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LIFE, 
 
 LETTERS, AND LITERARY REMAINS, 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHI KEATS 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNEaV 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME, 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 GEORGE P. PUTNAM, 155 BROADWAY 
 
 1848. 
 

 Leavitt, Trow & Co., Printers. 
 49 Ann-street. 
 
 7 t 'Ofi 
 
FRANCIS JEFFREY, 
 
 ONE OF THE SENATORS OF THE COLLEGE OF JUSTICE IN SCOTLAND, 
 
 Dear Lord Jeffrey, 
 
 It is with great pleasure that I dedicate to you these late 
 memorials and relics of a man, whose early genius you did much to 
 rescue from the alternative of obloquy or oblivion. 
 
 The merits which your generous sagacity perceived under so many 
 disadvantages, are now recognized by every student and lover of poetry in 
 this country, and have acquired a still brighter fame, in that other and 
 wider England beyond the Atlantic, whose national youth is, perhaps, 
 more keenly susceptible of poetic impressions and delights, than the 
 niaturer and more conscious fatherland. 
 
 I think that the poetical portion of this volume, will confirm the opinions 
 you hazarded at the time, when such views were hazardous even to a 
 critical reputation so well-founded as your own : and I believe that you 
 will find in the clear transcript of the poet's mind, conveyed in these 
 familiar letters, more than a vindication of all the interest you took in a 
 character, whose moral purity and nobleness is as significant as its intel- 
 lectual excellence. 
 
 It has no doubt frequently amused you to have outlived literary 
 reputations, whose sound and glitter you foresaw would not stand the 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 tests of time and altered circumstance ; but it is a far deeper source of 
 satisfaction to have received the ratification by public opinion of judg- 
 ments, once doubted or derided, and thus to have anticipated the tardy 
 justice which a great work of art frequently obtains, when the hand of 
 the artist is cold, and the heart that palpitated under neglect is still 
 for ever. 
 
 This composition, or rather compilation, has been indeed a labor of 
 love, and I rejoice to prefix to it a name not dearer to pubhc esteem than 
 to private friendship, — ^not less worthy of gratitude and of affection than 
 of high professional honors and v^de intellectual fame. 
 I remain, dear Lord Jeffrey, 
 
 Yours with respect and regard, 
 
 R. MONCKTQN MiLNES. 
 
 Pall Mall, Aug. 1, 1848. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 It is now fifteen years ago that I met> at the villa of my distinguished 
 friend, Mr. Landor, on the beautiful hill-side of Fiesole, Mr. Charles 
 Brown, a retired Russia-merchantj with whose name I was already 
 familiar as the generous protector and devoted friend of the Poet Keats. 
 Mr. Severn, the artist, whom I had known at Rome, had already satisfied 
 much of my curiosity respecting a man, whom the gods had favored with 
 great genius and early death, but had added to one gift the consciousness 
 of public disregard, and to the other the trial of severe physical suffering. 
 With the Works of Keats I had always felt a strong poetical sympathy, 
 accompanied by a ceaseless wonder at their wealth of diction and of their 
 imagery, which was increased by the consciousness that all that he had 
 produced was rather a promise than an accomphshment ; he had ever 
 seemed to me to have done more at school in poetry, than almost any 
 other man who had made it the object of mature life. This adolescent 
 character had given me an especial interest in the moral history of this 
 Marcellus of the empire of English song, and when my imagination 
 measured what he might have become by what he was, it stood astounded 
 at the result. 
 
 Therefore the circumstances of his life and writings appeared to me 
 of a high literary interest, and I looked on whatever unpublished produc- 
 tions of his that fell in my way with feelings perhaps not in all cases 
 warranted by their intrinsic merits. Few of these remains had escaped 
 
 1* 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 the affectionate care of Mr. Brown, and he told me that he only deferred 
 their publication till his return to England. This took place two or three 
 years afterwards, and the preliminary arrangements for giving them to the 
 world were actually in progress, when the accident of attending a 
 meeting on the subject of the colonization of New Zealand altered 
 Mr. Brown's plans, and determined him to transfer his fortunes and the 
 closing years of his life to the antipodes. Before he left this country he 
 confided to my care all his collections of Keats's writings, accompanied 
 with a biographical notice, and I engaged to use them to the best of my 
 ability for the purpose of vindicating the character and advancing the fame 
 of his honored friend. 
 
 As soon as my intention was made known, I received from the friends 
 and acquaintances of the poet the kindest assistance. His earliest guide 
 and companion m literature, Mr. Cowden Clarke, and his comrades in 
 youthful study, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Felton Mathew, supplied me with all 
 their recollections of his boyhood ; Mr. Reynolds, whom Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
 in the "Examiner" of 1816, associated with Shelley and Keats as the 
 thi-ee poets of promise whom time was ripening, contributed the rich store 
 of correspondence, which began with Keats's introduction into literary 
 society, and never halted to the last; Mr. Haslam and Mr. Dilke aided me 
 with letters and remembrances, and many persons who casually heard of 
 my project forwarded me information that circumstances had placed in 
 their way. To the enhghtened publishers, Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, 
 and to Mr. OUier, I am also indebted for willing co-operation. 
 
 Mr. Leigh Hunt had already laid his offering on the shrine of his 
 beloved brother in the trials and triumphs of genius, and could only 
 encourage me by his interest and sympathy. 
 
 I have already mentioned Mr. Severn, without wliom I should probably 
 have never thought of undertaking the task, and who now offered me the 
 additional inducement of an excellent portrait of his friend to prefix to the 
 book : he has also in Ms possession a small full-length of Keats sitting 
 reading, which is considered a striking and characteristic resemblance. 
 But perhaps the most valuable, as the most confidential communica- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 tion I received, was from the gentleman who has married the widow of 
 George Keats, and who placed at my disposal, with the consent of the 
 family, the letters George received from his brother after he emigrated 
 to America. I have taken the liberty of omitting some few unimportant 
 passages which referred exclusively to individuals or transitory circum- 
 stances, regarding this part of the correspondence as of a more private 
 character than any other that has fallen into my hands. 
 
 I am not indeed unprepared for the charge, that I have published in 
 this volume much that might well have been omitted, both for its own 
 irrelevancy, and from the decent reverence that should always veil, more 
 or less, the intimate family concerns and the deep internal life of those 
 that are no more. Never has sach remonstrance been more ably expressed 
 than in the following passage from Mr. Wordsworth's " Letter to a friend 
 of Robert Bums,"* and which, on account of the rarity of the pamphlet, 
 I here transcribe : — 
 
 " Biography, though differing in some essentials from works of fiction, 
 is nevertheless like them an art — an art, the laws of which are determined 
 by the imperfections of our nature and the constitution of society. Truth 
 is not here, as in the sciences and in natural philosophy, to be sought 
 without scruple, and promulgated for its own Fake upon the mere chance 
 of its being serviceable, but only for obviously justifying purposes, moral 
 or intellectual. Silence is a privilege of the grave, a right of the departed ; 
 let him, therefore, who infringes that right by speaking publicly of, for, or 
 against those who cannot speak for themselves, take heed that he open 
 not his mouth without a sufficient sanction. * * * * The general 
 obligation upon which I have insisted is especially binding upon those who 
 undertake the biography of authors. Assuredly there is no cause why 
 the lives of that class of men should be pried into with diligent curiosity, 
 and laid open with the same disregard of reserve which may sometimes 
 be expedient in composing the history of men who have borne an active part 
 in the world. Such thorough knowledge of the good and bad qualities of 
 
 * Published 1816. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 these latter, as can only be obtained by a scrutiny of their private bias, 
 conduces to explain, not only their own public conduct, but that of those 
 with whom they have acted. Nothing of this applies to authors, consid- 
 ered merely as authors. Our business is with their books, to understand 
 and to enjoy them. And of poets more especially it is true, that if their 
 works be good, they contain within them_selves all that is necessary to 
 their being comprehended and relished. It should seem that the ancients 
 thought in this manner, for of the eminent Greek and Roman poets, few 
 and scanty memorials were, I believe, ever prepared, and fewer still are 
 preserved. It is delightful to read what, in the happy exercise of his own 
 genius, Horace chooses to communicate of himself and of his friends ; but 
 I confess I am not so much a lover of knowledge independent of its 
 quality, as to make it likely that it would much rejoice me were I to hear 
 that records of the Sabine poet and his contemporaries, composed upon 
 the Boswellian plan, had been unearthed among the ruins of Hercula- 
 neum." 
 
 With this earnest warning before me, I hesitated some time as to the 
 application of my materials. It was easy for me to construct out of them 
 a signal monument of the worth and genius of Keats : by selecting the 
 circumstances and the passages that illustrated the extent of his abilities, 
 the purity of his objects and the nobleness of his nature, I might have 
 presented to the world a monography, apparently perfect, and at least as 
 real as those which the affection or pride of the relatives or dependents of 
 remarkable personages generally prefix to their works. But I could not 
 be unconscious that, if I were able to present to the public view the true 
 personality of a man of genius, without either wounding the feelings of 
 mourning friends or detracting from his existing reputation, I should be 
 doing a much better thing in itself, and one much more becoming that 
 office of biographer, which I, a personal stranger to the individual, had 
 consented to undertake. For, if I left the memorials of Keats to tell their 
 own tale, they would in truth be the book, and my business would be 
 almost limited to their collection and arrangement ; whereas, if I only 
 regarded them as the materials of my own work, the general effect would 
 
PREFACE. 9 
 
 chiefly depend on my ability of construction, and the temptation to render 
 the facts of the story subservient to the excellence of the work of art 
 would never have been absent. 
 
 I had else to consider which procedure was most likely to raise the 
 character of Keats in the estimation of those most capable of judging it. 
 I saw how grievously he was misapprehended even by many who wished 
 to see in him only what was best. I perceived that many, who heartily 
 admired his poetry, looked on it as the production of a wayward, erratic 
 genius, self-indulgent in conceits, disrespectful of the rules and hmitations 
 of Art, not only unlearned but careless of knowledge, not only exag- 
 gerated but despising proportion. I^knew that his moral disposition was 
 assumed to be weak, gluttonous of sensual excitement, querulous of 
 severe judgment, fantastical in its tastes, and lackadaisical in its senti- 
 ments. He was all but universally believed to have been killed by a 
 stupid, savage article in a review, and to the compassion generated by his 
 untoward fate he was held to owe a certain personal interest, which his 
 poetic reputation harfly justified. 
 
 When, then, I found, from the undeniable documentary evidence of 
 his inmost life, that nothing could be further from the truth than this 
 opinion, it seemed to me, that a portrait, so dissimilar from the general 
 assumption, would hardly obtain credit, and might rather look like the 
 production of a paradoxical partiality than the result of conscientious 
 inquiry. I had to show that Keats, in his intellectual character, rever- 
 enced simplicity and truth above all things, and abhorred whatever was 
 merely strange and strong — that he was ever learning and ever growing 
 more conscious of his own ignorance, — that his models were always the 
 highest and the purest, and that his earnestness in aiming at their excel- 
 lence, was only equal to the humble estimation of his own efforts — that 
 his poetical course was one of distinct and positive progress, exhibiting a 
 self-command and self-direction which enabled him to understand and 
 avoid the faults even of the writers he was most naturally inclined to 
 esteem, and to liberate himself at once, not only from the fetters of literary 
 partisanship, but even from the subtler influences and associations of the 
 
10 PREFACE. 
 
 accidental literary spirit of his own time. I had also to exhibit the moral 
 peculiarities of Keats as the effects of a strong will, passionate tempera- 
 ment, indomitable courage, and a somewhat contemptuous disregard of 
 other men — to represent him as unflinchingly meeting all criticism of his 
 writings, and caring for the Article, which was supposed to have had such 
 homicidal success, just so far as it was an evidence of the httle power he 
 had as yet acquired over the sympathies of mankind, and no more. I had 
 to make prominent the brave front he opposed to poverty and pain — to 
 show, how love of pleasure was in him continually subordinate to higher 
 aspirations, notwithstanding the sharp zest of enjoyment which his mer- 
 curial nature conferred on him ; and above all, I had to illustrate how 
 little he abused his full possession of that imaginative faculty, which 
 enables the poet to vivify the phantoms of the hour, and to purify the 
 objects of sense, beyond what the moralist may sanction, or the mere 
 practical man can understand. 
 
 I thus came to the conclusion, that it was best to act simply as editor 
 of the Life which was, as it were, already written. I had not the right, 
 which many men yet living might claim from personal knowledge, of 
 analyzing motives of action and explaining courses of conduct ; I could 
 tell no more than was told to me, and that I have done as faithfully as I 
 was able : and I now leave the result in the hands of the few whose habits 
 of thought incline them to such subjects, not, indeed, in the hope that their 
 task will be as agreeable as mine has been, but in the belief, that they will 
 find in it much that is not mine to appreciate and enjoy : a previous admi- 
 ration of the works of Keats which have been already published is the 
 test of their authority to approve or condemn these supplementary memo- 
 rials, and I admit no other. 
 
FAC-SIMTLE OF KEATS S HANDWRITING. 
 
 J V Oyyvti ^ <A^ Ike Aiccdju^ /^c - 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS. 
 
 To the Poet, if to any man, it may justly be conceded to be 
 estimated by what he has written rather than by what he has 
 done, and to be judged by the productions of his genius rather 
 than by the circumstances of his outward life. For although the 
 choice and treatment of a subject may enable us to contemplate 
 the mind of the Historian, the Novelist, or the Philosopher, yet 
 our observation will be more or less limited and obscured by the 
 sequence of events, the forms of manners. Or the exigencies of 
 theory, and the personality of the writer must be frequently lost ; 
 while the Poet, if his utterances be deep and true, can hardly 
 hide himself even beneath the epic or dramatic veil, and often 
 makes of the rough public ear a confessional into which to pour 
 the richest treasures and holiest secrets of his soul. His Life is 
 in his writings, and his Poems are his works indeed. 
 
 The biography therefore of a poet can be little better than a 
 comment on his Poems, even when itself of long duration, and 
 checkered with strange and various adventures : but these pages 
 concern one whose whole story may be summed up in the compo- 
 sition of three small volumes of verse, some earnest friendships, 
 one passion, and a premature death. As men die, so they walk 
 among posterity ; and our impression of Keats can only be that 
 of a noble nature perseveringly testing its own powers, of a man- 
 ly heart bravely .surmounting its first hard experience, and of an 
 
 2 
 
14 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 imagination ready to inundate the world, yet learning to flow 
 within regulated channels, and abating its violence without les- 
 sening its strength. 
 
 It is thus no more than the beginning of a Life which can 
 here be written, and nothing but a conviction of the singularity 
 and greatness of the fragment would justify any one in attempt- 
 ing to draw general attention to its shape and substance. The 
 interest indeed of the Poems of Keats has already had much of a 
 personal character : and his early end, like that of Chatterton, 
 (of whom he ever speaks with a sort of prescient sympathy,) has, 
 in some degree, stood him in stead of a fulfilled poetical exist- 
 ence. Ever improving in his art, he gave no reason to believe 
 that his marvelous faculty had any thing in common with that 
 lyrical facility which many men have manifested in boyhood or 
 in youth, but which has grown torpid or disappeared altogether 
 with the advance of mature life ; in him no one doubts that a true 
 genius was suddenly arrested, and they who will not allow him to 
 have won his place in the first ranks of English poets will not de- 
 ny the promise of his candidature. When a man has had a fair 
 field of existence before him and free scope for the exhibition of 
 his energies, it becomes a superfluous and generally an unprofita- 
 ble task to collect together the unimportant incidents of his career 
 and hoard up the scattered remnants of his mind, most of which 
 he would probably have himself wished* to be forgotten. But in 
 the instance of Keats, it is a natural feeling in those who knew 
 and loved, and not an extravagant one in those who merely admire 
 him, to desire, as far as may be, to repair the injustice of destiny, 
 and to glean whatever relics they may find of a harvest of which 
 so few full sheaves were permitted to be garnered. 
 
 The interest which attaches to the family of every remarka- 
 ble individual has failed to discover in that of Keats any thing 
 more than that the influences with which his childhood was sur- 
 rounded were virtuous and honorable. His father, who was 
 employed in the establishment of Mr. Jennings, the proprietor of 
 large livery-stables on the Pavement in Moorfields, nearly oppo^ 
 site the entrance into Finsbury Circus, became his master's son- 
 in-law, and is still remembered as a man of excellent natural 
 
JOHN KEATS. 15 
 
 seiise, lively and eoergeiic countenaoce, and entire freedom from 
 any Tulgaritj or assumption on account of his prosperous alliance. 
 He was killed by a fall from his horse in 1504. at the early age 
 of thirty-six. The mother, a lively, intelligent woman, was sup- 
 posed to have prematurely hastened the birth of John by her 
 passionate love of amusement, though his consdtuticoi gave no 
 signs of the peculiar debility of a seventh months child. He was 
 bom on the 29th of October, 1795.* He had two brothers, Greoi^, 
 older than himself, Thomas, younger, and a sister much younger ; 
 John resembled his father in feature, stature, and manners, while 
 the two brothers were more like their mother, who was tall, had a 
 large oval face, and a somewhat saturnine demeanor. She suc- 
 ceeded, however, in inspiring her children with the profoundest 
 affection, and especially John, who, when, on an occasi(» of ill- 
 ness, the doctor ordered her not to be disturbed for some time, 
 kept sentinel at her door for above three hours with an old sword 
 he had picked up, and allowed no one to enter the room. At this 
 time he was between four and five years old, and later he was 
 sent, with his brothers, to Mr. Clarke's school at Enfield, which 
 was then in high repute. Harrow had been at first proposed, but 
 was feund to be too expensive. 
 
 A maternal uncle of the young Keats's had heen an officer in 
 Duncan's ship in the acti(Mi off Camperdown, and had distinguish- 
 ed himself there both by his signal bravery and by his peculiarly 
 lofty stature, which made him a mark for the enemy^s shot ; the 
 Dutch admiral said as much to him after the battle. This sailor, 
 uncle was the ideal of the boys, and filled their imagination when 
 they went to school with the notion of keeping up the family's re- 
 putaticm for courage. This was manifested in the elder brother 
 by a passive manliness, but in John and Tom by the fiercest pug- 
 nacity. John was always fighting; he chose his &ivorites 
 among his schoolfellows from those that fought the most readily 
 
 * This point, which has been disputed, (Mr. Leigh Hunt making him a 
 year yoonger,) is decided by the proceedings in Chancery, on the administration 
 of his efl&cts, where he is said to have c(«ne of age in October, 1816. Raw- 
 lings F. Jenninss, Jnne 3d, 1625. 
 
16 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 and pertinaciously, nor were the brothers loth to exercise their 
 mettle even on one another. This disposition, however, in all of 
 them, seems to have been combined with much tenderness, and, 
 in John, with a passionate sensibility, which exhibited itself in the 
 strongest contrasts. Convulsions of laughter and of tears were 
 equally frequent with him, and he would pass from one to the 
 other almost without an interval. He gave vent to his impulses 
 with no regard for consequences ; he violently attacked an usher 
 who had boxed his brother's ears, and on the occasion of his mo- 
 ther's death, which occurred suddenly, in 1810, (though she had 
 lingered for some years in a consumption,) he hid himself in a 
 nook under the master's desk for several days, in a long agony of 
 grief, and would take no consolation from master or from friend. 
 The sense of humor, which almost universally accompanies a 
 deep sensibility, and is perhaps but the reverse of the medal, 
 abounded in him ; from the first, he took infinite delight in any gro- 
 tesque originality or novel prank of his companions, and, after the 
 exhibition of physical courage, appeared to prize these above all 
 other qualifications. His indifference to be thought well of as 
 " a good boy," was as remarkable as his facility in getting through 
 the daily tasks of the school, which never seemed to occupy his 
 attention, but in which he was never behind the others. His skill 
 in all manly exercises and the perfect generosity of his disposition, 
 made him extremely popular : " he combined," writes one of his 
 schoolfellows, " a terrier-like resoluteness of character, with the 
 most noble placability," and another mentions that his extraordi- 
 nary energy, animation, and ability, impressed them all with a 
 conviction of his future greatness, " but rather in a military or 
 some such active sphere of life, than in the peaceful arena of 
 literature."* This impression was no doubt unconsciously aid- 
 ed by a rare vivacity of countenance and very beautiful fea- 
 tures. His eyes, then, as ever, were large and sensitive, flash- 
 ing with strong emotions or suffused with tender sympathies, 
 and more distinctly reflected the varying impulses of his nature 
 than when under the self-control of maturer years : his hair hung 
 
 * Mr. E. Holmes, author of thp " Life of Mozart," &c. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 17 
 
 in thick brown ringlets round a head diminutive for the breadth 
 of the shoulders below it, while the smallness of the lower limbs, 
 which in later life marred the proportion of his person, was not 
 then apparent, any more than the undue prominence of the lower 
 lip, which afterwards gave his face too pugnacious a character to 
 be entirely pleasing, but at that time only completed such an im- 
 pression as the ancients had of Achilles, — ^joyous and glorious 
 youth, everlastingly striving. 
 
 After remaining some time at school his intellectual ambition 
 suddenly developed itself: he determined to carry off all the first 
 prizes in literature, and he succeeded : but the object was only 
 obtained by a total sacrifice of his amusements and favorite exer- 
 cises. Even on the half-holidays, when the school was all out at 
 play, he remained at home translating his Virgil or his Fenelon : 
 it has frequently occurred to the master to force him out into the 
 open air for his health, and then he would walk in the garden 
 with a book in his hand. The quantity of translations on 
 paper he made during the last two years of his stay at Enfield 
 was surprising. The twelve books of the '•' ^neid" were a por- 
 tion of it, but he does not appear to have been familiar with much 
 other and more difficult Latin poetry, nor to have even com- 
 menced learnino- the Greek languacre. Yet Tooke's " Pantheon," 
 Spence's " Poly metis," and Lempriere's "Dictionary," were 
 sufficient fully to introduce his imagination to the enchanted 
 world of old mythology ; with this, at once, he became intimately 
 acquainted, and a natural consanguinity, so to say, of intellect, 
 soon domesticated him with the ancient ideal life, so that his 
 scanty scholarship supplied him with a clear perception of clas- 
 sic beauty, and led the way to that wonderful reconstruction of 
 Grecian feeling and fancy, of which his mind became afterwards 
 capable. He does not seem to have been a sedulous reader of 
 other books, but " Robinson Crusoe" and Marmontel's " Incas of 
 Peru" impressed him strongly, and he must have met with Shak- 
 speare, for he told a schoolfellow considerably younger than him- 
 self, " that he thought no one could dare to read ' Macbeth' alone 
 in a house, at two o'clock in the morning." 
 
 On the death of their remaining parent, the young Keats's 
 
]8 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 were consigned to the guardianship of Mr. Abbey, a merchant. 
 About eight thousand pounds were left to be equally divided 
 among the four children. It does not appear whether the wishes 
 of John, as to his destination in life, were at all consulted ; but, 
 on leaving school, in the summer of 1810, he was apprenticed, for 
 five years, to Mr. Hammond, a surgeon of some eminence at Ed- 
 monton. The vicinity to Enfield enabled him to keep up his 
 connection with the family of Mr. Clarke, where he was always 
 received with familiar kindness. His talents and energy had 
 strongly recommended him to his preceptor, and his affectionate 
 disposition endeared him to his son. In Charles Cowden Clarke, 
 Keats found a friend capable of sympathizing with all his highest 
 tastes and finest sentiments, and in this genial atmosphere his 
 powers gradually expanded. He was always borrowing books, 
 which he devoured rather than read. Yet so little expectation 
 was formed of the direction his ability would take, that when, in 
 the beginning of 1812, he asked for the loan of Spenser's " Fairy 
 Queen," Mr. Clarke remembers that it was supposed in the family 
 that he merely desired, from a boyish ambition, to study an illus- 
 trious production of literature. The effect, however, produced on 
 him by that great work of ideality was electrical : he was in the 
 habit of walking over to Enfield at least once a week, to talk over 
 his reading with his friend, and he would now speak of nothing 
 but Spenser. A new world of delight seemed revealed to him : 
 " he ramped through the scenes of the romance," writes Mr. 
 Clarke, " like a young horse turned into a spring meadow :" he 
 reveled in the gorgeousness of the imagery, as in the pleasures 
 of a sense fresh- found : the foi:ce and felicity of an epithet (such, 
 for example, as — "the sea-shouldering whale") would liglit up 
 his countenance with ecstacy, and some fine touch of description 
 would seem to strike on the secret chords of his soul and generate 
 countless harmonies. This, in fact, was not only his open pre- 
 sentation at the Court of the Muses, (for the lines in imitation of 
 Spenser, 
 
 " Now Morning from her Orient chamber came. 
 And her first footsteps touched a verdant hill," &c., 
 
JOHN KEATS. 19 
 
 are the earliest known verses of his composition,) but it was the 
 great impulse of his poetic life, and the stream of his inspiration 
 remained long colored by the rich soil over which it first had 
 flowed. Nor will the just critic of the maturer poems of Keats 
 fail to trace to the influence of the study of Spenser much that at 
 first appears forced and fantastical both in idea and in expression, 
 and discover that precisely those defects which are commonly at- 
 tributed to an extravagant originality may be distinguished as pro- 
 ceeding from a too indiscriminate reverence for a great but un- 
 equal model. In the scanty records which are left of the adoles- 
 cent years in which Keats became a poet, a Sonnet on Spenser, 
 the date of which I have not been able to trace, itself illustrates 
 this view : — 
 
 Spenser ! a jealous honorer of thine, 
 
 A forester deep in thy midmost trees, 
 
 Did, last eve, ask my promise to refine 
 
 Some English, that might strive thine ear to please. 
 
