Some Personal Reflections on the Poetry and Life of John Keats, Part 2

"Happy is England I could be content!"

Happy is England! I could be content!
   To see no other verdure than its own;
   To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent:
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
   For skies Italian, and an inward groan
   To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worldling meant.
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;
   Enough their simple loveliness for me,
      Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:
   Yet do I often warmly burn to see
      Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,
And float with them about the summer waters

_______________

When I set about preparing this blog, I had a simple idea. Having previously asked the question, Who was Keats? I thought that this time, I would focus on the writing process. To that end, I told myself, I would extract from his work, those poems that could be considered autobiographical: in that they would speak of his aspirations, his preparation and application, and of the inevitable trials and tribulations that he had encountered along the way. And together with relevant passages from his letters, I hoped that these poems would be an appropriate measure of his success: If I could achieve a down-to-earth portrayal in verse, I told myself, of Keats's perception of what it was to be a poet, and of what it cost him to succeed, I would consider it success.

Well to that end I had some interesting titles to hand, of which these are a few; and appended to them a sentence or two as to why I thought they might be relevant. Taken together, I was certain that, "O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell!"; and "To one who has been long in city pent", had something to say, not just about Keats's perception of what it was to be a poet, but from where or what poetic inspiration came. As for, "How many bards gild the lapses of time!", this poem seemed to represent not just Keats's appreciation of past poetic influences, but also his awareness of the need to stand apart from these influences, "so as to dwell on the present and the task in hand":

How many bards gild the lapses of time
   A few of them have ever been the food
   Of my delighted fancy - I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
   These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
   But no disturbance, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion, 'tis a pleasing chime.
So the numbered sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds, the whispering of the leaves,
   The voice of waters, the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound, and thousand others more,
   That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Made pleasing music; and not wild uproar.

­_______________

Moving on, and for now, passing over Sleep and Poetry, and Ode to Psyche, (to the soul), it is worth stopping for a few moments at "O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind", a poem that I labelled "philosophical". In a letter written in February 1818, Keats, in reflective mood, explained to his friend John Hamilton Reynolds, (himself a writer), how this poem came to be written:

"I was lead into these thoughts my dear Reynolds" [his musings on what constitutes a perfect life in the context of "Poesy"], "by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of idleness - I have not read any Books - The Morning said I was right - I had no idea but of the morning and the Thrush said I was right - seeming to say:

O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind;
   Whose eye has seen the Snow clouds hung in Mist
   And the black-elm tops 'mong the freezing Stars
   To thee the spring will be a harvest time--
O thou whose only book has been the light
   Of supreme darkness which thou feedest on
   Night after night, when Phoebus was away
   To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn--
O fret not after knowledge - I have none
   And yet my song comes native with the warmth
O fret not after knowledge - I have none
   And yet the Evening listens - He who saddens
At thoughts of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.

_______________

Now whatever insights we might gain from these poems, I quickly came to appreciate that my approach was too simplistic. What was essential was that Keats's poetry should be placed in context, a task made difficult, (relying on his poems alone), by Keats's indifference to the age in which he was living, and in particular to that society that existed beyond his narrow circle of friends. So a different approach was needed if I was to accurately convey a sense, not just of the depth and strength of his commitment to the poetic craft, but also, something of the influences that shaped him, and identified him, as being among that group of poets known as The Romantics.

Now in the context of understanding Keats's detachment from the wider society, (and his need, at times, to separate himself from his closest friends), we must remember that Keats was a sensual being, something readily apparent here, where in reassuring Fanny Brawne he conveys something of the pain that he has endured in separating himself from her. The letter was written at Winchester, in August 1819:

"Forgive me for this Flint-worded Letter - and believe and see that I cannot think of you without some sort of energy - though mal a propos - even as I leave off - it seems to me that even 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 - ..."

Now in this context of separateness and commitment to poetry, and in consideration of the influences that were at work, and the price paid by Keats's in striving for his ideal, there is much to be gained in retracing our steps back to April 1817, and following Keats form Carisbrooke on the Isle of Wight, to Margate, and from there to Canterbury, and Oxford, and back to Hampstead, as he worked on his epic poem Endymion; a work that in my previous blog I described as: "a benchmark for Keats: a quite deliberate test of his ability, in the future, to write extensively and with imagination." And in this journey he was not alone, for as he went from place to place, he was forever in the shadow of those literary greats who were to be such an important influence in his life: Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth; and as we go, we will get some understanding of what it was, for Keats, to be a poet.

At Carisbrooke he is in ebullient mood and creating an environment that is conducive to work. He has the works of Shakespeare and Spencer to hand, and has put up pictures of Haydon, Mary Queen of Scots, and Milton with his daughters, and he is bubbling with enthusiasm:

"I find that I cannot exist without poetry", he tells Reynolds, " - without eternal poetry - half the day will not do the whole of it - I begin with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan - I had become all a Tremble from not having written anything of late - the Sonnet over leaf did me some good I slept the better last night for it".

It was, On The Sea, and was one of only a handful of poems that he wrote in the eight months that it took him to complete Endymion:

It keeps eternal whisperings around
   Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
   Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns; till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found
   That scarcely will the very smallest shell
   Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell
When last the winds of Heaven were unbound
O ye who have your eyeballs vext and tir'd
   Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea
      O ye whose Ears are dimmed with uproar rude.
   Or feed too much with cloying melody--
      Sit ye near some old Cavern's Mouth and brood
Until ye start as if the Sea Nymphs quired--

_______________

At Margate, in May, he wrote to Leigh Hunt, friend and editor of the Examiner, in which his first poem was published, and to Benjamin Haydon, also a friend and historical painter, and to his publishers John Taylor and James Augustus Hessey. These letters are interesting for what they reveal about the cost, as he struggled with Endymion: his anxieties and self-doubt. And it is apparent from the letter to Haydon, that apart from his influence on Keats in respect of art and culture, more broadly, he fulfilled the role of mentor:

To Hunt:

"I vow that I have been down in the Mouth lately, at this work. [Endymion] These last two days however I have felt more confident - I have asked myself so often why I should be a poet more than other Men - seeing how great a thing it is - how much great things are to be gained by it - What a thing to be in the Mouth of Fame - that at last the idea has grown so monstrously beyond my seeming power of attainment that the other day I nearly consented with myself to drop into a Phaeton - yet 'tis a disgrace to fail even in a large attempt, and at this moment I drive the thought from me. I began my Poem about a Fortnight since and have done some every day except travelling ones - Perhaps I have done a good deal for the time but it appears such a Pin's point to me that I will not copy any out...."

And Haydon:

"I suppose by your telling me not to give way to forbodings George has mentioned to you what I have lately said in my Letters to him - truth is I have been in such a state of Mind as to read over my Lines and hate them. I am "one that gathers Samphire dreadful trade" the Cliff of Poesy Towers above me-...I read and write about eight hours a day. There is an old saying "well begun is half done" 't is a bad one. I would use instead - Not begun at all "till half done" so according to that I have not begun my Poem and consequently (a priori) can say nothing about it."

Then, and in the context of what he saw as Leigh Hunt's "self delusions" in respect of poetry, he wrote:

"There is no greater sin after the 7 deadly than to flatter onself into an idea of being a great Poet - or one of those beings who are privileged to wear out their Lives in the pursuit of Honor -how comfortable a feel it is that such a Crime must bring its heavy Penalty? That if one be a Selfdeluder accounts will be balanced."

And Taylor and Hessey:

"I went day by day at my Poem for a month at the end of which time the other day I found my Brain so overwrought that I had neither Rhyme nor reason in it - so was obliged to give up for a few days - I hope soon to be able to resume my Work - I have endeavoured to do so once or twice but to no Purpose - Instead of Poetry I have swimming in my head - and feel all the effects of a Mental Debauch - lowness of Spirits - anxiety to go on without the power to do so which does not at all tend to my ultimate Progression - However tomorrow I will begin my next Month - This evening I go to Canterbury - having got tired of Margate - I was not right in my head when I came - At Canty [Canterbury] I hope the remembrance of Chaucer will set me forward like a Billiard-ball."

