When they were come into the Faery’s CourtThey rang—no one at home—all gone to sportAnd dance and kiss and love as faerys doFor Faries be as humans lovers true.Amid the woods they were so lone and wild,Where even the Robin feels himself exil’d,And where the very brooks, as if afraid,Hurry along to some less magic shade.‘No one at home!’ the fretful princess cry’d;‘And all for nothing such a dreary ride,And all for nothing my new diamond cross;No one to see my Persian feathers toss,No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool,Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule.Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, why stand you gaping there,Burst the door open, quick—or I declareI’ll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.’The Dwarf began to tremble, and the ApeStar’d at the Fool, the Fool was all agape,The Princess grasp’d her switch, but just in timeThe dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.‘O mighty Princess, did you ne’er hear tellWhat your poor servants know but too too well?Know you the three great crimes in faery land?The first, alas! poor Dwarf, I understand,I made a whipstock of a faery’s wand;The next is snoring in their company;The next, the last, the direst of the three,Is making free when they are not at home.I was a Prince—a baby prince—my doom,You see, I made a whipstock of a wand,My top has henceforth slept in faery land.He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-up Prince,But he has never been a King’s son sinceHe fell a snoring at a faery Ball.Your poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thingPicklock’d a faery’s boudoir—now no kingBut ape—so pray your highness stay awhile,’Tis sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow—Persist andyoumay be an ape to-morrow.’While the Dwarf spake the Princess, all for spite,Peel’d the brown hazel twig to lilly white,Clench’d her small teeth, and held her lips apart,Try’d to look unconcern’d with beating heart.They saw her highness had made up her mind,A-quavering like the reeds before the wind—And they had had it, but O happy chanceThe Ape for very fear began to danceAnd grinn’d as all his ugliness did ache—She staid her vixen fingers for his sake,He was so very ugly: then she tookHer pocket-mirror and began to lookFirst at herself and then at him, and thenShe smil’d at her own beauteous face again.Yet for all this—for all her pretty face—She took it in her head to see the place.Women gain little from experienceEither in Lovers, husbands, or expense.The more their beauty the more fortune too—Beauty before the wide world never knew—So each fair reasons—tho’ it oft miscarries.She thoughtherpretty face would please the fairies.‘My darling Ape I won’t whip you to-day,Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.’They all three wept but counsel was as vainAs crying cup biddy to drops of rain.Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth drawThe Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.The Princess took it, and dismounting straightTripp’d in blue silver’d slippers to the gateAnd touch’d the wards, the Door full courteouslyOpened—she enter’d with her servants three.Again it clos’d and there was nothing seenBut the Mule grazing on the herbage green.End of Canto XII.Canto the XIII.The Mule no sooner saw himself aloneThan he prick’d up his Ears—and said ‘well done;At least unhappy Prince I may be free—No more a Princess shall side-saddle me.O King of Otaheite—tho’ a Mule,Aye, every inch a King’—tho’ ‘Fortune’s fool,’Well done—for by what Mr. Dwarfy saidI would not give a sixpence for her head.’Even as he spake he trotted in high gleeTo the knotty side of an old Pollard tree,And rubb’d his sides against the mossed barkTill his Girths burst and left him naked starkExcept his Bridle—how get rid of thatBuckled and tied with many a twist and plait.At last it struck him to pretend to sleep,And then the thievish Monkies down would creepAnd filch the unpleasant trammels quite away.No sooner thought of than adown he lay,Shamm’d a good snore—the Monkey-men descended,And whom they thought to injure they befriended.They hung his Bridle on a topmost boughAnd off he went run, trot, or anyhow—
When they were come into the Faery’s CourtThey rang—no one at home—all gone to sportAnd dance and kiss and love as faerys doFor Faries be as humans lovers true.Amid the woods they were so lone and wild,Where even the Robin feels himself exil’d,And where the very brooks, as if afraid,Hurry along to some less magic shade.‘No one at home!’ the fretful princess cry’d;‘And all for nothing such a dreary ride,And all for nothing my new diamond cross;No one to see my Persian feathers toss,No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool,Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule.Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, why stand you gaping there,Burst the door open, quick—or I declareI’ll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.’The Dwarf began to tremble, and the ApeStar’d at the Fool, the Fool was all agape,The Princess grasp’d her switch, but just in timeThe dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.‘O mighty Princess, did you ne’er hear tellWhat your poor servants know but too too well?Know you the three great crimes in faery land?The first, alas! poor Dwarf, I understand,I made a whipstock of a faery’s wand;The next is snoring in their company;The next, the last, the direst of the three,Is making free when they are not at home.I was a Prince—a baby prince—my doom,You see, I made a whipstock of a wand,My top has henceforth slept in faery land.He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-up Prince,But he has never been a King’s son sinceHe fell a snoring at a faery Ball.Your poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thingPicklock’d a faery’s boudoir—now no kingBut ape—so pray your highness stay awhile,’Tis sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow—Persist andyoumay be an ape to-morrow.’While the Dwarf spake the Princess, all for spite,Peel’d the brown hazel twig to lilly white,Clench’d her small teeth, and held her lips apart,Try’d to look unconcern’d with beating heart.They saw her highness had made up her mind,A-quavering like the reeds before the wind—And they had had it, but O happy chanceThe Ape for very fear began to danceAnd grinn’d as all his ugliness did ache—She staid her vixen fingers for his sake,He was so very ugly: then she tookHer pocket-mirror and began to lookFirst at herself and then at him, and thenShe smil’d at her own beauteous face again.Yet for all this—for all her pretty face—She took it in her head to see the place.Women gain little from experienceEither in Lovers, husbands, or expense.The more their beauty the more fortune too—Beauty before the wide world never knew—So each fair reasons—tho’ it oft miscarries.She thoughtherpretty face would please the fairies.‘My darling Ape I won’t whip you to-day,Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.’They all three wept but counsel was as vainAs crying cup biddy to drops of rain.Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth drawThe Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.The Princess took it, and dismounting straightTripp’d in blue silver’d slippers to the gateAnd touch’d the wards, the Door full courteouslyOpened—she enter’d with her servants three.Again it clos’d and there was nothing seenBut the Mule grazing on the herbage green.
End of Canto XII.
Canto the XIII.
