call and wish you health till my return--Really I have been hard run these last three days--However, au revoir, G.o.d keep us all well! I start to-morrow Morning.

My brother Tom will I am afraid be lonely. I can scarce ask a loan of books for him, since I still keep those you lent me a year ago. If I am overweening, you will I know be indulgent. Therefore when you shall write, do send him some you think will be most amusing--he will be careful in returning them. Let him have one of my books bound. I am ashamed to catalogue these messages. There is but one more, which ought to go for nothing as there is a lady concerned. I promised Mrs. Reynolds one of my books bound. As I cannot write in it let the opposite[68] be pasted in 'prythee. Remember me to Percy St.--Tell Hilton that one gratification on my return will be to find him engaged on a history piece to his own content--And tell Dewint I shall become a disputant on the landscape--Bow for me very genteelly to Mrs. D. or she will not admit your diploma.

Remember me to Hessey, saying I hope he'll _Cary_ his point. I would not forget Woodhouse. Adieu!

Your sincere friend

JOHN O' GROTS.