Chapter III: Preface (2)

My dear Friends--You are I am glad to hear comfortable at Hampton,[23] where I hope you will receive the Biscuits we ate the other night at Little Britain.[24] I hope you found them good. There you are among sands, stones, Pebbles, Beeches, Cliffs, Rocks, Deeps, Shallows, weeds, ships, Boats (at a distance), Carrots, Turnips, sun, moon, and stars and all those sort of things--here am I among Colleges, halls, Stalls, Plenty of Trees, thank God--Plenty of water, thank heaven--Plenty of Books, thank the Muses--Plenty of Snuff, thank Sir Walter Raleigh--Plenty of segars,--Ditto--Plenty of flat country, thank Tellus's rolling-pin. I'm on the sofa--Buonaparte is on the snuff-box--But you are by the seaside--argal, you bathe--you walk--you say "how beautiful"--find out resemblances between waves and camels--rocks and dancing-masters-- fireshovels and telescopes--Dolphins and Madonas--which word, by the way, I must acquaint you was derived from the Syriac, and came down in a way which neither of you I am sorry to say are at all capable of comprehending. But as a time may come when by your occasional converse with me you may arrive at "something like prophetic strain," I will unbar the gates of my pride and let my condescension stalk forth like a ghost at the Circus.--The word Ma-don-a, my dear Ladies--or--the word Mad--Ona--so I say! I am not mad--Howsumever when that aged Tamer Kewthon sold a certain camel called Peter to the overseer of the Babel Sky-works, he thus spake, adjusting his cravat round the tip of his chin--"My dear Ten-story-up-in-air! this here Beast, though I say it as shouldn't say't, not only has the power of subsisting 40 days and 40 nights without fire and candle but he can sing.--Here I have in my Pocket a Certificate from Signor Nicolini of the King's Theatre; a Certificate to this effect----" I have had dinner since I left that effect upon you, and feel too heavy in mentibus to display all the Profundity of the Polygon--so you had better each of you take a glass of cherry Brandy and drink to the health of Archimedes, who was of so benign a disposition that he never would leave Syracuse in his life--So kept himself out of all Knight-Errantry.--This I know to be a fact; for it is written in the 45th book of Winkine's treatise on garden-rollers, that he trod on a fishwoman's toe in Liverpool, and never begged her pardon. Now the long and short is this--that is by comparison--for a long day may be a short year--A long Pole may be a very stupid fellow as a man. But let us refresh ourself from this depth of thinking, and turn to some innocent jocularity--the Bow cannot always be bent--nor the gun always loaded, if you ever let it off--and the life of man is like a great Mountain--his breath is like a Shrewsbury cake--he comes into the world like a shoeblack, and goes out of it like a cobbler--he eats like a chimney-sweeper, drinks like a gingerbread baker--and breathes like Achilles--so it being that we are such sublunary creatures, let us endeavour to correct all our bad spelling--all our most delightful abominations, and let us wish health to Marian and Jane, whoever they be and wherever.

Yours truly

JOHN KEATS.

XIV--TO FANNY KEATS.

Oxford, September 10 [1817].

My dear Fanny--Let us now begin a regular question and answer--a little pro and con; letting it interfere as a pleasant method of my coming at your favorite little wants and enjoyments, that I may meet them in a way befitting a brother.

We have been so little together since you have been able to reflect on things that I know not whether you prefer the History of King Pepin to Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress--or Cinderella and her glass slipper to Moore's Almanack. However in a few Letters I hope I shall be able to come at that and adapt my scribblings to your Pleasure. You must tell me about all you read if it be only six Pages in a Week and this transmitted to me every now and then will procure you full sheets of Writing from me pretty frequently.--This I feel as a necessity for we ought to become 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. When I saw you last I told you of my intention of going to Oxford and 'tis now a Week since I disembark'd from his Whipship's Coach the Defiance in this place. I am living in Magdalen Hall on a visit to a young Man with whom I have not been long acquainted, but whom I like very much--we lead very industrious lives--he in general Studies and I in proceeding at a pretty good rate with a Poem which I hope you will see early in the next year.--Perhaps you might like to know what I am writing about. I will tell you. Many Years ago there was a young handsome Shepherd who fed his flocks on a Mountain's Side called Latmus--he was a very contemplative sort of a Person and lived solitary among the trees and Plains little thinking that such a beautiful Creature as the Moon was growing mad in Love with him.--However so it was; and when he was asleep on the Grass she used to come down from heaven and admire him excessively for a long time; and at last could not refrain from carrying him away in her arms to the top of that high Mountain Latmus while he was a dreaming--but I daresay you have read this and all the other beautiful Tales which have come down from the ancient times of that beautiful Greece. If you have not let me know and I will tell you more at large of others quite as delightful. 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, etc., and is surrounded with more clear streams than ever I 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 everything English--the French Meadows, the trees, the People, the Towns, the Churches, the Books, the everything--although they may be in themselves good: yet when put in comparison with our green Island they all vanish like Swallows in October. They have seen Cathedrals, Manuscripts, Fountains, Pictures, Tragedy, Comedy,--with other things you may by chance meet with in this Country such as Washerwomen, Lamplighters, Turnpikemen, Fishkettles, Dancing Masters, Kettle drums, Sentry Boxes, Rocking Horses, etc.--and, now they have taken them over a set of boxing-gloves.

I have written to George and requested him, as you wish I should, to write to you. I have been writing very hard lately, even till an utter incapacity came on, and I feel it now about my head: so you must not mind a little out-of-the-way sayings--though by the bye were my brain as clear as a bell I think I should have a little propensity thereto. I shall stop here till I have finished the 3d Book of my Story; which I hope will be accomplish'd in at most three Weeks from to-day--about which time you shall see me. How do you like Miss Taylor's essays in Rhyme--I just look'd into the Book and it appeared to me suitable to you--especially since I remember your liking for those pleasant little things the Original Poems--the essays are the more mature production of the same hand. While I was speaking about France it occurred to me to speak a few Words on their Language--it is perhaps the poorest one ever spoken since the jabbering in the Tower of Babel, and when you come to know that the real use and greatness of a Tongue is to be referred to its Literature--you will be astonished to find how very inferior it is to our native Speech.--I wish the Italian would supersede French in every school throughout the Country, for that is full of real Poetry and Romance of a kind more fitted for the Pleasure of Ladies than perhaps our own.--It seems that the only end to be gained in acquiring French is the immense accomplishment of speaking it--it is none at all--a most lamentable mistake indeed. Italian indeed would sound most musically from Lips which had began to pronounce it as early as French is crammed down our Mouths, as if we were young Jackdaws at the mercy of an overfeeding Schoolboy. Now Fanny you must write soon--and write all you think about, never mind what--only let me have a good deal of your writing--You need not do it all at once--be two or three or four days about it, and let it be a diary of your little Life. You will preserve all my Letters and I will secure yours--and thus in the course of time we shall each of us have a good Bundle--which, hereafter, when things may have strangely altered and God knows what happened, we may read over together and look with pleasure on times past--that now are to come. Give my Respects to the Ladies--and so my dear Fanny I am ever

Your most affectionate Brother

JOHN.

If you direct--Post Office, Oxford--your Letter will be brought to me.

XV.--TO JANE REYNOLDS.

Oxford, Sunday Evg. [September 14, 1817].

My dear Jane--You are such a literal translator, that I shall some day amuse myself with looking over some foreign sentences, and imagining how you would render them into English. This is an age for typical Curiosities; and I would advise you, as a good speculation, to study Hebrew, and astonish the world with a figurative version in our native tongue. The Mountains skipping like rams, and the little hills like lambs, you will leave as far behind as the hare did the tortoise. It must be so or you would never have thought that I really meant you would like to pro and con about those Honeycombs--no, I had no such idea, or, if I had, 'twould be only to tease you a little for love. So now let me put down in black and white briefly my sentiments thereon.--Imprimis--I sincerely believe that Imogen is the finest creature, and that I should have been disappointed at hearing you prefer Juliet--Item--Yet I feel such a yearning towards Juliet that I would rather follow her into Pandemonium than Imogen into Paradise--heartily wishing myself a Romeo to be worthy of her, and to hear the Devils quote the old proverb, "Birds of a feather flock together"--Amen.--

Now let us turn to the Seashore. Believe me, my dear Jane, it is a great happiness to see that you are in this finest part of the year winning a little enjoyment from the hard world. In truth, the great Elements we know of, are no mean comforters: the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown--the Air is our robe of state--the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it--able, like David's harp, to make such a one as you forget almost the tempest cares of life. I have found in the ocean's music,--varying (tho self-same) more than the passion of Timotheus, an enjoyment not to be put into words; and, "though inland far I be," I now hear the voice most audibly while pleasing myself in the idea of your sensations.

---- is getting well apace, and if you have a few trees, and a little harvesting about you, I'll snap my fingers in Lucifer's eye. I hope you bathe too--if you do not, I earnestly recommend it. Bathe thrice a week, and let us have no more sitting up next winter. Which is the best of Shakspeare's plays? I mean in what mood and with what accompaniment do you like the sea best? It is very fine in the morning, when the sun,

"Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt sea streams,"

and superb when

"The sun from meridian height
Illumines the depth of the sea,
And the fishes, beginning to sweat,
Cry d---- it! how hot we shall be,"

and gorgeous, when the fair planet hastens

"To his home
Within the Western foam."

But don't you think there is something extremely fine after sunset, when there are a few white clouds about and a few stars blinking--when the waters are ebbing, and the horizon a mystery? This state of things has been so fulfilling to me that I am anxious to hear whether it is a favourite with you. So when you and Marianne club your letter to me put in a word or two about it. Tell Dilke that it would be perhaps as well if he left a Pheasant or Partridge alive here and there to keep up a supply of game for next season--tell him to rein in if Possible all the Nimrod of his disposition, he being a mighty hunter before the Lord--of the Manor. Tell him to shoot fair, and not to have at the Poor devils in a furrow--when they are flying, he may fire, and nobody will be the wiser.

Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, saying that I have not forgiven myself for not having got her the little box of medicine I promised, and that, had I remained at Hampstead I would have made precious havoc with her house and furniture--drawn a great harrow over her garden--poisoned Boxer--eaten her clothes-pegs--fried her cabbages--fricaseed (how is it spelt?) her radishes--ragout'd her Onions--belaboured her _beat_-root--outstripped her scarlet-runners--parlez-vous'd with her french-beans--devoured her mignon or mignionette--metamorphosed her bell-handles--splintered her looking-glasses--bullocked at her cups and saucers--agonised her decanters--put old Phillips to pickle in the brine-tub--dis_organ_ised her piano--dislocated her candlesticks--emptied her wine-bins in a fit of despair--turned out her maid to grass--and astonished Brown; whose letter to her on these events I would rather see than the original Copy of the Book of Genesis. Should you see Mr. W. D.[25] remember me to him, and to little Robinson Crusoe, and to Mr. Snook. Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone to bed, pleased that I am writing to you. To your brother John (whom henceforth I shall consider as mine) and to you, my dear friends, Marianne and Jane, I shall ever feel grateful for having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey. He delights me in the selfish and (please God) the disinterested part of my disposition. If the old Poets have any pleasure in looking down at the enjoyers of their works, their eyes must bend with a double satisfaction upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is over them, and pray that if, after my death, any of my labours should be worth saving, they may have so "honest a chronicler" as Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm in his own pursuit and for all good things is of an exalted kind--worthy a more healthful frame and an untorn spirit. He must have happy years to come--"he shall not die by God."

A letter from John the other day was a chief happiness to me. I made a little mistake when, just now, I talked of being far inland. How can that be when Endymion and I are at the bottom of the sea? whence I hope to bring him in safety before you leave the seaside; and, if I can so contrive it, you shall be greeted by him upon the sea-sands, and he shall tell you all his adventures, which having finished, he shall thus proceed--"My dear Ladies, favourites of my gentle mistress, however my friend Keats may have teased and vexed you, believe me he loves you not the less--for instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet he has been hauling me through the earth and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I know for all this that he is mighty fond of me, by his contriving me all sorts of pleasures. Nor is this the least, fair ladies, this one of meeting you on the desert shore, and greeting you in his name. He sends you moreover this little scroll--" My dear Girls, I send you, per favour of Endymion, the assurance of my esteem for you, and my utmost wishes for your health and pleasure, being ever,

Your affectionate Brother

JOHN KEATS.

XVI.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

Oxford, Sunday Morn [September 21, 1817].

My dear Reynolds--So you are determined to be my mortal foe--draw a Sword at me, and I will forgive--Put a Bullet in my Brain, and I will shake it out as a dew-drop from the Lion's Mane--put me on a Gridiron, and I will fry with great complacency--but--oh, horror! to come upon me in the shape of a Dun! Send me bills! as I say to my Tailor, send me Bills and I'll never employ you more. However, needs must, when the devil drives: and for fear of "before and behind Mr. Honeycomb" I'll proceed. I have not time to elucidate the forms and shapes of the grass and trees; for, rot it! I forgot to bring my mathematical case with me, which unfortunately contained my triangular Prism so that the hues of the grass cannot be dissected for you--

For these last five or six days, we have had regularly a Boat on the Isis, and explored all the streams about, which are more in number than your eye-lashes. We sometimes skim into a Bed of rushes, and there become naturalised river-folks,--there is one particularly nice nest, which we have christened "Reynolds's Cove," in which we have read Wordsworth and talked as may be. I think I see you and Hunt meeting in the Pit.--What a very pleasant fellow he is, if he would give up the sovereignty of a Room pro bono. What Evenings we might pass with him, could we have him from Mrs. H. Failings I am always rather rejoiced to find in a man than sorry for; they bring us to a Level. He has them, but then his makes-up are very good. He agrees with the Northern Poet in this, "He is not one of those who much delight to season their fireside with personal talk"--I must confess however having a little itch that way, and at this present moment I have a few neighbourly remarks to make. The world, and especially our England, has, within the last thirty years, been vexed and teased by a set of Devils, whom I detest so much that I almost hunger after an Acherontic promotion to a Torturer, purposely for their accommodation. These devils are a set of women, who having taken a snack or Luncheon of Literary scraps, set themselves up for towers of Babel in languages, Sapphos in Poetry, Euclids in Geometry, and everything in nothing. Among such the name of Montague has been pre-eminent. The thing has made a very uncomfortable impression on me. I had longed for some real feminine Modesty in these things, and was therefore gladdened in the extreme on opening the other day, one of Bailey's Books--a book of poetry written by one beautiful Mrs. Philips, a friend of Jeremy Taylor's, and called "The Matchless Orinda--" You must have heard of her, and most likely read her Poetry--I wish you have not, that I may have the pleasure of treating you with a few stanzas--I do it at a venture--You will not regret reading them once more. The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A. at parting, you will judge of.

