Part 32 (1/2)
CXV.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.
Winchester, September 5 [1819].
My dear Taylor--This morning I received yours of the 2d, and with it a letter from Hessey enclosing a Bank post Bill of 30, an ample sum I a.s.sure you--more I had no thought of.--You should not have delayed so long in Fleet St.--leading an inactive life as you did was breathing poison: you will find the country air do more for you than you expect. But it must be proper country air. You must choose a spot. What sort of a place is Retford? You should have a dry, gravelly, barren, elevated country, open to the currents of air, and such a place is generally furnished with the finest springs--The neighbourhood of a rich enclosed fulsome manured arable land, especially in a valley and almost as bad on a flat, would be almost as bad as the smoke of Fleet St.--Such a place as this was Shanklin, only open to the south-east, and surrounded by hills in every other direction. From this south-east came the damps of the sea; which, having no egress, the air would for days together take on an unhealthy idiosyncrasy altogether enervating and weakening as a city smoke--I felt it very much. Since I have been here at Winchester I have been improving in health--it is not so confined--and there is on one side of the City a dry chalky down, where the air is worth Sixpence a pint. So if you do not get better at Retford, do not impute it to your own weakness before you have well considered the Nature of the air and soil--especially as Autumn is encroaching--for the Autumn fog over a rich land is like the steam from cabbage water. What makes the great difference between valesmen, flatlandmen and mountaineers? The cultivation of the earth in a great measure--Our health temperament and disposition are taken more (notwithstanding the contradiction of the history of Cain and Abel) from the air we breathe, than is generally imagined. See the difference between a Peasant and a Butcher.--I am convinced a great cause of it is the difference of the air they breathe: the one takes _his_ mingled with the fume of slaughter, the other from the dank exhalement from the glebe; the teeming damp that comes up from the plough-furrow is of great effect in taming the fierceness of a strong man--more than his labour--Let him be mowing furze upon a mountain, and at the day's end his thoughts will run upon a..axe[104] if he ever had handled one; let him leave the plough, and he will think quietly of his supper. Agriculture is the tamer of men--the steam from the earth is like drinking their Mother's milk--it enervates their nature--this appears a great cause of the imbecility of the Chinese: and if this sort of atmosphere is a mitigation to the energy of a strong man, how much more must it injure a weak one unoccupied unexercised--For what is the cause of so many men maintaining a good state in Cities, but occupation--An idle man, a man who is not sensitively alive to self-interest in a city cannot continue long in good health. This is easily explained--If you were to walk leisurely through an unwholesome path in the fens, with a little horror of them, you would be sure to have your ague. But let Macbeth cross the same path, with the dagger in the air leading him on, and he would never have an ague or anything like it--You should give these things a serious consideration. Notts, I believe, is a flat county--You should be on the slope of one of the dry barren hills in Somersets.h.i.+re. I am convinced there is as harmful air to be breathed in the country as in town. I am greatly obliged to you for your letter.
Perhaps, if you had had strength and spirits enough, you would have felt offended by my offering a note of hand, or rather expressed it. However, I am sure you will give me credit for not in anywise mistrusting you: or imagining that you would take advantage of any power I might give you over me. No--It proceeded from my serious resolve not to be a gratuitous borrower, from a great desire to be correct in money matters, to have in my desk the Chronicles of them to refer to, and know my worldly non-estate: besides in case of my death such doc.u.ments would be but just, if merely as memorials of the friendly turns I had done to me--Had I known of your illness I should not have written in such fiery phrase in my first letter. I hope that shortly you will be able to bear six times as much.
Brown likes the tragedy very much: But he is not a fit judge of it, as I have only acted as midwife to his plot; and of course he will be fond of his child. I do not think I can make you any extracts without spoiling the effect of the whole when you come to read it--I hope you will then not think my labour mis-spent. Since I finished it, I have finished Lamia, and am now occupied in revising St. Agnes's Eve, and studying Italian.
