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LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS TO FANNY BRAWNE




    Where wert thou mighty Mother, when he lay,
    When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
    In darkness?




[Illustration: by Joseph Severn 28 Jan^y 1821, 3 O’Clock morn^g]

London. Reeves & Turner 1878.




                         _LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
                             TO FANNY BRAWNE
                             WRITTEN IN THE YEARS
                             MDCCCXIX AND MDCCCXX
                             AND NOW GIVEN FROM
                             THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS
                             WITH INTRODUCTION
                             AND NOTES BY
                             HARRY BUXTON FORMAN_

                        _LONDON REEVES & TURNER_

                        _196 STRAND MDCCCLXXVIII_

                         [_All rights reserved_]




NOTE.


There is good reason to think that the lady to whom the following letters
were addressed did not, towards the end of her life, regard their
ultimate publication as unlikely; and it is by her family that they have
been entrusted to the editor, to be arranged and prepared for the press.

The owners of these letters reserve to themselves all rights of
reproduction and translation.




_TO JOSEPH SEVERN, ROME._


_The happy circumstance that the fifty-seventh year since you watched at
the death-bed of Keats finds you still among us, makes it impossible to
inscribe any other name than yours in front of these letters, intimately
connected as they are with the decline of the poet’s life, concerning the
latter part of which you alone have full knowledge._

_It cannot be but that some of the letters will give you pain,—and
notably the three written when the poet’s face was already turned towards
that land whither you accompanied him, whence he knew there was no return
for him, and where you still live near the hallowed place of his burial.
All who love Keats’s memory must share such pain in the contemplation of
his agony of soul. But you who love him having known, and we who love
him unknown except by faith in what is written, must alike rejoice in
the good hap that has preserved, for our better knowledge of his heart,
these vivid and varied transcripts of his inner life during his latter
years,—must alike be content to take the knowledge with such alloy of
pain as the hapless turn of events rendered inevitable._

_On a memorable occasion it was said of you by a great poet and prophet
that, had he known of the circumstances of your unwearied attendance
at the death-bed, he should have been tempted to add his “tribute of
applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in
the recollection of his own motives;” and he uttered the wish that the
“unextinguished Spirit” of Keats might “plead against Oblivion” for
your name. Were any such plea needed, the Spirit to prefer it, then
unextinguished, is now known for inextinguishable; and whithersoever the
name of “our Adonais” travels, there will yours also be found._

_This opportunity may not unfitly serve to record my gratitude for your
ready kindness in affording me information on various points concerning
your friend’s life and death, and also for the permission to engrave your
solemn portraiture of the beautiful countenance seen, as you only of all
men living saw it, in its final agony._

                                                               _H. B. F._




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

  PUBLISHERS’ NOTE                                                     v.

  TO JOSEPH SEVERN, ROME                                             vii.

  INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITOR                                        xiii.

  LETTERS TO FANNY BRAWNE:—

  First Period, I to IX, Shanklin, Winchester, Westminster             3

  Second Period, X to XXXII, Wentworth Place                          43

  Third Period, XXXIII to XXXVII, Kentish Town—Preparing for Italy    91

  APPENDIX, THE LOCALITY OF WENTWORTH PLACE                          111

  INDEX                                                              123

Transcriber’s Note: Despite the date on the title page, this is the 1888
edition (see date at end of introduction). The front matter from the
prior edition of 1878 seems to have been carried across to this one
without being fully checked and updated. This edition doesn’t have an
index, and the Appendix about Wentworth Place isn’t on page 111.




ILLUSTRATIONS.


  PORTRAIT OF KEATS, DRAWN BY JOSEPH SEVERN AND ETCHED BY
     W. B. SCOTT                                           _Frontispiece._

  SILHOUETTE OF FANNY BRAWNE, CUT BY EDOUART AND
     PHOTO-LITHOGRAPHED BY G. F. TUPPER                 _Opposite page 3._

  FAC-SIMILE OF LETTER XXVII, EXECUTED BY G. I. F.
     TUPPER                                            _Opposite page 76._




INTRODUCTION.


The sympathetic and discerning biographer of John Keats says, in the
memoir prefixed to Moxon’s edition of the Poems[1], “The publication of
three small volumes of verse, some earnest friendships, one profound
passion, and a premature death are the main incidents here to be
recorded.” These words have long become “household words,” at all events
in the household of those who make the lives and works of English poets
their special study; and nothing is likely to be discovered which shall
alter the fact thus set forth. But that documents illustrating the fact
should from time to time come to the surface, is to be expected; and the
present volume portrays the “one profound passion” as perfectly as it is
possible for such a passion to be portrayed without the revelation of
things too sacred for even the most reverent and worshipful public gaze,
while it gives considerable insight into the refinements of a nature only
too keenly sensitive to pain and injury and the inherent hardness of
things mundane.

The three final years of Keats’s life are in all respects the fullest
of vivid interest for those who, admiring the poet and loving the
memory of the man, would fain form some conception of the working of
those forces within him which went to the shaping of his greatest works
and his greatest woes. In those three years were produced most of the
compositions wherein the lover of poetry can discern the supreme hand of
a master, the ultimate and sovereign perfection beyond which, in point
of quality, the poet could never have gone had he lived a hundred years,
whatever he might have done in magnitude and variety; and in those years
sprang up and grew the one passion of his life, sweet to him as honey in
the intervals of brightness and unimpeded vigour which he enjoyed, bitter
as wormwood in those times of sickness and poverty and the deepening
shadow of death which we have learned to associate almost constantly with
our thoughts of him.

Of certain phases of his life during these final years we have long had
substantial and most fascinating records in the beautiful collection of
documents entrusted to Lord Houghton, and to what admirable purpose used,
all who name the name of Keats know too well to need reminding,—documents
published, it is true, under certain restrictions, and subject to the
depreciatory operation of asterisks and blanks of varying significance
and magnitude, proper enough, no doubt, thirty years ago, but surely now
a needless affliction. But of the all-important phases in the healthy and
morbid psychology of the poet connected with the over-mastering passion
of his latter days, the record was necessarily scanty,—a few hints
scattered through the letters written in moderately good health, and a
few agonized and burning utterances wrung from him, in the despair of his
soul, in those last three letters addressed to Charles Brown,—one during
the sea voyage and two after the arrival of Keats and Severn in Italy.

It was with the profoundest feeling of the sacredness as well as the
great importance of the record entrusted to me that I approached the
letters now at length laid before the public: after reading them through,
it seemed to me that I knew Keats to some extent as a different being
from the Keats I had known; the features of his mind took clearer form;
and certain mental and moral characteristics not before evident made
their appearance. It remained to consider whether this enhanced knowledge
of so noble a soul should be confined to two or three persons, or should
not rather be given to the world at large; and the decision arrived at
was that the world’s claim to participate in the gift of these letters
was good.

The office of editor was not an arduous one so far as the text is
concerned, for the letters are wholly free from anything which it
seems desirable to omit; they are legibly and, except in some minute
and trivial details, correctly written, leaving little to do beyond
the correction of a few obvious clerical errors, and such amendment of
punctuation as is invariably required by letters not written for the
press. The arrangement of the series in proper sequence, however, was
not nearly so simple a matter; for, except as regards the first nine,
the evidence in this behalf is almost wholly inferential and collateral;
and I have had to be content with strong probability in many cases in
which it is impossible to arrive at any absolute certainty. Of the whole
thirty-seven letters, not one bears the date of the year, except as
furnished in the postmarks of numbers I to IX; two only go so far as to
specify in writing the day of the month, or even the month itself; and
one of these two Keats has dated a day later than the date shewn by the
postmark. Those which passed through the post, numbers I to IX, are fully
addressed to “Miss Brawne, Wentworth Place, Hampstead,” the word “Middx.”
being added in the case of the six from the country, but not in that of
the three from London. Numbers X to XVII and XIX to XXXII are addressed
simply to “Miss Brawne”; while numbers XVIII, XXXIII, XXXIV, and XXXVI
are addressed to “Mrs. Brawne,” and numbers XXXV and XXXVII bear no
address whatever.

These material details are not without a psychological significance:
the total absence of interest in the progress of time (the sordid
current time) tallies with the profound worship of things so remote as
perfect beauty; and the addressing of four of the letters to Mrs. Brawne
instead of Miss Brawne indicates, to my mind, not mere accident, but a
sensitiveness to observation from any unaccustomed quarter: three of the
letters so addressed were certainly written at Kentish Town, and would
not be likely to be sent by the same hand usually employed to take those
written while the poet was next door to his betrothed; the other one was,
I have no doubt, sent only from one house to the other; but perhaps the
usual messenger may have chanced to be out of the way.

The letters fall naturally into three groups, namely (1) those written
during Keats’s sojourn with Charles Armitage Brown in the Isle of Wight,
and his brief stay in lodgings in Westminster in the Summer and Autumn
of 1819, (2) those written from Brown’s house in Wentworth Place during
Keats’s illness in the early part of 1820 and sent by hand to Mrs.
Brawne’s house, next door, and (3) those written after he was able to
leave Wentworth Place to stay with Leigh Hunt at Kentish Town, and before
his departure for Italy in September, 1820. Of the order of the first and
last groups there is no reasonable doubt; and, although there can be no
absolute certainty in regard to the whole series of the central group, I
do not think any important error will have been made in the arrangement
here adopted.

The slight service to be done beside this of arranging the letters,
involving a great deal of minute investigation, was simply to elucidate
as far as possible by brief foot-notes references that were not
self-explanatory, to give such attainable particulars of the principal
persons and places concerned as are desirable by way of illustration,
and to fix as nearly as may be the chronology of that part of Keats’s
life at the time represented by these letters,—especially the two
important dates involved. The first date is that of the passion which
Keats conceived for Miss Brawne,—the second that of the rupture of a
blood-vessel, marking distinctly the poet’s graveward tendency,—two
events probably connected with some intimacy, and concerning which it
is not unnoteworthy that we should have to be making guesses at all. If
these and other conjectural conclusions turn out to be inaccurate (which
I do not think will be the case), they can only be proved so by the
production of more documents; and if documents be produced confuting my
conclusions, my aim will have been attained by two steps instead of one.

The lady to whom these letters were addressed was born on the 9th of
August in the year 1800, and baptized Frances, though, as usual with
bearers of that name, she was habitually called Fanny. Her father, Mr.
Samuel Brawne, a gentleman of independent means, died while she was
still a child; and Mrs. Brawne then went to reside at Hampstead, with
her three children, Fanny, Samuel, and Margaret. Samuel, being next in
age to Fanny, was a youth going to school in 1819; and Margaret was many
years younger than her sister, being in fact a child at the time of the
engagement to Keats, which event took place certainly between the Autumn
of 1818 and the Summer of 1819, and probably, as I find good reason to
suppose, quite early in the year 1819. In the Summer of 1818 Mrs. Brawne
and her children occupied the house of Charles Armitage Brown next
to that of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wentworth Dilke, in Wentworth Place,
Hampstead, which is not now known by that name. On Brown’s return from
Scotland, the Brawne’s moved to another house in the neighbourhood; but
they afterwards returned to Wentworth Place, occupying the house of
Mr. Dilke. Mr. Severn remembered that when he visited Keats during the
residence of the poet with Brown, Keats used to take his visitor “next
door” to call upon the Brawne family. “The house was double,” wrote Mr.
Severn, “and had side entrances.”

It is said to have been at the house of Mr. Dilke, who was the
grandfather of the present Baronet of that name, that Keats first met
Miss Brawne. Mr. Dilke eventually gave up possession of his residence in
Wentworth Place, and took quarters in Great Smith Street, Westminster,
where he and Mrs. Dilke went to live in order that their only child,
bearing his father’s name, and afterwards the first Baronet, might be
educated at Westminster School.

Keats’s well known weakness in regard to the statement of dates leaves
us without such assistance as might be expected from his general
correspondence in fixing the date of this first meeting with Miss
Brawne. I learn from members of her family that it was certainly in 1818;
and, as far as I can judge, it must have been in the last quarter of that
year; for it seems pretty evident that he had not conceived the passion,
which was his “pleasure and torment,” up to the end of October, and had
conceived it before Tom’s death “early in December”; and, as he says in
Letter III of the present series, “the very first week I knew you I wrote
myself your vassal,” we must perforce regard the date of first meeting as
between the end of October and the beginning of December, 1818.

In conducting the reader to this conclusion it will be necessary to
remove a misapprehension which has been current for nearly thirty years
in regard to a passage in the letter that yields us our starting-point.
This is the long letter to George Keats, dated the 29th of October, 1818,
given in Lord Houghton’s _Life, Letters, &c._,[2] and commencing at page
227 of Vol. I, wherein is the following passage:

    “The Misses —— are very kind to me, but they have lately
    displeased me much, and in this way:—now I am coming the
    Richardson!—On my return, the first day I called, they were
    in a sort of taking or bustle about a cousin of theirs, who,
    having fallen out with her grandpapa in a serious manner, was
    invited by Mrs. —— to take asylum in her house. She is an
    East-Indian, and ought to be her grandfather’s heir. At the
    time I called, Mrs. —— was in conference with her up stairs,
    and the young ladies were warm in her praise down stairs,
    calling her genteel, interesting, and a thousand other pretty
    things, to which I gave no heed, not being partial to nine
    days’ wonders. Now all is completely changed: they hate her,
    and, from what I hear, she is not without faults of a real
    kind; but she has others, which are more apt to make women of
    inferior claims hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, but is, at
    least, a Charmian: she has a rich Eastern look; she has fine
    eyes, and fine manners. When she comes into the room she makes
    the same impression as the beauty of a leopardess. She is too
    fine and too conscious of herself to repulse any man who may
    address her: from habit she thinks that _nothing particular_. I
    always find myself more at ease with such a woman: the picture
    before me always gives me a life and animation which I cannot
    possibly feel with anything inferior. I am, at such times,
    too much occupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble:
    I forget myself entirely, because I live in her. You will,
    by this time, think I am in love with her, so, before I go
    any further, I will tell you I am not. She kept me awake one
    night, as a tune of Mozart’s might do. I speak of the thing as
    a pastime and an amusement, than which I can feel none deeper
    than a conversation with an imperial woman, the very ‘yes’ and
    ‘no’ of whose life is to me a banquet. I don’t cry to take
    the moon home with me in my pocket, nor do I fret to leave
    her behind me. I like her, and her like, because one has no
    _sensations_: what we both are is taken for granted. You will
    suppose I have, by this, had much talk with her—no such thing;
    there are the Misses —— on the look out. They think I don’t
    admire her because I don’t stare at her; they call her a flirt
    to me—what a want of knowledge! She walks across a room in
    such a manner that a man is drawn towards her with a magnetic
    power; this they call flirting! They do not know things; they
    do not know what a woman is. I believe, though, she has faults,
    the same as Charmian and Cleopatra might have had. Yet she
    is a fine thing, speaking in a worldly way; for there are
    two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of things—the
    worldly, theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly,
    spiritual and ethereal. In the former, Bonaparte, Lord Byron,
    and this Charmian, hold the first place in our minds; in the
    latter, John Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child’s cradle,
    and you, my dear sister, are the conquering feelings. As a man
    of the world, I love the rich talk of a Charmian; as an eternal
    being, I love the thought of you. I should like her to ruin me,
    and I should like you to save me.

      ‘I am free from men of pleasure’s cares,
      By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs.’

    This is ‘Lord Byron,’ and is one of the finest things he has
    said.”

Now it is clear from this passage that a lady had made a certain
impression on Keats; and Lord Houghton in his latest publication states
explicitly what is only indicated in general terms in the Memoirs
published in 1848 and 1867,—that the lady here described was Miss Brawne.
In the earlier Memoirs, three letters to Rice, Woodhouse, and Reynolds
follow the long letter to George Keats; then comes the statement that
“the lady alluded to in the above pages inspired Keats with the passion
that only ceased with his existence”; and, as the letter to Reynolds
contains references to a lady, it might have been possible to regard Lord
Houghton’s expression as an allusion to that letter only. But in the
brief and masterly Memoir prefixed to the Aldine Edition of Keats[3],
his Lordship cites the passage from the letter of the 29th of October as
descriptive of Miss Brawne,—thus confirming by explicit statement what
has all along passed current as tradition in literary circles.

When Lord Houghton’s inestimable volumes of 1848 were given to the world
there might have been indelicacy in making too close a scrutiny into the
bearings of these passages; but the time has now come when such cannot be
the case; and I am enabled to give the grounds on which it is absolutely
certain that the allusion here was not to Miss Brawne. As Lord Houghton
has elsewhere recorded, Keats met Miss Brawne at the house of Mr. and
Mrs. Dilke, who had no daughters, while the relationship of “the Misses
——” and “Mrs. ——” of the passage in question is clearly that of mother
and daughters. Mrs. Brawne had already been settled with her children at
Hampstead for several years at this time, whereas this cousin of “the
Misses ——” had just arrived when Keats returned there from Teignmouth.
The “Charmian” of this anecdote was an East-Indian, having a grandfather
to quarrel with; while Miss Brawne never had a grandfather living during
her life, and her family had not the remotest connexion with the East
Indies. Moreover, Keats’s sister, who is still happily alive, assures me
positively that the reference is not to Miss Brawne. In regard to the
blank for a surname, I had judged from various considerations internal
and external that it should be filled by that of Reynolds; and, on asking
Mr. Severn (without expressing any view whatever) whether he knew to whom
the story related, he wrote to me that he knew the story well from Keats,
and that the reference is to the Misses Reynolds, the sisters of John
Hamilton Reynolds. Mr. Severn does not know the name of the cousin of
these ladies.

It is clear then that the lady who had impressed Keats some little time
before the 29th of October, 1818, and was still fresh in his mind, was
not Fanny Brawne. That the impression was not lasting the event shewed;
and we may safely assume that it was really limited in the way which
Keats himself averred,—that he was not “in love with her.” But it is
incredible, almost, that, in his affectionate frankness with his brother,
he would ever have written thus of another woman, had he been already
enamoured of Fanny Brawne. This view is strengthened by reading the
letter to the end: in such a perusal we come upon the following passage:

    “Notwithstanding your happiness and your recommendations, I
    hope I shall never marry: though the most beautiful creature
    were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though
    the carpet were of silk, and the curtains of the morning
    clouds, the chairs and sofas stuffed with cygnet’s down, the
    food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on
    Winandermere, I should not feel, or rather my happiness should
    not be, so fine; my solitude is sublime—for, instead of what
    I have described, there is a sublimity to welcome me home;
    the roaring of the wind is my wife; and the stars through my
    window-panes are my children; the mighty abstract Idea of
    Beauty in all things, I have, stifles the more divided and
    minute domestic happiness. An amiable wife and sweet children I
    contemplate as part of that Beauty, but I must have a thousand
    of those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. I feel more
    and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do
    not live in this world alone, but in a thousand worlds. No
    sooner am I alone, than shapes of epic greatness are stationed
    around me, and serve my spirit the office which is equivalent
    to a King’s Body-guard: ‘then Tragedy with scepter’d pall comes
    sweeping by:’ according to my state of mind, I am with Achilles
    shouting in the trenches, or with Theocritus in the vales of
    Sicily; or throw my whole being into Troilus, and, repeating
    those lines, ‘I wander like a lost soul upon the Stygian bank,
    staying for waftage,’ I melt into the air with a voluptuousness
    so delicate, that I am content to be alone. Those things,
    combined with the opinion I have formed of the generality of
    women, who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give
    a sugar-plum than my time, form a barrier against matrimony
    which I rejoice in. I have written this that you might see
    that I have my share of the highest pleasures of life, and
    that though I may choose to pass my days alone, I shall be no
    solitary; you see there is nothing splenetic in all this. The
    only thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one
    short passing day, is any doubt about my powers of poetry: I
    seldom have any, and I look with hope to the nighing time when
    I shall have none.”[4]

There is but little after this in the letter, and apparently no break
between the time at which he thus expressed himself and that at which
he signed the letter and added—“This is my birthday.” If therefore my
conclusion as to the negative value of this and the “Charmian” passage be
correct, we may say that he was certainly not enamoured of Miss Brawne
up to the 29th of October, 1818, although it is tolerably clear, from
the evidence of Mr. Dilke, that Keats first met her about October or
November. Again, in a highly interesting and important letter to Keats’s
most intimate friend John Hamilton Reynolds, a letter which Lord Houghton
placed immediately after one to Woodhouse dated the 18th of December,
1818, we read the following ominous passage suggesting a doom not long to
be deferred:—

    “I never was in love, yet the voice and shape of a woman has
    haunted me these two days—at such a time when the relief,
    the feverish relief of poetry, seems a much less crime. This
    morning poetry has conquered—I have relapsed into those
    abstractions which are my only life—I feel escaped from a
    new, strange, and threatening sorrow, and I am thankful for
    it. There is an awful warmth about my heart, like a load of
    Immortality.

    “Poor Tom—that woman and poetry were ringing changes in my
    senses. Now I am, in comparison, happy.”[5]

There is no date to this letter; and, although it was most reasonable to
suppose that the fervid expressions used pointed to the real heroine of
the poet’s tragedy,—that he wrote in one of those moments of mastery of
the intellect over the emotions such as he experienced when writing the
extraordinary fifth Letter of the present series,—the fact is that the
reference is to “Charmian,” and that the letter was misplaced by Lord
Houghton. It really belongs to September 1818, and should precede instead
of following this “Charmian” letter.

When Keats wrote the next letter in Lord Houghton’s series (also undated)
to George and his wife, Tom was dead; and there is another clue to the
date in the fact that he transcribes a letter from Miss Jane Porter dated
the 4th of December, 1818. After making this transcript he proceeds to
draw the following verbal portrait of a young lady:

    “Shall I give you Miss ——? She is about my height, with a
    fine style of countenance of the lengthened sort; she wants
    sentiment in every feature; she manages to make her hair look
    well; her nostrils are very fine, though a little painful; her
    mouth is bad and good; her profile is better than her full
    face, which, indeed, is not full, but pale and thin, without
    showing any bone; her shape is very graceful, and so are her
    movements; her arms are good, her hands bad-ish, her feet
    tolerable. She is not seventeen, but she is ignorant; monstrous
    in her behaviour, flying out in all directions, calling
    people such names that I was forced lately to make use of the
    term—Minx: this is, I think, from no innate vice, but from a
    penchant she has for acting stylishly. I am, however, tired of
    such style, and shall decline any more of it. She had a friend
    to visit her lately; you have known plenty such—she plays the
    music, but without one sensation but the feel of the ivory at
    her fingers; she is a downright Miss, without one set-off.
    We hated her, and smoked her, and baited her, and, I think,
    drove her away. Miss ——, thinks her a paragon of fashion,
    and says she is the only woman in the world she would change
    persons with. What a stupe,—she is as superior as a rose to a
    dandelion.”[6]

There is nothing explicit as to the date of this passage; but there is no
longer any doubt that this sketch has reference to Miss Brawne, and that
Keats had now found that most dangerous of objects a woman “alternating
attraction and repulsion.”

The lady’s children assured me that the description answered to the facts
in every particular except that of age: the correct expression would
be “not nineteen”; but Keats was not infallible on such a point; and
the holograph letter in which he wrote “Miss Brawne” in full shews that
he made a mistake as to her age. When he wrote this passage, he was, I
should judge, feeling a certain resentment analogous to what found a
much more tender expression in the first letter of the present series,
when the circumstances made increased tenderness a matter of course,—a
resentment of the feeling that he was becoming enslaved.

There is no announcement of his engagement in the original letter to
his brother and sister-in-law, which I have read; and it would seem
improbable that he was engaged when he wrote it. But of the journal
letter begun on the 14th of February, 1819, and finished on the 3rd of
May, only a part of the holograph is accessible; and there may possibly
have been such an announcement in the missing part, while, under some
date between the 19th of March and the 15th of April, Keats writes the
following paragraph and sonnet, from which it might be inferred that the
engagement had been announced in an unpublished letter.

    “I am afraid that your anxiety for me leads you to fear for the
    violence of my temperament, continually smothered down: for
    that reason, I did not intend to have sent you the following
    Sonnet; but look over the two last pages, and ask yourself if I
    have not that in me which will bear the buffets of the world.
    It will be the best comment on my Sonnet; it will show you that
    it was written with no agony but that of ignorance, with no
    thirst but that of knowledge, when pushed to the point; though
    the first steps to it were through my human passions, they went
    away, and I wrote with my mind, and, perhaps, I must confess, a
    little bit of my heart.

      Why did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell:
        No God, no Demon of severe response,
      Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
        Then to my human heart I turn at once.
      Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone;
        I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain!
      O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,
        To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
      Why did I laugh? I know this Being’s lease,
        My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;
      Yet would I on this very midnight cease,
        And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds;
      Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,
      But Death intenser—Death is Life’s high meed.”[7]

Again in the same letter, on the 15th of April, Keats says “Brown,
this morning, is writing some Spenserian stanzas against Miss B —— and
me,”—a reference, doubtless, to Miss Brawne, probably indicative of the
engagement being an understood thing; and, seemingly on the same date, he
writes as follows:

    “The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and more; it is that
    one in which he meets with Paulo and Francesca. I had passed
    many days in rather a low state of mind, and in the midst of
    them I dreamt of being in that region of Hell. The dream was
    one of the most delightful enjoyments I ever had in my life; I
    floated about the wheeling atmosphere, as it is described, with
    a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were joined, it seemed
    for an age; and in the midst of all this cold and darkness I
    was warm; ever-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 on it: there are fourteen
    lines in it, but nothing of what I felt. Oh! that I could dream
    it every night.

      As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
        When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept,
      So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright,
        So play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, so bereft
      The 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 a day,
      But to that second circle of sad Hell,
        Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
      Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
        Their sorrows,—pale were the sweet lips I saw,
      Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form
      I floated with, about that melancholy storm.”[8]

The meaning of this dream is sufficiently clear without any light from
the fact that the sonnet itself was written in a little volume given by
Keats to Miss Brawne, a volume of Taylor & Hessey’s miniature edition of
Cary’s Dante, which had remained up to the year 1877 in the possession
of that lady’s family.[9]

Although the present citation of extant documents does not avail to fix
the date of Keats’s passion more nearly than to shew that it almost
certainly lies somewhere between the 29th of October and beginning of
December, 1818, there can be little doubt that, if a competent person
should be permitted to examine all the original documents concerned,
the date might be ascertained much more nearly;—that is to say that
the particular “first week” of acquaintance in which Keats “wrote
himself the vassal” of Miss Brawne, as he says (see page 13), might be
identified. But in any case it must be well to bring into juxtaposition
these passages bearing upon the subject of the letters now made public.

The natural inference from all we know of the matter in hand is that
after his brother Tom’s death, Keats’s passion had more time and more
temptation to feed upon itself; and that, as an unoccupied man living
in the same village with the object of that passion, an avowal followed
pretty speedily. It is not surprising that there are no letters to shew
for the first half of the year 1819, during which Keats and Miss Brawne
probably saw each other constantly, and to judge from the expressions in
Letter XI, were in the habit of walking out together.

The tone of Letter I is unsuggestive of more than a few weeks’
engagement; but it is impossible, on this alone, to found safely any
conclusion whatever. From the date of that letter, the 3rd of July,
1819, we have plainer sailing for awhile: Keats appears to have remained
in the Isle of Wight till the 11th or 12th of August, when he and Brown
crossed from Cowes to Southampton and proceeded to Winchester. At page
19 we read under the date “9 August,” “This day week we shall move to
Winchester”; but in the letter bearing the postmark of the 16th (though
dated the 17th) Keats says he has been in Winchester four days; so that
the patience of the friends with Shanklin did not hold out for anything
like a week.

At Winchester the poet remained till the 11th of September, when bad
news from George Keats hurried him up to Town for a few days: he meant
to have returned on the 15th, and was certainly there again by the 22nd,
remaining until some day between the 1st and 10th of October, by which
date he seems to have taken up his abode at lodgings in College Street,
Westminster. Here he cannot have remained long; for on the 19th he was
already proposing to return to Hampstead; and it must have been very soon
after this that he accepted the invitation of Brown to “domesticate with”
him again at Wentworth Place; and on the 19th of the next month he was
writing from that place to his friend and publisher, Taylor.[10]

This brings us to the fatal winter of 1819-20, during which, until the
date of Keats’s first bad illness, we should not expect any more letters
to Miss Brawne, because, in the natural course of things, he would be
seeing her daily.

The absence of any current record as to the exact date whereon he was
struck down with that particular phase of his malady which he himself
felt from the first to be fatal, must have seemed peculiarly regretworthy
to Keats’s lovers; but it is not impossible to deduce from the various
materials at command the day to which Lord Houghton’s account refers.
This well-known passage leaves us in no doubt as to the place wherein the
beginning of the end came upon the poet,—the house of Charles Brown; but
the day we must seek for ourselves.

Passing over such premonitions of disease as that recorded in the letter
to George Keats and his wife dated the 14th of February, 1819, and
printed at page 257 of the first volume of the _Life_, namely that he had
“kept in doors lately, resolved, if possible, to rid” himself of “sore
throat,”—the first date important to bear in mind is Thursday, the 13th
of January, 1820, which is given at the head of a somewhat remarkable
version of a well-known letter addressed to Mrs. George Keats. This
letter first appeared without date in the _Life_; but, on the 25th of
June, 1877, it was printed in the New York _World_, with many striking
variations from the previous text, and with several additions, including
the date already quoted, the genuineness of which I can see no reason
for doubting. The letter begins thus in the _Life, Letters, &c._—

    “My dear Sister,

    By the time you receive this your troubles will be over, and
    George have returned to you.”

In _The World_ it opens thus—

    “My dear Sis.: By the time that you receive this your troubles
    will be over. I wish you knew that they were half over; I mean
    that George is safe in England, and in good health.”

It is not my part to account here for the _verbal_ inconsistency between
these two versions; but the inconsistency as regards _fact_, which has
been charged against them, is surely not real. Both versions alike
indicate that Keats was writing with the knowledge that his letter would
not reach Mrs. George Keats till after the return of her husband from
his sudden and short visit to England; and, assuming the genuineness of
another document, this was certainly the case.

In _The Philobiblion_[11] for August, 1862, was printed a fragment
purporting to be from a letter of Keats’s, which seems to me, on internal
evidence alone, of indubitable authenticity; and, if it is Keats’s, it
must belong to the particular letter now under consideration. It is
headed _Friday 27th_, is written in higher spirits, if anything, than the
rest of this brilliant letter, giving a ludicrous string of comparisons
for Mrs. George Keats’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Henry Wylie, which, together
with a final joke, were apparently deemed unripe for publication in 1848,
being represented by asterisks in the _Life, Letters, &c._ (Vol. II, p.
49). The fragment closes with the promise of “a close written sheet on
the first of next month,” varying in phrase, just as the _World_ version
of the whole letter varies, from Lord Houghton’s.[12]

Keats explains, under the inaccurate and unexplicit date _Friday 27th_,
that he has been writing a letter for George to take back to his wife,
has unfortunately forgotten to bring it to town, and will have to send
it on to Liverpool, whither George has departed that morning “by the
coach,” at six o’clock. The 27th of January, 1820, was a Thursday, not a
Friday; and there can be hardly any doubt that George Keats left London
on the 28th of January, 1820, because John, who professed to know nothing
of the days of the month, seems generally to have known the days of
the week; and this Friday cannot have been in any other month: it was
after the 13th of January, and before the 16th of February, on which day
Keats wrote to Rice, referring to his illness.[13] But whether the date
at the head of the fragment should be _Thursday 27th_ or _Friday 28th_
is immaterial for our present purpose, because the Thursday after that
date would be the same day in either case; and it was on the Thursday
after George left London that Keats was taken ill. This appears from
the following passage extracted by Sir Charles Dilke from a letter of
George Keats’s to John, and communicated to _The Athenæum_ of the 4th of
August, 1877:

                                      “Louisville, June 18th, 1820.

    My dear John,

    Where will our miseries end? So soon as the Thursday after I
    left London you were attacked with a dangerous illness, an hour
    after I left this for England my little girl became so ill as
    to approach the grave, dragging our dear George after her.
    You are recovered (thank [_sic_] I hear the bad and good news
    together), they are recovered, and yet....”

Thus, it was on Thursday, the 3rd of February, 1820, that Keats, as
recounted by Lord Houghton (Vol. II, pp. 53-4), returned home at about
eleven o’clock, “in a state of strange physical excitement,” and told
Brown he had received a severe chill outside the stage-coach,—that he
coughed up some blood on getting into bed, and read in its colour his
death-warrant. Mr. Severn tells me that Keats left his bed-room within a
week of his being taken ill: within a fortnight, as we have seen, he was
so far better as to be writing (dismally enough, it is true) to Rice;
but, that he was confined to the house for some months, is evident. The
whole of the letters forming the second division of the series, Numbers X
to XXXII, seem to me to have been written during this confinement; and I
should doubt whether Keats did much better, if any, than realize his hope
of getting out for a walk on the 1st of May.

At that time he was not sufficiently recovered to accompany Brown on his
second tour in Scotland; and was yet well enough by the 7th to be at
Gravesend with his friend for the final parting. I understand from the
_Life, Letters, &c._ (Vol. II, p. 60), that Keats then went at once to
Kentish Town: Lord Houghton says “to lodge at Kentish Town, to be near
his friend Leigh Hunt”; but Hunt says in his _Autobiography_ (1850),
Vol. II, p. 207, “On Brown’s leaving home a second time, ... Keats, who
was too ill to accompany him, came to reside with me, when his last and
best volume of poems appeared....”[14] These accounts are not necessarily
contradictory; for Keats may have tried lodgings _near_ Hunt first,
and moved under the same roof with his friend when the lodgings became
intolerable, as those in College Street had done before. He was reading
the proofs of _Lamia, Isabella, &c._ on the 11th of June, as shown by a
letter to Taylor of that date;[15] and, on the 28th, appeared in _The
Indicator_, beside the Sonnet

    “As Hermes once took to his feathers light....”

the paper entitled “A Now,” at the composition of which Keats is said to
have been not only present but assisting;[16] and, as Hunt wrote pretty
much “from hand to mouth” for _The Indicator_, we may safely assume that
Keats was with him, at all events till just the end of June. On a second
attack of spitting of blood, he returned to Wentworth Place to be nursed
by Mrs. and Miss Brawne; and he was writing from there to Taylor on the
14th of August.

Between these two attacks he would seem to have written the letters
forming the third series, Numbers XXXIII to XXXVII. I suspect the
desperate tone of Number XXXVII had some weight in bringing about the
return to Wentworth Place; and that this was the last letter Keats
ever wrote to Fanny Brawne; for Mr. Severn tells me that his friend was
absolutely unable to write to her either on the voyage or in Italy.

There are certain passages in the letters, taking exception to Miss
Brawne’s behaviour, particularly with Charles Armitage Brown, which
should not, I think, be read without making good allowance for the
extreme sensitiveness natural to Keats, and exaggerated to the last
degree by terrible misfortunes. Keats was himself endowed with such
an exquisite refinement of nature, and, without being in any degree a
prophet or propagandist like Shelley, was so intensely in earnest both in
art and in life, that anything that smacked of trifling with the sacred
passion of love must have been to him more horrible and appalling than to
most persons of refinement and culture. Add to this that, for the greater
part of the time during which his good or evil hap cast him near the
object of his affection, his robust spirit of endurance was disarmed by
the advancing operations of disease, and his discomfiture in this behalf
aggravated by material difficulties of the most galling kind; and we need
not be surprised to find things that might otherwise have been deemed
of small account making a violent impression upon him. In a memoir[17]
of his friend Dilke, written by that gentleman’s grandson, there is an
extract from some letter or journal, emanating from whom, and at what
date, we are not told, but probably from Mr. or Mrs. Dilke, and which is
significant enough: it is at page 11:

    “It is quite a settled thing between Keats and Miss ——. God
    help them. It’s a bad thing for them. The mother says she
    cannot prevent it, and that her only hope is that it will go
    off. He don’t like anyone to look at her or to speak to her.”

This indicates, at all events, a morbid susceptibility on the part
of Keats as to the relations of his betrothed with the rest of the
world, and must be taken into account in weighing his own words in this
connexion. That things went uncomfortably enough to attract the attention
of others is indicated again in an extract which Sir Charles Dilke has
published on the same page with the foregoing, from a letter written to
Mrs. Dilke by Miss Reynolds:

    “I hear that Keats is going to Rome, which must please all his
    friends on every account. I sincerely hope it will benefit his
    health, poor fellow! His mind and spirits must be bettered
    by it; and absence may probably weaken, if not break off, a
    connexion that has been a most unhappy one for him.”

Unhappy, the connexion doubtless was, as the connexion of a doomed man
with the whole world is likely to be; but it would be unfair to assume
that the engagement to Miss Brawne took a more unfortunate turn than any
engagement would probably take for a man circumstanced as Keats was,—a
man without independent means, and debarred by ill-health from earning an
independence. Above all, it would be both unsafe and extremely unfair to
conclude that either Miss Brawne or Keats’s amiable and admirable true
friend Charles Brown was guilty of any real levity.

That Keats’s passion was the cause of his death is an assumption which
also should be looked at with reserve. Shelley’s immortal Elegy and
Byron’s ribald stanzas have been yoked together to draw down the track
of years the false notion that adverse criticism killed him; and now
that that form of murder has been shewn not to have been committed,
there seems to be a reluctance to admit that there was no killing in the
matter. Sir Charles Dilke says, at page 7 of the Memoir already cited,
that Keats “‘gave in’ to a passion which killed him as surely as ever any
man was killed by love.” This may be perfectly true; for perhaps love
never did kill any man; but surely it must be superfluous to assume any
such dire agency in the decease of a man who had hereditary consumption.
Coleridge’s often-quoted verdict, “There is death in that hand,” does
not stand alone; and the careful reader of Keats’s Life and Letters
will find ample evidence of a state of health likely to lead but to one
result,—such as the passage already cited in regard to his staying at
home determined to rid himself of sore throat, the account of his return,
invalided, from the tour in Scotland, which his friends agreed he ought
never to have undertaken, and his own statement to Mr. Dilke, printed in
the _Life, Letters, &c._ (Vol. II, p. 7), that he “was not in very good
health” when at Shanklin.

Lord Houghton’s fine perception of character and implied fact sufficed
to prevent his giving any colour to the supposition that Keats was not
sufficiently cherished and considered in his latter days: the reproaches
that occur in some of the present letters do not lead me to alter the
impression conveyed to me on this subject by his Lordship’s memoirs;
nor do I doubt that others will make the necessary allowance for the
fevered condition of the poet’s mind and the harassed state of body and
spirit. Mr. Severn tells me that Mrs. and Miss Brawne felt the keenest
regret that they had not followed him and Keats to Rome; and, indeed, I
understand that there was some talk of a marriage taking place before
the departure. Even twenty years after Keats’s death, when Mr. Severn
returned to England, the bereaved lady was unable to receive him on
account of the extreme painfulness of the associations connected with him.

In Sir Charles Dilke’s Memoir of his grandfather, there is a strange
passage wherein he quotes from a letter of Miss Brawne’s written ten
years after Keats’s death,—a passage which might lead to an inference
very far from the truth:

    “Keats died admired only by his personal friends, and by
    Shelley; and even ten years after his death, when the first
    memoir was proposed, the woman he had loved had so little
    belief in his poetic reputation, that she wrote to Mr. Dilke,
    ‘The kindest act would be to let him rest for ever in the
    obscurity to which circumstances have condemned him.’”

That Miss Brawne should have written thus at the end of ten years’
widowhood does not by any means imply weakness of belief in Keats’s
fame. Obscurity of life is not identical with obscurity of works; and any
one must surely perceive that an application made to her for material
for a biography, or even any proposal to publish one, must have been
intensely painful to her. She could not bear any discussion of him, and
was, till her death in 1865, peculiarly reticent about him; but in her
latter years, as a matron with grown-up children, when the world had
decided that Keats was not to be left in that obscurity, she said more
than once that the letters of the poet, which form the present volume,
and about which she was otherwise most uncommunicative, should be
carefully guarded, “as they would some day be considered of value.”

It would be irrelevant to the present purpose to recount the facts
of this honoured lady’s life; but one or two personal traits may be
recorded. She had the gift of independence or self-sufficingness in a
high degree; and it was not easy to turn her from a settled purpose.
This strength of character showed itself in a noticeable manner in the
great crisis of her life, and in a manner, too, that has to some extent
robbed her of the small credit of devotion to the man whose love she had
accepted; for those who knew the truth would not have it discussed, and
those who decried her did not know the truth.

On the news of Keats’s death, she cut her hair short and took to a
widow’s cap and mourning. She wandered about solitary, day after day,
on Hampstead Heath, frequently alarming the family by staying there far
into the night, and having to be sought with lanterns. Before friends and
acquaintance she affected a buoyancy of spirit which has tended to wrong
her memory; but her sister carried into advanced life the recollection
that, when the stress of keeping up appearances passed, Fanny spent such
time as she remained at home in her own room,—into which the child would
peer with awe, and see the unwedded widow poring in helpless despair over
Keats’s letters.

Without being in general a systematic student she was a voluminous
reader in widely varying branches of literature; and some out-of-the-way
subjects she followed up with great perseverance. One of her strong
points of learning was the history of costume, in which she was so well
read as to be able to answer any question of detail at a moment’s notice.
This was quite independent of individual adornment; though, _à propos_
of Keats’s remark, “she manages to make her hair look well,” it may be
mentioned that some special pains were taken in this particular, the hair
being worn in curls over the forehead, interlaced with ribands. She was
an eager politician, with very strong convictions, fiery and animated in
discussion; and this characteristic she preserved till the end.

The sonnet on Keats’s preference for blue eyes,

    “Blue! ’tis the hue of heaven,” &c.,

written in reply to John Hamilton Reynolds’s sonnet[18] in which a
preference is expressed for dark eyes,—

                “Dark eyes are dearer far
    Than orbs that mock the hyacinthine bell”—

has no immediate connexion with Miss Brawne; but it is of interest to
note that the colour of her eyes was blue, so that the poet was faithful
to his preference. No good portrait of her is extant, except the
silhouette of which a reproduction is given opposite page 3: a miniature
which is perhaps no longer extant is said by her family to have been
almost worthless, while the silhouette is regarded as characteristic and
accurate as far as such things can be. Mr. Severn, however, told me that
the draped figure in Titian’s picture of Sacred and Profane Love, in the
Borghese Palace at Rome, resembled her greatly, so much so that he used
to visit it frequently, and copied it, on this account. Keats, it seems,
never saw this noble picture containing the only satisfactory likeness of
Fanny Brawne.

The portrait of Keats which forms the frontispiece to this volume has
been etched by Mr. W. B. Scott from a drawing of Severn’s, to which the
following words are attached:

    “28th Jany. 3 o’clock mg. Drawn to keep me awake—a deadly sweat
    was on him all this night.”

Keats’s old schoolfellow, the late Charles Cowden Clarke, assured me in
1876 that this drawing was “a marvellously correct likeness.”

_Postscript._—During the past ten years my work in connexion with the
writings and doings of Keats has involved the discovery and examination
of a great mass of documents of a more or less authoritative kind, both
printed and manuscript; and many points which were matters of conjecture
in 1877 are now no longer so.

Others also have busied themselves about Keats; and, since the foregoing
remarks were first published in 1878, Mr. J. G. Speed, a grandson of
George Keats, has identified himself with the contributor to the New York
_World_, alluded to at pages xlviii and xlix, in reissuing in America
Lord Houghton’s edition of Keats’s Poems, together with a collection of
letters.[19] This work, though containing one new letter, unhappily threw
no real light whatever either on the inconsistencies of text already
referred to or on any other question connected with Keats. Later,
Professor Sidney Colvin has issued, with a very different result, his
volume on Keats[20] included in the “English Men of Letters” series;
and I have not hesitated to use, without individual specification, such
illustrative facts as have become available, whether from Mr. Colvin’s
work or from my own edition of Keats’s whole writings,[21] which also
appeared some time after the publication of the Letters to Fanny Brawne,
though years before Mr. Colvin’s book.

Two letters, traced since the body of the present volume passed through
the press are added at the close of the series; and I have now reason to
think that the letter numbered XXVIII should precede that numbered XXV,
the date being probably the 23rd or 25th of February, 1820, rather than
the 4th of March as suggested in the foot-note at page 78.

The cousin of the Misses Reynolds whom Keats described as a Charmian was
Miss Jane Cox,[22] at least so I was most positively assured by Miss
Charlotte Reynolds in 1883.

It is now pretty clear that the intention to return to Winchester on
the 14th of September, 1819, was not carried out quite literally, and
that Keats really returned to that city on the 15th. In regard to
the foot-note at page 33, it should now be stated that, in a letter
post-marked the 16th of October, 1819, he speaks of having returned to
Hampstead after lodging two or three days in the neighbourhood of Mrs.
Dilke.

Having mentioned in the foot-note at page 101 that Keats had elsewhere
recorded himself and Tom as firm believers in immortality, I must now
state that the record cited was a garbled one. Lord Houghton, working
from transcripts furnished to him by the late Mr. Jeffrey, the second
husband of George Keats’s widow, printed the words “I have a firm belief
in immortality, and so had Tom.” The corresponding sentence in the
autograph letter is “I have scarce a doubt of an immortality of some kind
or another, neither had Tom.”

Finally, it remains to supply an omission which I find it hard to account
for. In Medwin’s Life of Shelley occur some important extracts about
Keats, seeming to emanate from Fanny Brawne. In 1877 I learnt from the
lady’s family that Medwin’s mysteriously introduced correspondent was
no other than she. Indeed I had actually cut the relative portion of
Medwin’s book out for use in this Introduction; but by some inexplicable
oversight I omitted even to refer to it; and it remained for Professor
Colvin to call attention to it. I now gladly follow his lead in citing
words which have a direct bearing upon the vexed question of the
appreciation of Keats by her whom he loved; and, in the appendix to the
present edition, the passage in question will be found.

                                                        H. BUXTON FORMAN.

46 MARLBOROUGH HILL, ST. JOHN’S WOOD, _November, 1888_.




CORRECTIONS.


Page xxxi, line 6 from foot, for _does_ read _did_.

Page 16, end of foot-note 3, add _or perhaps a dog_.

Page 18, there should be a foot-note to the effect that _Meleager_ in
line 6 is written _Maleager_ in the original.

Page 73, end of foot-note, strike out the words _of which period there
are still indications in Letter XXVIII_.

Page 94, line 2 of note, for _in_ read _on_.

Page 95, line 2 of notes, for 1819 read 1820.

Page 96, line 3 of note, for 1819 read 1820.




LETTERS TO FANNY BRAWNE.




I TO IX.

SHANKLIN, WINCHESTER, WESTMINSTER.




[Illustration: Fanny Brawne from a silhouette by Mons^r Edouart.]




I-IX.

SHANKLIN, WINCHESTER, WESTMINSTER.


I.

                                 Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thursday.

                               [_Postmark_, Newport, 3 July, 1819.]

    My dearest Lady,

    I am glad I had not an opportunity of sending off a Letter
    which I wrote for you on Tuesday night—’twas too much like
    one out of Rousseau’s Heloise. I am more reasonable this
    morning. The morning is the only proper time for me to write
    to a beautiful Girl whom I love so much: for at night, when
    the lonely day has closed, and the lonely, silent, unmusical
    Chamber is waiting to receive me as into a Sepulchre, then
    believe me my passion gets entirely the sway, then I would
    not have you see those Rhapsodies which I once thought it
    impossible I should ever give way to, and which I have often
    laughed at in another, for fear you should [think me[23]]
    either too unhappy or perhaps a little mad. I am now at a
    very pleasant Cottage window, looking onto a beautiful hilly
    country, with a glimpse of the sea; the morning is very fine.
    I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure I
    might have in living here and breathing and wandering as free
    as a stag about this beautiful Coast if the remembrance of you
    did not weigh so upon me. I have never known any unalloy’d
    Happiness for many days together: the death or sickness of some
    one[24] has always spoilt my hours—and now when none such
    troubles oppress me, it is you must confess very hard that
    another sort of pain should haunt me. Ask yourself my love
    whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so
    destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you
    must write immediately and do all you can to console me in
    it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write
    the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch
    my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to
    express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word
    than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were
    butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days
    with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years
    could ever contain. But however selfish I may feel, I am sure I
    could never act selfishly: as I told you a day or two before I
    left Hampstead, I will never return to London if my Fate does
    not turn up Pam[25] or at least a Court-card. Though I could
    centre my Happiness in you, I cannot expect to engross your
    heart so entirely—indeed if I thought you felt as much for me
    as I do for you at this moment I do not think I could restrain
    myself from seeing you again tomorrow for the delight of one
    embrace. But no—I must live upon hope and Chance. In case of
    the worst that can happen, I shall still love you—but what
    hatred shall I have for another! Some lines I read the other
    day are continually ringing a peal in my ears:

      To see those eyes I prize above mine own
      Dart favors on another—
      And those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar)
      Be gently press’d by any but myself—
      Think, think Francesca, what a cursed thing
      It were beyond expression!

                                                                 J.

    Do write immediately. There is no Post from this Place, so
    you must address Post Office, Newport, Isle of Wight. I know
    before night I shall curse myself for having sent you so cold
    a Letter; yet it is better to do it as much in my senses as
    possible. Be as kind as the distance will permit to your

                                                          J. KEATS.

    Present my Compliments to your mother, my love to Margaret[26]
    and best remembrances to your Brother—if you please so.


II.

                                                          July 8th.

                              [_Postmark_, Newport, 10 July, 1819.]

    My sweet Girl,

    Your Letter gave me more delight than any thing in the world
    but yourself could do; indeed I am almost astonished that any
    absent one should have that luxurious power over my senses
    which I feel. Even when I am not thinking of you I receive
    your influence and a tenderer nature stealing upon me. All my
    thoughts, my unhappiest days and nights, have I find not at all
    cured me of my love of Beauty, but made it so intense that I am
    miserable that you are not with me: or rather breathe in that
    dull sort of patience that cannot be called Life. I never knew
    before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did
    not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should
    burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be
    some fire, ’twill not be more than we can bear when moistened
    and bedewed with Pleasures. You mention ‘horrid people’ and
    ask me whether it depend upon them whether I see you again.
    Do understand me, my love, in this. I have so much of you in
    my heart that I must turn Mentor when I see a chance of harm
    befalling you. I would never see any thing but Pleasure in
    your eyes, love on your lips, and Happiness in your steps. I
    would wish to see you among those amusements suitable to your
    inclinations and spirits; so that our loves might be a delight
    in the midst of Pleasures agreeable enough, rather than a
    resource from vexations and cares. But I doubt much, in case
    of the worst, whether I shall be philosopher enough to follow
    my own Lessons: if I saw my resolution give you a pain I could
    not. Why may I not speak of your Beauty, since without that I
    could never have lov’d you?—I cannot conceive any beginning
    of such love as I have for you but Beauty. There may be a sort
    of love for which, without the least sneer at it, I have the
    highest respect and can admire it in others: but it has not the
    richness, the bloom, the full form, the enchantment of love
    after my own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, though to
    my own endangering; if you could be so cruel to me as to try
    elsewhere its Power. You say you are afraid I shall think you
    do not love me—in saying this you make me ache the more to be
    near you. I am at the diligent use of my faculties here, I do
    not pass a day without sprawling some blank verse or tagging
    some rhymes; and here I must confess, that (since I am on that
    subject) I love you the more in that I believe you have liked
    me for my own sake and for nothing else. I have met with women
    whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to
    be given away by a Novel. I have seen your Comet, and only
    wish it was a sign that poor Rice would get well whose illness
    makes him rather a melancholy companion: and the more so as so
    to conquer his feelings and hide them from me, with a forc’d
    Pun. I kiss’d your writing over in the hope you had indulg’d me
    by leaving a trace of honey. What was your dream? Tell it me
    and I will tell you the interpretation thereof.

                       Ever yours, my love!

                                                        JOHN KEATS.

    Do not accuse me of delay—we have not here an opportunity of
    sending letters every day. Write speedily.


III.

                                                      Sunday Night.

                                   [_Postmark_, 27 July, 1819.[27]]

    My sweet Girl,

    I hope you did not blame me much for not obeying your request
    of a Letter on Saturday: we have had four in our small room
    playing at cards night and morning leaving me no undisturb’d
    opportunity to write. Now Rice and Martin are gone I am at
    liberty. Brown to my sorrow confirms the account you give of
    your ill health. You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you:
    how I would die for one hour——for what is in the world? I say
    you cannot conceive; it is impossible you should look with
    such eyes upon me as I have upon you: it cannot be. Forgive
    me if I wander a little this evening, for I have been all day
    employ’d in a very abstract Poem and I am in deep love with
    you—two things which must excuse me. I have, believe me, not
    been an age in letting you take possession of me; the very
    first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; but burnt
    the Letter as the very next time I saw you I thought you
    manifested some dislike to me. If you should ever feel for Man
    at the first sight what I did for you, I am lost. Yet I should
    not quarrel with you, but hate myself if such a thing were to
    happen—only I should burst if the thing were not as fine as
    a Man as you are as a Woman. Perhaps I am too vehement, then
    fancy me on my knees, especially when I mention a part of your
    Letter which hurt me; you say speaking of Mr. Severn “but you
    must be satisfied in knowing that I admired you much more
    than your friend.” My dear love, I cannot believe there ever
    was or ever could be any thing to admire in me especially as
    far as sight goes—I cannot be admired, I am not a thing to be
    admired. You are, I love you; all I can bring you is a swooning
    admiration of your Beauty. I hold that place among Men which
    snub-nos’d brunettes with meeting eyebrows do among women—they
    are trash to me—unless I should find one among them with a
    fire in her heart like the one that burns in mine. You absorb
    me in spite of myself—you alone: for I look not forward with
    any pleasure to what is call’d being settled in the world;
    I tremble at domestic cares—yet for you I would meet them,
    though if it would leave you the happier I would rather die
    than do so. I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks,
    your Loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have
    possession of them both in the same minute. I hate the world:
    it batters too much the wings of my self-will, and would I
    could take a sweet poison from your lips to send me out of it.
    From no others would I take it. I am indeed astonish’d to find
    myself so careless of all charms but yours—remembering as I do
    the time when even a bit of ribband was a matter of interest
    with me. What softer words can I find for you after this—what
    it is I will not read. Nor will I say more here, but in a
    Postscript answer any thing else you may have mentioned in your
    Letter in so many words—for I am distracted with a thousand
    thoughts. I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray
    to your star like a Heathen.

                      Your’s ever, fair Star,

                                                        JOHN KEATS.

    My seal is mark’d like a family table cloth with my Mother’s
    initial F for Fanny:[28] put between my Father’s initials. You
    will soon hear from me again. My respectful Compliments to your
    Mother. Tell Margaret I’ll send her a reef of best rocks and
    tell Sam[29] I will give him my light bay hunter if he will tie
    the Bishop hand and foot and pack him in a hamper and send him
    down for me to bathe him for his health with a Necklace of good
    snubby stones about his Neck.[30]


IV.

                                          Shanklin, Thursday Night.

                             [_Postmark,_ Newport, 9 August, 1819.]

    My dear Girl,

    You say you must not have any more such Letters as the last:
    I’ll try that you shall not by running obstinate the other
    way. Indeed I have not fair play—I am not idle enough for
    proper downright love-letters—I leave this minute a scene in
    our Tragedy[31] and see you (think it not blasphemy) through
    the mist of Plots, speeches, counterplots and counterspeeches.
    The Lover is madder than I am—I am nothing to him—he has a
    figure like the Statue of Meleager and double distilled fire
    in his heart. Thank God for my diligence! were it not for
    that I should be miserable. I encourage it, and strive not to
    think of you—but when I have succeeded in doing so all day and
    as far as midnight, you return, as soon as this artificial
    excitement goes off, more severely from the fever I am left
    in. Upon my soul I cannot say what you could like me for. I
    do not think myself a fright any more than I do Mr. A., Mr.
    B., and Mr. C.—yet if I were a woman I should not like A. B.
    C. But enough of this. So you intend to hold me to my promise
    of seeing you in a short time. I shall keep it with as much
    sorrow as gladness: for I am not one of the Paladins of old
    who liv’d upon water grass and smiles for years together. What
    though would I not give tonight for the gratification of my
    eyes alone? This day week we shall move to Winchester; for I
    feel the want of a Library.[32] Brown will leave me there to
    pay a visit to Mr. Snook at Bedhampton: in his absence I will
    flit to you and back. I will stay very little while, for as I
    am in a train of writing now I fear to disturb it—let it have
    its course bad or good—in it I shall try my own strength and
    the public pulse. At Winchester I shall get your Letters more
    readily; and it being a cathedral City I shall have a pleasure
    always a great one to me when near a Cathedral, of reading them
    during the service up and down the Aisle.

    _Friday Morning._—Just as I had written thus far last night,
    Brown came down in his morning coat and nightcap, saying he
    had been refresh’d by a good sleep and was very hungry. I left
    him eating and went to bed, being too tired to enter into
    any discussions. You would delight very greatly in the walks
    about here; the Cliffs, woods, hills, sands, rocks &c. about
    here. They are however not so fine but I shall give them a
    hearty good bye to exchange them for my Cathedral.—Yet again
    I am not so tired of Scenery as to hate Switzerland. We might
    spend a pleasant year at Berne or Zurich—if it should please
    Venus to hear my “Beseech thee to hear us O Goddess.” And
    if she should hear, God forbid we should what people call,
    _settle_—turn into a pond, a stagnant Lethe—a vile crescent,
    row or buildings. Better be imprudent moveables than prudent
    fixtures. Open my Mouth at the Street door like the Lion’s head
    at Venice to receive hateful cards, letters, messages. Go out
    and wither at tea parties; freeze at dinners; bake at dances;
    simmer at routs. No my love, trust yourself to me and I will
    find you nobler amusements, fortune favouring. I fear you will
    not receive this till Sunday or Monday: as the Irishman would
    write do not in the mean while hate me. I long to be off for
    Winchester, for I begin to dislike the very door-posts here—the
    names, the pebbles. You ask after my health, not telling me
    whether you are better. I am quite well. You going out is no
    proof that you are: how is it? Late hours will do you great
    harm. What fairing is it? I was alone for a couple of days
    while Brown went gadding over the country with his ancient
    knapsack. Now I like his society as well as any Man’s, yet
    regretted his return—it broke in upon me like a Thunderbolt.
    I had got in a dream among my Books—really luxuriating in a
    solitude and silence you alone should have disturb’d.

                      Your ever affectionate

                                                        JOHN KEATS.


V.

                                       Winchester, August 17th.[33]

                                     [_Postmark_, 16 August, 1819.]

    My dear Girl—what shall I say for myself? I have been here
    four days and not yet written you—’tis true I have had many
    teasing letters of business to dismiss—and I have been in the
    Claws, like a serpent in an Eagle’s, of the last act of our
    Tragedy. This is no excuse; I know it; I do not presume to
    offer it. I have no right either to ask a speedy answer to
    let me know how lenient you are—I must remain some days in a
    Mist—I see you through a Mist: as I daresay you do me by this
    time. Believe in the first Letters I wrote you: I assure you I
    felt as I wrote—I could not write so now. The thousand images I
    have had pass through my brain—my uneasy spirits—my unguess’d
    fate—all spread as a veil between me and you. Remember I have
    had no idle leisure to brood over you—’tis well perhaps I
    have not. I could not have endured the throng of jealousies
    that used to haunt me before I had plunged so deeply into
    imaginary interests. I would fain, as my sails are set, sail
    on without an interruption for a Brace of Months longer—I am
    in complete cue—in the fever; and shall in these four Months
    do an immense deal. This Page as my eye skims over it I see is
    excessively unloverlike and ungallant—I cannot help it—I am
    no officer in yawning quarters; no Parson-Romeo. My Mind is
    heap’d to the full; stuff’d like a cricket ball—if I strive to
    fill it more it would burst. I know the generality of women
    would hate me for this; that I should have so unsoften’d, so
    hard a Mind as to forget them; forget the brightest realities
    for the dull imaginations of my own Brain. But I conjure you
    to give it a fair thinking; and ask yourself whether ’tis not
    better to explain my feelings to you, than write artificial
    Passion.—Besides, you would see through it. It would be vain
    to strive to deceive you. ’Tis harsh, harsh, I know it. My
    heart seems now made of iron—I could not write a proper answer
    to an invitation to Idalia. You are my Judge: my forehead is
    on the ground. You seem offended at a little simple innocent
    childish playfulness in my last. I did not seriously mean to
    say that you were endeavouring to make me keep my promise. I
    beg your pardon for it. ’Tis but _just_ your Pride should
    take the alarm—_seriously_. You say I may do as I please—I do
    not think with any conscience I can; my cash resources are for
    the present stopp’d; I fear for some time. I spend no money,
    but it increases my debts. I have all my life thought very
    little of these matters—they seem not to belong to me. It may
    be a proud sentence; but by Heaven I am as entirely above all
    matters of interest as the Sun is above the Earth—and though
    of my own money I should be careless; of my Friends’ I must be
    spare. You see how I go on—like so many strokes of a hammer.
    I cannot help it—I am impell’d, driven to it. I am not happy
    enough for silken Phrases, and silver sentences. I can no more
    use soothing words to you than if I were at this moment engaged
    in a charge of Cavalry. Then you will say I should not write at
    all.—Should I not? This Winchester is a fine place: a beautiful
    Cathedral and many other ancient buildings in the Environs.
    The little coffin of a room at Shanklin is changed for a large
    room, where I can promenade at my pleasure—looks out onto a
    beautiful—blank side of a house. It is strange I should like it
    better than the view of the sea from our window at Shanklin. I
    began to hate the very posts there—the voice of the old Lady
    over the way was getting a great Plague. The Fisherman’s face
    never altered any more than our black teapot—the knob however
    was knock’d off to my little relief. I am getting a great
    dislike of the picturesque; and can only relish it over again
    by seeing you enjoy it. One of the pleasantest things I have
    seen lately was at Cowes. The Regent in his Yatch[34] (I think
    they spell it) was anchored opposite—a beautiful vessel—and all
    the Yatchs and boats on the coast were passing and repassing
    it; and circuiting and tacking about it in every direction—I
    never beheld anything so silent, light, and graceful.—As we
    pass’d over to Southampton, there was nearly an accident.
    There came by a Boat well mann’d, with two naval officers at
    the stern. Our Bow-lines took the top of their little mast
    and snapped it off close by the board. Had the mast been a
    little stouter they would have been upset. In so trifling an
    event I could not help admiring our seamen—neither officer nor
    man in the whole Boat moved a muscle—they scarcely notic’d it
    even with words. Forgive me for this flint-worded Letter, and
    believe and see that I cannot think of you without some sort of
    energy—though mal à propos. Even as I leave off it seems to me
    that a few more moments’ thought of you would uncrystallize and
    dissolve me. I must not give way to it—but turn to my writing
    again—if I fail I shall die hard. O my love, your lips are
    growing sweet again to my fancy—I must forget them. Ever your
    affectionate

                                                             KEATS.


VI.

                                     Fleet Street,[35] Monday Morn.

                  [_Postmark_, Lombard Street, 14 September, 1819.]

    My dear Girl,

    I have been hurried to town by a Letter from my brother George;
    it is not of the brightest intelligence. Am I mad or not?
    I came by the Friday night coach and have not yet been to
    Hampstead. Upon my soul it is not my fault. I cannot resolve
    to mix any pleasure with my days: they go one like another,
    undistinguishable. If I were to see you today it would
    destroy the half comfortable sullenness I enjoy at present
    into downright perplexities. I love you too much to venture
    to Hampstead, I feel it is not paying a visit, but venturing
    into a fire. _Que feraije?_ as the French novel writers say
    in fun, and I in earnest: really what can I do? Knowing well
    that my life must be passed in fatigue and trouble, I have
    been endeavouring to wean myself from you: for to myself alone
    what can be much of a misery? As far as they regard myself
    I can despise all events: but I cannot cease to love you.
    This morning I scarcely know what I am doing. I am going to
    Walthamstow. I shall return to Winchester tomorrow;[36] whence
    you shall hear from me in a few days. I am a Coward, I cannot
    bear the pain of being happy: ’tis out of the question: I must
    admit no thought of it.

                     Yours ever affectionately

                                                        JOHN KEATS.


VII.

                                                College Street.[37]

                                    [_Postmark_, 11 October, 1819.]

    My sweet Girl,

    I am living today in yesterday: I was in a complete fascination
    all day. I feel myself at your mercy. Write me ever so few
    lines and tell me you will never for ever be less kind to
    me than yesterday.—You dazzled me. There is nothing in the
    world so bright and delicate. When Brown came out with that
    seemingly true story against me last night, I felt it would
    be death to me if you had ever believed it—though against any
    one else I could muster up my obstinacy. Before I knew Brown
    could disprove it I was for the moment miserable. When shall
    we pass a day alone? I have had a thousand kisses, for which
    with my whole soul I thank love—but if you should deny me the
    thousand and first—’twould put me to the proof how great a
    misery I could live through. If you should ever carry your
    threat yesterday into execution—believe me ’tis not my pride,
    my vanity or any petty passion would torment me—really ’twould
    hurt my heart—I could not bear it. I have seen Mrs. Dilke this
    morning; she says she will come with me any fine day.

                            Ever yours

                                                        JOHN KEATS.

    Ah hertè mine!


VIII.

                                                 25 College Street.

                                    [_Postmark_, 13 October, 1819.]

    My dearest Girl,

    This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I
    cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a
    line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from
    my Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my Soul I can think of
    nothing else. The time is passed when I had power to advise
    and warn you against the unpromising morning of my Life. My
    love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you. I am
    forgetful of everything but seeing you again—my Life seems to
    stop there—I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a
    sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving—I
    should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing
    you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My
    sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I
    have no limit now to my love.... Your note came in just here. I
    cannot be happier away from you. ’Tis richer than an Argosy of
    Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. I have been astonished
    that Men could die Martyrs for religion—I have shudder’d at it.
    I shudder no more—I could be martyr’d for my Religion—Love is
    my religion—I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed
    is Love and you are its only tenet. You have ravish’d me away
    by a Power I cannot resist; and yet I could resist till I saw
    you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often
    “to reason against the reasons of my Love.” I can do that no
    more—the pain would be too great. My love is selfish. I cannot
    breathe without you.

                          Yours for ever

                                                        JOHN KEATS.


IX.

                                  Great Smith Street, Tuesday Morn.

                    [_Postmark_, College Street, 19 October, 1819.]

    My sweet Fanny,

    On awakening from my three days dream (“I cry to dream
    again”) I find one and another astonish’d at my idleness and
    thoughtlessness. I was miserable last night—the morning is
    always restorative. I must be busy, or try to be so. I have
    several things to speak to you of tomorrow morning. Mrs.
    Dilke I should think will tell you that I purpose living at
    Hampstead. I must impose chains upon myself. I shall be able to
    do nothing. I should like to cast the die for Love or death. I
    have no Patience with any thing else—if you ever intend to be
    cruel to me as you say in jest now but perhaps may sometimes
    be in earnest, be so now—and I will—my mind is in a tremble, I
    cannot tell what I am writing.

                        Ever my love yours

                                                        JOHN KEATS.




X TO XXXII.

WENTWORTH PLACE.




X—XXXII.

WENTWORTH PLACE.


X.

    Dearest Fanny, I shall send this the moment you return. They
    say I must remain confined to this room for some time. The
    consciousness that you love me will make a pleasant prison of
    the house next to yours. You must come and see me frequently:
    this evening, without fail—when you must not mind about my
    speaking in a low tone for I am ordered to do so though I _can_
    speak out.

                    Yours ever sweetest love.—

                                                          J. KEATS.

    turn over

    Perhaps your Mother is not at home and so you must wait till
    she comes. You must see me tonight and let me hear you promise
    to come tomorrow.

    Brown told me you were all out. I have been looking for the
    stage the whole afternoon. Had I known this I could not have
    remain’d so silent all day.


XI.

    My dearest Girl,

    If illness makes such an agreeable variety in the manner of
    your eyes I should wish you sometimes to be ill. I wish I had
    read your note before you went last night that I might have
    assured you how far I was from suspecting any coldness. You
    had a just right to be a little silent to one who speaks so
    plainly to you. You must believe—you shall, you will—that I
    can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing of you but what
    has its spring in the Love which has so long been my pleasure
    and torment. On the night I was taken ill—when so violent a
    rush of blood came to my Lungs that I felt nearly suffocated—I
    assure you I felt it possible I might not survive, and at that
    moment thought of nothing but you. When I said to Brown “this
    is unfortunate”[38] I thought of you. ’Tis true that since
    the first two or three days other subjects have entered my
    head.[39] I shall be looking forward to Health and the Spring
    and a regular routine of our old Walks.

                         Your affectionate

                                                              J. K.


XII.

    My sweet love, I shall wait patiently till tomorrow before I
    see you, and in the mean time, if there is any need of such
    a thing, assure you by your Beauty, that whenever I have at
    any time written on a certain unpleasant subject, it has been
    with your welfare impress’d upon my mind. How hurt I should
    have been had you ever acceded to what is, notwithstanding,
    very reasonable! How much the more do I love you from the
    general result! In my present state of Health I feel too much
    separated from you and could almost speak to you in the words
    of Lorenzo’s Ghost to Isabella

      “Your Beauty grows upon me and I feel
      A greater love through all my essence steal.”

    My greatest torment since I have known you has been the
    fear of you being a little inclined to the Cressid; but that
    suspicion I dismiss utterly and remain happy in the surety of
    your Love, which I assure you is as much a wonder to me as a
    delight. Send me the words ‘Good night’ to put under my pillow.

    Dearest Fanny,

                         Your affectionate

                                                              J. K.


XIII.

    My dearest Girl,

    According to all appearances I am to be separated from you as
    much as possible. How I shall be able to bear it, or whether
    it will not be worse than your presence now and then, I cannot
    tell. I must be patient, and in the mean time you must think
    of it as little as possible. Let me not longer detain you from
    going to Town—there may be no end to this imprisoning of you.
    Perhaps you had better not come before tomorrow evening: send
    me however without fail a good night.

    You know our situation——what hope is there if I should be
    recovered ever so soon—my very health will not suffer me to
    make any great exertion. I am recommended not even to read
    poetry, much less write it. I wish I had even a little hope.
    I cannot say forget me—but I would mention that there are
    impossibilities in the world. No more of this. I am not strong
    enough to be weaned—take no notice of it in your good night.

    Happen what may I shall ever be my dearest Love

                         Your affectionate

                                                              J. K.


XIV.

    My dearest Girl, how could it ever have been my wish to forget
    you? how could I have said such a thing? The utmost stretch my
    mind has been capable of was to endeavour to forget you for
    your own sake seeing what a chance there was of my remaining
    in a precarious state of health. I would have borne it as I
    would bear death if fate was in that humour: but I should as
    soon think of choosing to die as to part from you. Believe too
    my Love that our friends think and speak for the best, and
    if their best is not our best it is not their fault. When I
    am better I will speak with you at large on these subjects,
    if there is any occasion—I think there is none. I am rather
    nervous today perhaps from being a little recovered and
    suffering my mind to take little excursions beyond the doors
    and windows. I take it for a good sign, but as it must not be
    encouraged you had better delay seeing me till tomorrow. Do not
    take the trouble of writing much: merely send me my good night.

    Remember me to your Mother and Margaret.

                         Your affectionate

                                                              J. K.


XV.

    My dearest Fanny,

    Then all we have to do is to be patient. Whatever violence I
    may sometimes do myself by hinting at what would appear to any
    one but ourselves a matter of necessity, I do not think I could
    bear any approach of a thought of losing you. I slept well last
    night, but cannot say that I improve very fast. I shall expect
    you tomorrow, for it is certainly better that I should see you
    seldom. Let me have your good night.

                         Your affectionate

                                                              J. K.


XVI.

    My dearest Fanny,

    I read your note in bed last night, and that might be the
    reason of my sleeping so much better. I think Mr Brown[40]
    is right in supposing you may stop too long with me, so very
    nervous as I am. Send me every evening a written Good night. If
    you come for a few minutes about six it may be the best time.
    Should you ever fancy me too low-spirited I must warn you to
    ascribe it to the medicine I am at present taking which is of
    a nerve-shaking nature. I shall impute any depression I may
    experience to this cause. I have been writing with a vile old
    pen the whole week, which is excessively ungallant. The fault
    is in the Quill: I have mended it and still it is very much
    inclin’d to make blind es. However these last lines are in a
    much better style of penmanship, tho’ a little disfigured by
    the smear of black currant jelly; which has made a little mark
    on one of the pages of Brown’s Ben Jonson, the very best book
    he has. I have lick’d it but it remains very purple. I did not
    know whether to say purple or blue so in the mixture of the
    thought wrote purplue which may be an excellent name for a
    colour made up of those two, and would suit well to start next
    spring. Be very careful of open doors and windows and going
    without your duffle grey. God bless you Love!

                                                          J. KEATS.

    P.S. I am sitting in the back room. Remember me to your Mother.


XVII.

    My dear Fanny,

    Do not let your mother suppose that you hurt me by writing at
    night. For some reason or other your last night’s note was not
    so treasureable as former ones. I would fain that you call me
    _Love_ still. To see you happy and in high spirits is a great
    consolation to me—still let me believe that you are not half
    so happy as my restoration would make you. I am nervous, I
    own, and may think myself worse than I really am; if so you
    must indulge me, and pamper with that sort of tenderness you
    have manifested towards me in different Letters. My sweet
    creature when I look back upon the pains and torments I have
    suffer’d for you from the day I left you to go to the Isle of
    Wight; the ecstasies in which I have pass’d some days and the
    miseries in their turn, I wonder the more at the Beauty which
    has kept up the spell so fervently. When I send this round I
    shall be in the front parlour watching to see you show yourself
    for a minute in the garden. How illness stands as a barrier
    betwixt me and you! Even if I was well——I must make myself as
    good a Philosopher as possible. Now I have had opportunities of
    passing nights anxious and awake I have found other thoughts
    intrude upon me. “If I should die,” said I to myself, “I have
    left no immortal work behind me—nothing to make my friends
    proud of my memory—but I have lov’d the principle of beauty
    in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself
    remember’d.” Thoughts like these came very feebly whilst I
    was in health and every pulse beat for you—now you divide with
    this (may _I_ say it?) “last infirmity of noble minds” all my
    reflection.

                       God bless you, Love.

                                                          J. KEATS.


XVIII.

    My dearest Girl,

    You spoke of having been unwell in your last note: have you
    recover’d? That note has been a great delight to me. I am
    stronger than I was: the Doctors say there is very little the
    matter with me, but I cannot believe them till the weight and
    tightness of my Chest is mitigated. I will not indulge or pain
    myself by complaining of my long separation from you. God alone
    knows whether I am destined to taste of happiness with you: at
    all events I myself know thus much, that I consider it no mean
    Happiness to have lov’d you thus far—if it is to be no further
    I shall not be unthankful—if I am to recover, the day of my
    recovery shall see me by your side from which nothing shall
    separate me. If well you are the only medicine that can keep me
    so. Perhaps, aye surely, I am writing in too depress’d a state
    of mind—ask your Mother to come and see me—she will bring you a
    better account than mine.

                      Ever your affectionate

                                                        JOHN KEATS.


XIX.

    My dearest Girl,

    Indeed I will not deceive you with respect to my Health. This
    is the fact as far as I know. I have been confined three
    weeks[41] and am not yet well—this proves that there is
    something wrong about me which my constitution will either
    conquer or give way to. Let us hope for the best. Do you hear
    the Thrush singing over the field? I think it is a sign of mild
    weather—so much the better for me. Like all Sinners now I am
    ill I philosophize, aye out of my attachment to every thing,
    Trees, Flowers, Thrushes, Spring, Summer, Claret, &c. &c.—aye
    every thing but you.—My sister would be glad of my company a
    little longer. That Thrush is a fine fellow. I hope he was
    fortunate in his choice this year. Do not send any more of
    my Books home. I have a great pleasure in the thought of you
    looking on them.

                     Ever yours my sweet Fanny

                                                              J. K.


XX.

    My dearest Girl,

    I continue much the same as usual, I think a little better. My
    spirits are better also, and consequently I am more resign’d to
    my confinement. I dare not think of you much or write much to
    you. Remember me to all.

                      Ever your affectionate

                                                        JOHN KEATS.


XXI.

    My dear Fanny,

    I think you had better not make any long stay with me when Mr.
    Brown is at home. Whenever he goes out you may bring your work.
    You will have a pleasant walk today. I shall see you pass. I
    shall follow you with my eyes over the Heath. Will you come
    towards evening instead of before dinner? When you are gone,
    ’tis past—if you do not come till the evening I have something
    to look forward to all day. Come round to my window for a
    moment when you have read this. Thank your Mother, for the
    preserves, for me. The raspberry will be too sweet not having
    any acid; therefore as you are so good a girl I shall make you
    a present of it. Good bye

                          My sweet Love!

                                                          J. KEATS.


XXII.

    My dearest Fanny,

    The power of your benediction is of not so weak a nature as
    to pass from the ring in four and twenty hours—it is like a
    sacred Chalice once consecrated and ever consecrate. I shall
    kiss your name and mine where your Lips have been—Lips! why
    should a poor prisoner as I am talk about such things? Thank
    God, though I hold them the dearest pleasures in the universe,
    I have a consolation independent of them in the certainty
    of your affection. I could write a song in the style of Tom
    Moore’s Pathetic about Memory if that would be any relief to
    me. No—’twould not. I will be as obstinate as a Robin, I will
    not sing in a cage. Health is my expected heaven and you are
    the Houri——this word I believe is both singular and plural—if
    only plural, never mind—you are a thousand of them.

               Ever yours affectionately my dearest,

                                                              J. K.

    You had better not come to day.


XXIII.

    My dearest Love,

    You must not stop so long in the cold—I have been suspecting
    that window to be open.—Your note half-cured me. When I want
    some more oranges I will tell you—these are just à propos. I am
    kept from food so feel rather weak—otherwise very well. Pray do
    not stop so long upstairs—it makes me uneasy—come every now and
    then and stop a half minute. Remember me to your Mother.

                      Your ever affectionate

                                                          J. KEATS.


XXIV.

    Sweetest Fanny,

    You fear, sometimes, I do not love you so much as you wish? My
    dear Girl I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The
    more I have known the more have I lov’d. In every way—even
    my jealousies have been agonies of Love, in the hottest fit
    I ever had I would have died for you. I have vex’d you too
    much. But for Love! Can I help it? You are always new. The
    last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the
    brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass’d
    my window home yesterday, I was fill’d with as much admiration
    as if I had then seen you for the first time. You uttered
    a half complaint once that I only lov’d your beauty. Have I
    nothing else then to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart
    naturally furnish’d with wings imprison itself with me? No ill
    prospect has been able to turn your thoughts a moment from me.
    This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as joy—but I
    will not talk of that. Even if you did not love me I could not
    help an entire devotion to you: how much more deeply then must
    I feel for you knowing you love me. My Mind has been the most
    discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too
    small for it. I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with
    complete and undistracted enjoyment—upon no person but you.
    When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window:
    you always concentrate my whole senses. The anxiety shown about
    our Loves in your last note is an immense pleasure to me:
    however you must not suffer such speculations to molest you any
    more: nor will I any more believe you can have the least pique
    against me. Brown is gone out—but here is Mrs. Wylie[42]—when
    she is gone I shall be awake for you.—Remembrances to your
    Mother.

                         Your affectionate

                                                          J. KEATS.


XXV.

    My dear Fanny,

    I am much better this morning than I was a week ago: indeed I
    improve a little every day. I rely upon taking a walk with you
    upon the first of May: in the mean time undergoing a babylonish
    captivity I shall not be jew enough to hang up my harp upon
    a willow, but rather endeavour to clear up my arrears in
    versifying, and with returning health begin upon something new:
    pursuant to which resolution it will be necessary to have my or
    rather Taylor’s manuscript,[43] which you, if you please, will
    send by my Messenger either today or tomorrow. Is Mr. D.[44]
    with you today? You appeared very much fatigued last night: you
    must look a little brighter this morning. I shall not suffer
    my little girl ever to be obscured like glass breath’d upon,
    but always bright as it is her _nature to_. Feeding upon sham
    victuals and sitting by the fire will completely annul me. I
    have no need of an enchanted wax figure to duplicate me, for
    I am melting in my proper person before the fire. If you meet
    with anything better (worse) than common in your Magazines let
    me see it.

                    Good bye my sweetest Girl.

                                                              J. K.


XXVI.

    My dearest Fanny, whenever you know me to be alone, come, no
    matter what day. Why will you go out this weather? I shall
    not fatigue myself with writing too much I promise you. Brown
    says I am getting stouter.[45] I rest well and from last
    night do not remember any thing horrid in my dream, which is a
    capital symptom, for any organic derangement always occasions a
    Phantasmagoria. It will be a nice idle amusement to hunt after
    a motto for my Book which I will have if lucky enough to hit
    upon a fit one—not intending to write a preface. I fear I am
    too late with my note—you are gone out—you will be as cold as a
    topsail in a north latitude—I advise you to furl yourself and
    come in a doors.

                          Good bye Love.

                                                              J. K.


XXVII.

    My dearest Fanny, I slept well last night and am no worse this
    morning for it. Day by day if I am not deceived I get a more
    unrestrain’d use of my Chest. The nearer a racer gets to the
    Goal the more his anxiety becomes; so I lingering upon the
    borders of health feel my impatience increase. Perhaps on your
    account I have imagined my illness more serious than it is:
    how horrid was the chance of slipping into the ground instead
    of into your arms—the difference is amazing Love. Death must
    come at last; Man must die, as Shallow says; but before that
    is my fate I fain would try what more pleasures than you have
    given, so sweet a creature as you can give. Let me have another
    opportunity of years before me and I will not die without
    being remember’d. Take care of yourself dear that we may both
    be well in the Summer. I do not at all fatigue myself with
    writing, having merely to put a line or two here and there, a
    Task which would worry a stout state of the body and mind, but
    which just suits me as I can do no more.

                         Your affectionate

                                                              J. K.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


XXVIII.

    My dearest Fanny,

    I had a better night last night than I have had since my
    attack, and this morning I am the same as when you saw me. I
    have been turning over two volumes of Letters written between
    Rousseau and two Ladies in the perplexed strain of mingled
    finesse and sentiment in which the Ladies and gentlemen of
    those days were so clever, and which is still prevalent among
    Ladies of this Country who live in a state of reasoning
    romance. The likeness however only extends to the mannerism,
    not to the dexterity. What would Rousseau have said at seeing
    our little correspondence! What would his Ladies have said!
    I don’t care much—I would sooner have Shakspeare’s opinion
    about the matter. The common gossiping of washerwomen must be
    less disgusting than the continual and eternal fence and attack
    of Rousseau and these sublime Petticoats. One calls herself
    Clara and her friend Julia, two of Rousseau’s heroines—they all
    [_sic_, but qy. _at_] the same time christen poor Jean Jacques
    St. Preux—who is the pure cavalier of his famous novel. Thank
    God I am born in England with our own great Men before my eyes.
    Thank God that you are fair and can love me without being
    Letter-written and sentimentaliz’d into it.—Mr. Barry Cornwall
    has sent me another Book, his first, with a polite note.[46] I
    must do what I can to make him sensible of the esteem I have
    for his kindness. If this north east would take a turn it would
    be so much the better for me. Good bye, my love, my dear love,
    my beauty—

                         love me for ever.

                                                              J. K.


XXIX.

    My dearest Fanny,

    Though I shall see you in so short a time I cannot forbear
    sending you a few lines. You say I did not give you yesterday a
    minute account of my health. Today I have left off the Medicine
    which I took to keep the pulse down and I find I can do very
    well without it, which is a very favourable sign, as it shows
    there is no inflammation remaining. You think I may be wearied
    at night you say: it is my best time; I am at my best about
    eight o’Clock. I received a Note from Mr. Procter[47] today.
    He says he cannot pay me a visit this weather as he is fearful
    of an inflammation in the Chest. What a horrid climate this
    is? or what careless inhabitants it has? You are one of them.
    My dear girl do not make a joke of it: do not expose yourself
    to the cold. There’s the Thrush again—I can’t afford it—he’ll
    run me up a pretty Bill for Music—besides he ought to know I
    deal at Clementi’s. How can you bear so long an imprisonment at
    Hampstead? I shall always remember it with all the gusto that a
    monopolizing carle should. I could build an Altar to you for it.

                         Your affectionate

                                                              J. K.


XXX.

    My dearest Girl,

    As, from the last part of my note you must see how gratified I
    have been by your remaining at home, you might perhaps conceive
    that I was equally bias’d the other way by your going to Town,
    I cannot be easy tonight without telling you you would be
    wrong to suppose so. Though I am pleased with the one, I am
    not displeased with the other. How do I dare to write in this
    manner about my pleasures and displeasures? I will tho’ whilst
    I am an invalid, in spite of you. Good night, Love!

                                                              J. K.


XXXI.

    My dearest Girl,

    In consequence of our company I suppose I shall not see you
    before tomorrow. I am much better today—indeed all I have to
    complain of is want of strength and a little tightness in the
    Chest. I envied Sam’s walk with you today; which I will not do
    again as I may get very tired of envying. I imagine you now
    sitting in your new black dress which I like so much and if
    I were a little less selfish and more enthusiastic I should
    run round and surprise you with a knock at the door. I fear
    I am too prudent for a dying kind of Lover. Yet, there is a
    great difference between going off in warm blood like Romeo,
    and making one’s exit like a frog in a frost. I had nothing
    particular to say today, but not intending that there shall be
    any interruption to our correspondence (which at some future
    time I propose offering to Murray) I write something. God bless
    you my sweet Love! Illness is a long lane, but I see you at the
    end of it, and shall mend my pace as well as possible.

                                                              J. K.


XXXII.

    Dear Girl,

    Yesterday you must have thought me worse than I really was. I
    assure you there was nothing but regret at being obliged to
    forego an embrace which has so many times been the highest
    gust of my Life. I would not care for health without it. Sam
    would not come in—I wanted merely to ask him how you were
    this morning. When one is not quite well we turn for relief
    to those we love: this is no weakness of spirit in me: you
    know when in health I thought of nothing but you; when I shall
    again be so it will be the same. Brown has been mentioning
    to me that some hint from Sam, last night, occasions him
    some uneasiness. He whispered something to you concerning
    Brown and old Mr. Dilke[48] which had the complexion of being
    something derogatory to the former. It was connected with
    an anxiety about Mr. D. Sr’s death and an anxiety to set
    out for Chichester. These sort of hints point out their own
    solution: one cannot pretend to a delicate ignorance on the
    subject: you understand the whole matter. If any one, my sweet
    Love, has misrepresented, to you, to your Mother or Sam, any
    circumstances which are at all likely, at a tenth remove, to
    create suspicions among people who from their own interested
    notions slander others, pray tell me: for I feel the least
    attaint on the disinterested character of Brown very deeply.
    Perhaps Reynolds or some other of my friends may come towards
    evening, therefore you may choose whether you will come to see
    me early today before or after dinner as you may think fit.
    Remember me to your Mother and tell her to drag you to me if
    you show the least reluctance—

    ...




XXXIII to XXXVII.

KENTISH TOWN—PREPARING FOR ITALY.




XXXIII-XXXVII.

KENTISH TOWN—PREPARING FOR ITALY.


XXXIII.

    My dearest Girl,

    I endeavour to make myself as patient as possible. Hunt amuses
    me very kindly—besides I have your ring on my finger and your
    flowers on the table. I shall not expect to see you yet because
    it would be so much pain to part with you again. When the
    Books you want come you shall have them. I am very well this
    afternoon. My dearest ...

                                           [Signature cut off.[49]]


XXXIV.

                                                 Tuesday Afternoon.

    My dearest Fanny,

    For this Week past I have been employed in marking the most
    beautiful passages in Spenser, intending it for you, and
    comforting myself in being somehow occupied to give you however
    small a pleasure. It has lightened my time very much. I am much
    better. God bless you.

                         Your affectionate

                                                          J. KEATS.


XXXV.

                                                 Wednesday Morning.

    My dearest Fanny,

    I have been a walk this morning with a book in my hand, but as
    usual I have been occupied with nothing but you: I wish I could
    say in an agreeable manner. I am tormented day and night. They
    talk of my going to Italy. ’Tis certain I shall never recover
    if I am to be so long separate from you: yet with all this
    devotion to you I cannot persuade myself into any confidence
    of you. Past experience connected with the fact of my long
    separation from you gives me agonies which are scarcely to be
    talked of. When your mother comes I shall be very sudden and
    expert in asking her whether you have been to Mrs. Dilke’s, for
    she might say no to make me easy. I am literally worn to death,
    which seems my only recourse. I cannot forget what has pass’d.
    What? nothing with a man of the world, but to me deathful. I
    will get rid of this as much as possible. When you were in the
    habit of flirting with Brown you would have left off, could
    your own heart have felt one half of one pang mine did. Brown
    is a good sort of Man—he did not know he was doing me to death
    by inches. I feel the effect of every one of those hours in
    my side now; and for that cause, though he has done me many
    services, though I know his love and friendship for me, though
    at this moment I should be without pence were it not for his
    assistance, I will never see or speak to him[50] until we are
    both old men, if we are to be. I _will_ resent my heart having
    been made a football. You will call this madness. I have heard
    you say that it was not unpleasant to wait a few years—you have
    amusements—your mind is away—you have not brooded over one
    idea as I have, and how should you? You are to me an object
    intensely desirable—the air I breathe in a room empty of you is
    unhealthy. I am not the same to you—no—you can wait—you have a
    thousand activities—you can be happy without me. Any party, any
    thing to fill up the day has been enough. How have you pass’d
    this month?[51] Who have you smil’d with? All this may seem
    savage in me. You do not feel as I do—you do not know what it
    is to love—one day you may—your time is not come. Ask yourself
    how many unhappy hours Keats has caused you in Loneliness. For
    myself I have been a Martyr the whole time, and for this reason
    I speak; the confession is forc’d from me by the torture. I
    appeal to you by the blood of that Christ you believe in: Do
    not write to me if you have done anything this month which it
    would have pained me to have seen. You may have altered—if
    you have not—if you still behave in dancing rooms and other
    societies as I have seen you—I do not want to live—if you have
    done so I wish this coming night may be my last. I cannot live
    without you, and not only you but _chaste you_; _virtuous you_.
    The Sun rises and sets, the day passes, and you follow the bent
    of your inclination to a certain extent—you have no conception
    of the quantity of miserable feeling that passes through me in
    a day.—Be serious! Love is not a plaything—and again do not
    write unless you can do it with a crystal conscience. I would
    sooner die for want of you than——

                          Yours for ever

                                                          J. KEATS.


XXXVI.

    My dearest Fanny,

    My head is puzzled this morning, and I scarce know what I
    shall say though I am full of a hundred things. ’Tis certain I
    would rather be writing to you this morning, notwithstanding
    the alloy of grief in such an occupation, than enjoy any other
    pleasure, with health to boot, unconnected with you. Upon my
    soul I have loved you to the extreme. I wish you could know the
    Tenderness with which I continually brood over your different
    aspects of countenance, action and dress. I see you come down
    in the morning: I see you meet me at the Window—I see every
    thing over again eternally that I ever have seen. If I get
    on the pleasant clue I live in a sort of happy misery, if
    on the unpleasant ’tis miserable misery. You complain of my
    illtreating you in word, thought and deed—I am sorry,—at times
    I feel bitterly sorry that I ever made you unhappy—my excuse
    is that those words have been wrung from me by the sharpness
    of my feelings. At all events and in any case I have been
    wrong; could I believe that I did it without any cause, I
    should be the most sincere of Penitents. I could give way to
    my repentant feelings now, I could recant all my suspicions,
    I could mingle with you heart and Soul though absent, were
    it not for some parts of your Letters. Do you suppose it
    possible I could ever leave you? You know what I think of
    myself and what of you. You know that I should feel how much
    it was my loss and how little yours. My friends laugh at you!
    I know some of them—when I know them all I shall never think
    of them again as friends or even acquaintance. My friends
    have behaved well to me in every instance but one, and there
    they have become tattlers, and inquisitors into my conduct:
    spying upon a secret I would rather die than share it with any
    body’s confidence. For this I cannot wish them well, I care
    not to see any of them again. If I am the Theme, I will not be
    the Friend of idle Gossips. Good gods what a shame it is our
    Loves should be so put into the microscope of a Coterie. Their
    laughs should not affect you (I may perhaps give you reasons
    some day for these laughs, for I suspect a few people to hate
    me well enough, _for reasons I know of_, who have pretended a
    great friendship for me) when in competition with one, who if
    he never should see you again would make you the Saint of his
    memory. These Laughers, who do not like you, who envy you for
    your Beauty, who would have God-bless’d me from you for ever:
    who were plying me with disencouragements with respect to you
    eternally. People are revengful—do not mind them—do nothing
    but love me—if I knew that for certain life and health will in
    such event be a heaven, and death itself will be less painful.
    I long to believe in immortality. I shall never be able to
    bid you an entire farewell. If I am destined to be happy with
    you here—how short is the longest Life. I wish to believe in
    immortality[52]—I wish to live with you for ever. Do not let
    my name ever pass between you and those laughers; if I have no
    other merit than the great Love for you, that were sufficient
    to keep me sacred and unmentioned in such society. If I have
    been cruel and unjust I swear my love has ever been greater
    than my cruelty which last [_sic_] but a minute whereas my Love
    come what will shall last for ever. If concession to me has
    hurt your Pride God knows I have had little pride in my heart
    when thinking of you. Your name never passes my Lips—do not let
    mine pass yours. Those People do not like me. After reading
    my Letter you even then wish to see me. I am strong enough to
    walk over—but I dare not. I shall feel so much pain in parting
    with you again. My dearest love, I am afraid to see you; I am
    strong, but not strong enough to see you. Will my arm be ever
    round you again, and if so shall I be obliged to leave you
    again? My sweet Love! I am happy whilst I believe your first
    Letter. Let me be but certain that you are mine heart and soul,
    and I could die more happily than I could otherwise live. If
    you think me cruel—if you think I have sleighted you—do muse it
    over again and see into my heart. My love to you is “true as
    truth’s simplicity and simpler than the infancy of truth” as I
    think I once said before. How could I sleight you? How threaten
    to leave you? not in the spirit of a Threat to you—no—but in
    the spirit of Wretchedness in myself. My fairest, my delicious,
    my angel Fanny! do not believe me such a vulgar fellow. I will
    be as patient in illness and as believing in Love as I am able.

                     Yours for ever my dearest

                                                        JOHN KEATS.


XXXVII.

                                 I do not write this till the last,
                                 that no eye may catch it.[53]

    My dearest Girl,

    I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy
    without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in
    you; every thing else tastes like chaff in my Mouth. I feel it
    almost impossible to go to Italy—the fact is I cannot leave
    you, and shall never taste one minute’s content until it
    pleases chance to let me live with you for good. But I will
    not go on at this rate. A person in health as you are can have
    no conception of the horrors that nerves and a temper like mine
    go through. What Island do your friends propose retiring to?
    I should be happy to go with you there alone, but in company
    I should object to it; the backbitings and jealousies of
    new colonists who have nothing else to amuse themselves, is
    unbearable. Mr. Dilke came to see me yesterday, and gave me a
    very great deal more pain than pleasure. I shall never be able
    any more to endure the society of any of those who used to meet
    at Elm Cottage and Wentworth Place. The last two years taste
    like brass upon my Palate. If I cannot live with you I will
    live alone. I do not think my health will improve much while I
    am separated from you. For all this I am averse to seeing you—I
    cannot bear flashes of light and return into my gloom again.
    I am not so unhappy now as I should be if I had seen you
    yesterday. To be happy with you seems such an impossibility! it
    requires a luckier Star than mine! it will never be. I enclose
    a passage from one of your letters which I want you to alter
    a little—I want (if you will have it so) the matter express’d
    less coldly to me. If my health would bear it, I could write
    a Poem which I have in my head, which would be a consolation
    for people in such a situation as mine. I would show some one
    in Love as I am, with a person living in such Liberty as you
    do. Shakespeare always sums up matters in the most sovereign
    manner. Hamlet’s heart was full of such Misery as mine is when
    he said to Ophelia “Go to a Nunnery, go, go!” Indeed I should
    like to give up the matter at once—I should like to die. I
    am sickened at the brute world which you are smiling with. I
    hate men, and women more. I see nothing but thorns for the
    future—wherever I may be next winter, in Italy or nowhere,
    Brown will be living near you with his indecencies. I see no
    prospect of any rest. Suppose me in Rome—well, I should there
    see you as in a magic glass going to and from town at all
    hours,——I wish you could infuse a little confidence of human
    nature into my heart. I cannot muster any—the world is too
    brutal for me—I am glad there is such a thing as the grave—I am
    sure I shall never have any rest till I get there. At any rate
    I will indulge myself by never seeing any more Dilke or Brown
    or any of their Friends. I wish I was either in your arms full
    of faith or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

                          God bless you.