1

I have examin'd and do find,
Of all that favour me
There's none I grieve to leave behind
But only, only thee.
To part with thee I needs must die,
Could parting sep'rate thee and I.

2

But neither Chance nor Complement
Did element our Love;
'Twas sacred sympathy was lent
Us from the Quire above.
That Friendship Fortune did create,
Still fears a wound from Time or Fate.

3

Our chang'd and mingled Souls are grown
To such acquaintance now,
That if each would resume their own,
Alas! we know not how.
We have each other so engrost,
That each is in the Union lost.

4

And thus we can no Absence know,
Nor shall we be confin'd;
Our active Souls will daily go
To learn each others mind.
Nay, should we never meet to Sense,
Our Souls would hold Intelligence.

5

Inspired with a Flame Divine
I scorn to court a stay;
For from that noble Soul of thine
I ne're can be away.
But I shall weep when thou dost grieve;
Nor can I die whil'st thou dost live.

6

By my own temper I shall guess
At thy felicity,
And only like my happiness
Because it pleaseth thee.
Our hearts at any time will tell
If thou, or I, be sick, or well.

7

All Honour sure I must pretend,
All that is good or great;
She that would be _Rosania's_ Friend,
Must be at least compleat.[A]
If I have any bravery,
'Tis cause I have so much of thee.

8

Thy Leiger Soul in me shall lie,
And all thy thoughts reveal;
Then back again with mine shall flie,
And thence to me shall steal.
Thus still to one another tend;
Such is the sacred name of _Friend_.

9

Thus our twin-Souls in one shall grow,
And teach the World new Love,
Redeem the Age and Sex, and show
A Flame Fate dares not move:
And courting Death to be our friend,
Our Lives together too shall end.

10

A Dew shall dwell upon our Tomb
Of such a quality,
That fighting Armies, thither come,
Shall reconciled be.
We'll ask no Epitaph, but say
Orinda and Rosania.

In other of her poems there is a most delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind--which we will con over together. So Haydon is in Town. I had a letter from him yesterday. We will contrive as the winter comes on--but that is neither here nor there. Have you heard from Rice? Has Martin met with the Cumberland Beggar, or been wondering at the old Leech-gatherer? Has he a turn for fossils? that is, is he capable of sinking up to his Middle in a Morass? How is Hazlitt? We were reading his Table[26] last night. I know he thinks him self not estimated by ten people in the world--I wish he knew he is. I am getting on famous with my third Book--have written 800 lines thereof, and hope to finish it next Week. Bailey likes what I have done very much. Believe me, my dear Reynolds, one of my chief layings-up is the pleasure I shall have in showing it to you, I may now say, in a few days. I have heard twice from my Brothers, they are going on very well, and send their Remembrances to you. We expected to have had notices from little-Hampton this morning--we must wait till Tuesday. I am glad of their Days with the Dilkes. You are, I know, very much teased in that precious London, and want all the rest possible; so I shall be contented with as brief a scrawl--a Word or two, till there comes a pat hour.

Send us a few of your stanzas to read in "Reynolds's Cove." Give my Love and respects to your Mother, and remember me kindly to all at home.

Yours faithfully

JOHN KEATS.

I have left the doublings for Bailey, who is going to say that he will write to you to-morrow.

XVII.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.

Oxford, September 28 [1817].

My dear Haydon--I read your letter to the young Man, whose Name is Cripps. He seemed more than ever anxious to avail himself of your offer. I think I told you we asked him to ascertain his Means. He does not possess the Philosopher's stone--nor Fortunatus's purse, nor Gyges's ring--but at Bailey's suggestion, whom I assure you is a very capital fellow, we have stummed up a kind of contrivance whereby he will be enabled to do himself the benefits you will lay in his Path. I have a great Idea that he will be a tolerable neat brush. 'Tis perhaps the finest thing that will befal him this many a year: for he is just of an age to get grounded in bad habits from which you will pluck him. He brought a copy of Mary Queen of Scots: it appears to me that he has copied the bad style of the painting, as well as coloured the eyeballs yellow like the original. He has also the fault that you pointed out to me in Hazlitt on the constringing and diffusing of substance. However I really believe that he will take fire at the sight of your Picture--and set about things. If he can get ready in time to return to town with me, which will be in a few days--I will bring him to you. You will be glad to hear that within these last three weeks I have written 1000 lines--which are the third Book of my Poem. My Ideas with respect to it I assure you are very low--and I would write the subject thoroughly again--but I am tired of it and think the time would be better spent in writing a new Romance which I have in my eye for next summer--Rome was not built in a Day--and all the good I expect from my employment this summer is the fruit of Experience which I hope to gather in my next Poem. Bailey's kindest wishes, and my vow of being

Yours eternally

JOHN KEATS.

XVIII.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

Hampstead, Wednesday [October 8, 1817].

My dear Bailey--After a tolerable journey, I went from Coach to Coach as far as Hampstead where I found my Brothers--the next Morning finding myself tolerably well I went to Lamb's Conduit Street and delivered your parcel. Jane and Marianne were greatly improved. Marianne especially, she has no unhealthy plumpness in the face, but she comes me healthy and angular to the chin--I did not see John--I was extremely sorry to hear that poor Rice, after having had capital health during his tour, was very ill. I daresay you have heard from him. From No. 19 I went to Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neighbours.--Shelley was there--I know nothing about anything in this part of the world--every Body seems at Loggerheads. There's Hunt infatuated--there's Haydon's picture in statu quo--There's Hunt walks up and down his painting room criticising every head most unmercifully. There's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. "The web of our life is of mingled yarn."[27] Haydon having removed entirely from Marlborough Street, Cripps must direct his letter to Lisson Grove, North Paddington. Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown's, in came Reynolds, he was pretty bobbish, we had a pleasant day--he would walk home at night that cursed cold distance. Mrs. Bentley's children are making a horrid row[28]--whereby I regret I cannot be transported to your Room to write to you. I am quite disgusted with literary men and will never know another except Wordsworth--no not even Byron. Here is an instance of the friendship of such. Haydon and Hunt have known each other many years--now they live, pour ainsi dire, jealous neighbours--Haydon says to me, Keats, don't show your lines to Hunt on any Account, or he will have done half for you--so it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought. When he met Reynolds in the Theatre, John told him that I was getting on to the completion of 4000 lines--Ah! says Hunt, had it not been for me they would have been 7000! If he will say this to Reynolds, what would he to other people? Haydon received a Letter a little while back on this subject from some Lady--which contains a caution to me, through him, on the subject--now is not all this a most paltry thing to think about? You may see the whole of the case by the following Extract from a Letter I wrote to George in the Spring--"As to what you say about my being a Poet, I can return no Answer but by saying that the high Idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering too 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 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 I 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 found new in a second Reading: which may be food for a Week's stroll in the 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 in the shape of Tales--this same invention seems indeed 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 Hunt's"----

You see, Bailey, how independent my Writing has been. Hunt's dissuasion was of no avail--I refused to visit Shelley that I might have my own unfettered scope;--and after all, I shall have the Reputation of Hunt's eleve. His corrections and amputations will by the knowing ones be traced in the Poem. This is, to be sure, the vexation of a day, nor would I say so many words about it to any but those whom I know to have my welfare and reputation at heart. Haydon promised to give directions for those Casts, and you may expect to see them soon, with as many Letters--You will soon hear the dinning of Bells--never mind! you and Gleig[29] will defy the foul fiend--But do not sacrifice your health to Books: do take it kindly and not so voraciously. I am certain if you are your own Physician, your Stomach will resume its proper strength and then what great benefits will follow.--My sister wrote a Letter to me, which I think must be at the post-office--Ax Will to see. My Brother's kindest remembrances to you--we are going to dine at Brown's where I have some hopes of meeting Reynolds. The little Mercury I have taken has corrected the poison and improved my health--though I feel from my employment that I shall never be again secure in Robustness. Would that you were as well as

Your Sincere friend and brother

JOHN KEATS.

XIX.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

[Hampstead: about November 1, 1817.]

My dear Bailey--So you have got a Curacy--good, but I suppose you will be obliged to stop among your Oxford favourites during Term time. Never mind. When do you preach your first sermon?--tell me, for I shall propose to the two R.'s[30] to hear it,--so don't look into any of the old corner oaken pews, for fear of being put out by us. Poor Johnny Moultrie can't be there. He is ill, I expect--but that's neither here nor there. All I can say, I wish him as well through it as I am like to be. For this fortnight I have been confined at Hampstead. Saturday evening was my first day in town, when I went to Rice's--as we intend to do every Saturday till we know not when. We hit upon an old gent we had known some few years ago, and had a _veiry pleasante daye_. In this world there is no quiet,--nothing but teasing and snubbing and vexation. My brother Tom looked very unwell yesterday, and I am for shipping him off to Lisbon. Perhaps I ship there with him. I have not seen Mrs. Reynolds since I left you, wherefore my conscience smites me. I think of seeing her to-morrow; have you any message? I hope Gleig came soon after I left. I don't suppose I've written as many lines as you have read volumes, or at least chapters, since I saw you. However, I am in a fair way now to come to a conclusion in at least three weeks, when I assure you I shall be glad to dismount for a month or two; although I'll keep as tight a rein as possible till then, nor suffer myself to sleep. I will copy for you the opening of the Fourth Book, in which you will see from the manner I had not an opportunity of mentioning any poets, for fear of spoiling the effect of the passage by particularising them.

Thus far had I written when I received your last, which made me at the sight of the direction caper for despair; but for one thing I am glad that I have been neglectful, and that is, therefrom I have received a proof of your utmost kindness, which at this present I feel very much, and I wish I had a heart always open to such sensations; but there is no altering a man's nature, and mine must be radically wrong, for it will lie dormant a whole month. This leads me to suppose that there are no men thoroughly wicked, so as never to be self-spiritualised into a kind of sublime misery; but, alas! 'tis but for an hour. He is the only Man "who has kept watch on man's mortality," who has philanthropy enough to overcome the disposition to an indolent enjoyment of intellect, who is brave enough to volunteer for uncomfortable hours. You remember in Hazlitt's essay on commonplace people he says, "they read the Edinburgh and Quarterly, and think as they do." Now, with respect to Wordsworth's "Gipsy," I think he is right, and yet I think Hazlitt is right, and yet I think Wordsworth is rightest. If Wordsworth had not been idle, he had not been without his task; nor had the "Gipsies"--they in the visible world had been as picturesque an object as he in the invisible. The smoke of their fire, their attitudes, their voices, were all in harmony with the evenings. It is a bold thing to say--and I would not say it in print--but it seems to me that if Wordsworth had thought a little deeper at that moment, he would not have written the poem at all. I should judge it to have been written in one of the most comfortable moods of his life--it is a kind of sketchy intellectual landscape, not a search after truth, nor is it fair to attack him on such a subject; for it is with the critic as with the poet; had Hazlitt thought a little deeper, and been in a good temper, he would never have spied out imaginary faults there. The Sunday before last I asked Haydon to dine with me, when I thought of settling all matters with him in regard to Cripps, and let you know about it. Now, although I engaged him a fortnight before, he sent illness as an excuse. He never will come. I have not been well enough to stand the chance of a wet night, and so have not seen him, nor been able to expurgatorise more masks for you; but I will not speak--your speakers are never doers. Then Reynolds,--every time I see him and mention you, he puts his hand to his head and looks like a son of Niobe's; but he'll write soon.

Rome, you know, was not built in a day. I shall be able, by a little perseverance, to read your letters off-hand. I am afraid your health will suffer from over study before your examination. I think you might regulate the thing according to your own pleasure,--and I would too. They were talking of your being up at Christmas. Will it be before you have passed? There is nothing, my dear Bailey, I should rejoice at more than to see you comfortable with a little Peona wife; an affectionate wife, I have a sort of confidence, would do you a great happiness. May that be one of the many blessings I wish you. Let me be but the one-tenth of one to you, and I shall think it great. My brother George's kindest wishes to you. My dear Bailey, I am,

Your affectionate friend

JOHN KEATS.

I should not like to be pages in your way; when in a tolerable hungry mood you have no mercy. Your teeth are the Rock Tarpeian down which you capsize epic poems like mad. I would not for forty shillings be Coleridge's Lays in your way. I hope you will soon get through this abominable writing in the schools, and be able to keep the terms with more comfort in the hope of retiring to a comfortable and quiet home out of the way of all Hopkinses and black beetles. When you are settled, I will come and take a peep at your church, your house; try whether I shall have grown too lusty for my chair by the fireside, and take a peep at my earliest bower. A question is the best beacon towards a little speculation. Then ask me after my health and spirits. This question ratifies in my mind what I have said above. Health and spirits can only belong unalloyed to the selfish man--the man who thinks much of his fellows can never be in spirits. You must forgive, although I have only written three hundred lines; they would have been five, but I have been obliged to go to town. Yesterday I called at Lamb's. St. Jane looked very flush when I first looked in, but was much better before I left.

XX.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

[_Fragment from an outside sheet: postmark_ London, November 5, 1817.]

... I will speak of something else, or my spleen will get higher and higher--and I am a bearer of the two-edged sword.--I hope you will receive an answer from Haydon soon--if not, Pride! Pride! Pride! I have received no more subscription--but shall soon have a full health, Liberty and leisure to give a good part of my time to him. I will certainly be in time for him. We have promised him one year: let that have elapsed, then do as we think proper. If I did not know how impossible it is, I should say--"do not at this time of disappointments, disturb yourself about others."

There has been a flaming attack upon Hunt in the E_n_dinburgh Magazine. I never read anything so virulent--accusing him of the greatest Crimes, depreciating his Wife, his Poetry, his Habits, his Company, his Conversation. These Philippics are to come out in numbers--called "the Cockney School of Poetry." There has been but one number published--that on Hunt--to which they have prefixed a motto from one Cornelius Webb Poetaster--who unfortunately was of our party occasionally at Hampstead and took it into his head to write the following,--something about "we'll talk on Wordsworth, Byron, a theme we never tire on;" and so forth till he comes to Hunt and Keats. In the Motto they have put Hunt and Keats in large letters--I have no doubt that the second number was intended for me: but have hopes of its non-appearance, from the following Advertisement in last Sunday's Examiner:--"To Z.--The Writer of the Article signed Z., in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine for October 1817 is invited to send his address to the printer of the Examiner, in order that Justice may be Executed on the proper person." I don't mind the thing much--but if he should go to such lengths with me as he has done with Hunt, I must infallibly call him to an Account if he be a human being, and appears in Squares and Theatres, where we might possibly meet--I don't relish his abuse....