 But, Elfin-poet ! 'tis impossible 
 
 For an inhabitant of wintry earth 
 
 To rise, like Phcebus, with a golden quill. 
 
 Fire-winged, and make a morning in his mirth. 
 
 It is impossible to 'scape from toil 
 
 O' the sudden, and receive thy spiriting : 
 
 The flower must drink the nature of the soil 
 
 Before it can put forth its blossoming : 
 
 Be with me in the summer days, and T 
 
 Will for thine honor and his pleasure try." 
 
 A few memorials remain of his other studies. Chaucer evi- 
 dently gave him the greatest pleasure : he afterwards complained 
 of the diction as " annoyingly mixed up with Gallicisms," but 
 at the time when he wrote the Sonnet, at the end of the tale of 
 " The Flower and the Leaf," he felt nothing but the pure breath 
 of nature in the mornins^ of English literature. His friend Clarke, 
 tired with a long walk, had fallen asleep on the sofa with a book 
 in his hand, and when he woke, the volume was enriched with 
 this addition, 
 
20 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " This pleasant tale is like a little copse :" &c.* 
 
 The strange tragedy of the fate of Chatterton, " the marvelous 
 Boy, the sleepless soul that perished in its pride," so disgraceful 
 to the age in which it occurred, and so awful a warning to all 
 others of the cruel evils which the mere apathy and ignorance of 
 the world can inflict on genius, is a frequent subject of allusion 
 and interest in Keats's letters and poems, and some lines of the 
 following invocation bear a mournful anticipatory analogy to the 
 close of the beautiful elegy which Shelley hung over another 
 early grave. 
 
 " O Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate ! 
 Dear child of sorrow — son of misery ! 
 How soon the film of death obscured that eye 
 Whence Genius mildly flashed, and high debate. 
 How soon that voice, majestic and elate, 
 Melted in dying numbers ! Oh ! how nigh 
 Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die 
 A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate.t 
 But this is past : thou art among the stars 
 Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres 
 Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning mars. 
 Above the ingrate world and human fears. 
 On earth the good man base detraction bars 
 From thy fair name, and waters it with tears." 
 
 Not long before this, Keats had become familiar with the 
 v/orks of Lord Byron, and indited a Sonnet, of little merit, to him 
 in December, 1814 : — 
 
 " Byron ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! 
 Attuning still the soul to tenderness, 
 As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, 
 Had touched her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, 
 Hadst caught the tones, nor suffered them to die. 
 O'ershading sorrow doth not make thee less 
 Delightful : thou thy griefs dost dress 
 With a bright halo, shining beaniily, 
 
 * See the " Literary Remains." 
 t Amate. — Affright. Chaucer. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 21 
 
 As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, 
 Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow. 
 Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail. 
 And like fair veins in sable marble flow ; 
 Still warble, dying swan ! still tell the tale. 
 The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe." 
 
 Confused as are the imagery and diction of these lines, their feel- 
 ing suggests a painful contrast with the harsh judgment and late 
 remorse of their object, the proud and successful poet, who never 
 heard of this imperfect utterance of boyish sympathy and respect. 
 
 The impressible nature of Keats would naturally incline him 
 to erotic composition, but his early love-verses are remarkably 
 deficient in beauty and even in passion. Some which remain in 
 manuscript are without any interest, and those published in the 
 little volume of 1817, are the worst pieces in it. The world of per- 
 sonal emotion was then far less familiar to him than that of fancy, 
 and indeed it seems to have been long before he descended from 
 the ideal atmosphere in which he dwelt so happily, into the trou- 
 bled realities of human love. Not, however, that the creatures 
 even of his young imagination were unimbued Avith natural affec- 
 tions ; so far from it, it may be reasonably conjectured that it was 
 the interfusion of ideal and sensual life which rendered the 
 Grecian mythology so peculiarly congenial .0 the mind of Keats, 
 and when the " Endymion" comes to be critically considered, it 
 will be found that its excellence consists in its clear comprehen- 
 sion of that ancient spirit of beauty, to which all outward percep- 
 tions so excellently ministered, and which undertook to ennoble 
 and purify, as far as was consistent with their retention, the in- 
 stinctive desires of mankind. 
 
 Friendship, general) ^^ ardent in youth, would not remain with- 
 out its impression in the early poems of Keats, and a congeniality 
 of literary dispositions appears to have been the chief impulse to 
 these relations. With Mr. Felton Mathew,* to whom his first 
 published Epistle was addressed, he appears to have enjoyed a 
 
 * A gentleman of high literary merit, now employed in the administration 
 of the Poor Law. 
 
 2* 
 
22 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 high intellectual sympathy. This friend had introduced him to 
 agreeable society, both of books and men, and those verses were 
 written just at the time when Keats became fully aware that he 
 had no real interest in the profession he was sedulously pursuing, 
 and was already in the midst of that sad conflict between the 
 outer and the inner worlds, which is too often, perhaps always in 
 some degree, the Poet's heritage in life. That freedom from the 
 bonds of conventional phraseology ^\hich so clearly designates 
 true genius, but which, if unwatched and unchastened, will con- 
 tinually outrage the perfect form that can alone embalm the beau- 
 tiful idea and preserve it for ever, is there already manifest, and 
 the presence of Spenser shows itself not only by quaint expres- 
 sions and curious adaptations of rhyme, but by the introduction 
 of the words " and make a sun-shine in a shady place," applied 
 to the power of the Muse. Mr. Mathew retains his impression 
 that at that time " the eye of Keats was more critical than tender, 
 and so was his mind : he admired more the external decorations 
 than felt the deep emotions of the Muse. He delighted in leading 
 you through the mazes of elaborate description, but was less con- 
 scious of the sublime and the pathetic. He used to spend many 
 evenings in reading to me, but I never observed the tears in his 
 eyes nor the broken voice which are indicative of extreme sensi- 
 bility." The modification of a nature at first passionately sus- 
 ceptible and the growing preponderance of the imagination is a 
 frequent phenomenon in poetical psychology. 
 
 To his brother George, then a clerk in Mr. Abbey's house, 
 his next Epistle is addressed, and Spenser is there too. But by 
 this time the delightful complacency of conscious genius had al- 
 ready dawned upon his mind and gives the poem an especial 
 interest. After a brilliant sketch of the present happiness of the 
 poet, " his proud eye looks through the film of death ;" he thinks 
 of leaving behind him lays 
 
 " of such a dear delight. 
 That maids will sing them on their bridal night ; 
 
 he foresees that the patriot will thunder out his numbers, 
 
JOHN KEATS. 23 
 
 '•' To startle princes from their easy slumbers ;" 
 
 and while he checks himself in what he calls " this mad ambi- 
 tion, " yet he owns he has felt 
 
 " relief from pain. 
 When some bright thought has darted through my brain — 
 Through all the day, I've felt a greater pleasure 
 Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure." 
 
 Although this foretaste of fame is in most cases a delusion, (as the 
 fame itself may be a greater delusion still,) yet it is the best and 
 purest drop in the cup of intellectual ambition. It is enjoyed, 
 thank God, by thousands, who soon learn to estimate their own 
 capacities aright and tranquilly submit to the obscure and transi- 
 tory condition of their existence : it is felt by many, who look 
 back on it in after years with a smiling pity to think they were 
 so deceived, but who nevertheless recognize in that aspiration the 
 spring of their future energies and usefulness in other and far dif- 
 ferent fields of action ; and the few, in whom the prophecy is ac- 
 complished — who become what they have believed — will often turn 
 away with uneasy satiety from present satisfaction to the memory 
 of those happy hopes, to the thought of ihe dear delight they then 
 derived from one single leaf of those laurels that now crowd in at 
 the window, and which the hand is half inclined to push away to 
 let in the fresh air of heaven. 
 
 The lines 
 
 " As to my Sonnets — though none else should heed them, 
 I feel delighted still that you should read them," 
 
 occur in this Epistle, and several of these have been preserved 
 besides those published or already mentioned. Some, indeed, 
 are mere experiments in this difficult but attractive form of com- 
 position, and others evidently refer to forgotten details of daily 
 life and are unmeaning without them. A few of unequal power 
 and illustrative of the progress of genius should not be forgotten, 
 while those contained in the first volume of his Poems are per- 
 haps the most remarkable pieces in it. They are as noble in 
 
24 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 thought, rich in expression, and harmonious in rh^^thm as any in 
 the language, and amoDg the best may be ranked that '* On first 
 looking into Chapman's Homer."' Unable as he was to read the 
 original Greek, Homer had as yet been to him a name of solemn 
 significance, and nothing more. His friend and literary counsel- 
 or, Mr. Clarke, happened to borrow Chapman's translation, and 
 having invited Keats to read it with him one evening, they con- 
 tinued their study till daylight. He describes Keats's delight as 
 intense, even to shouting aloud, as some passage of especial energy 
 struck his imagination. It was fortunate that he was introduced 
 to that heroic company through an interpretation which preserves 
 so much of the ancient simplicity, and in a metre that, after all 
 various attempts, including that of the hexameter, still appears 
 the best adapted, from its pauses and its length, to represent in 
 English the Greek epic verse. An accomplished scholar may 
 perhaps be unwilling, or unable, to understand how thoroughly 
 the imaginative reader can fill up the necessary defects of any 
 translation which adheres, as far as it may, to the tone and spirit 
 of the original, and does not introduce fresh elements of ihouo-ht, 
 incongruous ornaments, or cumbrous additions ; be it bald and 
 tame, he can clothe and color it — be it harsh and ill-jointed, he 
 can perceive the smoothness and completeness that has been lost : 
 only let it not be like Pope's Homer, a new work with an old 
 name — a portrait, itself of considerable power and beauty, but in 
 which the features of the individual are scarcely to be recognized. 
 The Sonnet in which these his first impressions are concentrated, 
 was left the following day on Mr. Clarke's table, realizing the 
 idea of that form of verse expressed by Keats himself in his third 
 Epistle, as — 
 
 *•' swelling loudly 
 Up to its climax, and then dying proudly." 
 
 This Epistle is written in a bolder and freer strain than the 
 others ; the Poet in excusing himself for not having addressed 
 his Muse to Mr. Clarke before, on account of his inferiority to the 
 great masters of song, implies that he is growing conscious of a 
 possible brotherhood with them ; and his terse and true descrip- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 
 
 tion of the various orders of verse, with which his friend has 
 familiarized his mind — the Somiet, as above cited — the Ode, 
 
 " Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load," 
 
 the Epic, 
 
 and last. 
 
 " of all the king, 
 Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring," 
 
 " The sharp, the rapier-pointed Epigram, — " 
 
 betokens the justness of perception generally allied with redun- 
 dant fancy. 
 
 These notices have anticipated the period of the termination 
 of Keats's apprenticeship and his removal lo London, for the pur- 
 pose of walking the hospitals. He lodged in the Poultry, and 
 having been introduced by Mr. Clarke to some literary friends 
 soon found himself in a circle of minds which appreciated his 
 genius and stimulated him to exertion. One of his first acquaint- 
 ance, at that time eminent for his poetical originality and his poli- 
 tical persecutions, was Mr. Leigh Hunt, who was regarded by 
 some with admiration, by others with ridicule, as the master of a 
 school of poets, though in truth he was only their encourager, 
 sympathizer, and friend ; while the unpopularity of his liberal 
 and cosmopolite politics was visited with indiscriminating injustice 
 OD all who had the happiness of his friendship or even the gratifi- 
 cation of his society. In those days of hard opinion, which we 
 of a freer and worthier time look upon with indignation and sur- 
 prise, Mr. Hunt had been imprisoned for the publication of phrases 
 which, at the most, were indecorous expressions of public feeling, 
 and became a traitor or a martyr according to the temper of the 
 spectator. The heart of Keats leaped towards him in human and 
 poetic brotherhood, and the earnest Sonnet on the day he lefl 
 his prison riveted the connection. They had read and walked 
 together, and wrote verses in competition on a given subject. 
 " No imaginative pleasure," characteristically observes Mr. Hunt, 
 " was left unnoticed by us or unenjoyed, from the recollection of 
 the bards and patriots of old, to the luxury of a summer rain at 
 
26 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 our windows, or the clicking of the coal in winter time." Thus 
 he became intimate with Hazlitt, Shelley, Haydon, and Godwin, 
 with Mr. Basil Montague and his distinguished family, and with 
 Mr. Oilier, a young publisher, himself a poet, who, out of sheer 
 admiration, offered to publish a volume of his productions. The 
 poem with which it commences was suggested to Keats by a de- 
 lightful summer's-day, as he stood beside the gate that le^ds from 
 the Battery, on Hampstead Heath, into a field by Caen Wood ; 
 and the last, " Sleep and Poetry," was occasioned by his sleeping 
 in Mr. Hunt's pretty cottage, in the vale of Health, in the same 
 quarter. These two pieces, being of considerable length, tested 
 the strength of the young poet's fancy, and it did not fail. For 
 the masters of song will not only rise lark-like with quivering 
 wings in the sunlight, but must train their powers to sustain a 
 calm and protracted flight, and pass, as if poised in air, over the 
 heads of mankind. Yet it was to be expected that the apparent 
 faults of Keats's style would be here more manifest than in his 
 shorter efforts ; poetry to him was not yet an Art ; the irregu- 
 larities of his own and other verse were no more to him than the 
 inequalities of that nature, of which he regarded himself as the 
 interpreter : 
 
 " For what has made the sage or poet write, 
 But the fair paradise of Nature's hght 1 
 In the calm grandeur of a sober hne 
 We see the waving of the mountain pine, 
 And when a tale is beautifully staid. 
 We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade." 
 
 He had yet to learn that Art should purify and elevate the 
 Nature that it comprehends, and that the ideal loses nothing of 
 its truth by aiming at perfection of form as well as of idea. 
 Neither did he like to regard poetry as a matter of study and 
 anxiety, or as a representative of the struggles and troubles of 
 the mind and heart of men. He said most exquisitely, that — 
 
 " a drainless shower 
 Of light is Poesy — 'tis the supreme of power ; 
 'Tis Might half-slumbering on its own right arm." 
 
JOHN KEATS. 27 
 
 He thought that — 
 
 " strength alone, though of the Muses born. 
 Is like a fallen angel — trees uptorn. 
 Darkness and worms and shrouds and sepulchres 
 Delight it — for it feeds upon the burrs 
 And thorns of life, forgetting the great end 
 Of Poesy, that it should be a friend 
 To soothe the cares and lift the thoughts of men." 
 
 And yet Keats did not escape the charge of sacrificing beauty to 
 supposed intensity, and of merging the abiding grace of his song 
 in the passionate fantasies of the moment. AVords indeed seem 
 to have been often selected by him rather for their force and 
 their harmony, than according to any just rules of diction ; if 
 he met with a word any where in an old writer that took his fan- 
 cy he inserted it in his verse on the first opportunity ; and one 
 has a kind of impression that he must have thought aloud as he 
 was writing, so that many an ungainly phrase has acquired its 
 place by its assonance or harmony, or capability to rhyme, (for 
 he took great pleasure in fresh and original rhymes,) rather than 
 for its grammatical correctness or even justness of expression. 
 And when to this is added the example set him by his great mas- 
 ter Spenser, of whom a noted man of letters has been heard irrev- 
 erently to assert " that every Englishman might be thankful that 
 Spenser's gibberish had never become part and parcel of the 
 language," the wonder is rather that he sloughed off so many of 
 his offending peculiarities, and in his third volume attained so 
 great a purity and concinnity of phraseology, that little was lefl 
 to designate either his poetical education or his literary associates. 
 At the completion of the matter for this first volume he gave 
 a striking proof of his facility in composition ; he was engaged 
 with a lively circle of friends when the last proof-sheet was 
 brought in, and he was requested by the printer to send the Ded- 
 ication directly, if he intended to have one : he went to a side- 
 table, and while all around were noisily conversing, he sat down 
 and wrote the .sonnet — 
 
 " Glory and loveliness have passed away," &c. &,c. 
 
28 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 which, but for the insertion of one epithet of doubtful taste, is ex- 
 cellent in itself, and curious, as showing how he had already pos- 
 sessed himself of the images of Pagan beauty, and was either 
 mourning over their decay and extinction, or attempting, in his 
 own way, to bid them live again. For in him was realized the 
 mediaeval legend of the Venus- worshipei', without its melancholy 
 moral ; and while the old gods rewarded him for his love with 
 powers and perceptions that a Greek might have envied, he kept 
 his alFections high and pure above these sensuous influences, and 
 led a temperate and honest life in an ideal world that knows no- 
 thing of duty and repels all images that do not please. 
 
 This little book, the beloved first-born of so great a genius, 
 scarcely touched the public attention. If, indeed, it had become 
 notable, it would only have been to the literary formalist the sign 
 of the existence of a new Cockney poet whom he was bound to 
 criticise and annihilate, and to the political bigot the production 
 of a fresh member of a revolutionary Propaganda to be hunted 
 down with ridicule or obloquy, as the case might require. But 
 these honors were reserved for maturer labors ; beyond the 
 circle of ardent friends and admirers, which comprised most 
 of the most remarkable minds of the period, it had hardly a 
 purchaser : and the contrast between the admiration he had, 
 perhaps in excess, enjoyed among his immediate acquaintance, 
 and the entire apathy of mankind without, must have been a 
 hard lesson to his sensitive spirit. It is not surprising therefore, 
 that he attributed his want of success to the favorite scape-goat 
 of unhappy authors, an inactive publisher, and incurred the addi- 
 tional affliction of a breach of his friendship with Mr. Oilier. 
 
 Mr. Haydon, Mr. Dilke, Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Woodhouse, Mr, 
 Rice, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Hessey, Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Haslam, 
 were his chief companions and correspondents at this period. 
 The first name of this list now excites the most painful associa- 
 tions : it recalls a life of long struggle without a prize, of perse- 
 vering hope stranded on despair ; high talents laboriously applied 
 earning the same catastrophe as waits on abilities vainly wasted ; 
 frugality, self-denial, and simple habits, leading to the penalties 
 of profligacy and the death of distraction; an independent genius 
 
 1 
 
JOHN KEATS. 09 
 
 starvinsr on the crumbs of unirenial patronage, and even these fail- 
 ing him at the last ! Ii might be thai Haydon did not so realize 
 his conceptions as to make them to other men \\hat they were to 
 himself; it might be that he over-estimated his own aesthetic pow- 
 ers, and underrated those provinces of art in which some of his 
 contemporaries excelled ; but surely a man should not have been 
 so left to perish, whose passion for lofty art, notwithstanding all 
 discouragements, must have made him dear to artists, and whose 
 capabilities were such as in any other countr\'^ would have assured 
 him at least competence and reputation — perhaps wealth and 
 fame. 
 
 But at this time the destiny of Haydon seemed to be spread 
 out very differently before him; if ever stern presentiments came 
 across his soul, i\rt and Youth had then colors bright enough to 
 chase them all away. His society seems to have been both agree- 
 able and instructive to Keats. It is easy to conceive w^hat a rev- 
 elation of greatness the Elgin Marbles must have been to the 
 young poet's mind, when he saw them for the first time, in March, 
 1817. The following Sonnets on the occasion were written di- 
 rectly after, and published in the " Examiner.'*' With more 
 polish they might have been worthy of the theme, but as it is, the 
 diction, of the first especially, is obscure though vigorous, and the 
 thought does not come out in the clear unity becoming the Sonnet, 
 and attained by Keats so successfully on many other subjects : — 
 
 ON SEEIXG THE ELGIN MARBLES. 
 
 My spirit is too weak ; mortality 
 Weighs heavily on me like unwilling siet^p. 
 And each imagined pinnacle and steep 
 Of godlike hardship tells me I must die 
 Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. 
 Yet 'lis a gentle luxury to weep. 
 That I have not the cloudy winds to keep 
 Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. 
 Such dim-conceived glories of the brain, 
 Bring round the heart an indescribable feud 
 So do these wonders a most dizzv pain, 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude 
 Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main 
 A sun, a shadow of a magnitude. 
 
 The image of the " Eagle " is beautiful in itself, and interest- 
 ing in its application. 
 
 TO HAYDON. 
 
 (with the above.) 
 
 Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speak 
 
 Definitively of these mighty things ; 
 
 Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings. 
 
 That what I want I know not where to seek. 
 
 And think that I would not be over-meek, 
 
 In rolling out upfoUowed thunderings. 
 
 Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, 
 
 Were I of ample strength for such a freak. 
 
 Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine ; 
 
 Whose else 1 In this who touch thy vesture's hem 1 
 
 For, when men stared at what was most divine 
 
 With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm, 
 
 Thcu hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine 
 
 Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them ! 
 
 In the previous autumn Keats was in the habit of frequently 
 passing the evening in his friend's painting-room, where many 
 men of genius were wont to meet, and, sitting before some picture 
 on which he was engaged, criticise, argue, defend, attack, and 
 quote their favorite writers. Keats used to call it " Making us 
 wings for the night." The morning after one of these innocent 
 and happy symposia, Haydon received a note inclosing the pictu- 
 resque Sonnet 
 
 " Great Spirits now on Earth are sojourning," &c. 
 
 Keats adding, that the preceding evening had wrought him up, 
 and he could not forbear sending it. Haydon in his acknowledg- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 31 
 
 ment, suggested the omission of part of it ; and also mentioned 
 that he would forward it to Wordsv/orth ; he received this reply : — 
 
 My Dear Sir, 
 
 Your letter has filled me with a proud pleasure, and 
 shall be kept by me as a stimulus to exertion. I begin to fix my 
 eyes on an horizon. My feelings entireh^ fall in with yours with 
 regard to the ellipsis, and I glory in it. The idea of your sending 
 it to Wordsworth puts me out of breath — you know with what 
 reverence I would send my well-wishes to him. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 It should here be remembered that Wordsworth was not then 
 what he is now, that he was confounded with much that was thought 
 ridiculous and unmanly in the new school, and that it was some- 
 thing for so young a student to have torn away the veil of preju- 
 dice then hanging over that now-honored name, and to have 
 proclaimed his reverence in such earnest words, while so many 
 men of letters could only scorn or jeer. 
 
 The uncongenial profession to which Keats had attached him- 
 self now became every day more repulsive. A book of very 
 careful annotations, preserved by Mr. Dilke, attests his diligence, 
 although a fellow-student,* who lodged in the same house, de- 
 scribes him at the lectures as scribbling doggerel rhymes among 
 the notes, particularly if he got hold of another student's syllabus. 
 Of course, his peculiar tastes did not find much sympathy in that 
 society. Whenever he showed his graver poetry to his compa- 
 nions, it was pretty sure to be ridiculed and severely handled. 
 They were therefore surprised when, on presenting himself for 
 examination at Apothecaries' Hall, he passed his examination with 
 considerable credit. When, however, he entered on the practical 
 part of his business, although successful in all his operations, he 
 found his mind so oppressed during the task with an over-wrought 
 apprehension of the possibility of doing harm, that he came to 
 
 * Mr. H. Stephens. 
 