Ariosto I find as diffuse, in parts, as Spenser--I understand completely the difference between them. I will cross the letter with some lines from Lamia. Brown's kindest remembrances to you--and I am ever your most sincere friend
JOHN KEATS.
A haunting Music sole perhaps and lone Supportress of the fairy roof made moan Throughout as fearful the whole charm might fade.
Fresh Carved Cedar mimicking a glade Of Palm and Plantain met from either side In the high midst in honour of the Bride-- Two Palms, and then two plantains and so on From either side their stems branch'd one to one All down the aisled place--and beneath all There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.
So canopied lay an untasted feast Teeming a perfume. Lamia regal drest Silverly paced about and as she went Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich The splendid finish of each nook and niche-- Between the tree stems wainscoated at first Came jasper panels--then anon there burst Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees And with the larger wove in small intricacies-- And so till she was sated--then came down Soft lighting on her head a brilliant crown Wreath'd turban-wise of tender wannish fire And sprinkled o'er with stars like Ariadne's tiar, Approving all--she faded at self will And shut the Chamber up close hush'd and still; Complete, and ready, for the revels rude When dreadful Guests would come to spoil her solitude The day came soon and all the gossip-rout-- O senseless Lycius[105] ...
This is a good sample of the story. Brown is gone to Chichester a-visiting--I shall be alone here for 3 weeks, expecting accounts of your health.
CXVI.--TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS.
Winchester, September [17, 1819], Friday.
My dear George--I was closely employed in reading and composition in this place, whither I had come from Shanklin for the convenience of a library, when I received your last dated 24th July. You will have seen by the short letter I wrote from Shanklin how matters stand between us and Mr.
Jennings. They had not at all moved, and I knew no way of overcoming the inveterate obstinacy of our affairs. On receiving your last, I immediately took a place in the same night's coach for London. Mr. Abbey behaved extremely well to me, appointed Monday evening at seven to meet me, and observed that he should drink tea at that hour. I gave him the enclosed note and showed him the last leaf of yours to me. He really appeared anxious about it, and promised he would forward your money as quickly as possible. I think I mentioned that Walton was dead.... He will apply to Mr. Gliddon the partner, endeavour to get rid of Mrs. Jennings' claim, and be expeditious. He has received an answer from my letter to Fry. That is something. We are certainly in a very low estate--I say we, for I am in such a situation, that were it not for the a.s.sistance of Brown and Taylor, I must be as badly off as a man can be. I could not raise any sum by the promise of any poem, no, not by the mortgage of my intellect. We must wait a little while. I really have hopes of success. I have finished a tragedy, which if it succeeds will enable me to sell what I may have in ma.n.u.script to a good advantage. I have pa.s.sed my time in reading, writing, and fretting--the last I intend to give up, and stick to the other two. They are the only chances of benefit to us. Your wants will be a fresh spur to me. I a.s.sure you you shall more than share what I can get whilst I am still young. The time may come when age will make me more selfish. I have not been well treated by the world, and yet I have, capitally well. I do not know a person to whom so many purse-strings would fly open as to me, if I could possibly take advantage of them, which I cannot do, for none of the owners of these purses are rich. Your present situation I will not suffer myself to dwell upon. When misfortunes are so real, we are glad enough to escape them and the thought of them. I cannot help thinking Mr.
