The enlightened British public never committed a greater mistake
than in believing, on the rhymed “dixit” of Lord Byron, that John Keats’s
“fiery particle” was snuffed out by a single Quarterly Review article.
John was the man to stand whole broadsides of such articles,
whether from Quarterly or Edinburgh, or from both,
with a united and concentrated fire. Little in body, like Moore, he was, like Moore, thoroughly a man. He was
one of the most cheery and plucky little fellows I ever knew; and though it may look like
self-flattery, I think I may safely say that neither pluck nor fortitude always choose
bulky frames and lofty statures for their lodging. Keats could hardly
see a London street row without the impulsive wish to be in the midst of it; and in not a
few rows he had his wish gratified. This was mere frolic and youthful love of mischief and
excitement, or it was an innate love of fair-play; but I firmly believe that by the side of
any friend Keats would have faced a battery, and would have stood
under a shower of cannon-balls, chain-shot, canister or grape. Though he belonged to rather
an affected school, at times a hectoring and pretentious school, poor
Keats had an exceedingly small allowance of literary vanity. He
would often say: “I have a notion that I have something in me, but that I shall
never be able to bring it out. I feel all but sure that I never shall.” When
dying, the motto he dictated for that tombstone, which his and
| 14 | JOHN KEATS | [CHAP. II |
Late in the autumn of 1820, when he arrived at Naples, or rather at the commencement of the winter of that year, he was driving with my friend Charles Cottrell from the Bourbon Museum, up the beautiful open road which leads up to Capo di Monte and the Ponte Rossi. On the way, in front of a villa or cottage, he was struck and moved by the sight of some rose-trees in full bearing. Thinking to gratify the invalid, Cottrell, a ci-devant officer in the British Navy, jumped out of the carriage, spoke to somebody about the house or garden, and was back in a trice with a bouquet of roses.
“How late in the year! What an exquisite climate!” said the Poet; but on putting them to his nose, he threw the flowers down on the opposite seat, and exclaimed: “Humbugs! they have no scent! What is a rose without its fragrance? I hate and abhor all humbug, whether in a flower or in a man or woman!” And having worked himself strongly up in the anti-humbug humour, he cast the bouquet out on the road. I suppose that the flowers were China roses, which have little odour at any time, and hardly any at the approach of winter.
| CHAP. II] | CAMPBELL AND THE POLES | 15 |
Returning from that drive, he had intense enjoyment in halting close to the Capuan Gate, and in watching a group of lazzaroni or labouring men, as, at a stall with fire and cauldron by the roadside in the open air, they were disposing of an incredible quantity of macaroni, introducing it in long, unbroken strings into their capacious mouths, without the intermediary of anything but their hands. “I like this,” said he; “these hearty fellows scorn the humbug of knives and forks. Fingers were invented first. Give them some carlini that they may eat more! Glorious sight! How they take it in!”
My great intimacy with the poet began in the winter of 1829, and terminated
rather suddenly in the autumn of 1832, in a quarrel, or rather in an offence he took at
some remarks I hazarded on the Poles, their former history, and their late revolution. He
bounced out of the house where we had been dining in a red-hot passion, telling our host
that I had been talking about what I did not understand; that all the books I had quoted
were false and fabulous; that Ruilhiere’s book
on the anarchy of Poland was a perfect romance; that a history of Poland, upon national
authorities, was yet to be compiled; and that, perhaps, he might write it. I was
exceedingly sorry at this rupture, for notwithstanding sundry infirmities of temper, and
not very agreeable irregularities of conduct and manners, I was disposed to cling to the
man. I highly admired—no one more—the poetical genius he had displayed in early life; he
was a Scotsman, nay more, he was all but a Highlander, claiming affinity with one of our
noblest clans; he was my superior in learned accomplishments, and my senior by a good many
years. With all this I could not be, and I am quite sure I was
| 16 | THOMAS CAMPBELL | [CHAP. II |
| CHAP. II] | CAMPBELL AND THE POLES | 17 |
For a very long time I rarely met the Bard of
Hope, in street, house, theatre, or elsewhere, without finding him attended
by a longish Polish tail. From circumstances previously explained, he could not by any