32 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the determined conviction that he was unfit for the line of life on 
 which he had expended so many years of his study and a consid- 
 erable part of his property. "• My dexterity," he said, '• used to 
 seem to me a miracle, and I resolved never to take up a surgical 
 instrument again," and thus he found himself, on his first entrance 
 into manhood, thrown on the world almost without the means of 
 daily subsistence, but with many friends interested in his fortunes, 
 and with the faith in the future which generally accompanies the 
 highest genius. Mr. Haydon seems to have been to him a wise 
 and prudent counselor, and to have encouraged him to brace his 
 powers by undistracted study, while he advised him to leave Lon- 
 don for awhile, and take more care of his health. The following 
 note, written in March, shows that Keats did as he was recom- 
 mended : — 
 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 My brothers are anxious that I should go by 
 myself into the country ; they have always been extremely fond 
 of me, and now that Haydon has pointed out how necessary it is 
 that I should be alone to improve myself, they give up the tempo- 
 rary pleasure of being with me continually for a great good which 
 I hope will follow ; so I shall soon be out of town. You must 
 soon bring all your present troubles to a close, and so must I, but 
 we must, like the Fox, prepare for a fresh swarm of flies. Banish 
 money — Banish sofas — Banish wine — Banish music ; but right 
 Jack Health, honest Jack Health, true Jack Health. Banish 
 Health and banish all the world. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 During his absence he wrote the following letters. The cor- 
 respondence with Mr. Reynolds will form so considerable a por- 
 tion of this volume, and will so distinctly enunciate the invaluable 
 worth of his friendship to Keats, that one can only regret that 
 both portions of it are not preserved.* 
 
 * It is also to be lamented that Mr. Reynolds's own remarkable verse is 
 not better known. Lord Byron speaks with praise of several pieces, and at- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 33 
 
 Carisbrooke, April llth, 1817. 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 Ever since I wrote to my brother from Southampton, I 
 have been in a taking, and at this moment I am about to become 
 settled, for I have unpacked my books, put them into a snug cor- 
 ner, pinned up Haydon, Mary Queen [of] Scots, and Milton with 
 his daughters in a row. In the passage I foiftid a head of Shak- 
 speare, which I had not before seen. It is most likely the same 
 that George spoke so well of, for I like it extremely. Well, this 
 head I have hung over my bocks, just above the three in a row, 
 having first discarded a French Ambassador ; now this, alone, is 
 a good morning's work. Yesterday I went to Shanklin, which 
 occasioned a great debate in my mind whether I should live there 
 or at Carisbrooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful place ; sloping 
 wood and meadow ground reach round the Chine, which is a cleft 
 between the cliffs, of the depth of nearly 300 feet, at least. This 
 cleft is filled with trees and bushes in the narrow part ; and as it 
 widens becomes bare, if it were not for primroses on one side, 
 which spread to the very verge of the sea, and some fishermen's 
 huts on the other, perched midway in the balustrades of beautiful 
 green hedges along the steps down to the sands. But the sea, 
 Jack, the sea, the little waterfall, then the white cliff, then St. 
 Catherine's Hill, " the sheep in the meadows, the cows in the 
 corn." Then why are you at Carisbrooke ? say you. Because, 
 in the first place, I should be at twice the expense, and three 
 times the inconvenience ; next, that from here I can see your 
 continent from a little hill close by, the whole north angle of the 
 Isle of Wight, with the water between us ; in the third place, I 
 see Carisbrooke Castle from my T\^indow, and have found several 
 delightful wood alleys and copses, and quiet freshes; as for prim- 
 roses, the island ought to be called Primrose Island, that is, if the 
 nation of Cowslips agree thereto, of which there are divers clans 
 just beginning to lift up their heads. Another reason of my fix- 
 
 tributes some to Moore. " The Fancy," published under the name of Peter 
 Corcoran, and " The Garden of Florence," under ihat of John Hamilton, are 
 full of merit, especially the former, to which is prefixed one of the liveliest 
 specimens of fictitious biography I know. 
 
34 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ing is, that I am more in reach of the places around me. I in- 
 tend to walk over the Island, east, west, north, south. I have not 
 seen many specimens of ruins. I don't think, however, I shall 
 ever see one to surpass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is over- 
 grown with the smoothest turf, and the walls with ivy. The 
 Keep within side is one bower of ivy ; a colony of jackdaws have 
 been there for many years. I dare sa,y I have seen many a 
 descendant of some old cawer who peeped through the bars at 
 Charles the First, when he was there in confinement. On the 
 road from Cowes to Newport I saw some extensive Barracks, 
 which disgusted me extremely with the Government for placing 
 such a nest of debauchery in so beautiful a place. I asked a 
 man on the coach about this, and he said that the people had been 
 spoiled. In the room where I slept at Newport, I found this on 
 the window ; — " O Isle spoilt by the milatary !" 
 
 The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that it would be no bad 
 thing to be the favorite of some fairy, who would give one the 
 power of seeing how our friends got on at a distance. I should 
 like, of all loves, a sketch of you, and Tom, and George, in ink : 
 which Haydon will do if you tell him how I want them. From 
 want of regular rest I have been rather narvus, and the passage 
 in Lear, " Do you not hear the sea !" has haunted me intensely. 
 
 " It keeps eternal whisperings around/' &c. * 
 
 April ISth. 
 
 I'll tell you what — on the 23d was Shakspeare born. Now if 
 I should receive a letter from you, and another from my brother 
 on J;hat day, 'twould be a parlous good thing. Whenever you 
 write, say a word or two on some passage in Shakspeare that may 
 have come rather new to you, which must be continually happen- 
 ing, notwithstanding that we read the same play forty times — for 
 instance, the following from the Tempest never struck me so for- 
 cibly as at present : — 
 
 * See the " Literary Remains." 
 
JOHN KEATS. 35 
 
 " Urchins 
 Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, 
 All exercise on thee." 
 
 How can I help bringing to your mind the line — 
 
 " In the dark backward and abysm of time." 
 
 I find I cannot exist without Poetry — without eternal Poetry ; half 
 the day will not do the whole of it. I began with a little, but 
 habit has made me a leviathan. I had become all in a tremble 
 from not having written any thing of late : the Sonnet over-leaf 
 (i. e. on the preceding page) did me good ; I slept the better 
 last night for it ; this morning, however, I am nearly as bad 
 again. Just now I opened Spenser, and the first lines I saw were 
 these — 
 
 " The noble heart that harbors virtuous thought 
 And is with child of glorious great intent, 
 Can never rest until it forth have brought 
 Th' eternal brood of glory excellent." 
 
 Let me know particularly about Haydon, ask him to write to me 
 about Hunt, if it be only ten lines. I hope all is well. I shall 
 forthwith begin my " Endymion," which I hope I shall have got 
 some way with before you come, when we will read our verses 
 in a delightful place, I have set my heart upon, near the Castle. 
 Give my love to your sisters severally. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 (Without date, but written early in May, 1817.) 
 
 Margate. 
 My Dear Haydon, 
 
 " Let Fame, that all pant after in their lives, 
 Live registered upon our brazen tombs. 
 And so grace us in the disguise of death ; 
 When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, 
 The endeavor of this present breath may bring 
 That honor which shall bate his scythe's keen edge. 
 And make us heirs of all eternity." 
 
36 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 To think that I have no right to couple myself with you in 
 this speech would be death to me, so I have e'en written it, and 
 I pray God that our " brazen tombs" be nigh neighbors.* It 
 cannot be long first ; the " endeavor of this present breath" will 
 soon be over, and yet it is as well to breathe freely during our 
 sojourn — it is as well if you have not been teased with that mo- 
 ney affair, that bill-pestilence. However, I must think that diffi- 
 culties nerve the spirit of a man ; they make our prime objects 
 a refuge as well as a passion ; the trumpet of Fame is as a tower 
 of strength, the ambitious bloweth it, and is safe. I suppose, by 
 your telling me not to give way to forebodings, George has been 
 telling you what I have lately said in my letters to him ; truth is, 
 I have been in such a state of mind as to read over my lines and 
 to hate them. I am one that '-gathereth samphire, dreadful 
 trade :" the cliff of Poetry towers above me ; yet when my bro- 
 ther reads some of Pope's Homer, or Plutarch's Lives, they seem 
 like music to mine. I read and write about eight hours a-day. 
 There is an old saying, "Well begun is half done;" 'tis a bad 
 one ; 1 would use instead, " Not begun at all till half done ;" so, 
 according to that, I have not begun my Poem, and consequently, 
 a priori, can say nothing about it ; thank God, I do begin ar- 
 dently, when I leave off, notwithstanding my occasional depres- 
 sions, and I hope for the support of a high power while I climb 
 this little eminence, and especially in my years of momentous la- 
 bor. I remember your saying that you had notions of a good 
 Genius presiding over you. I have lately had the same thought, 
 for things which, done half at random, are afterwards confirmed 
 by my judgment in a dozen features of propriety. Is it too daring 
 to fancy Shakspeare this presider ? When in the Isle of Wight I 
 met with a Shakspeare in the passage of the house at which I 
 lodged. It comes nearer to my idea of him than any I have seen; 
 I was but there a week, yet the old woman made me take it with 
 me, though I went off in a hurry. Do you not think this omin- 
 
 * To the copy of this letter, given me by Mr. Haydon on the 14th of May, 
 1846, a note was affixed at this place, in the words *' Perhaps they may be." 
 — Alas ! no. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 37 
 
 ous of good ? I am glad you say every man of great views is at 
 times tormented as 1 am. 
 
 (Sunday after.) This morning I received a letter from George, 
 by whicli it appears that money troubles are to follow up for some 
 time to come — perhaps for always : those vexations are a great 
 hinderance to one ; they are not, like envy and detraction, stimu- 
 lants to further exertions, as being immediately relative and re- 
 flected on at the same time with the prime object ; but rather like 
 a nettle-leaf or two in your bed. So now T revoke my promise of 
 finishing my Poem by autumn, which 1 should have done had I gone 
 on as I have done. But I cannot write while my spirit is fevered in 
 a contrary direction, and T am now sure of having plenty of it this 
 summer ; at this moment I am in no enviable situation. I feel that 
 I am not in a mood to write any to-day, and it appears that the loss 
 of it is the beginning of all sorts of irregularities. I am extremely 
 glad that a time must come when every hing will leave not a wreck 
 behind. You tell me never to despair. I wish it was as easy for 
 me to observe this saying : truth is, I have a horrid morbidity of 
 temperament, which has shown itself at intervals ; it is, I have no 
 doubt, the greatest stumbling-block I have to fear ; I may surer 
 say, it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment. However, 
 every ill has its share of good ; this, my bane, would at any time 
 enable me to look with an obstinate eye on the very devil him- 
 self; or, to be as proud to be the lowest of the human race, as 
 Alfred would be in being of the highest. I am very sure that 
 you do love me as your very brother. I have seen it in your con- 
 tinual anxiety for me, and I assure you that your welfare and 
 fame is, and will be, a chief pleasure to me all my life. I know 
 no one but you who can be fully aware of the turmoil and anxiety, 
 the sacrifice of all that is called comfort, the readiness to measure 
 time by what is done, and to die in six hours, could plans be brought 
 to conclusions ; the looking on the sun, the moon, the stars, the 
 earth, and its contents, as materials to form greater things, that is 
 to say, ethereal things — but here I am talking like a madman, — 
 greater things than our Creator himself made. 
 
 I wrote to yesterday : scarcely know what I said in it ; 
 
 I could not talk about poetry in the way I should have liked, for 
 
 3 
 
38 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 T was not in humor with either his or mine. There is no greater 
 sin, after the seven deadly, than to flatter one's self into the idea 
 of being a great poet, or one of those beings who are privileged to 
 wear out their lives in the pursuit of honor. How comfortable a 
 thing it is to feel that such a crime must bring its heavy penalty, 
 that if one be a self-deluder, accounts must be balanced ! I am 
 glad you are hard at work ; it will now soon be done. I long to 
 see Wordsworth's, as well as to have mine in ; but I would rather 
 not show my face in town till the end of the year, if that would 
 be time enough ; if not, 1 shall be disappointed if you do not write 
 me ever when you think best. I never quite despair, and I read 
 Shakspeare, — indeed, I shall, I think, never read any other book 
 much ; now this might lead me into a very long confab, but I 
 desist. I am very near agreeing with Hazlitt, that Shakspeare 
 is enough for us. By the by, what a tremendous Southean 
 article this last was. I wish he had left out " gray hairs." It 
 was very gratifying to meet your remarks on the manuscript. I 
 was reading Antony and Cleopatra when I got the paper, and 
 there are several passages applicable to the events you com- 
 mentate. You say that he arrived by degrees, and not by any 
 single struggle, to the height of his ambition, and that his life had 
 been as common in particular as other men's. Shakspeare 
 makes Enobarbus say, 
 
 " Where's Antony ? 
 Eros. He's walking in the garden, and spurns 
 The rush before him ; cries, Fool, Lepidus ,'" 
 
 In the same scene we find — 
 
 *' Let determined things 
 To destiny hold unbewailed their way." 
 
 Dolabella says of Antony's messenger, 
 
 " An argument that he is plucked, when hither 
 He sends so poor a pinion of his wing." 
 
 Then again Enobarbus : 
 
JOHN KEATS. 39 
 
 " men's judgments are 
 A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward 
 Do draw th^i inward quality after them, 
 To suffer all alike." 
 
 The following applies well to Bertrand : 
 
 " Yet he that can endure 
 To follow with allegiance a fallen Lord, 
 Does conquer him, that did his master conquer, 
 And earns a place i' the story." 
 
 'Tis good, too, that the Duke of Wellington has a good word 
 or so in the " Examiner ;" a man ought to have the fame he de- 
 serves ; and I begin to think that detracting from him is the same 
 thing as from Wordsworth. I wish he (Wordsworth) had a little 
 more taste, and did not in that respect " deal in Lieutenantry." 
 You should have heard from me before this ; but, in the first 
 place, I did not like to do so, before I had got a little way in the 
 first Book, and in the next, as G. told me you were going to 
 write, I delayed till I heard from you. So now in the name of 
 Shakspeare, Raphael, and all our Saints, I commend you to the 
 care of Heaven. 
 
 Your everlasting friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 In the early part of May, it appears from the following ex- 
 tract of a letter to Mr. Hunt,* written from Margate, that the so- 
 journ in the Isle of Wight had not answered his expectations : the 
 solitude, or rather the company of self, was too much for him. 
 
 " I went to the Isle of Wight, thought so much about poetry, 
 so long together, that I could not get to sleep at night ; and, more- 
 over, I know not how it is, I could not get wholesome food. By 
 this means, in a week or so, I became not over capable in my 
 upper stories, and set off pell-mell for Margate, at least a hundred 
 and fifty miles, because, forsooth, I fancied I should like my old 
 lodgings here, and could continue to do without trees. Another 
 
 * Given entire in the first volume of " Lord Byron and some of his Con- 
 temporaries." 
 
40 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 thing, 1 was too much in solitude, and consequently was obliged 
 to be in continual burning of thought as an only resource. How- 
 ever, Tom is with me at present, and we are very comfortable. 
 We intend, though, to get among some trees. How have you got 
 on among them ? How are the nymphs ? — I suppose they have 
 led you a fine dance. Where are you now ? 
 
 " I have asked myself so often why I should be a Poet more 
 than other men, seeing how great a thing it is, how great things 
 are to be gained by it, what a thing to be in the mouth of Fame, 
 that at last the idea has grown so monstrously beyond my seem- 
 ing power of attainment, that the other day I nearly consented 
 with myself to drop into a Phaeton. Yet 'tis a disgrace to fail 
 even in a huge attempt, and at this moment I drive the thought 
 from me. I begun my poem about a fortnight since, and have 
 done some every day, except traveling ones. Perhaps I may 
 have done a good deal for the time, but it appears such a pin's 
 point to me, that I will not copy any out. When I consider that 
 so many of these pin-points go to form a bodkin-point, (God send 
 I end not my life with a bare bodkin, in its modern sense,) and 
 that it requires a thousand bodkins to make a spear bright enough 
 to throw any light to posterity, I see nothing but continual up-hill 
 journeying. Nor is there any thing more unpleasant (it may 
 come among the thousand and one) than to be so journeying and 
 to miss the goal at last. But I intend to whistle all these cogita- 
 tions into the sea, where I hope they will breed storms violent 
 enough to block up all exit from Russia. 
 
 " Does Shelley go on telling ' strange stories of the deaths of 
 kings ?'* Tell him there are strange stories of the death of 
 
 * Mr. Hunt mentions that Shelley was fond of quoting the passage in 
 Shakspeare. and of applying it in an unexpected manner. Traveling with 
 him once to town in the Hampstead stage, in which their only companion 
 was an old lady, who sat silent and stiff, after the English fashion, Shelley 
 startled her into a look of the most ludicrous astonishment, by saying ab- 
 ruptly, 
 
 " Hist ! 
 For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, 
 And tell strange stories of the deaths of king^." 
 The old lady looked on the coach floor, expecting them to take their seats 
 accordingly. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 41 
 
 poets. Some have died before they were conceived. 'How do 
 you make that out, Master Vellum V " 
 
 This letter is signed " John Keats alias Junkets," an appella- 
 tion given him in play upon his name, and in allusion to his 
 friends of Fairy-land. 
 
 The poem here begun was " Endymion." In the first poem of 
 the early volume some lines occur showing that the idea had long 
 been germinating in his fancy ; and how suggestive of a multi- 
 tude of images is one such legend to an earnest and constructive 
 mind ! 
 
 " He was a poet, sure a lover too, 
 Who stood on Latmos' top, what time there blew 
 Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 
 And brought, in fain tness, solemn, sweet, and slow 
 A hymn from Dian's temple — while upswelling, 
 The incense went to her own starry dwelling. — 
 But, though her face was clear as infants' eyes. 
 Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice. 
 The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, 
 Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 
 So, in fine wrath, some golden sounds he won. 
 And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion." 
 
 And the description of the effect of the union of the Poet and 
 the Goddess on universal nature is equal in vivacity and tender- 
 ness to any thing in the maturer work. 
 
 " The evening weather was so bright and clear 
 That men of health were of unusual cheer, 
 Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, 
 Or young Apollo on the pedestal ; 
 And lovely woman there is fair and warm. 
 As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 
 The breezes were ethereal and pure. 
 And crept through half-closed lattices, to cure 
 The languid sick ; it cooled their fevered sleep. 
 And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 
 Soon they awoke, clear-eyed, nor burnt with thirsting, 
 Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting. 
 
42 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 And springing up they met the wond'ring sight 
 Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight, 
 Who feel their arras and breasts, and kiss and stare, 
 And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 
 Young men and maidens at each other gazed, 
 With hands held back and motionless, amazed 
 To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; 
 And so they stood, filled with a sweet surprise. 
 Until their tongues were loosed in poesy ; 
 Therefore no lover did of anguish die. 
 But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, 
 Made silken ties that never may be broken." 
 
 George Keats had now for some time left the counting-house 
 of Mr. Abbey, his guardian, on account of the conduct of a 
 younger partner towards him, and had taken lodgings with his 
 two brothers. Mr. Abbey entertained a high opinion of his prac- 
 tical abilities and energies, which experience shortly verified. 
 Tom, the youngest, had more of the poetic and sensitive tempera- 
 ment, and the bad state of health into which he fell, on entering 
 manhood, absolutely precluded him from active occupation. He 
 was soon compelled to retire to Devonshire, as his only chance 
 for life, and George accompanied him. John, in the meantime, 
 was advancing with his poem, and had come to an arrangement 
 with Messrs. Taylor and Hessey (who seem to have cordially 
 appreciated his genius) respecting its publication. The follow- 
 ing letters indicate that they gave him tangible proofs of their 
 interest in his welfare, and his reliance on their generosity was, 
 probably, only equal to his trust in his own abundant powers of 
 repayment. The physical symptoms he alludes to had nothing 
 dangerous about them, and merely suggested some prudence in 
 his mental labors. Nor had he then experienced the harsh re- 
 pulse of ungenial criticism, but, although never unconscious of 
 his own deficiencies, nor blind to the jealousiej and spites of oth- 
 ers, believed himself to be, on the whole, accompanied on his 
 path to fame by the sympathies and congratulations of all the fel- 
 low-men he cared for : and they were many. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 43 
 
 Margate, May 16///, 1817. 
 My Dear Sir, 
 
 I am extremely indebted to you for your liberality in the 
 shape of manufactured rag, value 20/., and shall immediately 
 proceed to destroy some of the minor heads of that hydra the 
 Dun ; to conquer which the knight need have no sword, shield, 
 cuirass, cuisses, herbadgeon, spear, casque, greaves, paldrons, 
 spurs, chevron, or any other scaly commodity, but he need only 
 tai^e the Bank-note of Faith and Cash of Salvation, and set out 
 against the monster, invoking the aid of no Archimago or Ur- 
 ganda, but finger me the paper, light as the Sybil's leaves in Vir- 
 gil, whereat the fiend skulks off with his tail between his legs. 
 Touch him with this enchanted paper, and he whips you his head 
 away as fast as a snail's horn ; but then the horrid propensity he 
 has to put it up again has discouraged many very valiant knights. 
 He is such a never-ending, still-beginning, sort of a body, like my 
 landlady of the Bell. I think 1 could make a nice little allegori- 
 cal poem, called " The Dun," where we would have the Castle of 
 Carelessness, the Drawbridge of Credit, Sir Novelty Fashion's 
 expedition against the City of Tailors, &c. &c. I went day by 
 day at my poem for a month ; at the end of which time, the other 
 day, I found my brain so overwrought, that I had neither rhyme 
 nor reason in it, so was obliged to give up for a few days. I hope 
 soon to be able to resume my work. I have endeavored to do so 
 once or twice ; but to no purpose. Instead of poetry, I have a 
 swimming in my head, and feel all the effects of a mental de- 
 bauch, lowness of spirits, anxiety to go on, without the power to 
 do so, which does not at all tend to my ultimate progression. 
 However, to-morrow I will begin my next month. This evening 
 I go to Canterbury, having got tired of Margate ; I was not right 
 in my head when I came. At Canterbury I hope the remem- 
 brance of Chaucer will set me forward like a billiard ball. I 
 have some idea of seeing the Continent some time this summer. 
 
 In repeating how sensible I am of your kindness, I remain, 
 your obedient servant and friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 I shall be happy to hear any little intelligence in the literary 
 or friendly way when you have time to scribble. 
 
44 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 10th July, 1817. 
 
 My Dear Sir, 
 
 A couple of Duns that I thought would be silent till the 
 beginning, at least, of next month, (when I am certain to be on 
 my legs, for certain sure,) have opened upon me with a cry most 
 " untunable;" never did you hear such " ungallant chiding." 
 Now, you must know, I am not so desolate, but have, thank God, 
 twenty-five good notes in my fob. But then, you know, I laid 
 them by to write with, and would stand at bay a fortnight ere 
 they should quit me. In a month's time I must pay, but it 
 would relieve my mind if I owed you, instead of these pelican 
 duns. 
 
 I am afraid you will say I have " wound about with circum- 
 stance," 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 20Z. and a 101. , which, 
 if you would inclose 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. 
 
 In September he visited his friend Bailey at Oxford, and wrote 
 thus : — 
 
 " Believe me, my dear , it is a great happiness to see 
 
 that you are, in this finest part of the year, winning a little enjoy- 
 ment 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, — vary- 
 ing (the self-same) more than the passion of Timotheus, an enjoy- 
 ment not to be put into words ; and, ' though inland far I be,' 1 
 now hear the voice most audibly while pleasing myself in the idea 
 of your sensations. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 45 
 
 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 {ishes\ beginning to sweat, 
 Cry d |t ! 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 sun- 
 set, 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 favorite with you. So when you and 
 
 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 medi- 
 cine 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 
 
 3* 
 
46 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 clothes-pegs — fried her cabbages — fricaseed (how is it spelt ?) her 
 radishes — ragouted her onions — belabored her heat-root — outstrip- 
 ped her scarlet-runners — parhz-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 — agonized her decanters — put old P to pickle in 
 
 the brine-tub — disorganized her piano — dislocated her candlesticks 
 — emptied her wine-bins in a fit of despair — turned out her maid 
 
 to grass — and astonished B ; whose letter to her on these 
 
 events I would rather see than the original copy of the Book of 
 Genesis. 
 
 " Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone to bed, pleased 
 that I am writing to you. To your brother John (whom hence- 
 forth I shall consider as mine) and to you, my dear friends, 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 : s at a feast 
 when he is over them, and pray that if, after my death, any of my 
 labors should be worth saving, they may have so ' honest a chro- 
 nicler ' 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 T are at the 
 bottom of the sea ? whence 1 hope to bring him in safety befjre 
 you leave the sea-side ; 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, favorites 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 favor, and yet he has 
 been hauling me through the earth and sea with unrelenting per- 
 severance. 1 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 
 
JOHN KEATS. 
 
