This was, no doubt, the reason why, out of the 11007. left by Tom, George received 4407., and John little more than 2007. When George returned the second time to America he certainly left his brother's finances in a deplorable state; it is probable he was not aware how very small a sum remained for John's subsistence, or it would have been hardly justifiable for him to have repaid himself any portion of what he had advanced, except he was convinced that whatever he did take would be so reproductive that it was indisputably the best thing to be done with the money at the time, whatever was to be its ultimate destination. The subject was so painful a one, and the increasing melancholy, both physical and moral, of Keats so manifest, that there can be no ground for discrediting his brother's positive assertion, that, when he left London, he had not the courage to lay before him the real state of their affairs, but that he kept to the pleasing side of things, and encouraged him in the belief that the American speculation would produce enough to restore both of them to comfortable circumstances. At the same time it might well be permitted to John's friends, who did not know the details of the affair, to be indignant at the state of almost destitution to which so noble a man was reduced, while they believed that his brother in America had the means of assisting him. But, on the other hand, after Keats's death, when George was ready to give the fullest explanation of the circumstances, when the legal administration of John's effects showed that no debts were owing to the estate, and when, without the least obligation, he offered to do his utmost to liquidate his brother's engagements, it was only just to acknowledge that they had been deceived by appearances, and that they fully acquitted him of unfraternal and ungenerous conduct. Their accusations rankled long and bitterly in his mind, and were the subject of a frequent correspondence with his friends in England. I have extracted the following portion of a letter, dated "Louisville, April 20th, 1825," as an earnest expression of his feelings, and also as giving an interesting delineation of the Poet's character, by one who knew him so well and I am glad to find such a confirmation of what has been so often stated in these pages, that the faults of Keats's disposition were precisely the contrary of those attributed to him by common opinion. : 66 * * LOUISVILLE, April 20, 1825. * Your letter has in some measure relieved my mind of a load that has sorely pressed for years. I felt innocent of the unfeeling, mean conduct imputed to me by some of my brother's friends, and knew that the knowledge of the facts would soon set that to rights; but I could not rest while under the impression that he really suffered through my not forwarding him money at the time when I promised, but had not the power. Your saying, 'that he knew nothing of want, either of friends or money,' and giving proofs of the truth of it, made me breathe freely—. enabled me to cherish his memory, without the feeling of having caused him misery, however unavoidably, while a living Friend and Brother. I do not doubt but that he complained of me; although he was the noblest fellow, whose soul was ever open to my inspection, his nervous, morbid temperament at times led him to misconstrue the motives of his best friends. I have been instrumental times innumerable in correcting erroneous impressions so formed of those very persons who have been most ready to believe the stories lately circulated against me, and I almost believe that if I had remained his companion, and had the means, as I had the wish, to have devoted my life to his fame and happiness, he might have been living at this hour. His temper did not unfold itself to you, his friend, until the vigor of his mind was somewhat impaired, and he no longer possessed the power to resist the pettishness he formerly considered he had no right to trouble his friends with. From the time we were boys at school, where we loved, jangled, and fought alternately, until we separated in 1818, I in a great measure relieved him by continual sympathy, explanation, and inexhaustible spirits and good humor, from many a bitter fit of hypochondriasm. He avoided teasing any one with his miseries but Tom and myself, and often asked our forgiveness; venting and discussing them gave him relief. I do not mean to say that he did not receive the most indulgent attention from his many devoted friends; on the contrary, I shall ever look with admiration on the exertions made for his comfort and happiness by his numerous friends. No one in England understood his character perfectly but poor Tom, and he had not the power to divert his frequent melancholy, and eventually increased his disease most fear fully by the horrors of his own lingering death. If I did not feel fully persuaded that my motive was to acquire an independence to support us all in case of necessity, I never should forgive myself for leaving him. Some extraordinary exertion was necessary to retrieve our affairs from the gradual decline they were suffering. That exertion I made, whether wisely or not, future events had to decide. After all, Blackwood and the Quarterly, associated with our family disease, consumption, were ministers of death sufficiently venomous, cruel, and deadly, to have consigned one of less sensibility to a premature grave. I have consumed many hours in devising means to punish those literary gladiators, but am always brought to the vexing conclusion that they are invulnerable to one of my prowess. Has much been said in John's defence against those libelers both of his character and writings? His writings were fair game, and liable to be assailed by a sneaking poacher, but his character as represented by Blackwood was not. A good cudgeling should have been