XXI.--TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE.

[Hampstead, November 1817.]

My dear Dilke--Mrs. Dilke or Mr. Wm. Dilke, whoever of you shall receive this present, have the kindness to send pr. bearer Sibylline Leaves, and your petitioner shall ever pray as in duty bound.

Given under my hand this Wednesday morning of Novr. 1817.

JOHN KEATS.

Vivant Rex et Regina--amen.

XXII.--TO BENJAMIN BAILEY.

[Burford Bridge, November 22, 1817.]

My dear Bailey--I will get over the first part of this (_un_said[31]) Letter as soon as possible, for it relates to the affairs of poor Cripps.--To a Man of your nature such a Letter as Haydon's must have been extremely cutting--What occasions the greater part of the World's Quarrels?--simply this--two Minds meet, and do not understand each other time enough to prevent any shock or surprise at the conduct of either party--As soon as I had known Haydon three days, I had got enough of his Character not to have been surprised at such a Letter as he has hurt you with. Nor, when I knew it, was it a principle with me to drop his acquaintance; although with you it would have been an imperious feeling. I wish you knew all that I think about Genius and the Heart--and yet I think that you are thoroughly acquainted with my innermost breast in that respect, or you could not have known me even thus long, and still hold me worthy to be your dear Friend. In passing, however, I must say one thing that has pressed upon me lately, and increased my Humility and capability of submission--and that is this truth--Men of Genius are great as certain ethereal Chemicals operating on the Mass of neutral intellect--but they have not any individuality, any determined Character--I would call the top and head of those who have a proper self Men of Power.

But I am running my head into a subject which I am certain I could not do justice to under five Years' study, and 3 vols. octavo--and, moreover, I long to be talking about the Imagination--so my dear Bailey, do not think of this unpleasant affair, if possible do not--I defy any harm to come of it--I defy. I shall write to Cripps this week, and request him to tell me all his goings-on from time to time by Letter wherever I may be. It will go on well--so don't because you have suddenly discovered a Coldness in Haydon suffer yourself to be teased--Do not my dear fellow--O! I wish I was as certain of the end of all your troubles as that of your momentary start about the authenticity of the Imagination. I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections, and the truth of Imagination. What the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth--whether it existed before or not,--for I have the same idea of all our passions as of Love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty. In a Word, you may know my favourite speculation by my first Book, and the little Song I sent in my last, which is a representation from the fancy of the probable mode of operating in these Matters. The Imagination may be compared to Adam's dream,--he awoke and found it truth:[32]--I am more zealous in this affair, because I have never yet been able to perceive how anything can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning--and yet it must be. Can it be that even the greatest Philosopher ever arrived at his Goal without putting aside numerous objections? However it may be, O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts! It is "a Vision in the form of Youth," a shadow of reality to come--And this consideration has further convinced me,--for it has come as auxiliary to another favourite speculation of mine,--that we shall enjoy ourselves hereafter by having what we called happiness on Earth repeated in a finer tone--And yet such a fate can only befall those who delight in Sensation, rather than hunger as you do after Truth. Adam's dream will do here, and seems to be a Conviction that Imagination and its empyreal reflection, is the same as human life and its spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, the Simple imaginative Mind may have its rewards in the repetition of its own silent Working coming continually on the Spirit with a fine Suddenness--to compare great things with small, have you never by being surprised with an old Melody, in a delicious place by a delicious voice, _felt_ over again your very speculations and surmises at the time it first operated on your soul?--do you not remember forming to yourself the Singer's face--more beautiful than it was possible, and yet with the elevation of the Moment you did not think so? Even then you were mounted on the Wings of Imagination, so high that the prototype must be hereafter--that delicious face you will see. What a time! I am continually running away from the subject. Sure this cannot be exactly the Case with a complex mind--one that is imaginative, and at the same time careful of its fruits,--who would exist partly on Sensation, partly on thought--to whom it is necessary that years should bring the philosophic Mind? Such a one I consider yours, and therefore it is necessary to your eternal happiness that you not only drink this old Wine of Heaven, which I shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal Musings upon Earth, but also increase in knowledge and know all things. I am glad to hear that you are in a fair way for Easter. You will soon get through your unpleasant reading, and then!--but the world is full of troubles, and I have not much reason to think myself pestered with many.