The Mule no sooner saw himself aloneThan he prick’d up his Ears—and said ‘well done;At least unhappy Prince I may be free—No more a Princess shall side-saddle me.O King of Otaheite—tho’ a Mule,Aye, every inch a King’—tho’ ‘Fortune’s fool,’Well done—for by what Mr. Dwarfy saidI would not give a sixpence for her head.’Even as he spake he trotted in high gleeTo the knotty side of an old Pollard tree,And rubb’d his sides against the mossed barkTill his Girths burst and left him naked starkExcept his Bridle—how get rid of thatBuckled and tied with many a twist and plait.At last it struck him to pretend to sleep,And then the thievish Monkies down would creepAnd filch the unpleasant trammels quite away.No sooner thought of than adown he lay,Shamm’d a good snore—the Monkey-men descended,And whom they thought to injure they befriended.They hung his Bridle on a topmost boughAnd off he went run, trot, or anyhow—
Brown is gone to bed—and I am tired of rhyming—there is a north wind blowing playing young gooseberry with the trees—I don’t care so it helps even with a side wind a Letter to me—for I cannot put faith in any reports I hear of the Settlement; some are good and some bad.Last Sunday I took a Walk towards Highgate and in the lane that winds by the side of Lord Mansfield’s park I met Mr. Green our Demonstrator at Guy’s in conversation with Coleridge—I joined them, after enquiring by a look whether it would be agreeable—I walked with him at his alderman-after-dinner pace for near two miles I suppose. In those two Miles he broached a thousand things—let me see if I can give you a list—Nightingales—Poetry—on Poetical Sensation—Metaphysics—Different genera and species of Dreams—Nightmare—a dream accompanied by a sense of touch—single and double touch—a dream related—First and second consciousness—the difference explained between will and Volition—so say metaphysicians from a want of smoking the second consciousness—Monsters—the Kraken—Mermaids—Southey believes in them—Southey’s belief too much diluted—a Ghost story—Good morning—I heard his voice as he came towards me—I heard it as he moved away—I had heard it all the interval—if it may be called so. He was civil enough to ask me to call on him at Highgate. Good-night!
[Later, April 16 or 17.]
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 Mrs., Miss Brawne and me; so I shall amuse myself with him a little: in the manner of Spenser—
He is to weet a melancholy CarleThin in the waist, with bushy head of hairAs hath the seeded thistle when in parleIt holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fairIts light balloons into the summer airThereto his beard had not begun to bloomNo brush had touch’d his chin or razor sheerNo care had touch’d his cheek with mortal doom,But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom.Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-halfNe cared he for fish or flesh or fowl,And sauces held he worthless as the chaffHe ’sdeign’d the swineherd at the wassail bowlNe with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowlNe with sly Lemans in the scorner’s chairBut after water-brooks this Pilgrim’s soulPanted, and all his food was woodland airThough he would ofttimes feast on gilliflowers rare—The slang of cities in no wise he knewTipping the winkto him was heathen Greek;He sipp’d no olden Tom or ruin blueOr nantz or cherry brandy drunk full meekBy many a Damsel hoarse and rouge of cheekNor did he know each aged Watchman’s beat—Nor in obscured purlieus would he seekFor curled Jewesses, with ankles neatWho as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.
This character would ensure him a situation in the establishment of patient Griselda. The servant has come for the little Browns this morning—they have been a toothache to me which I shall enjoy the riddance of—Their little voices are like wasps’ stings—Sometimes am I all wound with Browns.[97]We had a claret feast some little while ago. There were Dilke, Reynolds, Skinner, Mancur, John Brown, Martin, Brown and I. We all got a little tipsy—but pleasantly so—I enjoy Claret to a degree.
[Later, April 18 or 19.]
I have been looking over the correspondence of the pretended Amena and Wells this evening—I now see the whole cruel deception. I think Wells must have had an accomplice in it—Amena’s letters are in a Man’s language and in a Man’s hand imitating a woman’s. The instigations to this diabolical scheme were vanity, and the love of intrigue. It was no thoughtless hoax—but a cruel deception on a sanguine Temperament, with every show of friendship. I do not think death too bad for the villain. The world would look upon it in a differentlight should I expose it—they would call it a frolic—so I must be wary—but I consider it my duty to be prudently revengeful. I will hang over his head like a sword by a hair. I will be opium to his vanity—if I cannot injure his interests—He is a rat and he shall have ratsbane to his vanity—I will harm him all I possibly can—I have no doubt I shall be able to do so—Let us leave him to his misery alone, except when we can throw in a little more. The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and more—it is that one in which he meets with Paolo 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 whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were joined as it seemed for an age—and in the midst of all this cold and darkness I was warm—even flowery 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 upon it—there are fourteen lines, but nothing of what I felt in it—O that I could dream it every night—
As Hermes once took to his feathers lightWhen lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept,So on a delphic reed my idle sprightSo play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, so bereftThe Dragon world of all its hundred eyes;And seeing it asleep, so fled away;—Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved that day;But to that second circle of sad HellWhere in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flawOf Rain and hailstones, lovers need not tellTheir sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the formI floated with about that melancholy storm.
I want very very much a little of your wit, my dear Sister—a Letter or two of yours just to bandy back a pun or two across the Atlantic, and send a quibble overthe Floridas. Now you have by this time crumpled up your large Bonnet, what do you wear—a cap? do you put your hair in papers of a night? do you pay the Miss Birkbecks 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 fit those pretty feet of yours? Do you desire Compliments to one another? Do you ride on Horseback? What do you have for breakfast, dinner, and supper? without mentioning lunch and bever,[98]and wet and snack—and a bit to stay one’s stomach? Do you get any Spirits—now you might easily distill some whiskey—and going into the woods, set up a whiskey shop for the Monkeys—Do you and the Miss Birkbecks get groggy on anything—a little so-soish so as to be obliged to be seen home with a Lantern? You may perhaps have a game at puss in the corner—Ladies are warranted to play at this game though they have not whiskers. Have you a fiddle in the Settlement—or at any rate a Jew’s harp—which will play in spite of one’s teeth—When you have nothing else to do for a whole day I 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 boars upon the strength—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—When you are both set down to breakfast I advise you to eat yourfull share, but leave off immediately on feeling yourself inclined to anything on the other side of the puffy—avoid that, for it does not become young women—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 taking care not to break any plates. While you are hovering with your dinner in prospect you may do a thousand things—put a hedgehog 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 Roman kilt or the back of my grandmother’s stays—Sewoffhis buttons—
[Later, April 21 or 22.]
