read nor write-not even to her Mother as Charles observed. I have just had a Letter from Reynolds-he is going on gloriously. The following is a translation of a line of Ronsard1 Love poured her beauty into my warm veins. You have passed your Romance, and I never gave in to it, or else I think this line a feast for one of your Lovers. How goes it with Brown? Believe me, I have rather rejoiced at your happiness than fretted at your silence. Indeed I am grieved, on your account, that I am not at the same time happy. But I conjure you to think, at present, of nothing but pleasure; "Gather the rose," &c., gorge the honey of life. I pity you as much that it cannot last for ever, as I 1 See the Sonnet from Ronsard at pages 317-18 of Volume II. (LXIV) This interesting letter has had the chance to play a more important part in Keats's biography than it is entitled to maintain. The absence of a date left it natural to suppose that the woman referred to in it in such a serious tone was Fanny Brawne; and Lord Houghton, acting upon that assumption, places the letter after one dated the 18th of December--a position which, in the absence of documentary evidence to the contrary, I readily accepted when writing the introduction to the Letters to Fanny Brawne. But do myself now drinking bitters. Give yourself up to it -you cannot help it-and I have a consolation in thinking so. I never was in love, yet the voice and shape of a woman has haunted me these two days—at such a documents bearing on the date of this letter, now in my hands, make it certain that the date is several weeks earlier than the 18th of December; and leave, I think, no reasonable doubt that this letter to Reynolds was written about the same time as the foregoing letter to Dilke. When Keats began the letter to Dilke he had clearly been to Little Britain and heard of Reynolds; but he had not heard from him; when he ended he had "just had a Letter " from him. That letter we may presume he immediately proceeded to answer-for he says “ the voice and shape of a woman has haunted me these two days"-no doubt referring to the lady whose impression upon him he describes on the 29th of October, to George, as having been made on his return to Town when he visited the Reynoldses. Now he had but just returned from Teignmouth, for he wrote thence to Bailey some time in September. Then the state of mind about Tom and Poetry, the inability through temporary confinement to see Rice, and the occupation over Ronsard's sonnet, are all identical in the two letters. But even if this ascription of date be not admitted as proved, nothing can push the letter on later than the second week in October; for he had not heard from George; and on the 16th of October he had. Thus the reasons which make it clear he was not in love with Miss Brawne when he described “Charmian "on the 29th are valid against any connexion between Miss Brawne and the present letter; and leave barely any supposition except that the person mentioned to Reynolds was Reynolds's cousin, Miss Cox. Not being pleased with Reynolds's sisters in this connexion, Keats's natural delicacy would prevent his saying who the woman was. It must have been very soon after this that Keats met Fanny Brawne; for, in the annotated copy of the Life, Letters &c. frequently referred to, Mr. Dilke records that about October or November 1818 Keats "met Miss Brawne for the first time at my house. Brown let his house when he and Keats went to Scotland to Mrs. Brawne, a stranger to all of us. As the house adjoined mine in a large garden, we almost necessarily became acquainted. When Brown returned, the Brawnes took another house at the top of Downshire Hill; but we kept up our acquaintance and no doubt Keats, who was daily with me, met her soon after his return from Teignmouth." time, when the relief, the feverous 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. I am sensible this will distress you-you must forgive me. Had I known you would have set out so soon I would have sent you the "Pot of Basil," for I had copied it out ready. Here is a free translation of a Sonnet of Ronsard, which I think will please you. I have the loan of his works-they have great beauties. Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, &c.1 I had not the original by me when I wrote it, and did not recollect the purport of the last lines. I should have seen Rice ere this, but I am confined by Sawrey's mandate in the house now, and have, as yet, only gone out in fear of the damp night. I shall soon be quite recovered. Your offer I shall remember as though it had even now taken place in fact. I think it cannot be, Tom is not up yet-I cannot say he is better, I have not heard from George. Your affectionate friend, John Keats. 1 For the sonnet see Volume II, pages 317-18. My dear Fanny, LXV. To FANNY KEATS. Miss Tuckey's, [Postmark, Hampstead, 9 October 1818.] Poor Tom is about the same as when you saw him last; perhaps weaker-were it not for that I should have been over to pay you a visit these fine days. I got to the stage half an hour before it set out and counted the buns and tarts in a Pastry-cook's window and was just beginning with the Jellies. There was no one in the Coach who had a Mind to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be punctual in enquiring about next ThursdayYour affectionate Brother John The situation is not very clearly indicated in this note, unless we are to read half an hour before it set out as an elliptical expression for half an hour before it would have set out had there been passengers enough. Otherwise, one cannot well see what was the explanation of the change of plan. LXVI. To JAMES AUGUSTUS HESSEY. My dear Hessey, 9 October 1818. You are very good in sending me the letters from the Chronicle,' and I am very bad in not acknowledging such a kindness sooner: pray forgive me. It has so chanced that I have had that paper every day. I have seen to-day's. I cannot but feel indebted to those gentlemen who have taken my part. As for the rest, I begin to get a little acquainted with my own strength and weakness. Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works. My own domestic criticism has given me pain without comparison beyond what "Blackwood" or the "Quarterly" could possibly inflict: and also when I feel I am right, no external praise can give me such a glow as my own solitary reperception and ratification of what is fine. J. S. is perfectly right in regard to the "slip-shod Endymion." That it is so is no fault of mine. No! though it may sound a little paradoxical, it is as good as I had power to make it by myself. Had I been nervous about its being a perfect piece, and with that view asked advice, and trembled over every page, it would not have been written; for it is not in my nature to fumble. I will write independently. I have written independently without judgment. I may write independently, and with judgment, hereafter. The Genius of Poetry must work out its own salvation in a man. It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensation and watchfulness 1 See Appendix. |