The poet
writes from Rome. The recipient is Charles Brown (1787-1842) who, in the words
of Hyder Edward Rollins, editor of Keats’ letters, “now has a sort of immortality
of his own.” If one is doomed to die young, how sadly fortunate to be blessed
with loving friends. With Keats in Rome was Joseph Severn, who might be
beatified as the patron saint of friendship. Keats and Brown, the poet’s senior
by eight years, met in the summer of 1817. The following summer they made their
walking tour of northern England and Scotland. After the death of Tom Keats from
tuberculosis, the disease that would claim his older brother in another two
years, John lived with Brown at Wentworth Place in Hampstead, now the Keats House. Rollins says, “Brown’s kindness and attention were unremitting.” Keats
writes in his letter:
“I must
have been at Bedhampton nearly at the time you were writing to me from
Chichester - how unfortunate - and to pass on the river too! There was my star
predominant! I cannot answer any thing in your letter, which followed me from
Naples to Rome, because I am afraid to look it over again. I am so weak (in
mind) that I cannot bear the sight of any hand writing of a friend I love so
much as I do you.”
Rollins
notes that that sad, proud, indelibly Keatsian phrase – “There was my star
predominant!” – is an allusion to The Winter’s Tale. In Act I, Scene 2, Leontes
says:
“It is a
bawdy planet, that will strike
Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis powerful, think it,
From east, west, north and south: be it concluded,
No barricado for a belly; know’t;
It will let in and out the enemy
With bag and baggage: many thousand on’s
Have the disease, and feel't not. How now, boy!”
Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis powerful, think it,
From east, west, north and south: be it concluded,
No barricado for a belly; know’t;
It will let in and out the enemy
With bag and baggage: many thousand on’s
Have the disease, and feel't not. How now, boy!”
The
further Keatsian echoes in the passage are eerie. He concludes his note to
Brown: “I can scarcely bid you good bye even in a letter. I always made an
awkward bow.” This is Keats’ last surviving letter, written on this date, Nov.
30, in 1820. Three months later, on Feb. 23, 1821, he died in Rome at the age
of twenty-five.
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