 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 favor 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." 
 
 This is of about the same date : — 
 
 Oxford, Sunday Morning. 
 
 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 prisms ; 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 eyelashes. We sometimes skim into a 
 bed of rushes, and there become naturalized river-folks. There 
 is one particularly nice nest, which we have christened " Rey- 
 nolds' Cove," in which we have read Wordsworth, and talked as 
 may be. 
 
 * * * Failings I am always rather rejoiced to find in a man 
 
 than sorry for ; they bring us to a level. has them, but then 
 
 his makes-up are very good. agrees with the Northern 
 
 Poet in tliis, " 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 neighborly remarks to make. The world, and especially 
 
48 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 our England, has. within the last thirty years, been vexed and 
 teased by a set of devils, whona 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 
 have taken a snack or luncheon of literary scraps, set themselves 
 up for towers of Babel in languages, Sapphos in poetry, Euclids in 
 geometry, and every thing in nothing. 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 Bayley'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 read- 
 ing them once more. The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A., at 
 parting, you will judge of. 
 
 " I have examined and do find. 
 
 Of all that favor 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 L 
 
 But neither chance nor compliment 
 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 changed and mingled souls are grown 
 
 To such acquaintance now. 
 That, if each would resume her 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 confined ; 
 Our active souls will daily go 
 
 To learn each other's mind. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 49 
 
 Nay, should we never rrieet 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'er can be away. 
 But I shall weep when thou dost grieve, 
 Nor can I die whilst thou dost live. 
 
 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. 
 
 All honor sure I must pretend. 
 
 All that is good or great ; 
 She that would be Rosannia's friend. 
 
 Must be at least compleat ;* 
 If I have any bravery, 
 'Tis 'cause I have so much of thee. 
 
 Thy lieger 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. 
 
 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 Rosannia." 
 
 * " A compleat friend" — this line sounded very oddly to me at first. 
 
50 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 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 (Round Table) last night. I know he 
 thinks himself 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 1 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' 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. 
 
 From a letter to Haydon. 
 
 " 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 of 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 1 have in 
 
JOHN KEATS. 51 
 
 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. 
 
 " Yours eternally, 
 
 "John Keats." 
 
 The three first books of " Endymion " were finished in Sep- 
 tember, and portions of the Poem had come to be seen and can- 
 vassed by literary friends. With a singular anticipation of the 
 injustice and calumny he should be subject to as belonging to 
 " the Cockney School," Keats stood up most stoutly for the inde- 
 pendence of all personal association with which the poem has 
 been composed, and admiring as he did the talents and spirit of 
 his friend Hunt, he expresses himself almost indignantly, in his 
 correspondence, at the thought that his originality, whatever it 
 was, should be suffered to have been marred by the assistance, 
 influence, or counsel of Hunt, or any one else. " I refused," he 
 writes to Mr. Bailey, (Oct. 8th,) " to visit Shelley, that I might 
 have my own unfettered scope ;" and proceeds to transcribe some 
 reflections on his undertaking, which he says he wrote to his bro- 
 ther George in the spring, and which are well worth the repetition. 
 
 " 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 en- 
 deavor 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 V 
 
52 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Do not they like this better than what they can read through be- 
 fore Mrs. Williams comes down stairs ? — a morning's 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 in a partial excellence. But enough 
 of this — I put on no laurels till I shall have finished ' Endymion,' 
 and 1 hope Apollo is not enraged at my having made mockery of 
 him at Hunt's." 
 
 The conclusion of this letter has now a more melancholy 
 meaning than it had when written. " The little mercury I have 
 taken has corrected the poison and improved my health — though 
 I feel from my employment that I shall never again be secure in 
 robustness. Would that you were as well as 
 
 "Your sincere friend and brother, 
 
 "John Keats." 
 
 " Brothers " they were in affection and in thought — brothers 
 also in destiny. Mr. Bailey died soon after Keats. 
 
 [Post-mark, 22 Nov. 1817. Leatiierhead.] 
 My Dear Bailey, 
 
 1 will get over the first part of this (wnpaid) letter as 
 
 soon as possible, for it relates to the affairs of poor . To a man 
 
 of your nature, such a letter as 's must have been extremely 
 
 cutting. What occasions the greater part of the world's quar- 
 rels 1 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 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 
 
JOHN KEATS 53 
 
 you are thoroughly acquainted with my innermost breast, in that 
 respect, or you would not have knowTi me even thus long, and still 
 hold me to be worthy to be your dear friend. In passing, how- 
 ever. I must say of 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 mas 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 three vols, 
 octavo — and moreover [I] long to be talking about the Imagina- 
 tion : so, my dear Bailey, do not think of this unpleasant affair, if 
 possible do not — I defy any harm to come of it. I shall write to 
 
 this week, and request him to tell me all his goings-on, from 
 
 time to lime, by letter, wherever I may be. It will go on well — 
 
 so don't, because you have discovered a coldness in , 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 mo- 
 mentary start about the authenticity of the Imagination. I am 
 certam 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 favorite speculation by my first book, and the little song I 
 sent in my last, which is a representation from the fancy of the 
 probable nK)de of operating in these matters. The Imagination 
 may be compared* to Adam's dream ; he awoke and found it 
 truth. I am more zealous in this affair, because I have never yet 
 been able to perceive how any thing can be known for truth by 
 consecutive reasoning, — and yet [so] it must be. Can it be that 
 even the greatest philosopher ever arrived at his goal without put- 
 ting 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 considera- 
 tion has further convinced me, — for it has come as auxiliary to 
 another favorite speculation of mine, — that we shall enjoy our- 
 
54 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 selves hereafter by having Vv^hat we call happiness on earth re- 
 peated 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 sudden- 
 ness. To compare great things with small, have you never, by 
 being surprised with an old melody, in a delicious place, by a de- 
 licious Yoice, 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 Imagi- 
 nation, so high that the prototype must be hereafter — that delicious 
 face you will see. 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 though your unpleasant reading, and then ! — but the 
 world is full of troubles, and I have not much reason to think my- 
 self pestered with many. 
 
 I think or has a better opinion of me than I de- 
 serve ; 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 happi- 
 ness. I look not for it if it be not in the present hour. Nothing 
 
JOHN KEATS. 
 
 startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set 
 me to rights, or if a sparrow were 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 any thing 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 aiFection during 
 a whole week ; and so long this sometimes continues, 1 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 Devon- 
 shire, 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 per- 
 suaded 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 the " Examiner," if possi- 
 ble. My best regards to Gleig, my brothers, to you, and Mrs. 
 Bentley. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 JoHx Keats. 
 
 I want to say much more to you — a few hints will set one going. 
 
 Leathekhead, 22nd November, 1817. 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 There are two things which tease me here — 
 
 one of them , 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 neighbor — now, is 
 not this virtuous ? On returning to town I'll damn all idleness — 
 indeed, in superabundance of employment, I must not be content 
 to run here and there on little two-penny errands, but turn Rake- 
 hell, i. e. go a masking, or Bailey will think me just as great a 
 
56 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 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 read- 
 ing 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 was. 1 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. It will all blow over. God knows, my dear Rey- 
 nolds, I should not talk any sorrow to you — you must have enough 
 vexation, so I won't say more. If I ever start a rueful subject in 
 a letter to you — blow me ! Why don't you 1 — Now I was going 
 to ask you a very silly question, [which] neither you nor any 
 body 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 con- 
 tinued 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 vv^ith white and bristly head." 
 
 He has left nothing to say about nothing or any thing : 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. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 57 
 
 " 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 poetry with all manner of 
 abuse, talking about — 
 
 " A poet's rage 
 And stretched metre of an antique song." 
 
 Which, by the by, 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. 
 
 Chrystalline 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 p!ay : 
 
 Disssolve 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 overloaded with poems on the "late Princess." I sup- 
 pose 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 re- 
 member 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 any thing. 
 
 I rest, 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Give my love to both houses — June atque iUinc. 
 
58 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " Endymion " was finished at Burford Bridge, on the 28th of 
 November, 1817 ; so records the still existing manuscript, written 
 fairly in a book, with many corrections of phrases and some of 
 lines, but with few of sentences or of arrangement. It betrays 
 the leading fault of the composition, namely, the dependence of 
 the matter on the rhyme, but shows the confidence of the poet in 
 his own profusion of diction, the strongest and most emphatic 
 words being generally taken as those to which the continuing 
 verse was to be adapted. There was no doubt a pleasure to him 
 in this very victory over the limited harmonies of our language, 
 and the result, when fortunate, is very impressive ; yet the fol- 
 lowing criticism of his friend, Mr. Leigh Hunt, is also just: — 
 
 " He had a just contempt for the monotonous termination of 
 every-day couplets ; he broke up his lines in order to distribute 
 the rhyme properly ; but, going only upon the ground of his con- 
 tempt, and not having yet settled with himself any principle of 
 versification, the very exuberance of his ideas led him to make 
 use of the first rhymes that offered ; so that, by a new meeting of 
 extremes, the effect was as artificial, and much more obtrusive, 
 than one under the old system. Dryden modestly confessed that 
 a rhyme had often helped him to a thought. Mr. Keats, in the 
 tyranny of his wealth, forced his rhymes to help him, whether 
 they would or not, and they obeyed him, in the most singular 
 manner, with equal promptitude and ingeniousness ; though oc- 
 casionally in the MS., when the second line of the couplet could 
 not be made to rhyme, the sense of the first is arbitrarily altered, 
 and its sense cramped into a new and less appropriate form." 
 
 Keats passed the winter of 1817-18 at Hampstead, gayly 
 enough among his friends ; his society was much sought after, 
 from the delightful combination of earnestness and pleasantry 
 which distinguished his intercourse with all men. There was no 
 effort about him to say fine things, but he did say them most ef- 
 fectively, and they gained considerably by his happy transition of 
 manner. He joked well or ill, as it happened, and with a laugh 
 which still echoes sweetly in many ears ; but at the mention of 
 oppression or wrong, or at any calumny against those he loved, he 
 rose into grave manliness at once, and seemed like a tall man. 
 His habitual gentleness made his occasional looks of indignation 
 
JOHN KEATS. 59 
 
 almost terrible : on one occasion, when a gross falsehood respect- 
 ing the young artist, Severn, was repeated and dwelt upon, he left 
 the room, declaring " he should be ashamed to sit with men who 
 could utter and believe such things." On another occasion, 
 hearing of some unworthy conduct, he burst out — " Is there no 
 human dust-hole into which we can sweep such fellows ?" 
 
 Display of all kinds was especially disagreeable to him, and 
 he complains, in a note to Ha5'-don, that " conversation is not a 
 search after knowledge, but an endeavor at effect — if Lord Bacon 
 were alive, and to make a remark in the present day in company, 
 the conversation would stop on a sudden. I am convinced of 
 this." 
 
 His health does not seem to have prevented him from indulg- 
 ing somewhat in that dissipation which is the natural outlet for 
 the young energies of ardent temperaments, unconscious how 
 scanty a portion of vital strength had been allotted to him ; but a 
 strictly regulated and abstinent life would have appeared to him 
 pedantic and sentimental. He did not, however, to any extent, allow 
 wine to usurp on his intellect, or games of chance to impair his 
 means, for, in his letters to his brothers, he speaks of having drunk too 
 much as a rare piece of joviality, and of having won £10 at cards 
 as a great hit. His bodily vigor, too, must at this time have been 
 considerable, as he signalized himself, at Hampstead, by giving 
 a severe drubbing to a butcher, whom he saw beating a little boy, 
 to the enthusiastic admiration of a crowd of bystanders. Plain, 
 manly, practical life, on the one hand, and a free exercise of his 
 rich imagination, on the other, were the ideal of his existence : 
 his poetry never weakened his action, and his simple, every-day 
 habits never coarsened the beauty of the world within him. 
 
 The following letters of this time are preserved : — 
 
 " Jan. 23, 1818. 
 My Dear Taylor, 
 
 I have spoke to Haydon about the drawing. He 
 would do it with all his Art and Heart too, if so I will it ; how- 
 ever, he has written this to me ; but I must tell you, first, he in- 
 tends painting a finished Picture from the Poem. Thus he 
 
60 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 
 writes — " When I do any thing for your Poem it must be effec- 
 tual — an honor to both of us : to hurry up a sketch for the season 
 won't do. I think an engraving from your head, from a chalk 
 drawing of mine, done with all my might, to which 1 would put 
 my name, would answer Taylor's idea better than the other. In- 
 deed, I am sure of it." 
 
 * * * What think you of this ? Let me hear. I shall 
 have my second Book in readiness forthwith. 
 Yours most sincerely, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 « Jan. 23, 1818. 
 My Dear Bailey, 
 
 Twelve days have passed since your last reached 
 me. — What has gone through the myriads of human minds since 
 the 12th ? We talk of the immense number of books, the volumes 
 ranged thousands by thousands — but perhaps more goes through 
 the human intelligence in twelve days than ever was written. — 
 How has that unfortunate family lived through the twelve ? One 
 saying of yours I shall never forget : you may not recollect it, it 
 being, perhaps, said when you were looking on the surface and 
 seeming of Humanity alone, without a thought of the past or the 
 future, or the deeps of good and evil. You were at that moment 
 estranged from speculation, and I think you have arguments ready 
 for the man who would utter it to you. This is a formidable 
 preface for a simple thing — merely you said, " Why should 
 woman suffer ?" Aye, why should she '? " By heavens, I'd 
 coin my very soul, and drop my blood for drachmas !" These 
 things are, and he, who feels how incompetent the most skyey 
 knight-errantry is to heal this bruised fairness, is like a sensitive 
 leaf on the hot hand of thought. 
 
 Your tearing, my dear friend, a spiritless and gloomy letter 
 up, to re-write to me, is what I shall never forget — it was to me 
 a real thing. 
 
 Things have happened lately of great perplexity ; you must 
 
 have heard of them ; and retorting and recriminating, 
 
 and parting for ever. The same thing has happened between 
 and . It is unfortunate : men should bear with each 
 
 I 
 
JOHN KEATS. 61 
 
 other : there lives not the mnn wlio may not be cut up, aye, 
 lashed to pieces, on his weakest side. The best of men have but 
 a portion of good in them — a kind of spiritual yeast in their 
 frames, which creates the ferment of existence — by which a man 
 is propelled to act, and strive, and buffet with circumstance. The 
 sure way, Bailey, is first to know a man's faults, and then be 
 passive. If, after that, he insensibly draws you towards him, 
 then you have no power to break the link. Before I felt in- 
 terested in either or , I was well-read in their faults ; 
 
 yet, knowing them, I have been cementing gradually with both. 
 I have an affection for them both, for reasons almost opposite ; 
 and to both must I of necessity cling, supported always by the 
 hope, that when a little time, a few years, shall have tried me 
 more fully in their esteem, I may be able to bring them together. 
 The time must come, because they have both hearts ; and they 
 will recollect the best parts of each other, when this gust is over- 
 blown. 
 
 I had a message from you through a letter to Jane — I think, 
 
 about C . There can be no idea of binding until a sufficient 
 
 sum is sure for him ; and even then the thing should be maturely 
 considered by all his helpers. I shall try my luck upon as many 
 
 fat purses as I can meet with. C is improving very fast : I 
 
 have the greater hopes of him because he is so slow in develop- 
 ment. A man of great executing powers at twenty, with a look 
 and a speech the most stupid, is sure to do something. 
 
 I have just looked through the second side of your letter. I 
 feel a great content at it. 
 
 I was at Hunt's the other day, and he surprised me with a 
 real authenticated lock of Milton's Hair. I know you would like 
 what I wrote thereon, so here it is — as they say of a Sheep in a 
 Nursery Book : — 
 
 ON SEEING A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR. 
 
 Chief of organic numbers ! 
 Old Scholar of the Spheres ! 
 Thy spirit never slumbers, 
 But rolls about our ears 
 4 
 
62 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 For ever and for ever I 
 O vs'hat a mad endeavor 
 
 Worketh He, 
 Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse 
 Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse 
 
 And melody. 
 
 Hovi' heaven-v^^ard thou soundest ! 
 Live Temple of sw^eet noise. 
 And Discord unconfoundest. 
 Giving Delight new joys. 
 And Pleasure nobler pinions : 
 where are thy dominions 1 
 
 Lend thine ear 
 To a young Delian oath — aye, by thy soul. 
 By all that from thy mortal lips did roll. 
 And by the kernel of thy earthly love, 
 Beauty in things on earth and things above, 
 I swear ! 
 
 When every childish fashion 
 
 Has vanished from my rhyme. 
 
 Will I, gray gone in passion. 
 
 Leave to an after- time, 
 
 Hymning and Harmony 
 Of thee and of thy works, and of thy life ; 
 But vain is now the burning and the strife : 
 Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife 
 
 With old Philosophy, 
 And wed with glimpses of futurity. 
 
 For many years my oiTerings must be hushed ; 
 When I do speak, I'll think upon this hour. 
 Because I feel my forehead hot and flushed. 
 Even at the simplest vassal of thy power. 
 
 A lock of thy bright hair, — 
 
 Sudden it came. 
 And I was startled when I caught thy name 
 
 Coupled so unaware ; 
 Yet at the moment temperate was my blood— 
 I thought I had beheld it from the flood ! 
 
 This I did at Hunt's, at his request. Perhaps I should have 
 done something better alone and at home, 
 
JOHN KEATS. 63 
 
 I have sent my first book to the press, and this afternoon shall 
 begin preparing the second. My visit to you will be a great spur 
 to quicken the proceeding. I have not had your sermon returned. 
 I long to make it the subject of a letter to you. What do they 
 say at Oxford ? 
 
 I trust you and Gleig pass much fine time together. Remem- 
 ber me to him and Whitehead. My brother Tom is getting 
 stronger, but his spitting of blood continues. 
 
 I sat down to read " King Lear " yesterday, and felt the great- 
 ness of the thing up to the writing of a sonnet preparatory thereto : 
 m my next you shall have it. 
 
 There was some miserable reports of Rice's health — I went, 
 and lo ! Master Jemmy had been to the play the night before, 
 and was out at the time. He always comes on his legs like 
 a cat. 
 
 I have seen a good deal of Wordsworth. Hazlitt is lectu- 
 ring on Poetry at the Surrey Institution. I shall be there next 
 Tuesday. 
 
 Your most affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 The assumption, in the above lines, of Beauty being " the 
 kernel" of Milton's love, rather accords with the opinion of many 
 of Keats's friends, that at this time he had not studied " Paradise 
 Lost," as he did afterwards. His taste would naturally have 
 rather attracted him to those poems which Milton had drawn out 
 of the heart of old mythology, "Lycidas" and "Comus;" and 
 those " two exquisite jewels, hung, as it were, in the ears of anti- 
 quity," the " Penseroso" and " Allegro," had no doubt been well 
 enjoyed ; but his full appreciation of the great Poem was reserved 
 for the period which produced " Hyperion " as clearly under Mil- 
 tonic influence, as " Endymion" is imbued wMth the spirit of Spen- 
 ser, Fletcher, and Ben Jonson. 
 
 From a letter to Mr. Reynolds. 
 
 Hampstead, Jan. 31st, 1818. 
 Now I purposed to write to you a serious poetical letter, but I 
 find that a maxim I met with the other day is a just one : '^ On 
 
64 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 cause mieux quand on ne dit pas causons." I was hindered, 
 however, from my first intention by a mere muslin handkerchief, 
 very neatly pinned — but " Hence, vain deluding," &c. Yet I 
 cannot write in prose ; it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here 
 goes. 
 
 Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 
 
 Away with old Hock and Madeira, 
 Too earthly ye are for my sport ; 
 
 There's a beverage brighter and clearer 
 Instead of a pitiful rummer. 
 My wine overbrims a whole summer ; 
 
 My bowl is the sky. 
 
 And I drink at my eye. 
 
 Till I feel in the brain 
 
 A Delphian pain — 
 
 Then follow, my Caius ! then follow : 
 
 On the green of the hill 
 
 We will drink our fill 
 
 Of golden sunshine 
 
 Till our brains intertwine 
 
 With the glory and grace of Apollo ! 
 
 God of the Meridian, 
 
 And of the East and West, 
 To thee my soul is flown, 
 
 And my body is earthward press'd. — 
 It is an awful mission, 
 A terrible division ; 
 And leaves a gulf austere 
 To be fill'd with worldly fear. 
 Aye, when the soul is fled 
 To high above our head, 
 Aff'righted do we gaze 
 After its airy maze. 
 As doth a mother wild. 
 When her young infant child 
 Is in an eagle's claws — 
 And is not this the cause 
 Of madness 1 — God of Song, 
 Thou bearest me along 
 Through sights I scarce can bear : 
 O let me, let me share 
 With the hot lyre and thee. 
 The staid Philosophy. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 65 
 
 Temper my lonely hours, 
 And let me see thy bow'rs 
 More unalarm'd ! 
 
 My dear Reynolds, you must forgive all this ranting ; but the 
 fact is, I cannot write sense this nriorning ; however, you shall 
 have some. 1 will copy out my last sonnet. 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be, &c.* 
 
 I must take a turn, and then write to Teignmouth. Remem- 
 ber me to all, not excepting yourself. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Hampstead, Feb. 3, 1818. 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 I thank you for your dish of filberts. Would 
 I could get a basket of them by way of dessert every day for the 
 sum of twopence (two sonnets on Robin Hood sent by the two- 
 penny post). Would we were a sort of ethereal pigs, and turned 
 loose to feed upon spiritual mast and acorns ! which would be 
 merely being a squirrel and feeding upon filberts ; for what is a 
 squirrel but an airy pig, or a filbert but a sort of archangelical 
 acorn ? About the nuts being worth cracking, all I can say is, 
 that where there are a throng of delightful images ready drawn, 
 simplicity is the only thing. It may be said that we ought to read 
 our contemporaries, that Wordsworth, (fee, should have their due 
 from us. But, for the sake of a few fine imaginative or domestic 
 passages, are we to be bullied into a certain philosophy engender- 
 ed in the whims of an egotist 1 Every man has his speculations, 
 but every man does not brood and peacock over them till he 
 makes a false coinage and deceives himself Many a man can 
 travel to the very bourne of Heaven, and yet want confidence to 
 put down his half-seeing. Sancho will invent a journey heaven- 
 ward as well as any body. We hate poetry that has a palpable 
 design upon us, and, if we do not agree, seems to put its hand 
 
 * See the " Literary Remains." 
 
66 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 into its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, 
 a thing which enters into one's soul., and does not startle it or 
 amaze it with itself, but with its subject. How beautiful are the 
 retired flowers ! How would they lose their beauty were they to 
 throng into the highway, crying out, " Admire me, I am a violet ! 
 Dote upon me, I am a primrose !" Modern poets differ from the 
 Elizabethans in this : each of the moderns, like an Elector of 
 Hanover, governs his petty state, and knows how many straws are 
 swept daily from the causeways in all his dominions, aud has a 
 continual itching that all the housewives should have their coppers 
 well scoured. The ancients were Emperors of vast provinces; 
 they had only heard of the remote ones, and scarcely cared to 
 visit them. I will cut all this. I will have no more of Words- 
 worth or Hunt in particular. Why should we be of the tribe of 
 Manasseh, when we can wander with Esau ? Why should we 
 kick against the pricks when we can walk on roses ? Why should 
 we be owls, when we can be eagles ? Why be teased with " nice- 
 eyed wagtails," when we have in sight " the cherub Contempla- 
 tion ?" Why with Wordsworth's " Matthew with a bough of wild- 
 ing in his hand," when we can have Jacques " under an oak," 
 &c. ? The secret of the " bough of wilding " will run through 
 your head faster than I can write it. Old Matthew spoke to him 
 some years ago on some nothing, and because he happens in an 
 evening walk to imagine the figure of the old man, he must stamp 
 it down in black and white, and it is henceforth sacred. I don't 
 mean to deny Wordsworth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I mean 
 to say we need not be teased with grandeur and merit when we 
 can have them uncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let us have the 
 old Poets and Robin Hood. Your letter and its sonnets gave me 
 more pleasure than will the Fourth Book of "Childe Harold," 
 and the whole of any body's life and opinions. 
 
 In return for your dish of filberts, I have gathered a few cat- 
 kins.* I hope they'll look pretty. 
 