Yesterday I could not write a line I was so fatigued, for the day before I went to town in the morning, called on your Mother, and returned in time for a few friends we had to dinner. These were Taylor, Woodhouse, Reynolds: we began cards at about 9 o’clock, and the night coming on, and continuing dark and rainy, they could not think of returning to town—So we played at Cards till very daylight—and yesterday I was not worth a sixpence. Your Mother was very well but anxious for a Letter. We had half an hour’s talk and no more, for I was obliged to be home. Mrs. and Miss Millar were well, and so was Miss Waldegrave. I have asked your Brothers here for next Sunday. When Reynolds was here on Monday he asked me to give Hunt a hint to take notice of his Peter Bell in the Examiner—the best thing I can do is to write a little notice of it myself, which I will do here, and copy out if it should suit my Purpose—
Peter Bell.There have been lately advertised two Books both Peter Bell by name; what stuff the one was made of might be seen by the motto—“I am the real Simon Pure.” This false Florimel has hurried from the press and obtruded herself into public notice, while for aught we know the real one may be still wandering about the woods and mountains. Let us hope she may soonappear and make good her right to the magic girdle. The Pamphleteering Archimage, we can perceive, has rather a splenetic love than a downright hatred to real Florimels—if indeed they had been so christened—or had even a pretention to play at bob cherry with Barbara Lewthwaite: but he has a fixed aversion to those three rhyming Graces Alice Fell, Susan Gale and Betty Foy; and now at length especially to Peter Bell—fit Apollo. It may be seen from one or two Passages in this little skit, that the writer of it has felt the finer parts of Mr. Wordsworth, and perhaps expatiated with his more remote and sublimer muse. This as far as it relates to Peter Bell is unlucky. The more he may love the sad embroidery of the Excursion, the more he will hate the coarse Samplers of Betty Foy and Alice Fell; and as they come from the same hand, the better will he be able to imitate that which can be imitated, to wit Peter Bell—as far as can be imagined from the obstinate Name. We repeat, it is very unlucky—this real Simon Pure is in parts the very Man—there is a pernicious likeness in the scenery, a ‘pestilent humour’ in the rhymes, and an inveterate cadence in some of the Stanzas, that must be lamented. If we are one part amused with this we are three parts sorry that an appreciator of Wordsworth should show so much temper at this really provoking name of Peter Bell—![99]
This will do well enough—I have copied it and enclosed it to Hunt. You will call it a little politic—seeing I keep clear of all parties. I say something for and against both parties—and suit it to the tune of the Examiner—I meant to say I do not unsuit it—and I believe I think what I say, nay I am sure I do—I and my conscience are in luck to-day—which is an excellent thing. The other night I went to the Play with Rice, Reynolds, and Martin—we saw a new dull and half-damn’d opera call’d the ‘Heart of Midlothian,’ that wason Saturday—I stopt at Taylor’s on Sunday with Woodhouse—and passed a quiet sort of pleasant day. I have been very much pleased with the Panorama of the Ship at the North Pole—with the icebergs, the Mountains, the Bears, the Wolves—the seals, the Penguins—and a large whale floating back above water—it is impossible to describe the place—
Wednesday Evening [April 28].
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCIO what can ail thee Knight at armsAlone and palely loitering?The sedge has withered from the LakeAnd no birds sing!O what can ail thee Knight at armsSo haggard, and so woe-begone?The squirrel’s granary is fullAnd the harvest’s done.I see a lily on thy brow,With anguish moist and fever dew,And on thy cheek a fading roseFast Withereth too—I met a Lady in the MeadsFull beautiful, a faery’s child—Her hair was long, her foot was lightAnd her eyes were wild—I made a Garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant ZoneShe look’d at me as she did loveAnd made sweet moan—I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sidelong would she bend and singA faery’s song—She found me roots of relish sweetAnd honey wild and manna dewAnd sure in language strange she saidI love thee true—She took me to her elfin grotAnd there she wept and sigh’d full sore,And there I shut her wild, wild eyesWith kisses four—And there she lulled me asleep,And there I dream’d Ah Woe betide!The latest dream I ever dreamtOn the cold hill side.I saw pale Kings and Princes tooPale warriors death-pale were they allThey cried—La belle dame sans merciThee hath in thrall.I saw their starv’d lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gaped wide,And I awoke, and found me hereOn the cold hill’s side.And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering;Though the sedge is withered from the LakeAnd no birds sing.[100]...
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O what can ail thee Knight at armsAlone and palely loitering?The sedge has withered from the LakeAnd no birds sing!O what can ail thee Knight at armsSo haggard, and so woe-begone?The squirrel’s granary is fullAnd the harvest’s done.I see a lily on thy brow,With anguish moist and fever dew,And on thy cheek a fading roseFast Withereth too—I met a Lady in the MeadsFull beautiful, a faery’s child—Her hair was long, her foot was lightAnd her eyes were wild—I made a Garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant ZoneShe look’d at me as she did loveAnd made sweet moan—I set her on my pacing steedAnd nothing else saw all day long,For sidelong would she bend and singA faery’s song—She found me roots of relish sweetAnd honey wild and manna dewAnd sure in language strange she saidI love thee true—She took me to her elfin grotAnd there she wept and sigh’d full sore,And there I shut her wild, wild eyesWith kisses four—And there she lulled me asleep,And there I dream’d Ah Woe betide!The latest dream I ever dreamtOn the cold hill side.I saw pale Kings and Princes tooPale warriors death-pale were they allThey cried—La belle dame sans merciThee hath in thrall.I saw their starv’d lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gaped wide,And I awoke, and found me hereOn the cold hill’s side.And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering;Though the sedge is withered from the LakeAnd no birds sing.[100]...
Why four kisses—you will say—why four, because I wish to restrain the headlong impetuosity of my Muse—she would have fain said “score” without hurting the rhyme—but we must temper the Imagination, as the Critics say, with Judgment. I was obliged to choose an even number, that both eyes might have fair play, and to speak truly I think two a piece quite sufficient. Suppose I had said seven there would have been three and a half a piece—a very awkward affair, and well got out of on my side—
[Later.]
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.4—FIRE, AIR, EARTH, AND WATER—SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, BREAMA.Sal.Happy happy glowing fire!Zep.Fragrant air, delicious light!Dusk.Let me to my glooms retire.Bream.I to greenweed rivers bright.Salam.Happy, happy glowing fire!Dazzling bowers of soft retire,Ever let my nourish’d wing,Like a bat’s still wandering,Faintly fan your fiery spacesSpirit sole in deadly places,In unhaunted roar and blazeOpen eyes that never dazeLet me see the myriad shapesOf Men and Beasts and Fish and apes,Portray’d in many a fiery den,And wrought by spumy bitumenOn the deep intenser roof,Arched every way aloof.Let me breathe upon my skies,And anger their live tapestries;Free from cold and every care,Of chilly rain and shivering air.Zephyr.Spright of fire—away away!Or your very roundelayWill sear my plumage newly buddedFrom its quilled sheath and studdedWith the self-same dews that fellOn the May-grown Asphodel.Spright of fire away away!Breama.Spright of fire away away!Zephyr blue-eyed faery turn,And see my cool sedge-shaded urn,Where it rests its mossy brimMid water-mint and cresses dim;And the flowers, in sweet troubles,Lift their eyes above the bubbles,Like our Queen when she would pleaseTo sleep, and Oberon will tease—Love me blue-eyed Faery trueSoothly I am sick for you.Zephyr.Gentle Breama! by the firstViolet young nature nurst,I will bathe myself with thee,So you sometime follow meTo my home far far in west,Far beyond the search and questOf the golden-browed sun.Come with me, o’er tops of trees,To my fragrant Palaces,Where they ever-floating areBeneath the cherish of a starCall’d Vesper—who with silver veilEver Hides his brilliance pale,Ever gently drows’d doth keepTwilight of the Fays to sleep.Fear not that your watery hairWill thirst in drouthy ringlets there—Clouds of stored summer rainsThou shalt taste before the stainsOf the mountain soil they take,And too unlucent for thee make.I love thee, Crystal faery trueSooth I am as sick for you—Salam.Out ye agueish Faeries out!Chilly Lovers, what a routKeep ye with your frozen breathColder than the mortal death—Adder-eyed Dusketha speak,Shall we leave them and go seekIn the Earth’s wide Entrails oldCouches warm as their’s is cold?O for a fiery gloom and thee,Dusketha, so enchantinglyFreckle-wing’d and lizard-sided!Dusketha.By thee Spright will I be guidedI care not for cold or heatFrost and Flame or sparks or sleetTo my essence are the same—But I honour more the flame—Spright of fire I follow theeWheresoever it may be;To the torrid spouts and fountains,Underneath earth-quaked mountainsOr at thy supreme desire,Touch the very pulse of fireWith my bare unlidded eyes.Salam.Sweet Dusketha! Paradise!Off ye icy Spirits fly!Frosty creatures of the Sky!Dusketha.Breathe upon them fiery Spright!Zephyr, Breama (to each other).Away Away to our delight!Salam.Go feed on icicles while weBedded in tongued-flames will be.Dusketha.Lead me to those fev’rous glooms,Spright of fire—Breama.Me to the bloomsBlue-eyed Zephyr of those flowersFar in the west where the May cloud lours;And the beams of still Vesper, where winds are all whistAre shed through the rain and the milder mist,And twilight your floating bowers—
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.4—FIRE, AIR, EARTH, AND WATER—SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, BREAMA.
Sal.Happy happy glowing fire!Zep.Fragrant air, delicious light!Dusk.Let me to my glooms retire.Bream.I to greenweed rivers bright.
Salam.Happy, happy glowing fire!Dazzling bowers of soft retire,Ever let my nourish’d wing,Like a bat’s still wandering,Faintly fan your fiery spacesSpirit sole in deadly places,In unhaunted roar and blazeOpen eyes that never dazeLet me see the myriad shapesOf Men and Beasts and Fish and apes,Portray’d in many a fiery den,And wrought by spumy bitumenOn the deep intenser roof,Arched every way aloof.Let me breathe upon my skies,And anger their live tapestries;Free from cold and every care,Of chilly rain and shivering air.
Zephyr.Spright of fire—away away!Or your very roundelayWill sear my plumage newly buddedFrom its quilled sheath and studdedWith the self-same dews that fellOn the May-grown Asphodel.Spright of fire away away!
Breama.Spright of fire away away!Zephyr blue-eyed faery turn,And see my cool sedge-shaded urn,Where it rests its mossy brimMid water-mint and cresses dim;And the flowers, in sweet troubles,Lift their eyes above the bubbles,Like our Queen when she would pleaseTo sleep, and Oberon will tease—Love me blue-eyed Faery trueSoothly I am sick for you.
Zephyr.Gentle Breama! by the firstViolet young nature nurst,I will bathe myself with thee,So you sometime follow meTo my home far far in west,Far beyond the search and questOf the golden-browed sun.Come with me, o’er tops of trees,To my fragrant Palaces,Where they ever-floating areBeneath the cherish of a starCall’d Vesper—who with silver veilEver Hides his brilliance pale,Ever gently drows’d doth keepTwilight of the Fays to sleep.Fear not that your watery hairWill thirst in drouthy ringlets there—Clouds of stored summer rainsThou shalt taste before the stainsOf the mountain soil they take,And too unlucent for thee make.I love thee, Crystal faery trueSooth I am as sick for you—
Salam.Out ye agueish Faeries out!Chilly Lovers, what a routKeep ye with your frozen breathColder than the mortal death—Adder-eyed Dusketha speak,Shall we leave them and go seekIn the Earth’s wide Entrails oldCouches warm as their’s is cold?O for a fiery gloom and thee,Dusketha, so enchantinglyFreckle-wing’d and lizard-sided!
Dusketha.By thee Spright will I be guidedI care not for cold or heatFrost and Flame or sparks or sleetTo my essence are the same—But I honour more the flame—Spright of fire I follow theeWheresoever it may be;To the torrid spouts and fountains,Underneath earth-quaked mountainsOr at thy supreme desire,Touch the very pulse of fireWith my bare unlidded eyes.
Salam.Sweet Dusketha! Paradise!Off ye icy Spirits fly!Frosty creatures of the Sky!
Dusketha.Breathe upon them fiery Spright!
Zephyr, Breama (to each other).Away Away to our delight!
Salam.Go feed on icicles while weBedded in tongued-flames will be.