I think Jane or Marianne has a better opinion of me than I deserve: for, really and truly, I do not think my Brother's illness connected with mine--you know more of the real Cause than they do; nor have I any chance of being rack'd as you have been. You perhaps at one time thought there was such a thing as worldly happiness to be arrived at, at certain periods of time marked out,--you have of necessity from your disposition been thus led away--I scarcely remember counting upon any Happiness--I look not for it if it be not in the present hour,--nothing startles me beyond the moment. The Setting Sun will always set me to rights, or if a Sparrow come before my Window, I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel. The first thing that strikes me on hearing a Misfortune having befallen another is this--"Well, it cannot be helped: he will have the pleasure of trying the resources of his Spirit"--and I beg now, my dear Bailey, that hereafter should you observe anything cold in me not to put it to the account of heartlessness, but abstraction--for I assure you I sometimes feel not the influence of a passion or affection during a whole Week--and so long this sometimes continues, I begin to suspect myself, and the genuineness of my feelings at other times--thinking them a few barren Tragedy Tears.

My brother Tom is much improved--he is going to Devonshire--whither I shall follow him. At present, I am just arrived at Dorking--to change the Scene--change the Air, and give me a spur to wind up my Poem, of which there are wanting 500 lines. I should have been here a day sooner, but the Reynoldses persuaded me to stop in Town to meet your friend Christie. There were Rice and Martin--we talked about Ghosts. I will have some Talk with Taylor and let you know,--when please God I come down at Christmas. I will find that Examiner if possible. My best regards to Gleig, my Brothers' to you and Mrs. Bentley.

Your affectionate Friend

JOHN KEATS.

I want to say much more to you--a few hints will set me going. Direct Burford Bridge near Dorking.

XXIII.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

[Burford Bridge,] November 22, 1817.

My dear Reynolds--There are two things which tease me here--one of them Cripps, and the other that I cannot go with Tom into Devonshire. However, I hope to do my duty to myself in a week or so; and then I'll try what I can do for my neighbour--now, is not this virtuous? On returning to Town I'll damm all Idleness--indeed, in superabundance of employment, I must not be content to run here and there on little two-penny errands, but turn Rakehell, _i.e._ go a masking, or Bailey will think me just as great a Promise Keeper as _he_ thinks you; for myself I do not, and do not remember above one complaint against you for matter o' that. Bailey writes so abominable a hand, to give his Letter a fair reading requires a little time: so I had not seen, when I saw you last, his invitation to Oxford at Christmas. I'll go with you. You know how poorly Rice was. I do not think it was all corporeal,--bodily pain was not used to keep him silent. I'll tell you what; he was hurt at what your Sisters said about his joking with your Mother, he was, soothly to sain. It will all blow over. God knows, my dear Reynolds, I should not talk any sorrow to you--you must have enough vexations--so I won't any more. If I ever start a rueful subject in a letter to you--blow me! Why don't you?--now I am going to ask you a very silly Question neither you nor anybody else could answer, under a folio, or at least a Pamphlet--you shall judge--why don't you, as I do, look unconcerned at what may be called more particularly Heart-vexations? They never surprise me--lord! a man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

I like this place very much. There is Hill and Dale and a little River. I went up Box hill this Evening after the Moon--"you a' seen the Moon"--came down, and wrote some lines. Whenever I am separated from you, and not engaged in a continued Poem, every letter shall bring you a lyric--but I am too anxious for you to enjoy the whole to send you a particle. One of the three books I have with me is Shakspeare's Poems: I never found so many beauties in the sonnets--they seem to be full of fine things said unintentionally--in the intensity of working out conceits. Is this to be borne? Hark ye!

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the head,
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly head.

He has left nothing to say about nothing or anything: for look at snails--you know what he says about Snails--you know when he talks about "cockled Snails"--well, in one of these sonnets, he says--the chap slips into--no! I lie! this is in the Venus and Adonis: the simile brought it to my Mind.

As the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks back into his shelly cave with pain,
And there all smothered up in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to put forth again;
So at his bloody view her eyes are fled,
Into the deep dark Cabins of her head.

He overwhelms a genuine Lover of poesy with all manner of abuse, talking about--

"a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song."

Which, by the bye, will be a capital motto for my poem, won't it? He speaks too of "Time's antique pen"--and "April's first-born flowers"--and "Death's eternal cold."--By the Whim-King! I'll give you a stanza, because it is not material in connection, and when I wrote it I wanted you--to give your vote, pro or con.--

Crystalline Brother of the belt of Heaven,
Aquarius! to whom King Jove hath given
Two liquid pulse-streams, 'stead of feather'd wings--
Two fan-like fountains--thine illuminings
For Dian play:
Dissolve the frozen purity of air;
Let thy white shoulders, silvery and bare,
Show cold through wat'ry pinions: make more bright
The Star-Queen's Crescent on her marriage night:
Haste, haste away!

... I see there is an advertisement in the _Chronicle_ to Poets--he is so over-loaded with poems on the "late Princess." I suppose you do not lack--send me a few--lend me thy hand to laugh a little--send me a little pullet-sperm, a few finch-eggs--and remember me to each of our card-playing Club. When you die you will all be turned into Dice, and be put in pawn with the devil: for cards, they crumple up like anything....

I rest Your affectionate friend

JOHN KEATS.

Give my love to both houses--hinc atque illinc.

XXIV.--TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS.

Hampstead, December 22, 1817.