possibility take very many of his refugees into decent houses; but still he introduced a
considerable number in good society, and among these were some who did no honour to his
introduction. I remember being told that he was disquieted by a story about the mysterious
disappearance of
| 18 | THOMAS CAMPBELL | [CHAP. II |
The clear distinction necessary to be made between Upper Seymour Street and Lower Seymour Street will sufficiently explain Tommy’s convivial foibles. While our friendly league and covenant lasted, he would often come in upon me late at night. Often when we had dined together at John Murray’s, and each had taken more wine than he ought to have done, he would, at midnight, or even at a later hour, go home with me “to finish the evening,” as he facetiously called it. I was as yet a bachelor, living in very comfortable, choice apartments, in Berners Street, Oxford Street, in the house of good little Rolandi, the Italian bookseller, who allowed me the bachelor privilege of the latch-key, and always saw, before going to his own early bed, that my fire was in good burning order, and that my little comforts were at hand. “And now, Mac,” the bard would say—“now, Mac, for a glass of toddy! Your whisky is very good, and we will have a crack. Time was made for slaves.” Three or four times he remained till daylight, and twice he slept on a good broad sofa in my sitting-room, and stayed till twelve or one o’clock next day. Warned by what had happened to K. and B. S. L., I preferred accommodating him with a sofa to adventuring with him in a hackney coach, though I had a coach-stand conveniently near. I cannot plead the nocturnal water-drinking of poor Sir Walter, but I rather think that for one tumbler of toddy that I took, Campbell must have taken three. The worst of it—or at least a very bad part of it—was, that drink did not improve Tommy’s temper; it made him impatient, captious, and querulous, and at times violently passionate and uncommonly unpleasant.
So long as his poor wife lived, and
they sojourned
| CHAP. II] | HIS PROPENSITIES | 19 |
I remember as one of Campbell’s characteristics that he could not bear to be, after dinner, in the same drawing-room with Moore, because the Irish minstrel sang his melodies and accompanied himself very sweetly on the piano, thus attracting much of the homage for which Campbell was so greedy, and absorbing all the attention of the company, of which he would fain have made a monopoly for himself. I have heard him very, very severe on Moore’s “Lalla Rookh,” and on his poetical style generally. He called it “washy,” a word he had taken from the vocabulary of his sometime close ally, Mrs. Siddons, the tragic actress, of whom, after her death, he wrote a very incorrect, “washy” Life. But I believe that of the said Life or Memoir, he himself, in reality, wrote very little.
The bard of “Hohenlinden” for many years wore a wig, of which mention will be found in
my book of “Table Talk,” biography, and literary souvenirs. It was a wig not at
all suited to his age and complexion; it was a fine black wig with Hyperion curls, and
generally well oiled and perfumed. One
| 20 | THOMAS CAMPBELL | [CHAP. II |
The laughter was uproarious, and it did not cease until long after the elder bard had recovered his wig, and had covered his bald, shining pate. Washington Irving laughed until his sides ached, and then with a sly, demure face told Campbell that he had never before fancied that those poetical locks were not of his own growth. In those days—between 1829 and 1833—we had very frequently high jinks in Albemarle Street. Then, too, there was fat, jolly old bibliopole and opera man, old Andrews of Bond Street, who now and then gave a dinner to authors and wits, and gave it in good style, with champagne and claret à discrétion, or rather à indiscrétion. It was at one of this very fat man’s symposia that the author of the “Pleasures of Hope” so far exceeded limits that a hackney coach had to be sent for, and C. K. and B. S. L. were obliged to see him home.
Tommy was past speech, and Andrews, in giving his address, forgot to give the
important word “Upper.” The coachman drove as directed; and then, descending
from his box, gave a violent tug at the bell, and played an equally violent
“rat-tattat” with the knocker. Presently the head of a man was projected from
an attic window. “Who’s there?” cried he. “Mr.
Campbell,” said C. “D——
Mr. Campbell!” cried the man. “This is the
third time within a week that I have been knocked out
| CHAP. II] | UPPER SEYMOUR STREET | 21 |
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