his reward if he had been within my reach. John was the very soul of courage and manliness, and as much like the Holy Ghost as Johnny Keats. I am much indebted for the interest you have taken in my vindication, and will observe further for your satisfaction, that Mr. Abbey, who had the management of our money concerns, in a letter lately received, expressed himself 'satisfied that my statement of the acccount between John and me was correct.' He is the only person who is in possession of data to refute or confirm my story. My not having written to you seems to have been advanced as a proof of my worthlessness. If it prove any thing, it proves my humility, for I can assure you, if I had known you felt one-half the interest in my fate unconnected with my brother it appears you did, the explanation would have been made when I first became acquainted there was a necessity for it.-I should never have given up a communication with the only spirits in existence who are congenial to me, and at the same time know me. Understand me, when I failed to write, it was not from a diminished respect or friendliness towards you, but under the impression that I had moved out of your circle, leaving but faint traces that I had ever existed within it." Soon after George's departure, Keats wrote to his sister-in-law, and there is certainly nothing in the letter betokening any diminution of his liveliness or sense of enjoyment. He seems, on the contrary, to regard his brother's voyage in no serious light-probably anticipating a speedy reunion, and with pleasant plans for a future that never was to come. But these loving brothers had now met and parted for the last time, and this gay letter remains the last record of a cheerful and hopeful nature that was about to be plunged into the darkness of pain and death, and of an affection which space could not diminish, and which time preserved, till after many years of honest, useful, and laborious life, he who remained, also past away, transmitting to other generations a name that genius has illustrated above the blazon of ordinary nobilities. MY DEAR SISter, By the time you receive this your troubles will be over, and George have returned to you. On Henry's marriage there was a piece of bride's cake sent me, but as it missed its way, I suppose the bearer was a conjurer, and wanted it for his own private use. Last Sunday George and 1 dined at Your mother, with Charles, were there, and fool L-, who sent the sly disinterested shawl to Miss M- with his own heathen name engraved in the middle of it. The evening before last we had a piano-forte dance at Mrs. Dilke's; there was little amusement in the room, but a Scotchman to hate: some persons you must have observed have a most unpleasant effect on you, when speaking in profile this Scot is the most accomplished fellow in this way I ever met with the effect was complete; it went down like a dose of bitters, and I hope will improve my digestion. At Taylor's too there was a Scotchman, but he was not so bad, for he was as clean as he could get himself. George has introduced an American to us: I like him in a moderate way. I told him I hated Englishmen, as they were the only men I knew. He does not understand this. Who would be Braggadocio to Johnny Bull? Johnny's house is his castle, and a precious dull castle it is: how many dull castles there are in so-and-so crescent! I never wish myself a general visitor and newsmonger, but when I write to you—I should then, for a day or two, like to have the knowledge of that L-, for instance; of all the people of a wide acquaintance to tell you about, only let me have his knowledge of family affairs, and I would set them in a proper light, but bless me, I never go any where. My pen is no more garrulous than my tongue. Any third person would think I was addressing myself to a lover of scandal, but I know you do not like scandal, but you love fun; and if scandal happen to be fun, that is no fault of ours. The best thing I have heard is your shooting, for it seems you follow the gun. I like your brothers the more I know of them, but I dislike mankind in general. Whatever people on the other side of the question may say, they cannot deny that they are always surprised at a good action, and never at a bad one. I am glad you have doves in America. "Gertrude of Wyoming," and Birkbeck's book, should be bound together as a couple of decoyduck; one is almost as practical as the other. I have been sitting in the sun while I wrote this, until it is become quite oppressive: the Vulcan heat is the natural heat for January. Our Irish servant has very much piqued me this morning, by saying her father is very much like my Shakspeare, only he has more color than the engraving. If you were in England, I dare say you would be able to pick out more amusement from society than I am able to do. To me it is all as dull here as Louisville is to you. I am tired of theatres; almost all parties I chance to fall into, I know by heart; I know the different styles of talk in different places; what subjects will be started; and how it will proceed; like an acted play, from the first to the last act. I know three witty people, all distinct in their excellence-Rice, Reynolds, and Richard Rice is the wisest-Reynolds the playfulest-Richards the out-of-the-wayest. The first makes you laugh and think; the second makes you laugh and not think; the third puzzles your head; I admire the first, I enjoy the second, and I stare at the third; the first is claret, the second ginger-beer, the third is crême de Byrapymdrag; the first is inspired by Minerva, the second by Mercury, the third by Harlequin Epigram, Esq.; the first is neat in his dress, the second careless, the third uncomfortable; the first speaks adagio, the second allegretto, and the third both together; the first is Swiftean, the second Tom Crib |