Ode to a Nightingale. John Keats

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      There was a naughty boy

      Tittlebat

      And a naughty boy was he

      Not over fat,

      He kept little fishes

      Minnow small

      In washing tubs three

      As the stal

      In spite

      Of a glove

      Of the might

      Not above

      Of the Maid,

      The size

      Nor afraid

      Of a nice

      Of his Granny-good

      Little Baby’s

      He often would

      Little finger —

      Hurly burly

      O he made

      Get up early

      ’Twas his trade

      And go

      Of Fish a pretty kettle

      By hook or crook

      A kettle —

      To the brook

      A kettle —

      And bring home

      Of Fish a pretty kettle

      Miller’s thumb,

      A kettle!

      In a later letter to his sister he makes much the same confession in a different key, when he bids her ask him for any kind of present she fancies, only not for live stock to be kept in captivity, ‘though I will not now be very severe on it, remembering how fond I used to be of Goldfinches, Tomtits, Minnows, Mice, Ticklebacks, Dace, Cock salmons and all the whole tribe of the Bushes and the Brooks.’ Despite the changes which have overbuilt and squalidly or sprucely suburbanized all those parts of Middlesex, the Pymmes brook still holds its course across half the county, is still bridged by the main street of Edmonton, and runs countrywise, clear and open, for some distance along a side street on its way to join the Lea. Other memories of it, and of his childish playings and musings beside it, find expression in Keats’ poetry where he makes the shepherd-prince Endymion tell his sister Peona how one of his lovesick vagaries has been to sit on a stone and bubble up the water through a reed, —

      So reaching back to boyhood: make me ships

       Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,

       With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be

       Of their petty ocean.

      If we learn little of Keats’ early days from his own lips, we have sufficient testimony as to the impression which he made on his school companions; which was that of a fiery, generous little fellow, handsome and passionate, vehement both in tears and laughter, and as placable and loveable as he was pugnacious. But beneath this bright and mettlesome outside there lay deep in his nature, even from the first, a strain of painful sensibility making him subject to moods of unreasonable suspicion and self-tormenting melancholy. These he was accustomed to conceal from all except his brothers, to whom he was attached by the very closest of fraternal ties. George, the second brother, had all John’s spirit of manliness and honour, with a less impulsive disposition and a cooler blood. From a boy he was the bigger and stronger of the two: and at school found himself continually involved in fights for, and not unfrequently with, his small, indomitably fiery senior. Tom, the youngest, was always delicate, and an object of protecting care as well as the warmest affection to the other two.

      Here are some of George Keats’ recollections, written after the death of his elder brother, and referring partly to their school days and partly to John’s character after he was grown up:

      I loved him from boyhood even when he wronged me, for the goodness of his heart and the nobleness of his spirit, before we left school we quarrelled often and fought fiercely, and I can safely say and my schoolfellows will bear witness that John’s temper was the cause of all, still we were more attached than brothers ever are.

      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 humour, from many a bitter fit of hypochondriasm. He avoided teazing any one with his miseries but Tom and myself, and often asked our forgiveness; venting and discussing them gave him relief.

      Let us turn now from these honest and warm brotherly reminiscences to their confirmation in the words of two of Keats’ school friends; and first in those of his junior Edward Holmes, afterwards a musical critic of note and author of a well-known Life of Mozart: —

      Keats was in childhood not attached to books. His penchant was for fighting. He would fight any one — morning, noon, and night, his brother among the rest. It was meat and drink to him. Jennings their sailor relation was always in the thoughts of the brothers, and they СКАЧАТЬ