 " No, those days are gone away," &c. 
 
 * Mr. Reynolds had inclosed Keats some Sonnets on Robin Hood, to 
 which these fine lines are an answer. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 67 
 
 I hope you will like them — they are at least written in the 
 spirit of outlawry. Here are the Mermaid lines : — 
 
 " Souls of Poets dead and gone," &,c. 
 
 In the hope that these scribblings will be some amusement for 
 you this evening, I remain, copying on the hill, 
 
 Your sincere friend and co-scribbler, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Keats was perhaps unconsciously swayed in his estimate of 
 Wordsworth at this moment, by an incident which had occurred at 
 Mr. Haydon's. The young Poet had been induced to repeat to 
 the elder the fine " Hymn to Pan," out of " Endymion," which 
 Shelley, who did not much like the poem, used to speak of as 
 affording the " surest promise of ultimate excellence :" Words- 
 worth only remarked, " it was a pretty piece of Paganism." The 
 mature and philosophic genius, penetrated with Christian associa- 
 tions, probably intended some slight rebuke to his youthful com- 
 peer, whom he saw absorbed in an order of ideas, that to him ap- 
 peared merely sensuous, and would have desired that the bright 
 traits of Greek mythology should be sobered down by a graver 
 faith, as in his own "Dion" and "Laodamia;" but, assuredly, 
 the phrase could not have been meant contemptuously, as Keats 
 took it, and was far more annoyed at it than at pages of " Quar- 
 terly " abuse, or " Blackwood's " ridicule. 
 
 [Postmark, Hampstead. Feh. 19, 1818.] 
 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 I had an idea that a man might pass a very pleasant 
 life in this manner — let him on a certain day read a certain page 
 of full poesy or distilled prose, and let him wander with it, and 
 muse upon it, and reflect upon it, and bring home to it, and pro- 
 phesy upon it, and dream upon it, until it becomes stale. But 
 will it do so 1 Never. When man has arrived at a certain 
 ripeness of intellect, any one grand and spiritual passage serves 
 him as a starting-post towards all " the two-and-thirty palaces." 
 How happy is such a voyage of conception, what delicious dili- 
 
68 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 gent indolence ! A doze upon a sofa does not hinder it, and a nap 
 upon clover engenders ethereal finger-pointings ; the prattle of a 
 child gives it wings, and the converse of middle-age a strength to 
 beat them ; a strain of music conducts to " an odd angle of the 
 Isle," and when the leaves whisper, it puts a girdle round the 
 earth. Nor will this sparing touch of noble books be any irreve- 
 rence to their writers ; for perhaps the honors paid by man are 
 trifles in com.parison to the benefit done by great works to the 
 "spirit and pulse of good" by their mere passive existence. Me- 
 mory should not be called knowledge. Many have orighial minds 
 who do not think it : they are led away by custom. Now it ap- 
 pears to me that almost any man may, like the spider, spin from 
 his ovv'n inwards, his own airy citadel. The points of leaves^ and 
 twigs on which the spider begins her work are few, and she fills 
 the air with a beautiful circuiting. Man should be content with 
 as few points to tip with the fine web of his soul, and weave a 
 tapestry empyrean — full of symbols for his spiritual eye, of soft- 
 ness for his spiritual touch, of space for his wanderings, of dis- 
 tinctness for his luxuiy. But the minds of mortals are so differ- 1 
 ent, and bent on such diverse journeys, that it may at first appear 
 impossible for any common taste and fellowship to exist between 
 two or three under these suppositions. It is however quite the 
 contrary. Minds would leave each other in contrary directions, 
 traverse each other in numberless points, and at last greet each 
 other at the journey's end. An old man and a child would talk 
 together, and the old man be led on his path and the child left 
 thinking. Man should not dispute or assert but whisper results 
 to his neighbor, and thus by every germ of spirit sucking the sap 
 from mould ethereal, every human [being] might become great, 
 and humanity, instead of being a wide heath of furze and briers, 
 with here and there a remote oak or pine, would become a grand 
 democracy of forest trees ! It has been an old comparison for 
 our urging on — the bee-hive ; however, it seems to me that we 
 should rather be the flower than the bee. For it is a false notion 
 that more is gained by receiving than giving — no, the receiver 
 and the giver are equal in their benefits. The flower, I doubt 
 not, receives a fair guerdon from the bee. Its leaves blush deeper 
 in the next spring. And who shall say, between man and wo- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 69 
 
 man, which is the most delighted ? Now it is more noble to sit 
 like Jove than to fly like Mercury : — let us not therefore go hur- 
 rying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there 
 for a knowledge of what is to be arrived at ; but let us open our 
 leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive, budding pa- 
 tiently under the eye of Apollo, and taking hints from every noble 
 insect that favors us with a visit. Sap will be given us for meat, 
 and dew for drink. 
 
 I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, by the beauty 
 of the morning operating on a sense of idleness. I have not read 
 any books — the morning said I was right — I had no idea but of 
 the morning, and the thrush said I was right — seeming to say, 
 
 " O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind. 
 Whose eye hath seen the snow-clouds hung in mist. 
 And the black elm-tops among the freezing stars ; 
 To thee the Spring will be a harvest-time. 
 O thou ! whose only book hath been the light 
 Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on 
 Night after night, when Phoebus was away, 
 To thee the Spring will be a triple morn. 
 O fret not after knowledge ! — I have none, 
 And yet my song comes native with the warmth. 
 O fret not after knowledge ! — I have none, 
 And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens 
 At thought of idleness cannot be idle, 
 And he's awake who thinks himself asleep." 
 
 Now 1 am sensible all this is a mere sophistication, (however 
 it may neighbor to any truth) to excuse my own indulgence. So 
 I will not deceive myself that man should be equal with Jove — 
 but think himself very well off as a sort of scullion-mercury, or 
 even a humble-bee. It is no matter whether I am right or wrong, 
 either one way or another, if there is sufficient to lift a little time 
 from your shoulders. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 With his brothers at Teignmouth he kept up an affectionate 
 correspondence, of which some specimens remain, and he visited 
 them thrice in the early part of the year. The " Champion'* 
 
 4* 
 
70 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 herein mentioned was a periodical of considerable merit, in which 
 Mr. Reynolds was engaged, and the article on Kean alluded to, 
 as well as a later criticism of Keats on the same actor, are well 
 worth preserving, both for their acute appreciation of a remarka- 
 ble artist, and for their evidence that the genius and habit of poet- 
 ry had produced its customary effect of making the Poet a good 
 writer of prose. Mr. Brown, whose name now frequently occurs, 
 was a retired merchant, who had been the neighbor of the Keats's 
 since the summer, and his congeniality of tastes and benevolence 
 of disposition had made them intimates and friends. It will be 
 often repeated in these pages — the oftener as they advance ; and, 
 in unison with that of the painter Severn, will close the series of 
 honorable friendships associated with a Poet's fame. 
 
 Hampstead, 22d December, 1817. 
 My Dear Brothers, 
 
 I must crave your pardon for not having written 
 ere this. * * * I saw Kean return to the public in " Richard 
 III," and finely he did it, and, at the request of Reynolds, I went 
 to Qriticise his Duke. The critique is in to-day's " Champion," 
 which I send you, with the " Examiner," in which you will find 
 very proper lamentation on the obsoletion of Christmas gambols 
 and pastimes : but it was mixed up with so much egotism of that 
 driveling nature that all pleasure is entirely lost. Hone, the 
 publisher's trial, you must find very amusing, and, as English- 
 men, very encouraging : his Not Guilty is a thing, which not to 
 have been, would have dulled still more Liberty's emblazoning. 
 Lord EUenborough has been paid in his own coin. Wooler and 
 Hone have done us essential service. I have had two very pleas- 
 ant evenings with Dilke, yesterday and to-day, and am at this 
 moment just come from him, and feel in the humor to go on with 
 this, begun in the morning, and from which he came to fetch me. 
 I spent Friday evening with Wells, and went next morning to see 
 " Death on the Pale Horse." It is a wonderful picture, when 
 West's age is considered ; but there is nothing to be intense upon, 
 no wo'nen one feels mad to kiss, no face swelling into reality. 
 The excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of making all 
 disagreeables evaporate from their being in close relationship with 
 
JOHN KEATS. 71 
 
 beaaty and truth. Examine "King Lear," and you will find this 
 exemplified throughout : but in this picture we have unpleasant- 
 ness without any momentous depths of speculation excited, in 
 which to bury its repulsiveness. The picture is larger than 
 "Christ Rejected," 
 
 I dined with Haydon the Sunday after you left, and had a 
 very pleasant day. I dined too (for I have been out too much 
 lately) with Horace Smith, and met his two brothers, with Hill 
 and Kingston, and one Du Bois. They only served to convince 
 me how superior humor is to wit, in respect to enjoyment. These 
 men say things which make one start, without making one feel ; 
 they are all alike ; their manners are alike ; they all know fash- 
 ionables ; they have all a mannerism in their very eating and 
 drinking, in their mere handling a decanter. They talked 
 of Kean and his low company. " Would I were with that com- 
 pany instead of yours," said J to myself! I know such like ac- 
 quaintance will never do for me, and yet I am going to Reynolds 
 on Wednesday. Brown and Dilke walked with me and back 
 from the Christmas pantomime. I had not a dispute, but a dis- 
 quisition, with Dilke upon various subjects; several things dove- 
 tailed in my mind, and at once it struck me what quality went to 
 form a man of achievement, especially in literature, and which 
 Shakspeare possessed so enormously — I mean negalive capability, 
 that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, myste- 
 ries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason. 
 Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimili- 
 tude caught from the penetralium of Mystery, from being incapa- 
 ble of remaining content with half-knowledge. This pursued 
 through volumes would perhaps take us no further than this, that 
 with a great Poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other con- 
 sideration, or rather obliterates all consideration. Shelley's poem 
 is out, and there are words about its being objected to as much as 
 " Queen Mab" was. Poor Shelley, I think he has his quota of 
 
 good qualities Write soon to your most sincere 
 
 friend and affectionate brother, John. 
 
7-2 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 23d January, 1818. 
 
 My Dear Brothers, 
 
 I was thinking what hindered me from writing soi 
 long, for I have so many things to say to you, and know not where 
 to begin. It shall be upon a thing most interesting to you, my Poem. 
 Well ! I have given the first Book to Taylor ; he seemed more 
 than satisfied with it, and, to my surprise, proposed publishing il 
 in quarto, if Haydon could make a drawing of some event therein, 
 for a frontispiece. I called on Haydon. He said he would do 
 any thing I liked, but said he would rather paint a finished picture 
 from it, which he seems eager to do. This, in a year or two, will 
 be a glorious thing for us ; and it will be, for Haydon is struck 
 with the first Book. I left Haydon, and the next day received a 
 letter from him, proposing to make, as he says, with all his might, a 
 finished chalk sketch of my head, to be engraved in the first style, 
 and put at the head of my Poem, saying, at the same time, he had 
 never done the thing for any human being, and that it must have 
 considerable effect, as he will put his name to it. I begin to-day 
 to copy my second Book : " thus far into the bowels of the land." 
 You shall hear whether it will be quarto or non-quarto, picture or 
 non-picture. Leigh Hunt I showed my first Book to. He allows 
 it not much merit as a whole ; says it is unnatural, and made ten 
 objections to it, in the mere skimming over. He says the conver- 
 sation is unnatural, and too' high-flown for Brother and Sister; 
 says it should be simple, — forgetting, do ye mind, that they are 
 both overshadowed by a supernatural Power, and of force could 
 not speak like Francesca, in the " Rimini." He must first prove 
 that Caliban's poetry is unnatural. This, with me, completely 
 overturns his objections. The fact is, he and Shelley are hurt, 
 and perhaps justly, at my not having showed them the affair offi- 
 ciously ; and, from several hints I had had, they appear much 
 disposed to dissect and anatomize any trip or slip 1 may have 
 made. — But who's afraid ? Ay ! Tom ! Demme if I am. I went 
 last Tuesday, an hour too late, to Hazlitt's Lecture on Poetry ; 
 got there just as they were coming out, when all these pounced 
 upon me : — Hazlitt, John Hunt and Son, Wells, Bewick, all the 
 Landseers, Bob Harris, aye and more. 
 
 I think a little change has taken place in my intellect lately; 
 
JOHN KEATS. 73 
 
 I cannot bear to be uninterested or unemployed, I, who for so long 
 a time have been addicted to passiveness. Nothing is finer for 
 the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of 
 the intellectual powers. As an instance of this — observe — I sat 
 down yesterday to read " King Lear" once again: the thing ap- 
 peared to demand the prologue of a sonnet. I wrote it, and began 
 to read. (I know you would like to see it.) 
 
 ON SITTING DOWN TO READ "KING LEAR" ONCE AGAIN. 
 
 O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute ! 
 Fair plumed Syren ! Queen ! if far away ! 
 Leave melodizing on this wintry day, 
 Shut up thine olden volume, and be mute. 
 Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute, 
 Betwixt Hell torment and impassioned clay, 
 Must I burn through ; once more assay 
 The bitter sweet of this Shakspearian fruit. 
 Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion, 
 Begetters of our deep eternal theme, 
 When I am through the old oak forest gone, 
 Let me not wander in a barren dream. 
 But when I am consumed with the Fire, 
 Give me new Phcenix- wings to fly at my desire. 
 
 So you see I am getting at it with a sort of determination and 
 strength, though, verily, I do not feel it at this moment : this is my 
 fourth letter this morning, and I feel rather tired, and my head 
 rather swimming — so 1 will leave it open till to-morrow's post. 
 
 I am in the habit of taking my papers to Dilke's and copying 
 there ; so I chat and proceed at the same time. I have been there 
 at my work this evening, and the walk over the Heath takes off 
 all sleep, so I will even proceed with you. * * * 
 
 Constable, the bookseller, has offered Reynolds ten guineas a sheet 
 to write for his Magazine. It is an Edinburgh one, which Black- 
 wood's started up in opposition to. Hunt said he was nearly sure 
 that the "Cockney School" was written by Scott;* so you are 
 
 * There seems to be no foundation for this assertion. 
 
74 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 right, Tom ! There are no more little bits of news I can remem- 
 ber at present. 
 
 I remain, 
 
 My dear brothers, your affectionate brother, 
 
 John. 
 
 Hampstead, February 16, [1818.] 
 My Dear Brothers, 
 
 When once a man delays a letter beyond the 
 proper time, he delays it longer, for one or two reasons ; first, be- 
 cause he must begin in a very common-place style, that is to say, 
 with an excuse ; and secondly, things and circumstances become 
 so jumbled in his mind, that he knows not what, or what not, he 
 has said in his last. I shall visit you as soon as I have copied my 
 Poem all out. I am now much beforehand with the printers ; 
 they have done none yet, and I am half afraid they will let half 
 the season by before the printing. I am determined they shall 
 not trouble me when I have copied it all. Hazlitt's last lecture 
 was on Thomson, Cowper, and Crabbe. He praised Thomson 
 and Cowper, but he gave Crabbe an unmerciful licking. I saw 
 Fazio the first night ; it hung rather heavily on me. I am in the 
 high way of being introduced to a squad of people, Peter Pindar, 
 Mrs. Opie, Mrs. Scott. Mr. Robinson, a great friend of Cole- 
 ridge's, called on me. Richards tells me that my Poems are 
 known in the west country, and that he saw a very clever copy 
 of verses headed with a motto from my sonnet to George. Ho- 
 nors rush so thickly upon me that I shall not be able to bear up 
 against them. What think you — am I to be crowned in the Capi- 
 tol ? Am I to be made a Mandarin ? No ! I am to be invited, 
 Mrs. Hunt tells me, to a party at Ollier's, to keep Shakspeare's 
 birth-day. Shakspeare would stare to see me there* The Wednes- 
 day before last, Shelley, Hunt, and I, wrote each a sonnet on the 
 river Nile : some day you shall read them all. I saw a sheet of 
 " Endymion," and have all reason to suppose they will soon get 
 it done ; there shall be nothing wanting on my part. I have been 
 writing, at intervals, many songs and sonnets, and I long to be at 
 Teignmouth to read them over to you ; however, I think I had 
 better wait till this book is off my mind ; it will not be long first. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 75 
 
 Reynolds has been writing two very capital articles, in the 
 Yellow Dwarf," on Popular Preachers. 
 
 Your most affectionate brother, 
 
 John. 
 
 These are the three sonnets on the Nile here alluded to, and 
 very characteristic they are. 
 
 TO THE NILE. 
 
 Son of the old moon-mountains African ! 
 Stream of the Pyramid and Crocodile ! 
 We call thee fruitful, and that very while 
 A desert fills our seeing's inward span : 
 Nurse of swart nations since the world began, 
 Art thou so fruitful 1 or dost thou beguile 
 Those men to honor thee, who, worn with toil. 
 Rest them a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan 1 
 O may dark fancies err ! They surely do ; 
 'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste 
 Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew 
 Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste 
 The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too. 
 And to the sea as happily dost haste. 
 
 J. K. 
 
 THE NILE. 
 
 It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands, 
 
 Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream ; 
 
 And times and things, as in that vision, seem 
 
 Keeping along it their eternal stands, — 
 
 Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands 
 
 That roam'd through the young earth, the glory extreme 
 
 Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam. 
 
 The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands. 
 
 Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong. 
 As of a world left empty of its throng, 
 
76 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 And the void weighs on us ; and then we wake. 
 And hear the frightful stream lapsing along 
 'Twixi villages, and think how we shall take 
 Our own calm journey on for human sake. 
 
 L. H. 
 
 OZYMANDIAS. 
 
 I saw a traveler from an antique land, 
 Who said : — Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
 Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand. 
 Half sunk, a shattei-'d visage lies, whose frown. 
 And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command. 
 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read. 
 Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things. 
 The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed ; 
 
 And on the pedestal these words appear : — 
 " My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings : 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair !" 
 Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
 The lone and level sands stretch far away. 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 Hampstead, February 21, [1818 ] 
 My Dear Brothers, 
 
 I am extremely sorry to have given you so 
 much uneasiness by not writing ; however, you know good news 
 is no news, or vice versa. I do not like to write a short letter to 
 you, or you would have had one long before. The weather, al- 
 though boisterous to-day, has been very much milder, and I think 
 Devonshire is not the last place to receive a temperate change. I 
 have been abominably idle ever since you left, but have just 
 turned over a new leaf, and used as a marker a letter of excuse 
 to an invitation from Horace Smith. I received a letter the other 
 day from Haydon, in which he says, his " Essays on the Elgin 
 Marbles " are being translated into Italian, the which he superin- 
 tends. I did not mention that I had seen the British Gallery ; 
 there are some nice things by Stark, and " Bathsheba," by WiU 
 kie, which is condemned. I could not bear Alston's. "UrieL" 
 
JOHN KEATS. 77 
 
 The thrushes and bhickbird> have been sijiging nie into an idea 
 that it was spring, and almost that leaves were on the trees. So 
 [that black clouds and boisterous winds seem to have mustered and 
 [collected in full divan, for the purpose of convincing me to the 
 contrary. Taylor says my poem shall be out in a month. * * * 
 The thrushes are singing now as if they would speak to the winds, 
 because their big brother Jack — the Spring — was not far off". I 
 am reading Voltaire and Gibbon, although 1 wrote to Reynolds 
 the other day to prove reading of no use. I have not seen Hunt 
 since. I am a good deal with Dilke and Brown ; they are kind 
 to me. I don't think I could stop in Hampstead but for their 
 neighborhood. I hear Hazlitt's lectures regularly : his last was 
 on Gray, Collins, Young, &;c., and he gave a very fine piece of 
 discriminating criticism on Swift, Voltaire, and Rabelais. I was 
 very disappointed at his treatment of Chatterton. I generally 
 meet with many I know there. Lord Byron's Fourth Canto is 
 expected out, and I heard somewhere, that Walter Scott has a 
 new poem in readiness. * * * j have not yet read Shelley's 
 poem : I do not suppose you have it yet at the Teignmouth libra- 
 ries. These double letters must come rather heavy ; I hope you 
 have a moderate portion of cash, but don't fret at all, if you have 
 not — Lord ! I intend to play at cut and run as well as FalstafT, 
 that is to say, before he got so lusty. 
 
 I remain, praying for your health, my dear brothers, 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 John. 
 
 A lady, whose feminine acuteness of perception is only 
 equaled by the vigor of her understanding, tells ine she distinctly 
 remembers Keats as he appeared at this time at Hazlitt's lectures. 
 " His eyes were large and blue, his hair auburn ; he wore it 
 divided down the centre, and it fell in rich masses on each side of 
 his face ; his mouth was full, and less intellectual than his other 
 features. His countenance lives in my mind as one of singular 
 beauty and brightness — it had an expression as if he had been 
 looking on some glorious sight. The shape of his face had not 
 the squareness of a man's, but more like some women's faces I 
 have seen — it was so wide over the forehead and so small at the 
 
78 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 chin. He seemed in perfect health, and with life offering all 
 things that were precious to him." 
 
 Keats had lately vindicated those " who delight in sensation " 
 against those who " hunger after Truth," and that, no doubt, was 
 the tendency of his nature. But it is most interesting to observe 
 how this dangerous inclination was in him continually balanced 
 and modified by the purest appreciation of moral excellence, how 
 far he was from taking the sphere he loved best to ^Iwell in for the 
 whole or even the best of creation. Never have words more 
 effectively expressed the conviction of the superiority of virtue 
 above beauty than those in the following letter — never has a poet 
 more devoutly submitted the glory of imagination to the power of 
 conscience. 
 
 Hajmpstead, April ^l, 1818. 
 My Dear Brothers, 
 
 I am certain, I think, of having a letter to-morrow 
 morning ; for I expected one so much this morning, having been 
 in town two days, at the end of which my expectations began to 
 get up a little. I found two on the table, one from Bailey and 
 one from Haydon. I am quite perplexed in a world of doubts 
 and fancies ; there is nothing stable in the world ; uproar's your 
 only music. I don't mean to include Bailey in this, and so I dis- 
 miss him from this, with all the opprobrium he deserves ; that is, 
 in so many words, he is one of the noblest men alive at the pre- 
 sent day. In a note to Haydon, about a week ago (which I wrote 
 with a full sense of what he had done, and how he had never 
 manifested any little mean drawback in his value of me), I said, 
 if there were three things superior in the modern world, they were 
 " The Excursion," " Haydon's Pictures," and Hazlitt's depth of 
 Taste. So I believe — not thus speaking with any poor vanity — 
 that works of genius are the first things in this world. No ! for 
 that sort of probity and disinterestedness which such men as Bai- 
 ley possess does hold and grasp the tip-top of any spiritual honors 
 that can be paid to anything in this world. And, moreover, hav- 
 ing this feeling at this present come over me in its full force, I sat 
 down to write to you with a grateful heart, in that I had not a 
 brother who did not feel and credit me for a deeper feeling and 
 
JOHN KEATS. 79 
 
 devotion for his upriglitness, than for any marks of genius how- 
 ever splendid. I have just finished the revision of my first book? 
 and shall take it to Taylor's to-morrow. 
 
 Your most affectionate brother, 
 
 John. 
 
 The correction and publication of " Endymion" were the chief 
 occupations of this half year, and naturally furnish much of the 
 matter for Keats's correspondence. The " Axioms" in the second 
 letter to Mr. Taylor, his publisher, express with wonderful vigor 
 and conciseness the Poet's notion of his own art, and are the more 
 interesting as they contain principles which superficial readers 
 might have imagined he would have been the first to disregard 
 and violate. 
 
 [Postmark, 30 Jan. 1818. Hampstead.] 
 
 My Dear Taylor, 
 
 These lines, as they now stand, about " happiness," 
 have rung in my ears like " a chime a mending." See here : 
 
 " Behold 
 Wherein Ues happiness, Peona ? fold," &c. 
 
 It appears to me the very contrary of " blessed." I hope this 
 will appear to you more eligible : 
 
 " Wherein lies happiness 1 In that which becks 
 Our ready minds to fellowship divine ; 
 A fellowship with essence, till we shine 
 Full alchemized and free of space. Behold 
 The clear religion of Heaven — Pfe'ona ! fold," &c. 
 
 You must indulge me by putting this in ; for, setting aside the 
 badness of the other, such a preface is necessary to the subject. 
 The whole thing must, I think, have appeared to you, who are a 
 consecutive man, as a thing almost of mere words. But I assure 
 you that, when I wrote it, it was a regular stepping of the imagi- 
 
80 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 nation towards a truth. My having written that argument will 
 perhaps be of the greatest service to me of any thing I ever did. 
 It set before me the gradations of happiness, even like a kind of 
 pleasure-thermometer, and is my first step towards the chief at- 
 tempt in the drama : the playing of different natures with joy and 
 sorrow. 
 
 Do me this favor, and believe me, 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 I hope your next work will be of a more general interest. I 
 suppose you cogitate a little about it now and then. 
 
 Hampstead, Pe6. 27, 1818. 
 
 My Dear Taylor, 
 
 Your alteration strikes me as being a great im- 
 provement. And now I will attend to the punctuation you speak 
 of. The comma should be at soberly, and in the other passage 
 the comma should follow quiet. I am extremely indebted to you 
 for this alteration, and also for your after admonitions. It is a 
 sorry thing for me that any one should have to overcome preju- 
 dices in reading my verses. That afTects me more than any hy- 
 percriticism on any particular passage. In " Endymion," I have 
 most likely but moved into the go-cart from the leading strings. 
 In poetry I have a few axioms, and you will see how far I am 
 from their centre. 
 
 J St. I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not 
 by singularity ; it should strike the reader as a wording of his 
 own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance. 
 
 2nd. Its touches of beauty should never be halfway, thereby 
 making the reader breathless, instead of content. The rise, the 
 progress, the setting of imagery, should, like the sun, come natu- 
 ral to him, shine over him, and set soberly, although in magnifi- 
 cence, leaving him in the luxury of twilight. But it is easier to 
 think what poetry should be, than to write it. And this leads me 
 to 
 
 Another axiom — That if poetry comes not as naturally as 
 the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all. However it 
 
JOHN KEATS. 
 
 may be with me, I cannot help looking into new countries with 
 " Oh, for a muse of fire to ascend !" If " Endymion" serves me 
 as a pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content, for, thank God, I can 
 read, and perhaps understand, Shakspeare to his depths ; and I 
 have, I am sure, many friends, who, if I fail, will attribute any 
 change in my life and temper to humbleness rather than pride — 
 to a cowering under the wings of great poets, rather than to a 
 bitterness that I am not appreciated. I am anxious to get "En- 
 dymion" printed that I may forget it, and proceed. I have cop- 
 ied the Third Book, and begun the Fourth. 1 will take care the 
 printer shall not trip up my heels. 
 Remember me to Percy Street. 
 
 Your sincere and obliged friend, 
 John Keats. 
 
 P- S. — You shall have a short preface in good time. 
 
 Teignmouth, 14 March, [1818.] 
 Dear Reynolds, 
 
 I escaped being blown over, and blown under, and 
 trees and house being toppled on me. I have, since hearing of 
 Brown's accident, had an aversion to a dose of parapet, and being 
 also a lover of antiquities, I would sooner have a harmless piece of 
 Herculaneum sent me quietly as a present than ever so modern a 
 chimney-pot tumbled on to my head. Being agog to see some 
 Devonshire, I would have taken a walk the first day, but the rain 
 would not let me ; and the second, but the rain would not let me ; 
 and the third, but the rain forbade it. Ditto fourth, ditto fifth, 
 ditto — so I made up my mind to stop in doors, and catch a sight 
 flying between the showers : and, behold, I saw a pretty vaHey, 
 pretty clifl's, pretty brooks, pretty meadows, pretty trees, both 
 standing as they were created, and blown down as they were un- 
 created. The green is beautiful, as they say, and pity it is that 
 it is amphibious — mais ! but, alas! the flowers here wait as natu- 
 rally for the rain twice a day as the muscles do for the tide ; so 
 we look upon a brook in these parts as you look upon a splash in 
 your country. There must be something to support this — aye; 
 
82 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 fog, hail, snow, rain, mist, blanketing up three parts of the year. 
 This Devonshire is like Lydia Languish, very entertaining when 
 it smiles, but cursedly subject to sympathetic moisture. You 
 have the sensation of walking under one great Lamp-lighter : and 
 you can't go on the other side of the ladder to keep your frock 
 clean. Buy a girdle, put a pebble in your mouth, loosen your 
 braces — for I am going among scenery whence 1 intend to tip you 
 the Damosel Radcliffe. I'll cavern you, and grotto you, and 
 water-fall you, and wood you, and water you, and immense-rock 
 you, and tremendous-sound you, and solitude you. I'll make a 
 lodgment on your glacis by a row of pines, and storm your covered 
 way with bramble-bushes. I'll have at you w^ith hip-and-haw 
 small-shot, and cannonade you with shingles. I'll be witty upon 
 salt fish, and impede your cavalry with clotted-cream. But, ah ! 
 Coward ! to talk at this rate to a sick man, or, I hope, to one that 
 was sick — for I hope by this you stand on your right foot. If 
 you are not — that's all — I intend to cut all sick people if they do 
 not make up their minds to cut Sickness — a fellow to whom I 
 have a complete aversion, and who, strange to say, is harbored 
 and countenanced in several houses where I visit : he is sitting 
 now, quite impudent, between me and Tom ; he insults me at 
 poor Jem Rice's ; and you have seated him before now, between 
 us at the Theatre, when I thought he looked with a longing eye at 
 poor Kean. I shall say, once for all, to my friends, generally and 
 severally, cut that fellow, or I cut you. 
 
 I went to the Theatre here the other night, which I forgot to 
 tell George, and got insulted, which I ought to remember to 
 forget to tell any body ; for I did not fight, and as yet have had 
 no redress — " Lie thou there, sweetheart !" I wrote to Bailey 
 yesterday, obliged to speak in a high way, and a damme, who's 
 afraid ? for I had owed him [a letter] so long : however, he shall 
 see I will be better in future. Is he in town yet ? 1 have directed 
 to Oxford as the better chance. 
 
 I have copied my fourth Book, and shall write the Preface 
 soon. I wish it was all done ; for I want to forget it, and make 
 my mind free for something new. Atkins, the coachman, Bartlett, 
 the surgeon, Simmons, the barber, and the girls over at the bon- 
 net shop, say we shall now have a month of seasonable weather 
 — warm, witty, and full of invention. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 83 
 
 Write to me, and tell me that you are well, or thereabouts; 
 or, by the holy Beaucceur, which I suppose is the Virgin Mary, 
 or the repented Magdalen, (beautiful name, that Magdalen,) I'll 
 take to my wings and fly away to any where, but old or Nova Scotia. 
 
 I wish I had a little bit of innocent metaphysic in my head, to 
 criss-cross the letter : but you know a favorite tune is hardest to 
 be remembered when one wants it most ; and you, I know, have, 
 long ere this, taken it for granted that I never have any specula- 
 tions without associating you in them, where they are of a pleasant 
 nature : and you know enough of me to tell the places where I 
 haunt most, so that if you think for five minutes after having read 
 this, you will find it a long letter, and see written in the air be- 
 fore you. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Teignmouth, 25 March, 1818. 
 Mr Dear Reynolds, 
 
 In hopes of cheering you through a minute or two, I 
 was determined, will he nill he, to send you some lines, so you 
 will excuse the unconnected subjects and careless verse. You 
 know, I am sure, Leland's " Enchanted Castle," and I wish you 
 may be pleased with my remembrance of it. The rain is come 
 on again. I think with me Devonshire stands a very poor chance. 
 I shall damn it up hill and down dale, if it keep up to the average 
 of six fine days in three weeks. Let me hear better news of you. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Dear Reynolds ! as last night I lay in bed. 
 There came before my eyes that wonted thread 
 Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances. 
 That every other minute vex and please : 
 Things all disjointed come from north and south, — 
 Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth, 
 Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon, 
 And Alexander with his night-cap on ; 
 Old Socrates a tying his cravat, 
 And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's Cat ; 
 
84 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 And Junius Brutus, pretty well, so so, 
 Making the best of's way towards Soho. 
 
 Few are there who escape these visitings — 
 Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings, 
 And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose, 
 No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes ; 
 But flowers bursting out with lusty pride. 
 And young vEolian hearts personified ; 
 Some Titian colors touch'd into real life — 
 The sacrifice goes on ; the pontiff knife 
 Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows. 
 The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows : 
 A white sail shows above the green-head cliff". 
 Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff; 
 The mariners join hymn with those on land. 
 
 You know the enchanted Castle, — it doth stand 
 Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake, 
 Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake 
 From some old magic-like Urganda's Sword. 
 O Phoebus ! that T had thy sacred word 
 To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise. 
 Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies ! 
 
 You know it well enough, where it doth seem 
 A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream ; 
 You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, 
 The mountains blue, and cold near neighbor rills. 
 All which elsewhere are but half animate ; 
 There do they look alive to love and hate. 
 To smiles and frowns ; they seem a lifted mound 
 Above some giant, pulsing underground. 
 
 Part of the Building was a chosen See, 
 Built by a banished Santon of Chaldee ; 
 The other part, two thousand years from him, 
 Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim ; 
 Then there's a little wing, far from the Sun, 
 Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun ; 
 And many other juts of aged stone 
 Founded with many a mason-devil's groin. 
 
 The doors all look as if they oped themselves. 
 The windows as if latched by Fays and Elves, 
 
JOHN KEATS. 85 
 
 And from them comes a silvei- flash of light, 
 As from the westward of a Summer's night ; 
 Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes 
 Gone mad thro' olden songs and poesies. 
 
 See ! what is coming from the distance dim ! 
 A golden Galley all in silken trim ! 
 Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles. 
 Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles ; 
 Towards the shade, under the Castle wall. 
 It comes in silence, — now 'tis hidden all. 
 The Clarion sounds, and from a Postern-gate 
 An echo of sweet music doth create 
 A fear in the poor Herdsman, who doth bring 
 His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring, — 
 He tells of the sweet music, and the spot. 
 To all his friends, and they believe him not. 
 
 O, that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, 
 Would all their colors from the sunset take 
 From something of material sublime. 
 Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time 
 In the dark void of night. For in the world 
 We jostle, — but my flag is not unfurl'd 
 On the Admiral-stafF, — and so philosophize 
 I dare not yetl Oh, never will the prize, 
 High reason, and the love of good and ill. 
 Be my award ! Things cannot to the will 
 Be settled, but they tease us out of thought ; 
 Or is it that imagination brought 
 Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd. 
 Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind. 
 Cannot refer to any standard law 
 Of either earth or heaven ? It is a flaw 
 In happiness, to see beyond our bourn, — 
 It forces us in summer skies to mourn. 
 It spoils the singing of the Nightingale. 
 
 Dear Reynolds ! I have a mysterious tale. 
 And cannot speak it : the first page I read 
 Upon a Larapit rock of green sea-weed 
 Among the breakers ; 'twas a quiet eve. 
 The rocks were silent, the wide sea did wave 
 An untumultuous fringe of silver foam 
 Along the flat brown sand ; I was at home 
 5 
 
86 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 And should have been most happy, — but I saw 
 Too far into the sea, where every man 
 The greater on the less feeds evermore, — 
 .But I saw too distmet into the core 
 Of an eternal fierce destruction, 
 And so from happiness I far was gone. 
 Still am I sick of it, and tho', to-day, 
 I've gathered young spring-leaves, and flowers gay 
 • Of periwinkle and wild strawberry. 
 
 Still do I that most fierce destruction see, — 
 The Shark at savage prey, — the Hawk at pounce, — 
 The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, 
 Ravening a Worm, — Away, ye horrid moods ! 
 Moods of one's mind ! You know I hate them well, 
 You know I'd sooner be a clapping Beli 
 To some Kamtchatcan Missionary Church, 
 Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch. 
 
 Teignmouth, 25 March, 1818. 
 My Dear Rice, 
 
 Being in the midst of your favorite Devon, I should 
 not, by right, pen one word but it should contain a vast portion of 
 wit, wisdom, and learning ; for I have heard that Milton, ere he 
 wrote his answer to Salmasius, came into these parts, and for one 
 whole month, rolled himself, for three whole hours a day, in a 
 certain meadow hard by us, where the mark of his nose at equi- 
 distances is still shown. The exhibitor of the said meadow fur- 
 ther saith, that, after these rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all 
 the seven acres, for seven years, and that from the said time a 
 new sort of plant was made from the whitethorn, of a thornless 
 nature, very much used by the bucks of the present day to rap 
 their boots withal. This account made me very naturally sup, 
 pose that the nettles and thorns etherealized by the scholar's rotato- 
 ry motion, and garnered in his head, thence flew, after a process of 
 fermentation, against the luckless Salmasius, and occasioned his 
 well-known and unhappy end. What a happy thing it would be 
 if we could settle our thoughts and make our minds up on any 
 matter in five minutes, and remain content, that is, build a sort of 
 mental cottage of feelings, quiet and pleasant— to have a sort of 
 
JOHN KEATS. 87 
 
 philosophical back-garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping front one. 
 But, alas ! this never can be ; for as the material cottager knows 
 there are such places as France and Italy, and the Andes, and 
 burning mountains, so the spiritual cottager has knowledge of the 
 terra semi-incognita of things unearthly, and cannot, for his life, 
 keep in the check-rein — or I should stop here, quiet and comforta- 
 ble in my theory of — nettles. You will see, however, I am 
 obliged to run wild, being attracted by the lode-stone concatenation. 
 No sooner had I settled the knotty point of Salmasius, than the 
 devil put this whim into my head in the likeness of one of Pythago- 
 ras's questionings — Did Milton do more good or harm in the world ? 
 He wrote, let me inform you, (for I have it from a friend who had 
 
 it of ,) he wrote " Lycidas," " Comus," "Paradise Lost," 
 
 and other Poems, with much delectable prose ; he was moreover 
 an active friend to man all his life, and has been since his death. 
 Very good. But, my dear fellow, I must let you know that, as 
 there is ever the same quantity of matter constituting this habita- 
 ble globe, as the ocean, notwithstanding the enormous changes and 
 revolutions taking place in some or other of its demesnes, not- 
 withstanding waterspouts, whirlpools, and mighty rivers emptying 
 themselves into it, it still is made up of the same bulk, nor ever 
 varies the number of its atoms ; and, as a certain bulk of water 
 was instituted at the creation, so, very likely, a certain portion of 
 intellect was spun forth into the thin air, for the brains of man to 
 prey upon it. You will see my drift, without any unnecessary 
 parenthesis. That which is contained in the Pacific could not be 
 in the hollow of the Caspian ; that which was in Milton's head 
 could not find room in Charles the Second's. He, like a moon, 
 attracted intellect to its flow — it has not ebbed yet, but has left the 
 shore-pebbles all bare — I mean all bucks, authors of Hengist, and 
 Castlereaghs of the present day, who, without Milton's gormand- 
 izing, might have been all wise men. Now for as much as I was 
 very predisposed to a country I had heard you speak so highly 
 of, I took particular notice of every thing during my journey, and 
 have bought some nice folio asses' skins for memorandums. I 
 have seen every thing but the wind — and that, they say, becomes 
 visible by taking a dose of acorns, or sleeping one night in a hog- 
 trougi), with your tail to the sow-sow-west. 
 
88 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 I went yesterday to Dawlish fair. 
 
 " Over the Hill and over the Dale, 
 And over the Bourne to Daw^lish, 
 Where ginger-bread wives have a scanty sale. 
 And ginger-bread nuts are smallish," &c. &c. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Mr. Reynolds seems to have objected to a Preface written for 
 " Endymion," and Keats thus manfully and eloquently remon- 
 strates : — 
 
 Teignmouth, April 9th, 1818. 
 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 Since you all agree that the thing is bad, it must 
 be so — though I am not aware that there is any thing like Hunt 
 in it, (and if there is, it is my natural way, and I have something 
 in common with Hunt.) Look over it again, and examine into 
 the motives, the seeds, from which every one sentence sprang. 
 
 I have not the slightest feeling of humility towards the public, 
 or to any thing in existence but the Eternal Being, the Principle 
 of Beauty, and the Memory of Great Men. When I am writing 
 for myself, for the mere sake of the moment's enjoyment, perhaps 
 nature has its course with me ; but a Preface is written to the 
 public — a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and 
 which 1 cannot address without feelings of hostility. If I write a 
 Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will not be in character 
 with me as a public speaker. 
 
 I would be subdued before my friends, and thank them for sub- 
 duing me ; but among multitudes of men I have no feel of stoop- 
 ing ; I hate the idea of humility to them. 
 
 I never wrote one single line of poetry with the least shadow 
 of public thought. 
 
 Forgive me for vexing you, and making a Trojan horse of 
 such a trifle, both with respect to the matter in question, and my- 
 self; but it eases me to tell you : I could not live without the love 
 of my friends ; I would jump down ^Etna for any great public 
 good — but I hate a mawkish popularity. I cannot be subdued 
 
JOHN KEATS. 89 
 
 before them. My glory would be to daunt and dazzle the thou- 
 sand jabberers about pictures and books. I see swarms of porcu- 
 pines with their quills erect " like lime-twigs set to catch my 
 winged book," and I would fright them away with a touch. You 
 will say my Preface is not much of a touch. It would have been 
 too insulting " to begin from Jove," and I could not [set] a golden 
 head upon a thing of clay. If there is any fault in the Preface it 
 is not affectation, but an undersong of disrespect to the public. If 
 I write another Preface it must be done without a thought of those 
 people. I will think about it. If it should not reach you in four 
 or five days, tell Taylor to publish it without a Preface, and 
 let the Dedication simply stand — " Inscribed to the Memory of 
 Thomas Chatterton." 
 
 I had resolved last night to write to you this morning — I wish 
 it had been about something else — something to greet you towards 
 the close of your long illness. I have had one or two intimations 
 of your going to Hampstead for a space ; and I regret to see your 
 confounded rheumatism keeps you in Little Britain, where I am 
 sure the air is too confined. 
 
 Devonshire continues rainy. As the drops beat against my 
 window, they give me the same sensation as a quart of cold water 
 offered to revive a half-drowned devil — no feel of the clouds drop- 
 ping fatness ; but as if the roots of the earth were rotten, cold, and 
 drenched. I have not been able to go to Kent's ca[ve ?] at Bab- 
 bicomb ; however, on one very beautiful day I had a fine clamber 
 over the rocks all along as far as that place. 
 
 I shall be in town in about ten days. We go by way of Bath 
 on purpose to call on Bailey. I hope soon to be writing to you 
 about the things of the north, purposing to way fare all over those 
 parts. I have settled my accoutrements in my own mind, and will 
 go to gorge wonders. However, we'll have some days together 
 before I set out. 
 
 I have many reasons for going wonder-ways ; to make my 
 winter chair free from spleen ; to enlarge my vision ; to escape 
 disquisitions on poetry, and Kingston-criticism ; to promote diges- 
 tion and economize shoe-leather. I'll have leather buttons and 
 belt; and, if Brown holds his mind, "over the liills we go." If 
 my books will keep me to it, then will I take all Europe in turn, 
 
90 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 and see the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. Tom 
 is getting better : he hopes you may meet him at the top of the 
 hilL My love to your nurse. 
 
 I am ever your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Teignmouth, April 10, 1818. 
 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 I am anxious you should find this Preface tolerable. 
 If there is an affectation in it 'tis natural to me. Do let the print- 
 er's devil cook it, and let me be as " the casing air." 
 
 You are too good in this matter ; were I in your state, I am 
 certain I should have no thought but of discontent and illness. I 
 might, though, be taught patience. I had an idea of giving no 
 Preface : however, don't you think this had better go ? O ! let 
 it — one should not be too timid of committing faults. 
 
 The climate here weighs us [down] completely ; Tom is quite 
 low-spirited. It is impossible to live in a country which is con- 
 tinually under hatches. Who would live in a region of mists, 
 game laws, indemnity bills, &c., when there is such a place as 
 Italy ? It is said this England from it clime produces a spleen, 
 able to engender the finest sentiments, and covers the whole face 
 of the isle with green. So it ought, I'm sure. 
 
 I should still like the Dedication simply, as I said in my last. 
 
 I wanted to send you a few songs, written in your favorite 
 Devon. It cannot be ! Rain, rain, rain ! I am going this morn- 
 ing to take a facsimile of a letter of Nelson's, very much to his 
 honor ; you will be greatly pleased when you see it, in about a 
 week. 
 
 What a spite it is one cannot get out ! The little wa}^ 1 went 
 yesterday, I found a lane banked on each side with a store of prim- 
 roses, while the earlier bushes are beginning; to leaf. 
 
 I shall hear a good account of you soon. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 I cannot lay hands on the first Preface, but here is the second, 
 which no one will regret to read again, both from its intrinsic 
 
JOHN KEATS. 91 
 
 truth and its representation, in the aptest terms, of the state of 
 Keats's mind at this time, and of his honest judgment of himself. 
 
 " Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has 
 been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it 
 public. 
 
 " What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who 
 must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every er- 
 ror denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. 
 The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are 
 not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press ; nor 
 should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any 
 good; it will not; the foundations are too sandy. It is just that 
 this youngster should die away : a sad thought for me, if I had 
 not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting and 
 fitting myself for verses fit to live. 
 
 " This may be speaking too presumptuously and may deserve 
 a punishment ; but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it ; he 
 will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer 
 hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with 
 the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms, of course, but 
 from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to 
 look, and who do look with a zealous eye to the honor of English 
 literature. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature 
 imagination of a man is healthy ; but there is a space of life be- 
 tween, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, 
 the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted ; thence pro- 
 ceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men 
 I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages. 
 I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mytholo- 
 gy of Greece and dulled its brightness ; for I wish to try once 
 more, before I bid it farewell." 
 
 Teignmouth, 27 April, 1818. 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 It is an awful while since you have heard from 
 me. I hope I may not be punished, when I see you well, and so 
 anxious as you always are for me, with the remembrance of my 
 
92 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 so seldom writing when you were so horribly confined. The 
 most unhappy hours in our lives are those in which we recollect 
 times past to our own blushing. If we are immortal, that must 
 be the Hell. If I must be immortal, I hope it will be after having 
 taken a little of " that watery labyrinth," in order to forget some 
 of my school-boy days, and others since those. 
 
 I have heard from George, at different times, how slowly you 
 were recovering. It is a tedious thing ; but all medical men will 
 tell you how far a very gradual amendment is preferable. You 
 will be strong after this, never fear. 
 
 We are here still enveloped in clouds. I lay awake last night 
 listening to the rain, with the sense of being drowned and rotted 
 like a grain of wheat. There is a continual courtesy between the 
 heavens and the earth. The heavens rain down their unwel- 
 comeness, and the earth sends it up again, to be returned to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Tom has taken a fancy to a physician here, Dr. Turton, and, 
 I think, is getting better ; therefore I shall, perhaps, remain here 
 some months. I have written to George for some books — shall 
 learn Greek, and very likely Italian ; and, iti other ways, prepare 
 myself to ask Hazlitt, in about a year's time, the best metaphysi- 
 cal road I can take. For, although I take Poetry to be chief, yet 
 there is something else wanting to one who passes his life among 
 books and thoughts on books. I long to feast upon old Homer as 
 we have upon Shakspeare, and as I have lately upon Milton. If 
 you understand Greek, and would read me passages now and 
 then, explaining their meaning, 'twould be, from its mistiness, per- 
 haps, a greater luxury than reading the thing one's self. I shall 
 be happy when I can do the same for you. 
 
 I have written for my folio Shakspeare, in which there are the 
 first few stanzas of my " Pot of Basil." I have the rest here, 
 finished, and will copy the whole out fair shortly, and George will 
 bring it you. The compliment is paid by us to Boccace, whether 
 we publish or no : so there is content in this world. Mind [my 
 Poem] is short ; you must be deliberate about yours : you must 
 not think of it till many months after you are quite well : — then 
 put your passion to it, and I shall be bound up with you in the 
 shadows of mind, as we are in our matters of human life. Per- 
 haps a stanza or two will not be too foreign to your sickness. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 93 
 
 " Were they unhappy then ] It cannot be : 
 Too many tears," &:.c. &.c. 
 
 " But for the general award of love," &,c. 
 
 " She wept alone for pleasures," &c. 
 
 The fifth line ran thus : — 
 
 " What might have been, too plainly did she see." 
 
 Give my love to your mother and sisters. Remember me to 
 the Butlers — not forgetting Sarah, 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 JoHx Keats. 
 
 This adaptation of Boccaccio was intended to form part of a 
 collection of Tales from the great Italian novelist, versified by 
 Mr. Reynolds and himself. Two by Mr. Reynolds appeared in 
 the " Garden of Florence ;" " Isabella " was the only other one 
 Keats completed. 
 
