Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. John Keats
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of the scene in the very sweat of anxiety to show himself, but Alas the thing was not played. The sweetest morsel of the night moreover was, that the musicians began pegging and fagging away—at an overture—never did you see faces more in earnest, three times did they play it over, dropping all kinds of corrections and still did not the curtain go up. Well then they went into a country dance, then into a region they well knew, into the old boonsome Pothouse, and then to see how pompous o’ the sudden they turned; how they looked about and chatted; how they did not care a damn; was a great treat——
I hope I have not tired you by this filling up of the dash in my last. Constable the bookseller has offered Reynolds ten guineas a sheet to write for his Magazine—it is an Edinburgh one, which Blackwood’s started up in opposition to. Hunt said he was nearly sure that the ‘Cockney School’ was written by Scott[44] so you are right Tom!—There are no more little bits of news I can remember at present.
I remain, My dear Brothers, Your very affectionate Brother
John.
XXXI.—TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.
[Hampstead,] Friday Jany. 23 [1818].
My dear Bailey—Twelve days have pass’d since your last reached me.—What has gone through the myriads of human minds since the 12th? We talk of the immense Number of Books, the Volumes ranged thousands by thousands—but perhaps more goes through the human intelligence in Twelve days than ever was written.—How has that unfortunate family lived through the twelve? One saying of yours I shall never forget—you may not recollect it—it being perhaps said when you were looking on the Surface and seeming of Humanity alone, without a thought of the past or the future—or the deeps of good and evil—you were at that moment estranged from speculation, and I think you have arguments ready for the Man who would utter it to you—this is a formidable preface for a simple thing—merely you said, “Why should woman suffer?” Aye, why should she? “By heavens I’d coin my very Soul, and drop my Blood for Drachmas!” These things are, and he, who feels how incompetent the most skyey Knight-errantry is to heal this bruised fairness, is like a sensitive leaf on the hot hand of thought.—Your tearing, my dear friend, a spiritless and gloomy letter up, to re-write to me, is what I shall never forget—it was to me a real thing—Things have happened lately of great perplexity—you must have heard of them—Reynolds and Haydon retorting and recriminating—and parting for ever—the same thing has happened between Haydon and Hunt. It is unfortunate—Men should bear with each other: there lives not the Man who may not be cut up, aye Lashed to pieces on his weakest side. The best of Men have but a portion of good in them—a kind of spiritual yeast in their frames, which creates the ferment of existence—by which a Man is propelled to act, and strive, and buffet with Circumstance. The sure way, Bailey, is first to know a Man’s faults, and then be passive—if after that he insensibly draws you towards him then you have no power to break the link. Before I felt interested in either Reynolds or Haydon, I was well read in their faults; yet, knowing them, I have been cementing gradually with both. I have an affection for them both, for reasons almost opposite—and to both must I of necessity cling, supported always by the hope that, when a little time, a few years, shall have tried me more fully in their esteem, I may be able to bring them together. The time must come, because they have both hearts: and they will recollect the best parts of each other, when this gust is overblown.—I had a message from you through a letter to Jane—I think, about Cripps—there can be no idea of binding until a sufficient sum is sure for him—and even then the thing should be maturely considered by all his helpers—I shall try my luck upon as many fat purses as I can meet with.—Cripps is improving very fast: I have the greater hopes of him because he is so slow in development. A Man of great executing powers at 20, with a look and a speech almost stupid, is sure to do something.
I have just looked through the Second Side of your Letter—I feel a great content at it.—I was at Hunt’s the other day, and he surprised me with a real authenticated lock of Milton’s Hair. I know you would like what I wrote thereon, so here it is—as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book:—
ON SEEING A LOCK OF MILTON’S HAIR.
Chief of Organic Numbers!
Old Scholar of the Spheres!
Thy spirit never slumbers,
But rolls about our ears
For ever, and for ever!
O what a mad endeavour
Worketh he,
Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse
Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse
And melody. How heavenward thou soundest, Live Temple of sweet noise, And Discord unconfoundest, Giving Delight new joys, And Pleasure nobler pinions! O, where are thy dominions? Lend thine ear To a young Delian oath—aye, by thy soul, By all that from thy mortal lips did roll, And by the kernel of thine earthly love, Beauty, in things on earth, and things above, I swear! When every childish fashion Has vanish’d from my rhyme, Will I, gray-gone in passion, Leave to an after-time, Hymning and harmony Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life; But vain is now the burning and the strife, Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife With old Philosophy, And mad with glimpses of futurity! For many years my offering must be hush’d; When I do speak, I’ll think upon this hour, Because I feel my forehead hot and flush’d, Even at the simplest vassal of thy power— A lock of thy bright hair— Sudden it came, And I was startled, when I caught thy name Coupled so unaware; Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood. I thought I had beheld it from the flood.
This I did at Hunt’s at his request—perhaps I should have done something better alone and at home.—I have sent my first Book to the press, and this afternoon shall begin preparing the Second—my visit to you will be a great spur to quicken the proceeding.—I have not had your Sermon returned—I long to make it the Subject of a Letter to you—What do they say at Oxford?
I trust you and Gleig pass much fine time together. Remember me to him and Whitehead. My Brother Tom is getting stronger, but his spitting of Blood continues. I sat down to read King Lear yesterday, and felt the greatness of the thing up to the Writing of a Sonnet preparatory thereto—in my next you shall have it.—There were some miserable reports of Rice’s health—I went, and lo! Master Jemmy had been to the play the night before, and was out at the time—he always comes on his legs like a Cat. I have seen a good deal of Wordsworth. Hazlitt is lecturing on Poetry at the Surrey Institution—I shall be there next Tuesday.
Your most affectionate friend
John Keats.
XXXII.—TO JOHN TAYLOR.
[Hampstead, January 30, 1818.]
My dear Taylor—These lines as they now stand about “happiness,” have rung in my ears like “a chime a mending”—See here,
“Behold
Wherein lies happiness, Peona? fold, etc.”
It appears to me the very contrary of blessed. I hope this will appear to you more eligible.
“Wherein lies Happiness? In that which becks
Our ready minds to fellowship divine,
A fellowship with Essence till we shine
Full alchemised, and free of space—Behold
The clear religion of Heaven—fold, etc.”
You must indulge me by putting this in, for setting aside the badness of the other, such a preface is necessary to the subject. The whole thing must, I think, have appeared to you, who are a consecutive man, as a thing almost of mere words, but I assure you that,