Dusketha.Lead me to those fev’rous glooms,Spright of fire—
Breama.Me to the bloomsBlue-eyed Zephyr of those flowersFar in the west where the May cloud lours;And the beams of still Vesper, where winds are all whistAre shed through the rain and the milder mist,And twilight your floating bowers—
I have been reading lately two very different books, Robertson’s America and Voltaire’s Siècle de Louis XIV. It is like walking arm and arm between Pizarro and the great-little Monarch. In how lamentable a case do we see the great body of the people in both instances; in the first, where Men might seem to inherit quiet of Mind from unsophisticated senses; from uncontamination of civilisation, and especially from their being, as it were, estranged from the mutual helps of Society and its mutual injuries—and thereby more immediately under the Protection of Providence—even there they had mortal pains to bear as bad, or even worse than Bailiffs, Debts, and Poverties of civilised Life. The whole appears to resolve into this—that Man is originally a poor forked creature subject to the same mischances as the beasts of the forest, destined to hardships and disquietude of somekind or other. If he improves by degrees his bodily accommodations and comforts—at each stage, at each ascent there are waiting for him a fresh set of annoyances—he is mortal, and there is still a heaven with its Stars above his head. The most interesting question that can come before us is, How far by the persevering endeavours of a seldom appearing Socrates Mankind may be made happy—I can imagine such happiness carried to an extreme, but what must it end in?—Death—and who could in such a case bear with death? The whole troubles of life, which are now frittered away in a series of years, would then be accumulated for the last days of a being who instead of hailing its approach would leave this world as Eve left Paradise. But in truth I do not at all believe in this sort of perfectibility—the nature of the world will not admit of it—the inhabitants of the world will correspond to itself. Let the fish Philosophise the ice away from the Rivers in winter time, and they shall be at continual play in the tepid delight of summer. Look at the Poles and at the Sands of Africa, whirlpools and volcanoes—Let men exterminate them and I will say that they may arrive at earthly Happiness. The point at which Man may arrive is as far as the parallel state in inanimate nature, and no further. For instance suppose a rose to have sensation, it blooms on a beautiful morning, it enjoys itself, but then comes a cold wind, a hot sun—it cannot escape it, it cannot destroy its annoyances—they are as native to the world as itself: no more can man be happy in spite, the worldly elements will prey upon his nature. The common cognomen of this world among the misguided and superstitious is “a vale of tears,” from which we are to be redeemed by a certain arbitrary interposition of God and taken to Heaven—What a little circumscribed straightened notion! Call the world if you please “The vale of Soul-making.” Then you will find out the use of the world (I am speaking now in the highest terms for human nature admitting it to be immortal which I will here take for granted for thepurpose of showing a thought which has struck me concerning it) I say ‘Soul-making’—Soul as distinguished from an Intelligence. There may be intelligences or sparks of the divinity in millions—but they are not Souls till they acquire identities, till each one is personally itself. Intelligences are atoms of perception—they know and they see and they are pure, in short they are God—how then are Souls to be made? How then are these sparks which are God to have identity given them—so as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to each one’s individual existence? How, but by the medium of a world like this? This point I sincerely wish to consider because I think it a grander system of salvation than the Christian religion—or rather it is a system of Spirit-creation—This is effected by three grand materials acting the one upon the other for a series of years—These three Materials are theIntelligence—thehuman heart(as distinguished from intelligence or Mind), and theWorldorElemental spacesuited for the proper action ofMind and Hearton each other for the purpose of forming theSoulorIntelligence destined to possess the sense of Identity. I can scarcely express what I but dimly perceive—and yet I think I perceive it—that you may judge the more clearly I will put it in the most homely form possible. I will call theworlda School instituted for the purpose of teaching little children to read—I will call thehuman heartthehorn Bookused in that School—and I will call theChild able to read, the Soulmade from thatSchooland itshorn book. Do you not see how necessary a World of Pains and troubles is to school an Intelligence and make it a soul? A Place where the heart must feel and suffer in a thousand diverse ways. Not merely is the Heart a Hornbook, It is the Mind’s Bible, it is the Mind’s experience, it is the text from which the Mind or Intelligence sucks its identity. As various as the Lives of Men are—so various become their souls, and thus does God make individual beings, Souls, Identical Souls of the sparks of his own essence. This appears to me a faintsketch of a system of Salvation which does not offend our reason and humanity—I am convinced that many difficulties which Christians labour under would vanish before it—there is one which even now strikes me—the salvation of Children. In them the spark or intelligence returns to God without any identity—it having had no time to learn of and be altered by the heart—or seat of the human Passions. It is pretty generally suspected that the Christian scheme has been copied from the ancient Persian and Greek Philosophers. Why may they not have made this simple thing even more simple for common apprehension by introducing Mediators and Personages, in the same manner as in the heathen mythology abstractions are personified? Seriously I think it probable that this system of Soul-making may have been the Parent of all the more palpable and personal schemes of Redemption among the Zoroastrians the Christians and the Hindoos. For as one part of the human species must have their carved Jupiter; so another part must have the palpable and named Mediator and Saviour, their Christ, their Oromanes, and their Vishnu. If what I have said should not be plain enough, as I fear it may not be, I will put you in the place where I began in this series of thoughts—I mean I began by seeing how man was formed by circumstances—and what are circumstances but touchstones of his heart? and what are touchstones but provings of his heart, but fortifiers or alterers of his nature? and what is his altered nature but his Soul?—and what was his Soul before it came into the world and had these provings and alterations and perfectionings?—An intelligence without Identity—and how is this Identity to be made? Through the medium of the Heart? and how is the heart to become this Medium but in a world of Circumstances?
There now I think what with Poetry and Theology, you may thank your stars that my pen is not very long-winded. Yesterday I received two Letters from your Mother and Henry, which I shall send by young Birkbeck with this.
Friday, April 30.
Brown has been here rummaging up some of my old sins—that is to say sonnets. I do not think you remember them, so I will copy them out, as well as two or three lately written. I have just written one on Fame—which Brown is transcribing and he has his book and mine. I must employ myself perhaps in a sonnet on the same subject—
ON FAMEYou cannot eat your cake and have it too.—Proverb.How fever’d is that Man who cannot lookUpon his mortal days with temperate bloodWho vexes all the leaves of his Life’s bookAnd robs his fair name of its maidenhood.It is as if the rose should pluck herselfOr the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,As if a clear Lake meddling with itselfShould cloud its clearness with a muddy gloom.But the rose leaves herself upon the BriarFor winds to kiss and grateful Bees to feed,And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,The undisturbed Lake has crystal space—Why then should man, teasing the world for graceSpoil his salvation by a fierce miscreed?ANOTHER ON FAMEFame like a wayward girl will still be coyTo those who woo her with too slavish kneesBut makes surrender to some thoughtless boyAnd dotes the more upon a heart at ease—She is a Gipsy will not speak to thoseWho have not learnt to be content without her,A Jilt whose ear was never whisper’d close,Who think they scandal her who talk about her—A very Gipsy is she Nilus born,Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar—Ye lovesick Bards, repay her scorn for scorn,Ye lovelorn Artists, madmen that ye are,Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,Then if she likes it she will follow you.TO SLEEPO soft embalmer of the still midnightShutting with careful fingers and benignOur gloom-pleased eyes embowered from the lightEnshaded in forgetfulness divine—O soothest sleep, if so it please thee closeIn midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throwsAround my bed its dewy Charities.Then save me or the passed day will shineUpon my pillow breeding many woes.Save me from curious conscience that still lordsIts strength for darkness, burrowing like a Mole—Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,And seal the hushed Casket of my soul.
ON FAME
You cannot eat your cake and have it too.—Proverb.
How fever’d is that Man who cannot lookUpon his mortal days with temperate bloodWho vexes all the leaves of his Life’s bookAnd robs his fair name of its maidenhood.It is as if the rose should pluck herselfOr the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,As if a clear Lake meddling with itselfShould cloud its clearness with a muddy gloom.But the rose leaves herself upon the BriarFor winds to kiss and grateful Bees to feed,And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,The undisturbed Lake has crystal space—Why then should man, teasing the world for graceSpoil his salvation by a fierce miscreed?
