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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 sc.r.a.ps, 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 n.o.ble 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 s.e.x, 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 c.u.mberland 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 Mora.s.s? 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 a.s.sure 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 a.s.sure 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.--Sh.e.l.ley 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 circ.u.mstance, 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--G.o.d 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"----