But even in these troubled times, Keats was capable of lightness of touch, as in this moving ending to his letter to Hessey:

"So now in the name of Shakespeare, Raphael and all our Saints I commend you to the care of Heaven!"

Shakespeare, an ever present influence and quoted in his letters, was the inspiration for his sonnet, On The Sea. And when the lady of the house at Carisbrooke, where he was staying, insisted that he take with him the bust of Shakespeare that adorned the passage, it prompted this discussion on destiny, with Haydon:

"I remember you saying that you had notions of a good Genius presiding over you - I have of late had the same thought, for things which [I] do half at Random are afterwards confirmed by my judgement in a dozen features of Propriety - Is it too daring to fancy Shakespeare this Provider? When in the Isle of Wight I met with a Shakespeare in the Passage of the house at which I lodged - it comes nearer to my idea of him than any I have seen - I was but there a Week yet the old Woman made me take it with me though I went off in a hurry - Do you not think this is ominous of good? ..."

Now when reading Keats, I am conscious of the maxim that, "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing", something brought home to me with force, when I read this, another of those few poems that Keats wrote while working on Endymion.

      Unfelt, unheard, unseen,
      I've left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
      Ah! through their nestling touch,
      Who--who could tell how much
There is for madness--cruel, or complying?

      Those faery lids how sleek"
      Those lips how moist!--they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
      Into my fancy's ear
      Melting a burden dear
How "Love doth know no fullness nor no bounds."

      True!--tender monitors!
      I bend unto your laws:
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
      So without more ado,
      I'll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.

_______________

When I first read this poem I felt certain that it was written for Fanny Brawne, until it occurred to me, that at this point they hadn't met. So for guidance I turned to the "experts". One tells me:

"Date uncertain, but written before the 17 August 1817. Published 1848."

While another, by far the most substantial commentary that I have to hand, says:

"Probably written early summer 1817 with the preceding poem ["You say you love"] and certainly before the 17 August 1817..." And going to the headnote for the poem in question, Miriam Allott, whose notes these are, links this poem to Keats's meeting a, "Mrs. Isabella Jones at Hastings May-June 1817" and suggests a link between this poem and the "Elizabethan poem, A Proper Wooing Song." Which goes to reinforce the point, that for a proper understanding of the depth of Keats commitment to poetry, and the influences at work in it, we simply have to consult the "experts". But for now I want to leave you with this, a lengthy quotation from Keats's letter to Benjamin Bailey, dated 8 October 1817, and written from Hampstead. Endymion is nearing completion and here he is quoting from a letter that he wrote to his brother George in the spring; and if you have the time, and inclination, between this and my next blog on the subject of Keats, there is plenty here to chew on:

""As to what you say about my being a poet, I retu[r]n no answer but by saying that the high idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering to high above me. At any rate I have no right to talk until Endymion is finished - it will be a test, a trial of my Powers of Imagination and chiefly of my invention which is a rare thing indeed - by which I must make 4000 Lines of one bare circumstance and fill them with Poetry, and when I consider that this is a great task, and that when it is done it will take me but a dozen paces towards the Temple of Fame - it makes me say - God forbid that I should be without such a task! I have heard Hunt say and may be asked - Why endeavour after a long Poem? To which I should answer - Do not the lovers of Poetry like to have a little Region to wander in where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and new in a second Reading: Which may be food for a week's stroll in Summer? Do not they like this better than what they can read through before Mrs. Williams comes down stairs? A Morning work at most. Besides a long Poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar Star of Poetry, as Fancy is the Sails, and Imagination the Rudder. Did our great Poets ever write short Pieces? I mean the shape of Tales - This same invention seems i[n]deed of late Years to have been forgotten as a Poetical excellence. But enough of this, I put on no Laurels till I shall have finished Endymion, and I hope Apollo is [not] angered at my having made a mockery at him at At Hunts"". To which he adds, significantly, ""I refused to visit Shelley, that I might have my own unfettered scope.""