ANOTHER ON FAME
Fame like a wayward girl will still be coyTo those who woo her with too slavish kneesBut makes surrender to some thoughtless boyAnd dotes the more upon a heart at ease—She is a Gipsy will not speak to thoseWho have not learnt to be content without her,A Jilt whose ear was never whisper’d close,Who think they scandal her who talk about her—A very Gipsy is she Nilus born,Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar—Ye lovesick Bards, repay her scorn for scorn,Ye lovelorn Artists, madmen that ye are,Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,Then if she likes it she will follow you.
TO SLEEP
O soft embalmer of the still midnightShutting with careful fingers and benignOur gloom-pleased eyes embowered from the lightEnshaded in forgetfulness divine—O soothest sleep, if so it please thee closeIn midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throwsAround my bed its dewy Charities.Then save me or the passed day will shineUpon my pillow breeding many woes.Save me from curious conscience that still lordsIts strength for darkness, burrowing like a Mole—Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,And seal the hushed Casket of my soul.
The following Poem—the last I have written—is the first and the only one with which I have taken even moderate pains. I have for the most part dash’d off my lines in a hurry. This I have done leisurely—I think it reads the more richly for it, and will I hope encourage me to write other things in even a more peaceable and healthy spirit. You must recollect 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—
ODE TO PSYCHEO Goddess hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sungEven into thine own soft-conched ear!Surely I dreamt to-day; or did I seeThe winged Psyche, with awaked eyes?I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,And on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair Creatures couched side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring fanOf leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA Brooklet scarce espied’Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,Blue, freckle pink, and budded SyrianThey lay, calm-breathing on the bedded grass;Their arms embraced and their pinions too;Their lips touch’d not, but had not bid adieu,As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender dawn of aurorian love.The winged boy I knew:But who wast thou O happy happy dove?His Psyche true?O latest born, and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus’ faded Hierarchy!Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-region’d star,Or Vesper amorous glow-worm of the sky;Fairer than these though Temple thou hadst none,Nor Altar heap’d with flowers;Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moanUpon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe no incense sweetFrom chain-swung Censer teeming—No shrine, no grove, no Oracle, no heatOf pale mouth’d Prophet dreaming!O Bloomiest! though too late for antique vows;Too, too late for the fond believing Lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the Air, the water and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retir’dFrom happy Pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing by my own eyes inspired.O let me be thy Choir and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swinged Censer teeming;Thy Shrine, thy Grove, thy Oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouth’d Prophet dreaming!Yes, I will be thy Priest and build a faneIn some untrodden region of my Mind,Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant painInstead of pines shall murmur in the wind.Far, far around shall those dark cluster’d treesFledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;And there by Zephyrs streams and birds and beesThe moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep.And in the midst of this wide-quietnessA rosy Sanctuary will I dressWith the wreath’d trellis of a working brain;With buds and bells and stars without a name;With all the gardener-fancy e’er could feign,Who breeding flowers will never breed the same—And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win;A bright torch and a casement ope at nightTo let the warm Love in.Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche.———Incipit altera Sonneta———
ODE TO PSYCHE
O Goddess hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sungEven into thine own soft-conched ear!Surely I dreamt to-day; or did I seeThe winged Psyche, with awaked eyes?I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,And on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair Creatures couched side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring fanOf leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA Brooklet scarce espied’Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,Blue, freckle pink, and budded SyrianThey lay, calm-breathing on the bedded grass;Their arms embraced and their pinions too;Their lips touch’d not, but had not bid adieu,As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender dawn of aurorian love.The winged boy I knew:But who wast thou O happy happy dove?His Psyche true?O latest born, and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus’ faded Hierarchy!Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-region’d star,Or Vesper amorous glow-worm of the sky;Fairer than these though Temple thou hadst none,Nor Altar heap’d with flowers;Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moanUpon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe no incense sweetFrom chain-swung Censer teeming—No shrine, no grove, no Oracle, no heatOf pale mouth’d Prophet dreaming!O Bloomiest! though too late for antique vows;Too, too late for the fond believing Lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the Air, the water and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retir’dFrom happy Pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing by my own eyes inspired.O let me be thy Choir and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swinged Censer teeming;Thy Shrine, thy Grove, thy Oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouth’d Prophet dreaming!Yes, I will be thy Priest and build a faneIn some untrodden region of my Mind,Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant painInstead of pines shall murmur in the wind.Far, far around shall those dark cluster’d treesFledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;And there by Zephyrs streams and birds and beesThe moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep.And in the midst of this wide-quietnessA rosy Sanctuary will I dressWith the wreath’d trellis of a working brain;With buds and bells and stars without a name;With all the gardener-fancy e’er could feign,Who breeding flowers will never breed the same—And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win;A bright torch and a casement ope at nightTo let the warm Love in.
Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche.———Incipit altera Sonneta———
I have been endeavouring to discover a better Sonnet Stanza than we have. The legitimate does not suit the language over well from the pouncing rhymes—the other kind appears too elegiac—and the couplet at the end of it has seldom a pleasing effect—I do not pretend to have succeeded—it will explain itself.
If by dull rhymes our English must be chained,And, like Andromeda, the sonnet sweetFetter’d, in spite of pained Loveliness;Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d,Sandals more interwoven and completeTo fit the naked foot of poesy;Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stressOf every chord, and see what may be gain’dBy ear industrious, and attention meet;Misers of sound and syllable, no lessThan Midas of his coinage, let us beJealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown,So, if we may not let the muse be free,She will be bound with Garlands of her own.
[May 3.]
This is the third of May, and everything is in delightful forwardness; the violets are not withered before the peeping of the first rose. You must let me knoweverything—how 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 BrotherJohn Keats.
Wentworth Place. Saturday Morn.[Postmark, February 27, 1819.]
My dear Fanny—I intended to have not failed to do as you requested, and write you as you say once a fortnight. On looking to your letter I find there is no date; and not knowing how long it is since I received it I do not precisely know how great a sinner I am. I am getting quite well, and Mrs. Dilke is getting on pretty well. You must pay no attention to Mrs. Abbey’s unfeeling and ignorant gabble. You can’t stop an old woman’s crying more than you can a Child’s. The old woman is the greatest nuisance because she is too old for the rod. Many people live opposite a Blacksmith’s till they cannot hear the hammer. I have been in Town for two or three days and came back last night. I have been a little concerned at not hearing from George—I continue in daily expectation. Keep on reading and play as much on the music and the grassplot as you can. I should like to take possession of those Grassplots for a Month or so; and send Mrs. A. to Town to count coffee berries instead of currant Bunches, for I want you to teach me a few common dancing steps—and I would buy a Watch box to practise them in by myself. I think I had better always pay the postage of these Letters. I shall send you another book the first time I am in Town early enough to book it with one of the morning Walthamstow Coaches. You did not say a word about your Chillblains. Write me directly and let me know about them—Your Letter shall be answered like an echo.