Audubon a dishonest man. Why did he make you believe that he was a man of property? How is it that his circ.u.mstances have altered so suddenly? In truth, I do not believe you fit to deal with the world, or at least the American world. But, good G.o.d! who can avoid these chances? You have done your best. Take matters as coolly as you can; and confidently expecting help from England, act as if no help were nigh. Mine, I am sure, is a tolerable tragedy; it would have been a bank to me, if just as I had finished it, I had not heard of Kean's resolution to go to America. That was the worst news I could have had. There is no actor can do the princ.i.p.al character besides Kean. At Covent Garden there is a great chance of its being damm'd. Were it to succeed even there it would lift me out of the mire; I mean the mire of a bad reputation which is continually rising against me. My name with the literary fas.h.i.+onables is vulgar. I am a weaver-boy to them. A tragedy would lift me out of this mess, and mess it is as far as regards our pockets. But be not cast down any more than I am; I feel that I can bear real ills better than imaginary ones. Whenever I find myself growing vapourish, I rouse myself, wash, and put on a clean s.h.i.+rt, brush my hair and clothes, tie my shoestrings neatly, and in fact adonise as I were going out. Then, all clean and comfortable, I sit down to write. This I find the greatest relief. Besides I am becoming accustomed to the privations of the pleasures of sense. In the midst of the world I live like a hermit. I have forgot how to lay plans for the enjoyment of any pleasure. I feel I can bear anything,--any misery, even imprisonment, so long as I have neither wife nor child. Perhaps you will say yours are your only comfort; they must be. I returned to Winchester the day before yesterday, and am now here alone, for Brown, some days before I left, went to Bedhampton, and there he will be for the next fortnight. The term of his house will be up in the middle of next month when we shall return to Hampstead. On Sunday, I dined with your mother and Hen and Charles in Henrietta Street. Mrs. and Miss Millar were in the country. Charles had been but a few days returned from Paris. I daresay you will have letters expressing the motives of his journey. Mrs. Wylie and Miss Waldegrave seem as quiet as two mice there alone. I did not show your last. I thought it better not, for better times will certainly come, and why should they be unhappy in the meantime? On Monday morning I went to Walthamstow. f.a.n.n.y looked better than I had seen her for some time. She complains of not hearing from you, appealing to me as if it were half my fault. I had been so long in retirement that London appeared a very odd place. I could not make out I had so many acquaintances, and it was a whole day before I could feel among men. I had another strange sensation.
There was not one house I felt any pleasure to call at. Reynolds was in the country, and, saving himself, I am prejudiced against all that family.
Dilke and his wife and child were in the country. Taylor was at Nottingham. I was out, and everybody was out. I walked about the streets as in a strange land. Rice was the only one at home. I pa.s.sed some time with him. I know him better since we have lived a month together in the Isle of Wight. He is the most sensible and even wise man I know. He has a few John Bull prejudices, but they improve him. His illness is at times alarming. We are great friends, and there is no one I like to pa.s.s a day with better. Martin called in to bid him good-bye before he set out for Dublin. If you would like to hear one of his jokes, here is one which, at the time, we laughed at a good deal: A Miss ----, with three young ladies, one of them Martin's sister, had come a-gadding in the Isle of Wight and took for a few days a cottage opposite ours. We dined with them one day, and as I was saying they had fish. Miss ---- said she thought _they tasted of the boat_. ”No” says Martin, very seriously, ”they haven't been kept long enough.” I saw Haslam. He is very much occupied with love and business, being one of Mr. Saunders' executors and lover to a young woman.
He showed me her picture by Severn. I think she is, though not very cunning, too cunning for him. Nothing strikes me so forcibly with a sense of the ridiculous as love. A man in love I do think cuts the sorriest figure in the world; queer, when I know a poor fool to be really in pain about it, I could burst out laughing in his face. His pathetic visage becomes irresistible. Not that I take Haslam as a pattern for lovers; he is a very worthy man and a good friend. His love is very amusing.
Somewhere in the Spectator is related an account of a man inviting a party of stutterers and squinters to his table. It would please me more to sc.r.a.pe together a party of lovers--not to dinner, but to tea. There would be no fighting as among knights of old.
Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, Nibble their toast and cool their tea with sighs; Or else forget the purpose of the night, Forget their tea, forget their appet.i.te.
See, with cross'd arms they sit--Ah! hapless crew, The fire is going out and no one rings For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot. Must he die Circled by a humane society?
No, no; there, Mr. Werter takes his spoon, Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark, Across the tea-board draws a long wet mark.
Romeo! Arise take snuffers by the handle, There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding sheet--ah, me! I must away To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well; Where may your Taylor live? I may not tell.
O pardon me. I'm absent now and then.
Where _might_ my Taylor live? I say again I cannot tell. Let me no more be teased; He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleased.