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LETTER DATE PAGE

PREFACE xi

JOHN KEATS.

I shall be happy to hear any little intelligence in the literary or friendly way when you have time to scribble.

Tuesday Morn .

I am afraid you will say I have "wound about with circumstance," when I should have asked plainly--however as I said I am a little maidenish or so, and I feel my virginity come strong upon me, the while I request the loan of a ?20 and a ?10, which, if you would enclose to me, I would acknowledge and save myself a hot forehead. I am sure you are confident of my responsibility, and in the sense of squareness that is always in me.

Your obliged friend

JOHN KEATS.

Yours truly

JOHN KEATS.

Oxford, September 10 .

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.

Oxford, Sunday Evg. .

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 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.

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

and superb when

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.

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.

Oxford, Sunday Morn .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

Oxford, September 28 .

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.

Hampstead, Wednesday .

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 ?l?ve. 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 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.

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.

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