­________________

© Cormac McCloskey

Sources:
From my notes: "so as to dwell on the present and the task in hand":


Letters of John Keats
Oxford Letters & Memoirs
Editor, Robert Gittings
ISBN 0-18-281081-2 (1990)

John Keats: The Complete Poems
Penguin Classics
Editor, John Barnard
ISBN (Not given) (1988)

Keats: The Complete Poems
Editor, Miriam Allott
Longman (1995)
ISBN 0-582-48457--X

Some Personal Reflections on the Poetry and Life of John Keats, Part 1

“Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have you souls in Heaven too,
Doubled lived in regions new"
__________

This philosophic questioning, it seems to me, is a good point at which to begin sharing with you, my thoughts on the poetry and life of John Keats; to which I would like to add the concluding sentiments as expressed in this particular Ode:

“Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumbered, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.”

_______________

Now there is nothing profound either in the structure or content of this poem, but instead, the priceless affirmation of a truth: that each succeeding generation can draw on the abundance of riches that have been left to it by those who have gone before. But of course, as Keats well understood, we have to want to be influenced, which was why he devoted time to the study of fellow poets such as Chaucer, Spencer, Shakespeare and Milton; and, had an interest in, and view about, his contemporaries: Fielding, Wordsworth, Shelley and Byron.

And closely allied to the ideas expressed in this poem, are those to be found in Fancy, a poem that first appeared in a long letter that Keats wrote to his only surviving brother George, and his wife Georgiana, who, earlier, in that year, 1818, had emigrated to America. This letter, begun on the 16 December and not completed until January 1819, was started just two weeks after the death of their younger brother Tom, whom John Keats had cared for in his final weeks of life. So when Keats, in this poem, reflects on the transient nature of things, and works (backwards) through the seasons, consciously or unconsciously, powerful forces are at work, because chief among the formative influences in Keats early life, was death:

   “O sweet Fancy! let her loose -
Summer’s joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn’s red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting,”
_______________

That said, this poem is entirely positive, for it makes an important statement about the capacity of the creative mind to go beyond the norm, an idea that Keats conveys with subtlety in this rhyming couplet:

“Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her”

The point being, that the extension of our horizon is something that comes from within. As indicated here, Fancy is a caged bird that if once let loose will soar into the heavens, and in giving expression to the consequence of this freeing of the captive mind, Keats retraces its path back through the seasons, not as previously, to the point of decline and stagnation, but to a fullness of life in “Autumn” at which point the imagination (Fancy), makes it possible for us to see, hear, and feel those earlier sensations in the present moment:

“She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sword or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn’s Wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it – thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And, in the same moment – hark!
‘Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.”
________________

So accepting Keats’s point in these poems, that the poet can live twice, and that the past can be enjoyed simultaneously with the present, the poem, in the context of Fancy, progresses, until in its closing moments we are carried into the realms of Greek mythology, to the worlds of Cere: the goddess of corn and of harvests, to Pluto, in the poem alluded to as, ”the God of Torment”, to Hebe, a daughter of Jupiter and Juno, who was fair and always in the bloom of youth, and Jove, or (Jupiter), the most powerful of all the god’s among the ancients. And it was this preoccupation with the mythological: a feature of Keats’s poetry, that I have little knowledge of, that unexpectedly sent me off in a different direction.

As I read Endymion, Keats’s first attempt at Epic poetry based on the Greek myths, (and that is in excess of a hundred pages), I found myself becoming increasingly exasperated with grots, damsels, dells, bowers, nymphs, shepherds, and winged beasts; and fatigued, as I struggled amidst a panoply of unfamiliar names, to know what they represented. And as some had multiple identities, to know who was who. But not withstanding these frustrations, I kept going, for I had sufficient knowledge to know that this obscure poem had been a benchmark for Keats: a quite deliberate test of his ability, in the future, to write extensively and with imagination. But the further I travelled through this unreal world, the more I was confronted not by new God’s or strange creatures, but by the spectre of Robert Burns, whose personality is ever present in his poems, as is the physical and social landscape in which he lived. A consummate performer, he had a definite sense of self, and a determination that his many voices would be heard, and that he, Robert Burns, would be remembered. Whether it was lines of tenderness or of seduction, of humour or self deprecation, or an acerbic wit that mocked the self righteous, or the image of himself as a Scot poet forced into exile so that he could earn a living, the personality and character of Burns was ever present. And this was what I was missing in Endymion, the personality of Keats, and though I had read his poetry previously, I was disturbed by the though that he would be just as elusive in his better known poems; so much so, that I felt it a necessity to ask the question, Who was Keats? and as to whether or not it would be possible to construct a biography of him, minus his poems. An absurd idea you might think, but none the less, a measure of the extent to which Keats’s goal as a poet, seemed, to be at odds with that of Burns.