                                                              J. K.




ADDITIONAL LETTERS.




ADDITIONAL LETTERS.


II _bis_.

                                                           Shanklin

                                                   Thursday Evening

                                                [15 July 1819?[54]]

    My love,

    I have been in so irritable a state of health these two or
    three last days, that I did not think I should be able to
    write this week. Not that I was so ill, but so much so as only
    to be capable of an unhealthy teasing letter. To night I am
    greatly recovered only to feel the languor I have felt after
    you touched with ardency. You say you perhaps might have made
    me better: you would then have made me worse: now you could
    quite effect a cure: What fee my sweet Physician would I not
    give you to do so. Do not call it folly, when I tell you I took
    your letter last night to bed with me. In the morning I found
    your name on the sealing wax obliterated. I was startled at the
    bad omen till I recollected that it must have happened in my
    dreams, and they you know fall out by contraries. You must have
    found out by this time I am a little given to bode ill like
    the raven; it is my misfortune not my fault; it has proceeded
    from the general tenor of the circumstances of my life, and
    rendered every event suspicious. However I will no more trouble
    either you or myself with sad prophecies; though so far I am
    pleased at it as it has given me opportunity to love your
    disinterestedness towards me. I can be a raven no more; you
    and pleasure take possession of me at the same moment. I am
    afraid you have been unwell. If through me illness have touched
    you (but it must be with a very gentle hand) I must be selfish
    enough to feel a little glad at it. Will you forgive me this? I
    have been reading lately an oriental tale of a very beautiful
    color[55]—It is of a city of melancholy men, all made so by
    this circumstance. Through a series of adventures each one of
    them by turns reach some gardens of Paradise where they meet
    with a most enchanting Lady; and just as they are going to
    embrace her, she bids them shut their eyes—they shut them—and
    on opening their eyes again find themselves descending to the
    earth in a magic basket. The remembrance of this Lady and their
    delights lost beyond all recovery render them melancholy ever
    after. How I applied this to you, my dear; how I palpitated
    at it; how the certainty that you were in the same world with
    myself, and though as beautiful, not so talismanic as that
    Lady; how I could not bear you should be so you must believe
    because I swear it by yourself. I cannot say when I shall get
    a volume ready. I have three or four stories half done, but as
    I cannot write for the mere sake of the press, I am obliged
    to let them progress or lie still as my fancy chooses. By
    Christmas perhaps they may appear,[56] but I am not yet sure
    they ever will. ’Twill be no matter, for Poems are as common
    as newspapers and I do not see why it is a greater crime in
    me than in another to let the verses of an half-fledged brain
    tumble into the reading-rooms and drawing-room windows. Rice
    has been better lately than usual: he is not suffering from
    any neglect of his parents who have for some years been able
    to appreciate him better than they did in his first youth, and
    are now devoted to his comfort. Tomorrow I shall, if my health
    continues to improve during the night, take a look fa[r]ther
    about the country, and spy at the parties about here who come
    hunting after the picturesque like beagles. It is astonishing
    how they raven down scenery like children do sweetmeats. The
    wondrous Chine here is a very great Lion: I wish I had as many
    guineas as there have been spy-glasses in it. I have been,
    I cannot tell why, in capital spirits this last hour. What
    reason? When I have to take my candle and retire to a lonely
    room, without the thought as I fall asleep, of seeing you
    tomorrow morning? or the next day, or the next—it takes on the
    appearance of impossibility and eternity—I will say a month—I
    will say I will see you in a month at most, though no one but
    yourself should see me; if it be but for an hour. I should not
    like to be so near you as London without being continually with
    you: after having once more kissed you Sweet I would rather be
    here alone at my task than in the bustle and hateful literary
    chitchat. Meantime you must write to me—as I will every
    week—for your letters keep me alive. My sweet Girl I cannot
    speak my love for you. Good night! and

                            Ever yours

                                                        JOHN KEATS.


XXXIV _bis_.

                                                      Tuesday Morn.

    My dearest Girl,

    I wrote a letter[57] for you yesterday expecting to have seen
    your mother. I shall be selfish enough to send it though I know
    it may give you a little pain, because I wish you to see how
    unhappy I am for love of you, and endeavour as much as I can
    to entice you to give up your whole heart to me whose whole
    existence hangs upon you. You could not step or move an eyelid
    but it would shoot to my heart—I am greedy of you. Do not think
    of anything but me. Do not live as if I was not existing. Do
    not forget me—But have I any right to say you forget me?
    Perhaps you think of me all day. Have I any right to wish you
    to be unhappy for me? You would forgive me for wishing it if
    you knew the extreme passion I have that you should love me—and
    for you to love me as I do you, you must think of no one but
    me, much less write that sentence. Yesterday and this morning I
    have been haunted with a sweet vision—I have seen you the whole
    time in your shepherdess dress. How my senses have ached at
    it! How my heart has been devoted to it! How my eyes have been
    full of tears at it! I[n]deed I think a real love is enough
    to occupy the widest heart. Your going to town alone when I
    heard of it was a shock to me—yet I expected it—_promise me
    you will not for some time till I get better_. Promise me this
    and fill the paper full of the most endearing names. If you
    cannot do so with good will, do my love tell me—say what you
    think—confess if your heart is too much fasten’d on the world.
    Perhaps then I may see you at a greater distance, I may not be
    able to appropriate you so closely to myself. Were you to loose
    a favourite bird from the cage, how would your eyes ache after
    it as long as it was in sight; when out of sight you would
    recover a little. Perhaps if you would, if so it is, confess to
    me how many things are necessary to you besides me, I might be
    happier; by being less tantaliz’d. Well may you exclaim, how
    selfish, how cruel not to let me enjoy my youth! to wish me to
    be unhappy. You must be so if you love me. Upon my soul I can
    be contented with nothing else. If you would really what is
    call’d enjoy yourself at a Party—if you can smile in people’s
    faces, and wish them to admire you _now_—you never have nor
    ever will love me. I see _life_ in nothing but the certainty of
    your Love—convince me of it my sweetest. If I am not somehow
    convinced I shall die of agony. If we love we must not live
    as other men and women do—I cannot brook the wolfsbane of
    fashion and foppery and tattle—you must be mine to die upon the
    rack if I want you. I do not pretend to say that I have more
    feeling than my fellows, but I wish you seriously to look over
    my letters kind and unkind and consider whether the person who
    wrote them can be able to endure much longer the agonies and
    uncertainties which you are so peculiarly made to create. My
    recovery of bodily health will be of no benefit to me if you
    are not mine when I am well. For God’s sake save me—or tell me
    my passion is of too awful a nature for you. Again God bless
    you.

                                                              J. K.

    No—my sweet Fanny—I am wrong—I do not wish you to be
    unhappy—and yet I do, I must while there is so sweet a
    Beauty—my loveliest, my darling! good bye! I kiss you—O the
    torments!




APPENDIX.


I.

FANNY BRAWNE’S ESTIMATE OF KEATS.

In discussing the effect which the _Quarterly Review_ article had on
Keats, Medwin[58] quotes the following passages from a communication
addressed to him by Fanny Brawne after her marriage:—

    “I did not know Keats at the time the review appeared. It was
    published, if I remember rightly, in June, 1818.[59] However
    great his mortification might have been, he was not, I should
    say, of a character likely to have displayed it in the manner
    mentioned in Mrs. Shelley’s Remains of her husband. Keats,
    soon after the appearance of the review in question, started
    on a walking expedition into the Highlands. From thence he was
    forced to return, in consequence of the illness of a brother,
    whose death a few months afterwards affected him strongly.

    “It was about this time that I became acquainted with Keats.
    We met frequently at the house of a mutual friend, (not Leigh
    Hunt’s), but neither then nor afterwards did I see anything
    in his manner to give the idea that he was brooding over any
    secret grief or disappointment. His conversation was in the
    highest degree interesting, and his spirits good, excepting
    at moments when anxiety regarding his brother’s health
    dejected them. His own illness, that commenced in January
    1820,[60] began from inflammation in the lungs, from cold. In
    coughing, he ruptured a blood-vessel. An hereditary tendency to
    consumption was aggravated by the excessive susceptibility of
    his temperament, for I never see those often quoted lines of
    Dryden without thinking how exactly they applied to Keats:—

      The fiery soul, that working out its way,
      Fretted the pigmy body to decay.

    From the commencement of his malady he was forbidden to write
    a line of poetry,[61] and his failing health, joined to the
    uncertainty of his prospects, often threw him into deep
    melancholy.

    “The letter, p. 295 of Shelley’s Remains, from Mr. Finch,
    seems calculated to give a very false idea of Keats. That
    his sensibility was most acute, is true, and his passions
    were very strong, but not violent, if by that term violence
    of temper is implied. His was no doubt susceptible, but his
    anger seemed rather to turn on himself than on others, and in
    moments of greatest irritation, it was only by a sort of savage
    despondency that he sometimes grieved and wounded his friends.
    Violence such as the letter describes, was quite foreign to his
    nature. For more than a twelvemonth before quitting England, I
    saw him every day, often witnessed his sufferings, both mental
    and bodily, and I do not hesitate to say that he never could
    have addressed an unkind expression, much less a violent one,
    to any human being. During the last few months before leaving
    his native country, his mind underwent a fierce conflict; for
    whatever in moments of grief or disappointment he might say or
    think, his most ardent desire was to live to redeem his name
    from the obloquy cast upon it;[62] nor was it till he knew his
    death inevitable, that he eagerly wished to die. Mr. Finch’s
    letter goes on to say—‘Keats might be judged insane,’—I believe
    the fever that consumed him, might have brought on a temporary
    species of delirium that made his friend Mr. Severn’s task a
    painful one.”


II.

THE LOCALITY OF WENTWORTH PLACE.

The precise locality of Wentworth Place, Hampstead, has been a matter of
uncertainty and dispute; and I found even the children of the lady to
whom the foregoing letters were addressed without any exact knowledge
on the subject. The houses which went to make up Wentworth Place were
those inhabited respectively by the Dilke family, the Brawne family,
and Charles Armitage Brown; but these were not three houses as might be
supposed, the fact being that Mrs. Brawne rented first Brown’s house
during his absence with Keats in the summer of 1818, and then Dilke’s
when the latter removed to Westminster.

At page 98 of the late Mr. Howitt’s _Northern Heights of London_,[63] it
is said of Keats:—

    “From this time till 1820, when he left—in the last stage of
    consumption—for Italy, he resided principally at Hampstead.
    During most of this time, he lived with his very dear friend
    Mr. Charles Brown, a Russia merchant, at Wentworth Place,
    Downshire Hill, by Pond Street, Hampstead. Previously, he and
    his brother Thomas had occupied apartments at the next house
    to Mr. Brown’s, at a Mrs. ——’s whose name his biographers have
    carefully omitted. With the daughter of this lady Keats was
    deeply in love—a passion which deepened to the last.”

No authority is given for the statement that John and Tom Keats lodged
with the mother of the lady to whom John was attached; and I think it
must have arisen from a misapprehension of something communicated to
Mr. Howitt, perhaps in such ambiguous terms as every investigator has
experienced in his time. At all events I must contradict the statement
positively; nor is there any doubt where the brothers did lodge, namely
in Well Walk, with the family of the local postman, Benjamin Bentley.
Charles Cowden Clarke mentions in his Recollections that the lodging was
“in the first or second house on the right hand, going up to the Heath”;
and the rate books show that Bentley was rated from 1814 to 1824 for the
house which, in 1838, was numbered 1, the house next to the public house
formerly called the “Green Man,” but now known as the “Wells” Tavern. At
page 102, Mr. Howitt says:—

    “It is to be regretted that Wentworth Place, where Keats
    lodged, and wrote some of his finest poetry, either no longer
    exists or no longer bears that name. At the bottom of John
    Street, on the left hand in descending, is a villa called
    Wentworth House; but no Wentworth Place exists between
    Downshire Hill and Pond Street, the locality assigned to it.
    I made the most rigorous search in that quarter, inquiring
    of the tradesmen daily supplying the houses there, and of
    two residents of forty and fifty years. None of them had
    any knowledge or recollection of a Wentworth Place. Possibly
    Keats’s friend, Mr. Brown, lived at Wentworth House, and that
    the three cottages standing in a line with it and facing
    South-End Road, but at a little distance from the road in a
    garden, might then bear the name of Wentworth Place. The end
    cottage would then, as stated in the lines of Keats, be next
    door to Mr. Brown’s. These cottages still have apartments
    to let, and in all other respects accord with the assigned
    locality.”

Mr. Howitt seems to have meant that Wentworth House _with_ the cottages
may possibly have borne the name of Wentworth Place; and he should have
said that the house was on the _right_ hand in descending John Street.
But the fact of the case is correctly stated in Mr. Thorne’s _Handbook to
the Environs of London_,[64] Part I, page 291, where a bolder and more
explicit localization is given:

    “The House in which he [Keats] lodged for the greater part of
    the time, then called Wentworth Place, is now called Lawn Bank,
    and is the end house but one on the rt. side of John Street,
    next Wentworth House.”

Mr. Thorne adduces no authority for the statement; and it must be
assumed that it is based on some of the private communications which he
acknowledges generally in his preface. He may possibly have been biassed
by the plane-tree which Mr. Howitt, at page 101 of _Northern Heights_,
substitutes for the traditional plum-tree in quoting Lord Houghton’s
account of the composition of the _Ode to a Nightingale_. Certainly there
is a fine old plane-tree in front of the house at Lawn Bank; and there
is a local tradition of a nightingale and a poet connected with that
tree; but this dim tradition may be merely a misty repetition, from mouth
to mouth, of Mr. Howitt’s extract from Lord Houghton’s volumes. _Primâ
facie_, a plane-tree might seem to be a very much more likely shelter
than a plum-tree for Keats to have chosen to place his chair beneath;
and yet one would think that, had Mr. Howitt purposely substituted the
plane-tree for the plum-tree, it would have been because he found it by
the house which he supposed to be Brown’s. This however is not the case;
and it should also be mentioned that at the western end of Lawn Bank,
among some shrubs &c., there is an old and dilapidated plum-tree which
grows so as to form a kind of leafy roof.

Eleven years ago, when I attempted to identify Wentworth Place beyond
a doubt by local and other enquiries, the gardener at Wentworth House
assured me very positively that, some fifteen or twenty years before,
when Lawn Bank (then called Lawn Cottage) was in bad repair, and the
rain had washed nearly all the colour off the front, he used to read the
words “Wentworth Place,” painted in large letters beside the top window
at the extreme left of the old part of the house as one faces it; and I
have since had the pleasure of reading the words there myself; for the
colour got washed thin enough again some time afterwards. After a great
deal of enquiry among older inhabitants of Hampstead than this gardener,
I found a musician, born there in 1801, and resident there ever since,
a most intelligent and clear-headed man, who had been in the habit of
playing at various houses in Hampstead from the year 1812 onwards. When
asked, simply and without any “leading” remark, what he could tell about
a group of houses formerly known as Wentworth Place, he replied without
hesitation that Lawn Bank, when he was a youth, certainly bore that name,
that it was two houses, with entrances at the sides, in one of which
he played as early as 1824, and that subsequently the two houses were
converted into one, at very great expense, to form a residence for Miss
Chester,[65] who called the place Lawn Cottage. This informant did not
remember the names of the persons occupying the two houses. A surgeon
of repute, among the oldest inhabitants of Hampstead, told me, as an
absolute certainty, that he was there as early as 1827, knew the Brawne
family, and attended them professionally at Wentworth Place, in the house
forming the western half of Lawn Bank. Of Charles Brown, however, this
gentleman had no knowledge.