Your affectionate BrotherJohn ——.
Wentworth Place, March 13 [1819].
My dear Fanny—I have been employed lately in writing to George—I do not send him very short letters, but keep on day after day. There were some young Men I think I told you of who were going to the Settlement: they have changed their minds, and I am disappointed in my expectation of sending Letters by them.—I went lately to the only dance I have been to these twelve months or shall go to for twelve months again—it was to our Brother in law’s cousin’s—She gave a dance for her Birthday and I went for the sake of Mrs. Wylie. I am waiting every day to hear from George—I trust there is no harm in the silence: other people are in the same expectation as we are. On looking at your seal I cannot tell whether it is done or not with a Tassie—it seems to me to be paste. As I went through Leicester Square lately I was going to call and buy you some, but not knowing but you might have some I would not run the chance of buying duplicates. Tell me if you have any or if you would like any—and whether you would rather have motto ones like that with which I seal this letter; or heads of great Men such as Shakspeare, Milton, etc.—or fancy pieces of Art; such as Fame, Adonis, etc.—those gentry you read of at the end of the English Dictionary. Tell me also if you want any particular Book; or Pencils, or drawing paper—anything but live stock. Though I will not now be very severe on it, remembering how fond I used to be of Goldfinches, Tomtits, Minnows, Mice, Ticklebacks, Dace, Cock salmons and all the whole tribe of the Bushes and the Brooks: but verily they are better in the Trees and the water—though I must confess even now a partiality for a handsome Globe of gold-fish—then I would have it hold 10 pails of water and be fed continually fresh through a cool pipe with another pipe to let through the floor—well ventilated they would preserve all their beautiful silver and Crimson. Then I wouldput it before a handsome painted window and shade it all round with myrtles and Japonicas. I should like the window to open onto the Lake of Geneva—and there I’d sit and read all day like the picture of somebody reading. The weather now and then begins to feel like spring; and therefore I have begun my walks on the heath again. Mrs. Dilke is getting better than she has been as she has at length taken a Physician’s advice. She ever and anon asks after you and always bids me remember her in my Letters to you. She is going to leave Hampstead for the sake of educating their son Charles at the Westminster School. We (Mr. Brown and I) shall leave in the beginning of May; I do not know what I shall do or where be all the next summer. Mrs. Reynolds has had a sick house; but they are all well now. You see what news I can send you I do—we all live one day like the other as well as you do—the only difference is being sick and well—with the variations of single and double knocks, and the story of a dreadful fire in the Newspapers. I mentioned Mr. Brown’s name—yet I do not think I ever said a word about him to you. He is a friend of mine of two years’ standing, with whom I walked through Scotland: who has been very kind to me in many things when I most wanted his assistance and with whom I keep house till the first of May—you will know him some day. The name of the young Man who came with me is William Haslam.
Ever your affectionate BrotherJohn.
[Postmark, Hampstead, March 24, 1819.]
My dear Fanny—It is impossible for me to call on you to-day—for I have particular Business at the other end of the Town this morning, and must be back to Hampstead with all speed to keep a long agreed on appointment. To-morrow I shall see you.
Your affectionate BrotherJohn ——.
Wentworth Place, Monday Aft. [March 29? 1819].
My dear Severn—Your note gave me some pain, not on my own account, but on yours. Of course I should never suffer any petty vanity of mine to hinder you in any wise; and therefore I should say “put the miniature in the exhibition” if only myself was to be hurt. But, will it not hurt you? What good can it do to any future picture. Even a large picture is lost in that canting place—what a drop of water in the ocean is a Miniature. Those who might chance to see it for the most part if they had ever heard of either of us and know what we were and of what years would laugh at the puff of the one and the vanity of the other. I am however in these matters a very bad judge—and would advise you to act in a way that appears to yourself the best for your interest. As your “Hermia and Helena” is finished send that without the prologue of a Miniature. I shall see you soon, if you do not pay me a visit sooner—there’s a Bull for you.
Yours ever sincerelyJohn Keats.
Wentworth Place [April 13, 1819].
My dear Fanny—I have been expecting a Letter from you about what the Parson said to your answers. I have thought also of writing to you often, and I am sorry to confess that my neglect of it has been but a small instance of my idleness of late—which has been growing upon me, so that it will require a great shake to get rid of it. I have written nothing and almost read nothing—but I must turn over a new leaf. One most discouraging thing hinders me—we have no news yet from George—so that I cannot with any confidence continue the Letter I have been preparing for him. Many are in thesame state with us and many have heard from the Settlement. They must be well however: and we must consider this silence as good news. I ordered some bulbous roots for you at the Gardener’s, and they sent me some, but they were all in bud—and could not be sent—so I put them in our Garden. There are some beautiful heaths now in bloom in Pots—either heaths or some seasonable plants I will send you instead—perhaps some that are not yet in bloom that you may see them come out. To-morrow night I am going to a rout, a thing I am not at all in love with. Mr. Dilke and his Family have left Hampstead—I shall dine with them to-day in Westminster where I think I told you they were going to reside for the sake of sending their son Charles to the Westminster School. I think I mentioned the Death of Mr. Haslam’s Father. Yesterday week the two Mr. Wylies dined with me. I hope you have good store of double violets—I think they are the Princesses of flowers, and in a shower of rain, almost as fine as barley sugar drops are to a schoolboy’s tongue. I suppose this fine weather the lambs’ tails give a frisk or two extraordinary—when a boy would cry huzza and a Girl O my! a little Lamb frisks its tail. I have not been lately through Leicester Square—the first time I do I will remember your Seals. I have thought it best to live in Town this Summer, chiefly for the sake of books, which cannot be had with any comfort in the Country—besides my Scotch journey gave me a dose of the Picturesque with which I ought to be contented for some time. Westminster is the place I have pitched upon—the City or any place very confined would soon turn me pale and thin—which is to be avoided. You must make up your mind to get stout this summer—indeed I have an idea we shall both be corpulent old folks with triple chins and stumpy thumbs.
Your affectionate BrotherJohn.
Tuesday [April 13, 1819].
My dear Haydon—When I offered you assistance I thought I had it in my hand; I thought I had nothing to do but to do. The difficulties I met with arose from the alertness and suspicion of Abbey: and especially from the affairs being still in a Lawyer’s hand—who has been draining our Property for the last six years of every charge he could make. I cannot do two things at once, and thus this affair has stopped my pursuits in every way—from the first prospect I had of difficulty. I assure you I have harassed myself ten times more than if I alone had been concerned in so much gain or loss. I have also ever told you the exact particulars as well as and as literally as any hopes or fear could translate them: for it was only by parcels that I found all those petty obstacles which for my own sake should not exist a moment—and yet why not—for from my own imprudence and neglect all my accounts are entirely in my Guardian’s Power. This has taught me a Lesson. Hereafter I will be more correct. I find myself possessed of much less than I thought for and now if I had all on the table all I could do would be to take from it a moderate two years’ subsistence and lend you the rest; but I cannot say how soon I could become possessed of it. This would be no sacrifice nor any matter worth thinking of—much less than parting as I have more than once done with little sums which might have gradually formed a library to my taste. These sums amount together to nearly £200, which I have but a chance of ever being repaid or paid at a very distant period. I am humble enough to put this in writing from the sense I have of your struggling situation and the great desire that you should do me the justice to credit me the unostentatious and willing state of my nerves on all such occasions. It has not been my fault. I am doubly hurt atthe slightly reproachful tone of your note and at the occasion of it,—for it must be some other disappointment; you seem’d so sure of some important help when I last saw you—now you have maimed me again; I was whole, I had began reading again—when your note came I was engaged in a Book. I dread as much as a Plague the idle fever of two months more without any fruit. I will walk over the first fine day: then see what aspect your affairs have taken, and if they should continue gloomy walk into the City to Abbey and get his consent for I am persuaded that to me alone he will not concede a jot.
Wentworth Place, Saturday.[April 17, 1819?]
My dear Fanny—If it were but six o’Clock in the morning I would set off to see you to-day: if I should do so now I could not stop long enough for a how d’ye do—it is so long a walk through Hornsey and Tottenham—and as for Stage Coaching it besides that it is very expensive it is like going into the Boxes by way of the pit. I cannot go out on Sunday—but if on Monday it should promise as fair as to-day I will put on a pair of loose easy palatable boots and me rendre chez vous. I continue increasing my letter to George to send it by one of Birkbeck’s sons who is going out soon—so if you will let me have a few more lines, they will be in time. I am glad you got on so well with Monsr.le Curé. Is he a nice clergyman?—a great deal depends upon a cock’d hat and powder—not gunpowder, lord love us, but lady-meal, violet-smooth, dainty-scented, lilly-white, feather-soft, wigsby-dressing, coat-collar-spoiling, whisker-reaching, pig-tail-loving, swans-down-puffing, parson-sweetening powder. I shall call in passing at the Tottenham nursery and see if I can find some seasonable plants for you. That is the nearest place—or by our la’kin or lady kin,that is by the virgin Mary’s kindred, is there not a twig-manufacturer in Walthamstow? Mr. and Mrs. Dilke are coming to dine with us to-day. They will enjoy the country after Westminster. O there is nothing like fine weather, and health, and Books, and a fine country, and a contented Mind, and diligent habit of reading and thinking, and an amulet against the ennui—and, please heaven, a little claret wine cool out of a cellar a mile deep—with a few or a good many ratafia cakes—a rocky basin to bathe in, a strawberry bed to say your prayers to Flora in, a pad nag to go you ten miles or so; two or three sensible people to chat with; two or three spiteful folks to spar with; two or three odd fishes to laugh at and two or three numskulls to argue with—instead of using dumb bells on a rainy day—
Two or three PosiesWith two or three simples—Two or three NosesWith two or three pimples—Two or three wise menAnd two or three ninny’s—Two or three pursesAnd two or three guineas—Two or three rapsAt two or three doors—Two or three napsOf two or three hours—Two or three CatsAnd two or three mice—Two or three spratsAt a very great price—Two or three sandiesAnd two or three tabbies—Two or three dandiesAnd two Mrs.—— mumTwo or three SmilesAnd two or three frowns—Two or three MilesTo two or three towns—Two or three pegsFor two or three bonnets—Two or three dove eggsTo hatch into sonnets—Good-bye I’ve an appointment—can’tstop pon word—good-bye—nowdon’t get up—open the door my-self—good-bye—see ye Monday.
J. K.
[Hampstead, May 13, 1819.]
My dear Fanny—I have a Letter from George at last—and it contains, considering all things, good news—I have been with it to-day to Mrs. Wylie’s, with whom I have left it. I shall have it again as soon as possible and then I will walk over and read it to you. They are quite well and settled tolerably in comfort after a great deal of fatigue and harass. They had the good chance to meet at Louisville with a Schoolfellow of ours. You may expect me within three days. I am writing to-night several notes concerning this to many of my friends. Good-night! God bless you.
John Keats.
[Hampstead, May 26, 1819.]
My dear Fanny—I have been looking for a fine day to pass at Walthamstow: there has not been one Morning (except Sunday and then I was obliged to stay at home) that I could depend upon. I have I am sorry to say had an accident with the Letter—I sent it to Haslam and he returned it torn into a thousand pieces. So I shall be obliged to tell you all I can remember from Memory. You would have heard from me before this but that I was in continual expectation of a fine Morning—I want also to speak to you concerning myself. Mind I do not purpose to quit England, as George has done; but I am afraid I shall be forced to take a voyage or two. However we will not think of that for someMonths. Should it be a fine morning to-morrow you will see me.
Your affectionate BrotherJohn ——.
Wentworth Place [June 9, 1819].
My dear Fanny—I shall be with you next Monday at the farthest. I could not keep my promise of seeing you again in a week because I am in so unsettled a state of mind about what I am to do—I have given up the Idea of the Indiaman; I cannot resolve to give up my favorite studies: so I purpose to retire into the Country and set my Mind at work once more. A Friend of Mine who has an ill state of health called on me yesterday and proposed to spend a little time with him at the back of the Isle of Wight where he said we might live very cheaply. I agreed to his proposal. I have taken a great dislike to Town—I never go there—some one is always calling on me and as we have spare beds they often stop a couple of days. I have written lately to some acquaintances in Devonshire concerning a cheap Lodging and they have been very kind in letting me know all I wanted. They have described a pleasant place which I think I shall eventually retire to. How came you on with my young Master Yorkshire Man? Did not Mrs. A. sport her Carriage and one? They really surprised me with super civility—how did Mrs. A. manage it? How is the old tadpole gardener and little Master next door? it is to be hop’d they will both die some of these days. Not having been to Town I have not heard whether Mr. A. purposes to retire from business. Do let me know if you have heard anything more about it. If he should not I shall be very disappointed. If any one deserves to be put to his shifts it is that Hodgkinson—as for the other he would live a long time upon his fat and be none the worse for a good long lent. How came miledi to give one Lisbon wine—had she drained the Gooseberry?Truly I cannot delay making another visit—asked to take Lunch, whether I will have ale, wine, take sugar,—objection to green—like cream—thin bread and butter—another cup—agreeable—enough sugar—little more cream—too weak—12 shillin etc. etc. etc.—Lord I must come again. We are just going to Dinner I must must[101]with this to the Post——
Your affectionate BrotherJohn ——.