Well the good news is, that in answering the question, Who was Keats? there is plenty, apart from his poetry, to go on: the letters that he wrote to family and friends between 1814 and 1820, and those written by his fiance Fanny (Frances) Brawn to his sister also called Fanny. And there are the letters and biography of Keats written by his friend Charles Armitage Brown, to which we can add the disturbing but deeply moving letters sent from Italy by the artist Joseph Severn, who, in Charles Brown’s absence, (for he could not be contacted), accompanied Keats to Italy, and cared for him, in the sometimes terrible last days of his life.

So what then, form these sources, can we know about the man:

When Fanny Brawne, as Keats had asked her to do, began what became a sustained exchange of letters with his sister, letters that began the day after the Maria Crowther sailed for Italy, she penned this portrait of the man she intended to marry:

”I cannot tell you how much everyone here exerted themselves for him, nor how much he is liked, which is the more wonderful as he is the last person to exert himself to gain people’s friendship. I am certain that he has some spell that attaches them to him, or else he has fortunately met with a set of friends that I did not believe could be found in the world……”

And that such people did exist, in Keats’s life, is at its most poignant in the person of Joseph Severn, who, writing to Charles Brown from Rome on 14 December 1820, gave this account of Keats’ decline:

“Not a single thing will digest. The torture he suffers all and every night, and best part of the day, is dreadful in the extreme. The distended stomach keeps him in perpetual hunger or craving; and this is augmented by the little nourishment he takes to keep down the blood. Then his mind is worse than all: despair in every shape - his imagination and memory present every thought – so strong that every morning and night I tremble for his intellect – the recollections of England – of his “good friend Brown” – and his “happy few weeks in x x x x ‘s care” – his sister and brother. Oh! he will mourn over every circumstance to me whilst I cool his burning forehead – until I tremble through every vein – concealing my tears from his staring glassy eyes. How he can be Keats again from all this – I have little hope – but I may see it too gloomily, since each coming night I sit up adds its dismal contents to my mind.”

_______________

Born on 31st October 1795, John Keats was the oldest of five children to Thomas and Frances Keats. And it was the circumstances of his early years, that prompted me to suggest, that ”death”, was the most formative of influences in his early life and poetry. By the age of 14, both his parents, his brother Edward, and his maternal grandfather John Jennings, were dead. When the mother remarried in 1804 the Keats children went to live with their grandparents, only for the security provided in this move to be shaken by John Jennings death just nine months later. The Keats children, however, continued to live with their grandmother Alice Jennings, who, on the death of their mother in 1810, appointed John Nowland Sandall, and Richard Abbey as their legal guardians. So in effect, by the age of 14, Keats had been orphaned twice. Not surprising then, that as a young man he emerged into the adult world, with strong paternal feelings for his younger brothers and sister; a watchfulness that was a recurring characteristic in his letters to them. To Fanny who was living with her legal guardian Richard Abbey, he wrote simple but thoughtful letters, giving encouragement, and at times, advice. In a letter written at Oxford in September 1817, (where he was visiting a friend, and Fanny was 14 and still living with her guardian), he encouraged her to write and tell him about her reading, “if it be only six Pages in a week”. In response, he told her, he would write:

“….This I feel is a necessity for we ought to be come intimately acquainted, in order that I may not only, as you grow up, love you as my only Sister, but confide in you as my dearest friend…”

Then, in simple terms, and in the context of his poem, he tells her the story of Endymion, before, with a degree of naivety, (as he had never travelled abroad), he describes Oxford, and tells her of the letters that he has received from George and Tom: postmarked Paris:

“This Oxford I have no doubt is the finest city in the world – it is full of old Gothic buildings – Spires – towers - Quadrangles – Cloisters Groves & is surrounded with more clear streams than I ever saw together – I take a Walk by the Side of one of them Every evening and thank God, we have not had a drop of rain these many days – I had a long and interesting letter from George, cross lines by a short one from Tom yesterday dated Paris – They both send their loves to you – Like most Englishmen they feel a mighty preference for every thing English – the french Meadows, the trees the People the Towns the Churches, the Books the every thing – although they may be in themselves good; yet when put in comparison with our green Island they all vanish like Swallows in October.”

And in the following year while on a walking tour of the Lakes and Scotland, with his friend Charles Brown, Keats writes to her from Dumfries, enclosing poems that he has written for her. “We are in the midst of Meg Merrilies’ country”, he tells her, after which he copies out his poem, based on the story of Meg Merrilies as told to him by Charles Brown as the walked along:

“Old Meg she was a Gipsy
   And liv’d upon the Moors
Her bed it was the brown heath turf
   And her home was out of doors

Her apples were swart blackberries
   Her currants pods o’ broom
Her wine was dew o’ the wild white rose
   Her book a churchyard tomb

Her Brothers were the craggy hills
   Her Sisters lurchen trees
Alone with her great family
   She liv’d as she did please

No breakfast has she many a morn
   No dinner many a noon
And ‘stead of supper she would stare
   Full hard against the Moon -

But every morn of woodbine fresh
   She made her garlanding
And every night the dark glen Yew
   She wove and she would sing -

And with her fingers old and brown
   She plaited Mats o’ Rushes
And gave them to the Cottagers
   She met among the Bushes

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
   And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
   A chip hat had she on -
God rest her aged bones somewhere
   She died full long agone!”
________________

After which he wrote:

“If you like these sorts of Ballads I will now and then scribble one for you – If I send any to Tom I’ll tell him to send them to you – I have so many interruptions that I cannot manage to fill a Letter in one day – since I scribbled the Song we have walked through a beautiful Country to Kirkudbright – at which place I will write you a song about myself -”

And what he wrote has a recurring refrain as in the opening lines of this thought provoking, and amusing final verse:

“There was a naughty Boy
And a naughty boy was he
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red -
That lead
Was as weighty
That fourscore
Was as eighty
That a door
Was as wooden
As in england –
So he stood in
His shoes
And he wondered
He wondered
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder’d”
_______________

Not much more than a year later, Tom would be dead, and George and his wife Georgiana, living in America; and given the “global village” in which we now live, it is all too easy to forget how distant a place America was in those days, or, of how slow and uncertain the lines of communication were. So to all intents and purposes after Tom’s death on 1 December 1818, Keats was on his own; as Richard Abbey’s cautious nature made contact between Keats and his sister difficult. But up to the point where George emigrated, it is clear from the extent to which Keats shared the details of his social, as well as his literary life, with his brothers, that they were a close family unit; a togetherness that in the sonnet, To my Brothers, (written in celebration of Tom’s 17 birthday), is tangible:

“Small, but busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
   And their faint cracklings o’er our silence creep
   Like whispers of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o’er fraternal souls.
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,
   Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,
   Upon the lore, so voluble and deep,
That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice
   That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.
Many such eves of gently whispering noise
   May we together pass, and calmly try
What are this world’s true joys – ere the great voice,
   From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.”
__________

Later in a letter dated April 1817, while on route to the Isle of Wight, Keats describes the overnight coach journey to Southampton, and tells his brothers of how lonely he felt at breakfast. And much later in the year, December, we get a glimpse into his artistic and social life, that, in context, happened by default, when his friend Charles Dilke interrupted his letter writing:

“I have had two very pleasant evenings with Dilke yesterday & today; & at this moment just come back from him & feel in the humour to go on with this, begun in the morning, & from which he came to fetch me. I spent Friday evening with Wells & went the next morning to see Death on the Pale horse. It is a wonderful picture, when West’s age is considered. But there is nothing to be intense upon: no women one feels mad to kiss; no face swelling into reality. the excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeables evaporate, from their being in close proximity to Beauty & Truth – Examine King Lear & you will find this exemplified throughout; but in this picture we have unpleasantness without any momentous depth of speculation excited in which to bury its repulsiveness…”