Not perfectly satisfied with the local evidence, I forwarded to Mr.
Severn a sketch-plan of the immediate locality, in order that he might
identify the houses in which he visited Keats and Brown and the Brawne
family: he replied that it was in Lawn Bank that Brown and Mrs. Brawne
had their respective residences; and he also mentioned side entrances;
but Sir Charles Dilke says his grandfather’s house had the entrance
in front, and only Brown’s had a side entrance. Two relatives of Mrs.
Brawne’s who were still living in 1877, and were formerly residents in
the house, also identified this block as that in which she resided, and
so did the late Mr. William Dilke of Chichester, by whose instructions,
during the absence of his brother, the name was first painted upon the
house. It is hard to see what further evidence can be wanted on the
subject. The recollection of one person may readily be distrusted; but
where so many memories converge in one result, their evidence must be
accepted; and I leave these details on record here, mainly on the ground
that doubts may possibly arise again. At present it does not seem as if
there could be any possible question that, in Lawn Bank, we have the
immortalized Wentworth Place where Keats spent so much time, first as
co-inmate with Brown in the eastern half of the block, and at last when
he went to be nursed by Mrs. and Miss Brawne in the western half.

It should perhaps be pointed out, in regard to Mr. Thorne’s expression
that Keats _lodged_ there, that this was not a case of lodging in the
ordinary sense: he was a sharing inmate; and his share of the expenses
was duly acquitted, as recorded by Mr. Dilke. In the hope of identifying
the houses by some documentary evidence, I had the parish rate-books
searched; in these there is no mention of John Street; but that part of
Hampstead is described as the Lower Heath Quarter: no names of houses are
given; and the only evidence to the purpose is that, among the ratepayers
of the Lower Heath Quarter, very few in number, were Charles Wentworth
Dilk (without the final _e_) and Charles Brown. The name of Mrs. Brawne
does not appear; but, as she rented the house in Wentworth Place of Mr.
Dilke, it may perhaps be assumed that it was he who paid the rates.

It will perhaps be thought that the steps of the enquiry in this matter
are somewhat “prolixly set forth”; and the only plea in mitigation to
be offered is that, without evidence, those who really care to know the
facts of the case could hardly be satisfied.


THE END.




FOOTNOTES


[1] _The Poetical Works of John Keats. With a Memoir by Richard
Monckton Milnes. A new Edition._ 1863 (and other dates). See p. ix,
Memoir.

[2] _Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. Edited by
Richard Monckton Milnes_ (Two Volumes, Moxon, 1848). My references,
throughout, are to this edition; but it will be sufficient to cite
it henceforth simply as _Life, Letters, &c._, specifying the volume
and page.

[3] _The Poetical Works of John Keats. Chronologically arranged and
edited, with a Memoir, by Lord Houghton, D.C.L., Hon. Fellow of
Trin. Coll. Cambridge_ (Bell & Sons, 1876). See p. xxiii, Memoir.

[4] _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. I, pp. 234-6.

[5] _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. I, p. 240.

[6] _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. I, pp. 252-3.

[7] _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. I, p. 268, and Vol. II, p. 301.
Should not the semicolon at _point_ change places with the comma at
_knowledge_?

[8] _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. I, p. 270, and Vol. II, p. 302.

[9] This little book, now in my collection, is of great interest.
It is marked throughout for Miss Brawne’s use,—according to Keats’s
fashion of “marking the most beautiful passages” in his books for
her. At one end is written the sonnet referred to in the text,
apparently composed by Keats with the book before him, as there are
two “false starts,” as well as erasures; and at the other end, in
the handwriting of Miss Brawne, is copied Keats’s last sonnet,

    Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art.

The Spenser similarly marked, the subject of Letter XXXIV, is
missing.

[10] See _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. II, p. 35.

[11] _The Philobiblion a monthly Bibliographical Journal.
Containing Critical Notices of, and Extracts from, Rare, Curious,
and Valuable Old Books._ (Two Volumes. Geo. P. Philes & Co., 51
Nassau Street, New York. 1862-3.) The Keats letter is at p. 196
of Vol. I, side by side with one purporting to be Shelley’s, a
flagrant forgery which has been publicly animadverted on several
times lately, having been reprinted as genuine.

[12] The correspondent of _The World_ would seem (I only say
_seem_; for the matter is obscure) to have used Lord Houghton’s
pages for “copy” where a cursory examination indicated that they
gave the same matter as the original letter,—transcribing what
presented itself as new matter from the original. The fragment
of _Friday 27th_ was, on this supposition, in its place when the
copies were made for Lord Houghton, because there is the close; but
between that time and 1862 it must have been separated from the
letter.

[13] _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. II, p. 55.

[14] It is interesting, by the way, to extract the following note
of locality from the _Autobiography_ (Vol. II, p. 230): “It was not
at Hampstead that I first saw Keats. It was in York-buildings, in
the New-road (No. 8), where I wrote part of the _Indicator_; and he
resided with me while in Mortimer-terrace, Kentish-town (No. 13),
where I concluded it.”

[15] _Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. II, p. 61.

[16] See Hunt’s _Autobiography_, Vol. II, p. 216. It may be noted
in passing that the _Indicator_ version of the Sonnet varies in
some slight details from the Original in the volume of Dante
referred to at page xliv, and from Lord Houghton’s text. It is
natural to suppose that Hunt’s copy was the latest of the three;
and his text is certainly an improvement on the others where it
varies from them.

[17] _The Papers of a Critic. Selected from the Writings of the
late Charles Wentworth Dilke. With a Biographical Sketch by his
Grandson, Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, Bart., M.P., &c. In Two
Volumes._ (London. John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1875.) See Vol.
I, p. 11.

[18] This sonnet occurs at page 128 of _The Garden of Florence;
and other Poems. By John Hamilton_. (London: John Warren, Old
Bond-street. 1821.)

[19] _The Letters and Poems of John Keats._ In three volumes.
(Dodd, Mead & Co., New York, 1883). Vol. I is called _The Letters
of John Keats, edited by Jno. Gilmer Speed_: Vol. II and III, _The
Poems of John Keats, with the Annotations of Lord Houghton and a
Memoir by Jno. Gilmer Speed_.

[20] _Keats by Sidney Colvin._ (Macmillan & Co., 1887). Mr. Colvin
has also contributed to _Macmillan’s Magazine_ (August, 1888)
an Article _On Some Letters of Keats_, which I have also duly
consulted.

[21] _The Poetical Works and Other Writings of John Keats_, (Four
volumes, Reeves & Turner, 1883, considerably earlier than Mr.
Speed’s volumes appeared.)

[22] Charlotte, Mr. Colvin calls her; but her name was Jane.

[23] These two words are wanting in the original.

[24] His brother, “poor Tom,” had died about seven months before
the date of this letter.

[25]

    Ev’n mighty Pam, that kings and queens o’erthrew,
    And mow’d down armies in the fights of Loo,
    Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,
    Falls undistinguish’d by the victor Spade!—

                              Pope’s _Rape of the Lock_, iii, 61-4.

[26] Fanny’s younger sister: see Introduction.

[27] The word _Newport_ is not stamped on this letter, as on
Numbers I, II, and IV; but it is pretty evident that Keats and his
friend were still at Shanklin.

[28] I am not aware of any other published record that this name
belonged to Keats’s Mother, as well as his sister and his betrothed.

[29] Samuel Brawne, the brother of Fanny: see Introduction.

[30] I am unable to obtain or suggest any explanation of the
allusion made in this strange sentence. It is not, however,
impossible that “the Bishop” was merely a nickname of some one in
the Hampstead circle.

[31] The Tragedy referred to is, of course, _Otho the Great_, which
was composed jointly by Keats and his friend Charles Armitage
Brown. For the first four acts Brown provided the characters, plot,
&c., and Keats found the language; but the fifth act is wholly
Keats’s. See Lord Houghton’s _Life, Letters, &c._ (1848), Vol.
II, pp. 1 and 2, and foot-note at p. 333 of the Aldine edition of
Keats’s Poetical Works (Bell & Sons, 1876). A humorous account of
the progress of the joint composition occurs in a letter written by
Brown to Dilke, which is quoted at p. 9 of the memoir prefixed by
Sir Charles Dilke to _The Papers of a Critic_, referred to in the
Introduction to the present volume, p. lviii.

[32] He did not find one; for, in a letter to B. R. Haydon, dated
Winchester, 3 October, 1819, he says: “I came to this place in the
hopes of meeting with a Library, but was disappointed.” For this
letter see _Benjamin Robert Haydon: Correspondence and Table-Talk_
(Two volumes, Chatto and Windus, 1875), Vol. II, p. 16, and also
Lord Houghton’s _Life, Letters, &c._ (1848), Vol. II, p. 10, where
there is an extract from the letter somewhat differently worded and
arranged.

[33] The discrepancy between the date written by Keats and that
given in the postmark is curious as a comment on his statement
(_Life, Letters, &c._, 1848, Vol. I, p. 253) that he never knew the
date: “It is some days since I wrote the last page, but I never
know....”

[34] This word is of course left as found in the original
letter: an editor who should spell it _yacht_ would be guilty of
representing Keats as thinking what he did not think.

[35] Written, I presume, from the house of his friends and
publishers, Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, No. 93, Fleet Street.

[36] Whether he carried out this intention to the letter, I know
not; but he would seem to have been at Winchester again, at all
events, by the 22nd of September, on which day he was writing
thence to Reynolds (_Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. II, p. 23).

[37] It would seem to have been in this street that Mr. Dilke
obtained for Keats the rooms which the poet asked him to find in
the letter of the 1st of October, from Winchester, given at p.
16, Vol. II, of the _Life, Letters, &c._ (1848). How long Keats
remained in those rooms I have been unable to determine, to a
day; but in Letter No. IX he writes, eight days later, from Great
Smith Street (the address of Mr. Dilke) that he purposes “living
at Hampstead”; and there is a letter headed “Wentworth Place,
Hampstead, 17th Nov. [1819.]” at p. 35, Vol. II, of the _Life,
Letters, &c._

[38] It may be that consideration for his correspondent induced
this moderation of speech: presumably the scene here referred to
is that so graphically given in Lord Houghton’s _Life_ (Vol. II,
pp. 53-4), where we read, not that he merely “felt it possible” he
“might not survive,” but that he said to his friend, “I know the
colour of that blood,—it is arterial blood—I cannot be deceived in
that colour; that drop is my death-warrant. I must die.”

[39] This sentence indicates the lapse of perhaps about a week from
the 3rd of February, 1820.

[40] This coupling of Brown’s name with ideas of Fanny’s absence
or presence seems to be a curiously faint indication of a painful
phase of feeling more fully developed in the sequel. See Letters
XXI, XXIV, XXVI, XXXV, and XXXVII.

[41] If we are to take these words literally, this letter brings us
to the 24th of February, 1820, adopting the 3rd of February as the
day on which Keats broke a blood-vessel.

[42] George Keats’s Mother-in-law. The significant _but_ indicates
that the absence of Brown was still, as was natural, more or less a
condition of the presence of Miss Brawne. That Keats had, however,
or thought he had, some reason for this condition, beyond the
mere delicacy of lovers, is dimly shadowed by the cold _My dear
Fanny_ with which in Letter XXI the condition was first expressly
prescribed, and more than shadowed by the agonized expression of a
morbid sensibility in Letters XXXV and XXXVII. Probably a man in
sound health would have found the cause trivial enough.

[43] The MS. of _Lamia, Isabella, &c._ (the volume containing
_Hyperion_, and most of Keats’s finest work).

[44] I presume the reference is to Mr. Dilke.

[45] This statement and a general similarity of tone induce the
belief that this letter and the preceding one were written about
the same time as one to Mr. Dilke, given by Lord Houghton (in the
_Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. II, p. 57), as bearing the postmark,
“Hampstead, March 4, 1820.” In that letter Keats cites his friend
Brown as having said that he had “picked up a little flesh,” and
he refers to his “being under an interdict with respect to animal
food, living upon pseudo-victuals,”—just as in Letter XXV he speaks
to Miss Brawne of his “feeding upon sham victuals.” In the letter
to Dilke he says: “If I can keep off inflammation for the next six
weeks, I trust I shall do very well.” In Letter XXV he expresses
to Miss Brawne the hope that he may go out for a walk with her on
the 1st of May. If these correspondences may be trusted, we are now
dealing with letters of the first week in March, of which period
there are still indications in Letter XXVIII.

[46] The reference to Barry Cornwall and the cold weather indicate
that this letter was written about the 4th of March, 1820; for in
the letter to Mr. Dilke, with the Hampstead postmark of that date,
already referred to (see page 73), Keats recounts this same affair
of the books evidently as a quite recent transaction, and says he
“shall not expect Mrs. Dilke at Hampstead next week unless the
weather changes for the warmer.”

[47] Misspelt _Proctor_ in the original.

[48] It is of no real consequence what had been said about “old
Mr. Dilke,” the grandfather of the first baronet and the father
of Keats’s acquaintance; but it is to be noted that this curious
letter might have been a little more self-explanatory, had it not
been mutilated. The lower half of the second leaf has been cut
off,—by whom, the owners can only conjecture.

[49] The piece cut off the original letter is in this instance so
small that nothing can be wanting except the signature,—probably
given to an autograph-collector.

[50] This extreme bitterness of feeling must have supervened,
one would think, in increased bodily disease; for the letter was
clearly written after the parting of Keats and Brown at Gravesend,
which took place on the 7th of May, 1819, and on which occasion
there is every reason to think that the friends were undivided in
attachment. I imagine Keats would gladly have seen Brown within a
week of this time had there been any opportunity.

[51] This question may perhaps be fairly taken to indicate the
lapse of a month from the time when Keats left the house at
Hampstead next door to Miss Brawne’s, at which he probably knew her
employments well enough from day to day. If so, the time would be
about the first week in June, 1819.

[52] He was seemingly in a different phase of belief from that
in which the death of his brother Tom found him. At that time he
recorded that he and Tom both firmly believed in immortality. See
_Life, Letters, &c._, Vol. I, p. 246. A further indication of his
having shifted from the moorings of orthodoxy may be found in the
expression in Letter XXXV, “I appeal to you by the blood of that
Christ you believe in:”—not “_we_ believe in.”

[53] This seems to mean that he wrote the letter to the end, and
then filled in the words _My dearest Girl_, left out lest any one
coming near him should chance to see them. These words are written
more heavily than the beginning of the letter, and indicate a state
of pen corresponding with that shown by the words _God bless you_
at the end.

[54] This letter appears to belong between those of the 8th and
25th of July, 1819; and of the two Thursdays between these dates
it seems likelier that the 15th would be the one than that the
letter should have been written so near the 25th as on the 22nd.
The original having been mislaid, I have not been able to take the
evidence of the postmark. It will be noticed that at the close he
speaks of a weekly exchange of letters with Miss Brawne; and by
placing this letter at the 15th this programme is pretty nearly
realized so far as Keats’s letters from the Isle of Wight are
concerned.

[55] The story in question is one of the many derivatives from the
Third Calender’s Story in _The Thousand and One Nights_ and the
somewhat similar tale of “The Man who laughed not,” included in
the Notes to Lane’s _Arabian Nights_ and in the text of Payne’s
magnificent version of the complete work. I am indebted to Dr.
Reinhold Köhler, Librarian of the Grand-ducal Library of Weimar,
for identifying the particular variant referred to by Keats as the
“Histoire de la Corbeille,” in the _Nouveaux Contes Orientaux_ of
the Comte de Caylus. Mr. Morris’s beautiful poem “The Man who never
laughed again,” in _The Earthly Paradise_, has familiarized to
English readers one variant of the legend.

[56] It will of course be remembered that no such collection
appeared until the following summer, when the _Lamia_ volume was
published.

[57] I do not find in the present series any letter which I can
regard as the particular one referred to in the opening sentence.
If Letter XXXV (p. 93) were headed _Tuesday_ and this _Wednesday_,
that might well be the peccant document which appears to be missing.

[58] _The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. In Two Volumes._ London:
1847 (see Vol. II, pp. 86-93).

[59] It appeared in No. XXXVII, headed “April, 1818,” on page 1,
but described on the wrapper as “published in September, 1818.”

[60] See p. liii: it was the 3rd of February, 1820.

[61] See Letter XIII, pp. 49-50.

[62] See Letter XVII, pp. 57-8.

[63] _The Northern Heights of London or Historical Associations
of Hampstead, Highgate, Muswell Hill, Hornsey, and Islington. By
William Howitt, author of ‘Visits to Remarkable Places.’_ (London:
Longmans, Green, & Co. 1869.)

[64] _Handbook to the Environs of London, Alphabetically Arranged,
containing an account of every town and village, and of all the
places of interest, within a circle of twenty miles round London.
By James Thorne, F.S.A. In Two Parts._ (London: John Murray,
Albemarle Street. 1876.)

[65] She first appeared upon the London boards in 1822, and
afterwards became “Private Reader” to George IV.