 TEi&.\3iorTH, April 27, 1818. 
 
 My Dear Taylor, 
 
 I think 1 did wrong to leave to you all the trouble of 
 "Endymion." But I could not help it then — another time I shall 
 be more bent to all sorts of troubles and disagreeables. Young 
 men, for some time, have an idea that such a thing as happiness 
 is to be had, and therefore are extremely impatient under any 
 unpleasant restraining. In time, however, — of such stuff is the 
 world about them, — they know better, and instead of striving 
 from uneasiness, greet it as an habitual sensation, a panier which 
 is to weigh upon them through life. And in proportion to my 
 disgust at the task is m}^ sense of your kindness and anxiety. 
 The book pleased me much. It is very free from faults; and, 
 although there are one or two words I should wish replaced, I see 
 in many places an improvement greatly to the purpose. 
 
 I was proposing to travel over the North this summer. There 
 
 5^ 
 
94 - LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 is but one thing to prevent me. I know nothing — I have read 
 nothing — and I mean to follow Solomon's directions, " Get learn- 
 ing — get understanding." I find earlier days are gone by — I 
 find that I can have no enjoyment in the world but continual 
 drinking of knowledge. I find there is no worthy pursuit but the 
 idea of doing some good to the world. Some do it with their so- 
 ciety ; some with their wit ; some with their benevolence ; some 
 with a sort of power of conferring pleasure and good humor on 
 all they meet — and in a thousand ways, all dutiful to the com- 
 mand of great Nature. There is but one way for me. The 
 road lies through application, study, and thought. I will pursue 
 it ; and, for that end, purpose retiring for some years. I have 
 been hovering for some time between an exquisite sense of the 
 luxurious, and a love for philosophy : were I calculated for the 
 former I should be glad. But as I am not, I shall turn all my 
 soul to the latter. 
 
 My brother Tom is getting better, and I hope I shall see both 
 him and Reynolds better before I retire from the world. I shall 
 see you soon, and have some talk about what books I shall take 
 with me. 
 
 Your very sincere friend. 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 It is difficult to add any thing to the passages in these letters, 
 which show the spirit in which " Endymion " was written and 
 published. This first sustained work of a man whose undoubted 
 genius was idolized by a circle of affectionate friends, whose 
 weaknesses were rather encouraged than repressed by the intel- 
 lectual atmosphere in which he lived, who had rarely been ena- 
 bled to measure his spiritual stature with that of persons of other 
 schools of thought and habits of mind, appears to have been pro- 
 duced with a humility that the severest criticism might not have 
 engendered. Keats, it is clear, did not require to be told how far 
 he was from the perfect Poet. The very consciousness of his 
 capability to do something higher and better, which accompanies 
 the lowly estimate of his work, kept the ideal ever before him, 
 and urged him to complete it rather as a process of poetical edu- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 95 
 
 cation than as a triumph of contented power. Never was less 
 presumption exhibited — never the sharp stroke of contemptuous 
 censure less required. His own Preface was the more depreca- 
 tory, in that it did not deny that he was himself disappointed, and 
 that he looked to future efforts to justify his claims to others, and 
 himself to himself. This dissatisfaction with his book, and his 
 brother's ill-health, cast over his mind the gloom which he hardly 
 conceals in the letters of this period, though it is remarkable how 
 free they are, at all times, from any merely querulous expres- 
 sions, and from the vague sentimentality attributed to some of his 
 literary associates. 
 
 Teignmouth, 31ay 3, [1818.] 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 What I complain of is, that I have been in so uneasy a 
 state of mind as not to be fit to write to an invalid. I cannot 
 write to any length under a disguised feeling. I should have 
 loaded you with an addition of gloom, which I am sure you do 
 not want. I am now, thank God, in a humor to give you a good 
 groat's worth ; for Tom, after a night without a wink of sleep, 
 and over-burthened with fever, has got up, after a refreshing day- 
 sleep, and is better than he has been for a long time. And you, 
 I trust, have been again round the Common without any effect but 
 refreshment. As to the matter, 1 hope I can say, with Sir An- 
 drew, " I have matter enough in my head," in your favor. And 
 now, in the second place, for I reckon that I have finished my 
 Imprimis, I am glad you blow up the weather. All through your 
 letter there is a leaning towards a climate-curse ; and you know 
 what a delicate satisfaction there is in having a vexation anathe- 
 matized. One would think that there has been growing up, for 
 these last four thousand years, a grand-child scion of the old for- 
 bidden tree, and that some modern Eve had just violated it ; and 
 that there was come, with double charge, " Notus and Afer 
 black with thunderous clouds from Serraliona." Tom wants to 
 be in town : we will have some such days upon the heath like 
 that of last summer — and why not with the same book ? or what 
 do you say to a black-letter Chaucer, printed in 1596 ? Aye, I 
 have got one, huzza ! I shall have it bound in Gothique — a nice 
 
96 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 sombre binding ; it will go a little way to unmodernize. And, 
 also, I see no reason, because I have been away this last month, 
 why I should not have a peep at your Spenserian — notwithstand- 
 ing you speak of your office, in my thought, a little too early ; 
 for I do not see why a mind like yours is not capable of harbor- 
 ing and digesting the whole mystery of Law as easily as Parson 
 Hugh does pippins, which did not hinder him from his poetic 
 canary. Were I to study Physic, or rather Medicine again, I 
 feel it would not make the least difference in my poetry ; when 
 the mind is in its infancy a bias is in reality a bias, but when we 
 have acquired more strength, a bias becomes no bias. Every 
 department of knowledge we see excellent and calculated towards 
 a great whole. I am so convinced of this that I am glad at not 
 having given away my medical books, which I shall again look 
 over, to keep alive' the little I know thitherwards; and moreover 
 intend, through you and Rice, to become a sort of pip-civilian. 
 An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people ; it takes 
 away the heat and fever, and helps, by widening speculation, to 
 ease the burden of the Mystery, a thing which I begin to under- 
 stand a little, and which weighed upon you in the most gloomy 
 and true sentence in your letters. The difference of high sensa- 
 tions, with and without knowledge, appears to me this : in the lat- 
 ter case we are continually falling ten thousand fathoms deep, 
 and being blown up again, without wings, and with all [the] hor- 
 ror of a bare-shouldered creature ; in the former case, our 
 shoulders are fledged, and we go through the same air and space 
 without fear. This is running one's rigs on the score of abstracted 
 benefit ; when we come to human life and the affections, it is im- 
 possible to know how a parallel of breast and head can be drawn ; 
 (you will forgive me for thus privately treading out [of] my depth, 
 and take it for treading as school-boys tread the water ;) it is im- 
 possible to know how far knowledge will console us for the death 
 of a friend, and the " ills that flesh is heir to." With respect to 
 the affections and poetry, you must know by sympathy my thoughts 
 that way, and I dare say these few lines will be but a ratification. 
 I wrote them on May-day, and intend to finish the ode all in 
 good time. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 97 
 
 Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia ! 
 
 May I sing to thee 
 As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiee ? 
 
 Or may I woo thee 
 In earlier Sicilian 1 or thy smiles 
 Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles. 
 By bards who died content on pleasant sward, 
 Leaving great verse unto a little clan 1 
 O, give me their old vigor, and unheard 
 Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span 
 
 Of heaven and few ears. 
 Rounded by thee, my song should die away 
 
 Content as theirs, 
 Rich in the simple worship of a day. 
 
 You may perhaps be anxious to know for fact to what sen- 
 tence in your letter I allude. You say, " I fear there is little 
 chance of any thing else in this life." You seem by that to have 
 been going through, with a more painful and acute zest, the same 
 labyrinth that I have — I have come to the same conclusion thus 
 far. My branchings-out therefrom have been numerous : one of 
 them is the consideration of Wordsworth's genius, and as a help, 
 in the manner of gold being the meridian line of worldly wealth, 
 how he differs from Milton. And here I have nothing but sur- 
 mises, from an uncertainty whether Milton's apparently less 
 anxiety for humanity proceeds from his seeing further or not than 
 Wordsworth, and whether Wordsworth has, in truth, epic pas- 
 sion, and martyrs himself to the human heart, the main region of 
 his song. In regard to his genius alone, we find what he says 
 true, as far as we have experienced, and w^e can judge no further 
 but by larger experience ; for axioms in philosophy are not 
 axioms till they have been proved upon our pulses. We read 
 fine things, but never feel them to the fall until we have gone 
 [over] the same steps as the author. I know this is not plain ; 
 you will know exactly my meaning when I say that now I shall 
 relish " Hamlet" more than I ever have done — or better. You 
 are sensible no man can set down venery as a bestial or joyless 
 thing until he is sick of it, and therefore all philosophizing on it 
 would be mere wording. Until we are sick, we understand not ; 
 in fine, as Byron says, " Knowledge is sorrow ;" and I go on to 
 
98 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 say that ''Sorrow is wisdom;" and further, for aught we can 
 know for certainty. " Wisdom is folly." So you see how I have 
 run away from Wordsworth and Milton, and shall still run away 
 from what was in my head to observe, that some kind of letters 
 are good squares, others handsome ovals, others orbicular, others 
 spheroid — and why should not there be another species with two 
 rough edges, like a rat-trap ? I hope you will find all my long 
 letters of that species, and all will be well ; for by merely touch- 
 ing the spring delicately and ethereally, the rough-edged will fly 
 immediately into a proper compactness ; and thus you may make 
 a good wholesome loaf, with your own leaven in it, of my frag- 
 ments. If you cannot find this said rat-trap sufficiently tractable, 
 alas ! for me, it being an impossibility in grain for my ink to 
 stain otherwise. If I scribble long letters, I must play my vaga- 
 ries. I must be too heavy, or too light, for whole pages ; I must 
 be quaint, and free of tropes and figures ; I must play my 
 draughts as I please, and for my advantage and your erudition, 
 crown a white with a black, or a black with a white, and move 
 into black or white, far and near as I please ; I must go from 
 Hazlitt to Patmore, and make Wordsworth and Coleman play at 
 leap-frog, or keep one of them down a whole half-holiday at fly- 
 the-garter ; " from Gray to Gay, from Little to Shakspeare." I 
 shall resume after dinner. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ >i= * * * 
 
 This crossing a letter is not without its association — for 
 chequer- work leads us naturally to a milkmaid, a milkmaid to 
 Hogarth, Hogarth to Shakspeare ; Shakspeare to Hazlitt, Hazlitt 
 back to Shakspeare : and thus by merely pulling an apron-string 
 we set a pretty peal of chimes at work. Let them chime on, 
 while, with your patience, I will return to Wordsworth — whether 
 or no he has an extended vision or a circumscribed grandeur — 
 whether he is an eagle in his nest or on the wing ; and, to be 
 more explicit, and to show you how tall I stand by the giant, I 
 will put down a simile of human life as far as I now perceive it ; 
 that is, to the point to which I say we both have arrived at. Well, 
 I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, 
 two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as 
 yet shut upon me. The first we step into we call the Infant, or 
 
JOHN KEATS. 99 
 
 Thoughtless Chamber, in which we remain as long as we do not 
 think. We remain there a long while, and notwithstanding the 
 doors of the second chamber remain wide open, showing a bright 
 appearance, we care not to hasten to it, but are at length imper- 
 ceptibly impelled by the awakening of the thinking principle 
 within us. We no sooner get into the second chamber, which I 
 shall call the Chamber of Maiden-thought, than we become in- 
 toxicated with the light and the atmosphere. We see nothing 
 but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying there for ever in de- 
 light. However, among the effects this breathing is father of, is 
 that tremendous one of sharpening one's vision into the heart and 
 nature of man, of convincing one's nerves that the world is full 
 of misery and heartbreak, pain, sickness, and oppression ; where- 
 by this Chamber of Maiden-thought becomes gradually darkened, 
 and at the same lime, on all sides of it, many doors are set open 
 — but all dark — all leading to dark passages. We see not the 
 balance of good and evil ; we are in a mist, we are in that state, 
 we feel the " Burden of the Mystery." To this point was Words- 
 worth come, as far as I can conceive, when he wrote " Tintern 
 Abbey," and it seems to me that his genius is explorative of those 
 dark passages. Now if we live, and go on thinking, we too shall 
 explore them. He is a genius and superior [to] us, in so far as 
 he can, more than we, make discoveries and shed a light in them. 
 Here I must think Wordsworth is deeper than Milton, though I 
 think it has depended more upon the general and gregarious ad- 
 vance of intellect than individual greatness of mind. From the 
 " Paradise Lost," and the other works of Milton, I hope it is not 
 too presuming, even between ourselves, to say, that his philo- 
 sophy, human and divine, may be tolerably understood by one 
 not much advanced in years. In his time. Englishmen were just 
 emancipated from a great superstition, and men had got hold of 
 certain points and resting-places in reasoning which were too 
 newly born to be doubted, and too much opposed by the rest of 
 Europe, not to be thought ethereal and authentically divine. Who 
 could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice, and chastity, in "Comus," 
 just at the time of the dismissal of a hundred social disgraces ? 
 Who would not rest satisfied with his hintings at good and evil in 
 the " Paradise Lost," when just free from the Inquisition and 
 
 LOFC. 
 
lOd LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 burning in Smithfield ? The Reformation produced such imme- 
 diate and great benefits, that Protestantism was considered under 
 the immediate eye of Heaven, and its own remaining dogmas and 
 superstitions then, as it were, regenerated, constituted those rest- 
 ing-places and seeming sure points of reasoning. From that I 
 have mentioned, Milton, whatever he may have thought in the 
 sequel, appears to have been content with these by his writings. 
 He did not think with the human heart as Wordsworth has done ; 
 yet Milton, as a philosopher, had surely as great powers as 
 Wordsworth. What is then to be inferred ? O ! many things : 
 it proves there is really a grand march of intellect; it proves 
 that a mighty Providence subdues the mightiest minds to the 
 service of the thne being, whether it be in human knowledge or 
 religion. 
 
 I have often pitied a tutor who has to hear " Nom. Musa" so 
 often dinn'd into his ears : I hope you may not have the same pain 
 in this scribbling — I may have read these things before, but I 
 never had even a thus dim perception of them ; and, moreover, I 
 like to say my lesson to one who will endure my tediousness, for 
 my own sake. 
 
 After all there is something real in the world — Moore's pres- 
 ent to Hazlitt is real. 1 like that Moore, and am glad I saw him 
 at the Theatre just before I left town. Tom has spit a leetle blood 
 this afternoon, and that is rather a damper — but I know — the truth 
 is, there is something real in the world. Your third Chamber of 
 Life shall be a lucky and a gentle one, stored with the wine of 
 Love and the bread of Friendship. 
 
 When you see George, if he should not have received a letter 
 from me, tell him he will find one at home most likely. Tell 
 Bailey I hope soon to see him. Remember me to all. The 
 leaves have been out here for many a day. I have written to 
 George for the first stanzas of my " Isabel." I shall have them 
 soon, and will copy the whole out for you. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
JOHX KEATS 101 
 
 Hampstead, 25 Maif, 1818. 
 
 My Deak Bailey. 
 
 I should have answered your letter on the moment, 
 if I could have said Yes, to your invitation. What hinders me is 
 insuperable : I will tell it at a little length. You know m^^ bro- 
 ther George has been out of employ for some time. It has 
 weighed very much upon him, and driven him to scheme and 
 turn over thinojs in his mind. The result has been his resolution 
 to emigrate to the back settlements of America, become farmer, 
 and work with his own hands, after purchasing fourteen hundred 
 acres of the American Government. This, hr many reasons, 
 has met with my entire consent — and the chief one is this ; he 
 is of too independent and liberal a mind to get on in trade in 
 this country, in which a generous man with a scanty resource 
 must be ruined. I would sooner he should till the ground than 
 bow to a customer. There is no choice with him : he could 
 not bring himself to the latter. I could not consent to his go- 
 ing alone ; — no ; but that objection is done away with : he will 
 marry, before he sets sail, a young lady he has known for seve- 
 ral years, of a nature liberal and high spirited enough to follow 
 him to the banks of the Mississippi. He will set off in a month 
 or six weeks, and you wUl see how I should wish to pass that 
 time with him — And then I must set out on a journey of my 
 own. Brown and I are going on a pedestrian tour through the 
 north of England, and Scotland, as far as John o'Grot's. 
 
 I have this morning such a lethargy that I cannot write. The 
 reason of my delaying is oftentimes for this feeling. — I wait for 
 a proper temper. Now you ask for- an immediate answer, I do 
 not like to wait even till to-morrow. However, T am now so de- 
 pressed that I have not an idea to put to paper ; my hand feels 
 like lead. And yet it is an unpleasant numbness ; it does not 
 take away the pain of existence. I don't know what to write. 
 
 [^J\Ionday.^ — You see how I have delayed ; and even now I 
 have but a confused idea of what I should be about. My intel- 
 lect must be in a degenerating state — it must be — ^for when I 
 should be writing about — God knows what — I am troubling you 
 with moods of my own mind, or rather bo-dy, for mind there is 
 none. I am in thai temper that if I were under water I would 
 
102 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 scarcely kick to come up to the top. I know very well 'tis all 
 nonsense. In a short time I hope I shall be in a temper to 
 feel sensibly your mention of my book. In vain have I waited 
 till Monday to have any interest in that, or any thing else. I 
 feel no spur at my brother's going to America, and am almost 
 stony-hearted about his wedding. All this will blow over. All 
 I am sorry for is having to write to you in such a time — but I 
 cannot force my letters in a hotbed. I could not feel comforta- 
 ble in making sentences for you. I am your debtor ; I must 
 ever remain so ; nor do I wish to be clear of my rational debt : 
 there is a comfort in throwing oneself on the charity of one's 
 friends — 'tis like the albatross sleeping on its wings. I will be 
 to you wine in the cellar, and the more modestly, or rather, indo- 
 lently, I retire into the backward bin, the more Falerne will I 
 be at the drinking. There is one thing I must mention : my 
 brother talks of sailing in a fortnight ; if so, I will most probably 
 be with you a week before I set out for Scotland. The middle 
 of your first page should be sufficient to rouse me. What I said 
 is true, and I have dreamt of your mention of it, and my not 
 answering it has weighed on me since. If 1 come, I will bring 
 your letter, and hear more fully your sentiments on one or two 
 points. I will call about the Lectures at Taylor's, and at Little 
 Britain, to-morrow. Yesterday I dined with Hazlitt, Barnes and 
 Wilkie, at Haydon's. The topic was the Duke of Wellington — 
 very amusingly pro-and-con'd. Reynolds has been getting much 
 better ; and Rice may begin to crow, for he got a little so-so 
 at a party of his, and was none the worse for it the next morning. 
 I hope 1 shall soon see you,- for we must have many new thoughts 
 and feelings to analyze, and to discover whether a little more 
 knowledge has not made us more ignorant. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 London, June 10, 1818. 
 My Dear Bailey, 
 
 I have been very much gratified and very much hurt 
 by your letters in the Oxford Paper ; because, independent of that 
 unlawful and mortal feeling of pleasure at praise there is a glory 
 
JOHN KEATS. 103 
 
 in entlmsiasm ; and because the world is malignant enough to chuc- 
 kle at the most honorable simplicity. Yes, on my soul, my dear 
 Bailey, you are too simple for the world, and that idea makes me 
 sick of it. How is it that, by extreme opposites, we have, as it 
 were, got discontented nerves ? You have all your life (I think 
 so) believed every body. I have suspected every body. And, 
 although you have been so deceived, you make a simple appeal. 
 The world has something else to do, and I am glad of it. Were 
 it in my choice, I would reject a Petrarchal coronation — on ac- 
 count of my dying day, and because women have cancers. I 
 should not, by rights, speak in this tone to you, for it is an incen- 
 diary spirit that would do so. Yet I am not old enough or mag- 
 nanimous enough to annihilate self — and it would, perhaps, be 
 paying you an ill compliment. J was in hopes, some little time 
 back, to be able to relieve your dullness by my spirits — to point 
 out things in the world worth your enjoyment — and now I am 
 never alone without rejoicing that there is such a thing as death — 
 without placing my ultimate in the glory of dying for a great 
 human purpose. Perhaps if my affairs were in a different state I 
 should not have written the above — you shall judge : I have two 
 brothers ; one is driven; by the " burden of society," to America ; 
 the other, with an exquisite love of life, is in a lingering state. 
 My love for my brothers, from the early loss of our parents, and 
 even from earlier misfortunes, has grown into an affection, " pass- 
 ing the love of women." I have been ill-tempered with them, I 
 have vexed them, — but the thought of them has always stifled the 
 impression that any woman might otherwise have made upon me. 
 I have a sister too ; and may not follow them either to America 
 or to the grave. Life must be undergone ; and I certainly derive 
 some consolation from the thought of writing one or two more po- 
 ems before it ceases. 
 
 I have heard some hints of your retiring to Scotland. I should 
 like to know your feeling on it : it seems rather remote. Perhaps 
 Gleig will have a duty near you. I am not certain whether I 
 shall be able to go any journey, on account of my brother Tom 
 and a little indisposition of my own. If I do not, you shall see 
 me soon, if not on my return, or I'll quarter myself on you next 
 winter. I had known my sister-in-law some time before she was 
 
]04 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 my sister, and was very fond of her. I like her better and better. 
 She is the most disinterested woman I ever knew — that is to say, 
 she goes beyond degrees in it. To see an entirely disinterested 
 girl quite happy is the most pleasant and extraordinary thing in 
 the world. It depends upon a thousand circumstances. On my 
 word it is extraordinary. Women must want imagination, and 
 they may thank God for it ; and so may we, that a delicate being 
 can feel happy without any sense of crime. It puzzles me, and I 
 have no sort of logic to comfort me : I shall think it over. I am 
 not at home, and your letter being there I cannot look it over to 
 answer any particular — only, I must say I feel that passage of 
 Dante. If I take any book with me it shall be those minute vol- 
 umes of Carey, for they will go into the aptest corner. 
 
 Reynolds is getting, I may say, robust. His illness has been 
 of service to him. Like every one just recovered, he is high-spir- 
 ited. I hear also good accounts of Rice. With respect to do- 
 mestic literature, the " Edinburgh Magazine," in another blow-up 
 against Hunt, calls me " the amiable Mister Keats," and I have 
 more than a laurel from the " Quarterly Reviewers," for they 
 have smothered me in " Foliage." I want to read you my " Pot 
 of Basil." If you go to Scotland, I should much like to read it 
 there to you, among the snows of next winter. My brother's re- 
 membrance to you. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 "Foliage" was a volume of poems chiefly classical, just pub- 
 lished by Mr. Leigh Hunt. It contained the following sonnets to 
 Keats. The " Edinburgh Magazine" was Blackwood's, and had 
 begun the series of articles on the " Cockney School," to which 
 further allusion will be made. 
 
 SONNET TO JOHN KEATS. 
 
 'Tis well you think me truly one of those 
 Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things ; 
 For surely as I feel the bird that sings 
 
JOHN KEATS. 105 
 
 Behind the leaves, or dawn as it np grows. 
 
 Or ihe rich bee rejoicing as he goes. 
 
 Or the giad issae of emerging ^rings. 
 
 Or overhead the glide of a dove's wings. 
 
 Or turfi or tree, or, midst of all, repose : 
 
 And sorely as I feel things lovelier still. 
 
 The human look, and the harmonious form 
 
 Containing woman, and the smile in ill. 
 
 And such a heart as Charles's,* wiee and warm, — 
 
 As sorely as all this, I see, ev'n now, 
 
 Yoong Keats, a flowering laorel on yoor brow. 
 
 OX RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM THE SAMi 
 
 A crown of ivy! I submit my head 
 
 To the yoong hand that gives it — ^yoong, 'tis tme. 
 
 Bat with a right, for 'tis a poefs too. 
 
 How pleasant the leaves feel ! and how they spread 
 
 With their broad angles, like a nodding shed 
 
 Over both eyes ! and how complete and new. 
 
 As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew 
 
 My sense with freshness — Fancy's rustling bed ! 
 
 TresB-tossing girls, ^th smell of flowers and grapes 
 
 Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks. 
 
 And op- thrown cymbals, and Silenns old 
 
 Lompishly borne, and many trampling shapes, — 
 
 And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent, 
 
 Bacchos — ^who% bride has of his hand &st hold. 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 It is a lofty ^ling and a kind, 
 
 Thos to be topped with leaves ; — ^to have a sense 
 
 Of honor-^iaded thoo^t — an inflaence 
 
 As from great Natore's fingers, and be twined 
 
 With her old, sacred, verdoroos ivy-bind, 
 
 * Charles Cowden Clarke. 
 