But it was not all intellectual rigour, for, as is apparent from a letter dated 5 January 1818, “boys will be boys”, and after referencing some bawdy conversation with regard to women, Keats’s attention turns to what in folklore, is popularly known as, - the piss pot:

“…on proceeding to the Pot in the cupboard it soon became full on which the Court door was opened Frank Floodgate bawls out, Hoollo! here’s an opposition pot – Ay, says Rice in one you have a Yard for your pot, and in the other a pot for your Yard. – Bailey was there and seemed to enjoy the Evening Rice said he cared less about the hour than anyone and the p[r]oof is his dancing – he cares not for time, dancing as if he was deaf. Old Redall not being used to give parties had no idea of the Quantity of wine that would be drank and he actually put in readiness and on the kitchen Stairs 8 dozen -”

And he shared with his brothers, not just his views on his contemporaries: Wordsworth in particular, (but without referring it in his letter dated 23, January 1818), the effect that the challenge of composing Endymion, had on him:

“I think a little change has taken place in my intellect lately – I cannot bear to be uninterested or unemployed. I, who for so long a time, have been addicted to passiveness – Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions, than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers – As an instance of this – observe – I sat down yesterday to read King Lear once again the thing appeared to demand the prologue of a Sonnet, I wrote it & began to read – “

After which he copied out the sonnet, a poem refined before publication, and that now goes by the title, “On Sitting Down to Read “King Lear” Once Again":

“O golden-tongued Romance, with serene lute!
   Fair plumed Syren, Queen of far-away!
   leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for, once again, the fierce dispute
   Between damnation and impassioned clay
   Must I burn through, once more humbly assay
The bitter sweet of this Shakespearian fruit:
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
   Begetters of our deep eternal theme
When through the old oak forests I am gone,
   Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But, when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.”

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Among his friends, Keats was a conciliator, as is apparent in the dispute between John Hamilton Reynolds, Benjamin Haydon, and Haydon and Leigh Hunt, (the details of which are of their time), and thereby not particularly interesting. Writing to his friend, Benjamin Bailey, a clergyman, on 23 January 1818 he wrote:

“Things have happened lately of great Perplexity You must have heard of them – Reynolds and Haydon retorting and recriminating – and parting for ever – the same thing has happened between Haydon and hunt – It is unfortunate – Men should bear with each other – there lives not the Man who may not be cut up, aye hashed to pieces on his weakest side. The best of Men have but a portion of good in them – a kind of spiritual yeast in their frames which creates the ferment of existence – by which a man is propell’d to act and strive and buffet with Circumstances. The sure way Bailey, is first to know a Man’s faults, and then be passive, if after that he insensibly draws you towards him then you have no Power to break the link. Before I felt interested in either Reynolds or Haydon - I was well read in their faults yet knowing them I have been cementing gradually with both – I have an affection for them both for reasons almost opposite – and to both must I of necessity cling – supported always by the hope that when a little time – a few years shall have tried me more fully in their esteem I may be able to bring them together – the time must come because they have both hearts and they will recollect the best parts of each other when this gust is over blown…”

But among these same friends, in the context of his poetry, some were more important than others. B. R. Haydon: an historical painter, was instrumental in introducing Keats to aspects of Greek culture, in particular they went together to the British Museum to view the Elgin Marbles. Charles Brown, on the other hand, (who invited Keats to come and live with him after Tom’s death), took a keen interest in his writing, encouraged him where necessary, and together they collaborated on writing the play, Otho the Great. And there were others, but one that we can not omit, was his publisher, John Taylor.

The extent of Haydon’s influence, and Keats’ admiration for him, are apparent in his letter of March 1817. By that time, he had already written the sonnet On Seeing the Elgin Marbles, and another in this context, dedicated to Haydon himself. And that Keats saw him as a mentor, there can be no doubt:

“You tell me never to despair – I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying – truth is I have a horrid Morbidity of Temperament which has shown itself at intervals – it is I have no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling block I have to face – I may even say it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment. …I am very sure you do love me as your own Brother – I have seen it in your continual anxiety for me – and I assure you that your welfare and fame is and will be a chief pleasure to me all my Life. I know no one but you who can be fully sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what is called comfort the readiness to Measure time by what is done and to die in 6 hours could plans be brought to conclusions – the looking upon the Sun the Moon and the Stars, the Earth and its contents as materials to form greater things – that is to say ethereal things – but here I am talking like a Madman greater things than our Creator himself made !!…”

As for his relationship with John Taylor, with whom Keats had to work closely in preparing the proofs for Endymion, and other poems, what was a personal friendship was sustained to the end; with Keats in his letters, expressing appreciation for Taylor’s help and patience in preparing the proofs.

In the penultimate letter sent to Charles Brown from Naples on 1 November 1820, Keats pours out his heart in respect of Fanny Brawn and concludes his letter by saying:

“My dear Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. I cannot say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in the thousand novelties around me. I am afraid to write to her. I should like her to know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown. I have coals of fire in my breast. It surprised me that the human heart is capable of containing and bearing so much misery. Was I born for this end? God bless her, and her mother, and my sister, and George, and his wife, and you, and all”

And when he was taking leave of Brown in his final letter, marked, “Rome 20 November 1820″, (which is what he was doing), his thoughts are for his brother and sister, and he is apologetic:

“Write to George as soon as you receive this, and tell him how I am, as far as you can guess; – and also a note to my sister – who walks about my imagination like a ghost – she is so like Tom. I can scarcely bid you good bye even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow.”

Now I appreciate that in the circumstances, these are emotive passages, but for me they are a true reflections of Keats’s capacity, throughout his life, to reveal himself. In this sense, (of being open to people), he was uncomplicated, and there was a nobility in his nature, which may explain why people were drawn to him in the way that Fanny Brawn suggests. And he was perceptive and kind: he made connections, so that the present was always - the inbetween - the link in a chain, connecting the past with the future. And he was kind, not just in respect of his feuding friends, but as exemplified in his capacity to be concerned for Fanny Brawne, and his next of kin, even in his darkest moments. And he was a saint. And should this observation shock you, let me explain.

Keats was an idealist, and a purist, who had an idea of poetry that was altogether different from that of Robert Burns. And while like Burns, he wanted to achieve fame as a poet, unlike Burns, the world as it was, was not his concern, which was why he did not write to please public sentiment. Instead, he believed that there was something else worth striving for: a beauty and a truth: an elevation of the spirit or a degree of consciousness that went beyond the norm, and which he sought to discover and give expression to in his poetry, and against terrible odds. In this context, Keats was a mystic, which explains the absence of ego in his poetry, and why there is something understated in him. And as I hope to show in succeeding blogs, besides what is to be discovered more broadly in the poems, in the context of this particular blog, there is more to add, in answering the question, Who was Keats?

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© Cormace McCloskey
Sources:

Ode, and Fancy,
Letter to George and Georgiana Keats, begun December 1818
Letters of John Keats
Edited by Robert Gitting
Oxford University Press 1990
ISBN 0-19-281081-2 (pbk)

Extract: Fanny Brawne to Fanny Keats
Letters of Fanny Brawne to Fanny Keats 1820-1824
Fred Edgcumbe (ed)
London. Oxford University Press (1936)

Extract: Letter, Joseph Severn to Charles Brown
The Life of John Keats
By Charles Armitage Brown
Oxford University Press. London N. York (1937)

Extract: Keats to his sister, 10 Sept 1815 and 2,3,5 July 1818
GITTING. as above

To my Brothers
BARNARD as below

“On Sitting Down to Read “King Lear” Once Again”
John Keats The Complete Poems
John Barnard (ed)
London. The Folio Society 2002
Available (Paperback, Penguin Classics)

Note: Brown’s biography of Keats is available to read (in full) – here

N.B. This blog was first piblished on 27 Semtemper 2010, but due to a mistake on my part, where I unintentionally deleted it, it had to be re-posted