106 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence 
 
 A head that bows to her benevolence, 
 
 'Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind. 
 
 'Tis what's within us crowned. And kind and great 
 
 Are all the conquering wishes it inspires, — 
 
 Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods, 
 
 Love of love's self, and ardor for a state 
 
 Of natural good befitting such desires. 
 
 Towns without gain, and haunted solitudes. 
 
 Whatever extravagance a stranger might find in these verses, 
 was probably justified to the Poet by the author's friendship, and 
 in the Preface to " Foliage '' there is, among other ingenious 
 criticisms, a passage on Shakspeare's scholarship, which seems 
 to me to have more than an accidental bearing on the kind of 
 classical knowledge which Keats really possessed. " Though 
 not a scholar," writes Mr. Hunt, " he needed nothing more than 
 the description given by scholars, good or indifferent, in order to 
 pierce back at once into all the recesses of the original country. 
 They told him where they had been, and he was there in an in- 
 stant, though not in the track of their footing ; — Battendo Vali 
 verso Vaureafronde. The truth is, he felt the Grecian mythology 
 not as a set of school-boy common-places which it was thought 
 wrong to give up, but as something which it requires more than 
 mere scholarship to understand — as the elevation of the external 
 world and of accomplished humanity to the highest pitch of the 
 graceful, and as embodied essences of all the grand and lovely qua- 
 lities of nature. His description of Proserpine and her flowers, in 
 the ' Winter's Tale,' of the characteristic beauties of some of the 
 Gods in ' Hamlet,' and that single couplet in the ' Tempest,' 
 
 ' Ye nymphs called Naiads of the wandering brooks. 
 With your sedged crowns and ever harmless looks,' 
 
 are in the deepest taste of antiquity, and show that all great poets 
 look at themselves and the fine world about them in the same 
 clear and ever-living fountains." 
 
 Every word of this might have applied to Keats, who, at this 
 time, himself seems to have been studying Shakspeare with the 
 greatest diligence. Captain Medwin, in his " Life of Shelley," 
 
JOHN KEATS. 107 
 
 mentions that he has seen a folio edition of Shakspeare with 
 Keats's annotations, and he gives as a specimen part of Agamem- 
 non's speech in " Troilus and Cressida," — 
 
 " Sith every action that has gone before. 
 Whereof we have record, trial did draw. 
 Bias, and thwart, not answering the aim. 
 And that unbodied figure of the thought 
 That gave it surmised shape." 
 
 On which Keats remarks : — " The genius of Shakspeare was an 
 innate universality ; wherefore he laid the achievements of hu- 
 man intellect prostrate beneath his indolent and kingly gaze : he 
 could do easily men's utmost — his plan of tasks to come was 
 not of this world. If what he proposed to do hereafter would not, 
 in the idea, answer the aim, how tremendous must have been his 
 conception of ultimates !" 
 
 The agreeable diversion to his somewhat monotonous life by 
 a walking-tour through the Lakes and Highlands with his friend 
 Mr. Brown was now put into, execution. They set off in the 
 middle of June for Liverpool, where they parted with George 
 Keats, who embarked with his wife for America. On the road 
 he stopped to see a former fellow-student at Guy's, who was set- 
 tled as a surgeon in a country town, and whom he informed that he 
 had definitively abandoned that profession and intended to devote 
 himself to poetry. Mr. Stephens remembers that he seemed 
 much delighted with his new sister-in-law, who was a person of 
 most agreeable appearance, and introduced her with evident satis- 
 faction. From Lancaster they started on foot, and Mr. Brown 
 has recorded the rapture of Keats when he became sensible, for 
 the first time, of the full effect of mountain scenery. At a turn 
 of the road above Bowness, where the Lake of Windermere first 
 bursts on fhe view, he stopped as if stupified with beauty. That 
 evening he read aloud the Poem of the " Pot of Basil," which he 
 had just completed. His disappointment at missing Wordsworth 
 was very great, and he hardly concealed his vexation when he 
 found that he owed the privation to the interest which the elder 
 
108 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 poet was taking in the general Election. This annoyance would 
 perhaps have been diminished if the two poets had happened to be 
 on the same side in politics ; but, as it was, no views and objects 
 could be more opposed. 
 
 A portion of a rambling journal of this tour remains in vari- 
 ous letters. 
 
 Keswick, June 29, [1818.1 
 My Dear Tom, 
 
 I cannot make my journal as distinct and actual as 
 I could wish, from having been engaged in writing to George, and 
 therefore I must tell you, without circumstance, that we proceeded 
 from Ambleside to Rydal, saw the waterfalls there, and called on 
 Wordsworth, who was not at home, nor was any one of his family. 
 T wrote a note, and left it on the mantel-piece. Thence, on we 
 came to the foot of Helvellyn, where we slept, but could not as- 
 cend it for the mist. I must mention that from Rydal we passed 
 Thirlswater, and a fine pass in the mountains. From Helvellyn 
 we came to Keswick on Derwent Water. The approach to Der- 
 went Water surpassed Windermere ; it is richly wooded, and 
 shut in with rich-toned mountains. From Flelvellyn to Keswick 
 was eight miles to breakfast, after which we took a complete cir- 
 cuit of the lake, going about ten miles, and seeing on our way the 
 fall of Lodore. I had an easy climb among the streams, about 
 the fragments of rocks, and should have got, I think, to the sum- 
 mit, but unfortunately I was damped by slipping one leg into a 
 squashy hole. There is no great body of water, but the accom- 
 paniment is delightful ; for it oozes out from a cleft in perpendic- 
 ular rocks, all fledged with ash and other beautiful trees. It is a 
 strange thing how they got there. At the south end of the Lake, 
 the mountains of Borrowdale are perhaps as fine as any thing we 
 have seen. On our return from this circuit, we ordered dinner, 
 and set forth about a mile and a half on the Penrith road, to see 
 the Druid temple. We had a fag up hill, rather too near dinner 
 time, which was rendered void by the gratification of seeing those 
 aged stones on a gentle rise in the midst of the mountains, which 
 at that time, darkened all round, except at the fresh opening of 
 the vale of St, John. We went to bed rather fatigued, but not 
 
JOHN KEATS. 109 
 
 so much so as to hinder us getting up this morning to mount Skid- 
 daw. It promised all along to be fair, and we had fagged and 
 tugged nearly to the top, when, at half past six, there came a 
 mist upon us, and shut out the view. We did not, however, lose 
 any thing by it : we were high enough without mist to see the 
 coast of Scotland, the Irish Sea, the hills beyond Lancaster, and 
 nearly all the large ones of Cumberland and Westmoreland, par- 
 ticularly Helvellyn and Scawfell. It grew colder and colder as 
 we ascended, and we were glad, at about three parts of the way, 
 to taste a little rum which the guide brought with him, mixed^ 
 mind ye, with mountain water. I took two glasses going and one 
 returning. It is about six miles from where I am writing to the 
 top ; so we have walked ten miles before breakfast to-day. We 
 went up with two others, very good sort of fellows. All felt, on 
 arising into the cold air, that same elevation which a cold bath 
 gives one. I felt as if I were going to a tournament. 
 
 Wordsworth's house is situated just on the rise of the foot of 
 Mount Rydal ; his parlor-window looks directly down Winder- 
 mere. I do not think I told you how fine the Vale of Grassmere 
 is, and how I discovered " the ancient woman seated on Helm 
 Crag." 
 
 July 1st. — We are this morning at Carlisle. After Skiddaw, 
 we walked to Treby, the oldest market town in Cumberland, 
 where we were greatly amused by a country dancing-school, 
 holden at the "Tun." It was indeed "no new cotillion fresh 
 from France." No, they kickit and jumpit with meddle extraor- 
 dinary, and whiskit, and friskit, and toed it, and go'd it, and 
 twirl'd it, and whirl'd it, and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing 
 the floor like mad. The difference between our country dances 
 and these Scottish figures is about the same as leisurely stirring 
 a cup of tea and beating up a batter pudding. I was extremly 
 gratified to think that if I had pleasures they knew nothing of, 
 they had also some into which I could not possibly enter. I hope 
 1 shall not return without having got the Highland fling. There 
 was as fine a row of boys and girls as you ever saw ; some beau- 
 tiful faces, and one exquisite mouth. I never felt so near the glory 
 of patriotism, the glory of making, by any means, a country hap- 
 pier. This is what I like better than scenery. I fear our con- 
 
 6 
 
110 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tinued moving from place to place will prevent our becoming 
 learned in village affairs ; we are mere creatures of rivers, 
 lakes, and mountains. Our yesterday's journey was from Treby 
 to Wigton, and from Wigton to Carlisle. The cathedral does not 
 appear very fine ; the castle is very ancient, and of brick. The 
 city is very various ; old, whitewashed, narrow streets, broad, 
 red-brick ones, more modern. I will tell you anon whether the 
 inside of the cathedral is worth looking at. It is built of sandy 
 red stone, or brick. We have now walked 114 miles, and are 
 merely a little tired in the thighs, and a little blistered. We 
 shall ride 38 miles to Dumfries, when we shall linger awhile 
 about Nithsdale and Galloway. I have written two letters to 
 Liverpool. I found a letter from sister George ; very delightful 
 indeed : 1 shall preserve it in the bottom of my knapsack for you. 
 
 July 2nd. 
 
 ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS. 
 
 The town, the church-yard, and the setting sun. 
 The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem. 
 Though beautiful, cold — strange — as in a dream, 
 I dreamed long ago, now new begun. 
 The short-lived, paly. Summer is but won 
 From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam ; 
 Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam ; 
 All is cold Beauty ; pain is never done ; 
 For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, 
 The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue 
 Sickly imagination and sick pride 
 Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honor due 
 I oft have honor'd thee. Great shadow, hide 
 Thy face ; I sin against thy native skies. 
 
 You will see by this sonnet that I am at Dumfries. We have 
 dined in Scotland. Burns's tomb is in the church-yard corner, 
 not very much to my taste, though on a scale large enough to 
 show they wanted to honor him. Mrs. Burns lives in this place ; 
 most likely we shall see her to-morrow. This sonnet I have 
 written in a strange mood, half-asleep. I know not how it is, the 
 
JOHN KEATS. Ill 
 
 clouds, the sky, the houses, all seem anti-Grecian and anti-Char- 
 lemagnish. I will endeavor to get rid of my prejudices and tell 
 you fairly about the Scotch. 
 
 In Devonshire they say, " Well, where be ye going ?" Here 
 it is, " How is it wi" yoursel ?" A man on the coach said the 
 horses took a " hellish heap o' drivin ;" the same fellow pointed 
 out Bums's Tomb with a deal of life — " There ! de ye see it, 
 amang the trees — white, wi' a roond tap ?" The first well-dressed 
 Scotchman we had any conversation with, to our surprise, con- 
 fessed himself a deist. The careful manner of delivering his 
 opinions, not before he had received several encouraging hints 
 from us, was very amusing. Yesterday was an immense horse- 
 fair at Dumfries, so that we met numbers of men and women on 
 the road, the women nearly all barefoot, with their shoes and 
 clean stockings in hand, ready to put on and look smart in the 
 towns. There are plenty of wretched cottages whose smoke has 
 no outlet but by the door. We have now begun upon whisky, 
 called here " whuskey," — very smart stuff it is. Mixed like our 
 liquors, with sugar and water, 'tis called toddy ; very pretty 
 drink, and much praised by Bums. 
 
 Besides the above sonnet, Keats wrote another in the whisky- 
 shop, into which the cottage where Burns was bom was converted, 
 which seems to me much the better of the two. The " local 
 color " is strong in it : it might have been written where " Willie 
 brewed a peck o' maut," and its geniality would have delighted 
 the object of its admiration. Nevertheless the author wrote of it 
 to Haydon thus disparagingly : — 
 
 " The ' bonnie Doon ' is the sweetest river I ever saw — over- 
 hung with fine trees as far as we could see. We stood some time 
 on the ' brig ' o'er which Tam o' Shanter fled — we took a pinch 
 of snuff on the key stone — then we proceeded to the auld Kirk of 
 Alloway. Then we went to the cottage in which Bums was 
 bom ; there was a board to that effect by the door's side ; it had 
 the same effect as the same sort of memorial at Stratford-upon- 
 Avon. We drank some toddy to Bums's memory with an old 
 man who knew him. Thpre was something good in his descrip- 
 
112 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tion of Burns's melancholy the last time he saw him. T was de- 
 termined to write a sonnet in the cottage : I did, but it was so bad 
 I cannot venture it here." 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 This mortal body of a thousand days 
 
 Now fills, Burns, a space in thine own room. 
 Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, 
 
 Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom ! - 
 My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree, 
 
 My head is light with pledging a great soul, 
 My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see. 
 
 Fancy is dead and drmiken at its goal ; 
 Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor. 
 
 Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find 
 The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er — 
 
 Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, — 
 Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, — 
 O smile among the shades, for this is fame! 
 
 The pedestrians passed by Solway Frith through that delight- 
 ful part of Kircudbrightshire, the scene of " Guy Mannering." 
 Keats had never read the novel, but was much struck with the 
 character of Meg Merrilies as delineated to him by Brown. He 
 seemed at once to realize the creation of the novelist, and, sud- 
 denly stopping in the pathway, at a point where a profusion of 
 honeysuckles, wild rose, and fox-glove, mingled with the bramble 
 and broom that filled up the spaces between the shattered rocks, 
 he cried out, " Without a shadow of doubt on that spot has old 
 Meg Merrilies often boiled her kettle." 
 
 AucHTERCAiRN, 3d July, [1818.] 
 My Dear Tom, 
 
 We are now in Meg Merrilies' country, and have, this 
 morning, passed through some parts exactly suited to her. Kir- 
 cudbright County is very beautiful, very wild, with craggy hills, 
 somewhat in the Westmoreland fashion. We have come down 
 from Dumfries to the sea-coast part of it. The following song 
 you will have from Dilke, but perhaps you would like it 
 here : — 
 
JOHN KEATS. 113 
 
 Old Meg she was a gipsy. 
 
 And lived upon the moors ; 
 Her bed it was the brown heath turf, 
 
 And her house was out of doors. 
 Her apples were swart blackberries, 
 
 Her currants, pods o' broom ; 
 Her wine was dew of the wild white rose. 
 
 Her book a church-yard tomb. 
 
 Her brothers were the craggy hills. 
 
 Her sisters larchen trees ; 
 Alone with her great family 
 
 She lived as she did please. 
 No breakfast had she many a morn. 
 
 No dinner many a noon. 
 And, 'stead of supper, she would stare 
 
 Full hard against the moon. 
 
 But every mom, of woodbine fresh 
 
 She made her garlanding, 
 And, every night, the dark glen yew 
 
 She wove, and she would sing. 
 And with her fingers, old and brown. 
 
 She plaited mats of rushes, 
 And gave them to the cottagers 
 
 She met among the bushes. 
 
 Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, 
 
 And tall as Amazon, 
 An old red blanket cloak she wore, 
 
 A ship-hat had she on : 
 God rest her aged bones somewhere ! 
 
 She died full long agone ! 
 
 Yesterday was passed at Kircudbright ; the country is very 
 rich, very fine, and with a little of Devon. I am now writing at 
 Newton Stewart, six miles from Wigton. Our landlady of yes- 
 terday said, "very few Southerners passed hereaways." The 
 children jabber away, as if in a foreign language ; the bare-footed 
 girls look very much in keeping, — I mean with the scenery about 
 them. Brown praises their cleanliness and appearance of comfort, 
 the neatness of their cottages, &;c. It may be. They are very 
 squat among trees and fern, and heath and broom, on levels, 
 slopes and heights ; but I wish they were as snug as those up the 
 
114 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Devonshire valleys. We are lodged and entertained in great 
 varieties. We dined, yesterday, on dirty bacon, dirtier eggs, and 
 dirtiest potatoes, with a slice of salmon ; we breakfast, this morn- 
 ing, in a nice carpeted room, with sofa, hair- bottomed chairs, and 
 green-baized mahogany. A spring by the road-side is always 
 welcome : we drink water for dinner, diluted with a gill of 
 whisky. 
 
 July 6th. — Yesterday morning we set out for Glenluce, going 
 some distance round to see some rivers : they were scarcely worth 
 the while. We went on to Stranraer, in a burning sun, and had 
 gone about six miles when the mail overtook us : we got up, were 
 at Port Patrick in a jifFey, and I am writing now in little Ireland. 
 The dialects on the neighboring shores of Scotland and Ireland 
 are much the same, yet I can perceive a great difference in the 
 nations, from the chamber-maid at this nate Toone kept by Mr. 
 Kelly. She is fair, kind, and ready to laugh, because she is out 
 of the horrible dominion of the Scotch Kirk, These Kirk-men 
 have done Scotland good. They have made men, women, old 
 men, young men, old women, young women, boys, girls, and all 
 infants, careful ; so that they are formed into regular phalanges 
 of savers and gainers. Such a thrifty army cannot fail to enrich 
 their country, and give it a greater appearance of comfort than 
 that of their poor rash neighborhood. These Kirk-men have done 
 Scotland harm ; — they have banished puns, love, and laughing. To 
 remind you of the fate of Burns : — poor, unfortunate fellow ! his 
 disposition was southern ! How sad it is when a luxurious imagi- 
 nation is obliged, in self-defence, to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity 
 and in things attainable, that it may not have leisure to go mad 
 after things that are not ! No man, in such matters, will be con- 
 tent with the experience of others. It is true that out of suffering 
 there is no dignity, no greatness, that in the most abstracted pleas- 
 ure there is no lasting happiness. Yet, who would not like to dis- 
 cover, over again, that Cleopatra was a gipsy, Helen a rogue, and 
 Ruth a deep one ? I have not sufficient reasoning faculty to settle 
 the doctrine of thrift, as it is consistent with the dignity of human 
 society — with the happiness of cottagers : all I can do is by plump 
 contrasts : were the fingers made to squeeze a guinea or a white 
 hand ? — were the lips made to hold a pen or a kiss ? And yet, in 
 
JOHN KEATS. 115 
 
 cities, man is shut out from his fellows if he is poor ; the cottager 
 must be very dirty, and very wretched, if she be not thrifty — the 
 present state of society demands this, and this convinces me that 
 the world is very young, and in a very ignorant state. We live 
 in a barbarous age. 1 would sooner be a wild deer, than a girl 
 under the dominion of the Kirk ; and I would sooner be a wild 
 hog, than be the occasion of a poor creature's penance before those 
 execrable elders. 
 
 It is not so far to the Giant's Causeway as we supposed : we 
 thought it seventy, and we hear it is only forty-eight miles ; — so 
 we shall leave one of our knapsacks here at Donaghadee, take 
 our immediate wants, and be back in a week, when we shall 
 proceed to the county of Ayr. In the packet, yesterday, we 
 heard some ballads from two old men. One was a romance, 
 which seemed very poor ; then there was " The Battle of the 
 Boyne," then "Robin Huid," as they call him — "Before the 
 king you shall go, go, go ; before the king you shall go." 
 
 July 9th. — We stopped very little in Ireland ; and that you 
 may not have leisure to marvel at our speedy return to Port Pat- 
 rick, I will tell you it is as dear living in Ireland as at the Hum- 
 mums — thrice the expense of Scotland — it would have cost us j£l5 
 before our return ; moreover we found those forty-eight miles to 
 be Irish ones, which reach to seventy English ; so having -walked 
 to Belfast one day, and back to Donaghadee the next, we left Ire- 
 land with a fair breeze. We slept last night at Port Patrick, 
 when I was gratified by a letter from you. On our walk in Ire- 
 land, we had too much opportunity to see the worse than naked- 
 ness, the rags, the dirt, and misery, of the poor common Irish. A 
 Scotch cottage, though in that sometimes the smoke has no exit 
 but at the door, is a palace to an Irish one. We had the pleasure 
 of finding our way through a peat-bog, three miles long at least — 
 dreary, flat, dank, black, and spongy — here and there were poor 
 dirty creatures, and a few strong men cutting or carting peat. 
 We heard, on passing into Belfast, through a most wretched sub- 
 urb, that most disgusting of all noises, worse than the bag-pipes, 
 the laugh of a monkey, the chatter of women, the scream of ma- 
 caw — I mean the sound of the shuttle. What a tremendous diffi- 
 culty is the improvement of such people. I cannot conceive how 
 
116 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 a mind " with child " of philanthropy could grasp at its possi- 
 bility — with me it is absolute despair. At a miserable house of 
 entertainment, half-way between Donaghadee and Belfast, were 
 two men sitting at whisky — one a laborer, and the other I took to 
 be a drunken weaver : the laborer took me to be a Frenchman, and 
 the other hinted at bounty-money, saying he was ready to take it. 
 On calling for the letters at Port Patrick, the man snapped out, 
 " What regiment ?" On our return from Belfast we met a sedan 
 — the Duchess of Dunghill. It is no laughing matter though. 
 Imagine the worst dog-kennel you ever saw, placed upon two 
 poles from a mouldy fencing. In such a wretched thing sat a 
 squalid old woman, squat like an ape half-starved from a scarcity 
 of biscuit in its passage from Madagascar to the Cape, with a pipe 
 in her mouth, and looking out with a round-eyed, skinny-lidded 
 inanity, with a sort of horizontal idiotic movement of her head : 
 squat and lean she sat, and puffed out the smoke, while two rag- 
 ged, tattered girls carried her along. What a thing would be a 
 history of her life and sensations ; I shall endeavor, when I have 
 thought a little more, to give you my idea of the difference be- 
 tween the Scotch and Irish. The two Irishmen I mentioned were 
 speaking of their treatment in England, when the weaver said — 
 " Ah ! you were a civil man, but I was a drinker." 
 Till further notice, you must direct to Inverness. 
 
 Your most affectionate brother, 
 
 John. 
 
 Returning from Ireland, the travelers proceeded northwards 
 by the coast, Ailsa Rock constantly in their view. That fine 
 object appeared to them, in the full sunlight, like a transparent 
 tortoise asleep on the calm water, then, as they advanced, dis- 
 playing its lofty shoulders, and, as they still went on, losing its 
 distinctness in the mountains of Arran and the extent of Cantire 
 that rose behind. At the inn at Girvan Keats wrote this 
 
JOHN KEATS. 117 
 
 SONNET ON AILSA ROCK/ 
 
 Harken, thou craggy ocean-pyramid. 
 
 Give answer by thy voice — the sea-fowls' screams ! 
 
 When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams!'' 
 When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid 1 
 How long is't since the mighty Power bid , • 
 
 Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams — 
 
 Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams — 
 Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid ? 
 Thou answer's! not ; for thou art dead asleep. 
 
 Thy life is but two dead eternities. 
 The last in air, the former in the deep ! 
 
 First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies ! 
 Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep. 
 
 Another cannot wake thy giant size ! 
 
 Matbole, Jm/^ U [1818]. 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 I'll not run over the ground we have passed ; that 
 would be nearly as bad as telling a dream — unless, perhaps, I do 
 it in the manner of the Laputan printing press ; that is, I put 
 down mountains, rivers, lakes, dells, glens, rocks, with beautiful, 
 enchanting, gothic, picturesque, fine, delightful, enchanting, grand, 
 sublime — a few blisters, &c. — and now you have our journey 
 thus far ; where I begin a letter to you because I am approach- 
 ing Burns's cottage very fast. We have made continual in- 
 quiries from the time we left the tomb at Dumfries. His name, 
 of course, is known all about : his great reputation among the 
 plodding people is, " that he wrote a good mony sensible things." 
 One of the pleasant ways of annulling self is approaching such a 
 shrine as the Cottage of Burns : we need not think of his misery 
 — that is all gone, bad luck to it ! I shall look upon it hereafter 
 with unmixed pleasure, as I do on my Stratford-on-Avon day with 
 Bailey. I shall fill this sheet for you in the Bardie's country, 
 going no further than this, till I get to the town of Ayr, which 
 will be a nine miles' walk to tea. 
 
 * In the collected Works. 
 6* 
 
118 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 We were talking on different and indifferent things, when, on 
 a sudden, we turned a corner upon the immediate country of Ayr. 
 The sight was as rich as possible. I had no conception ihat the 
 native place of Burns was so beautiful ; the idea T had was more 
 desolate : his " Rigs of Barley" seemed always to me but a few 
 strips of green on a cold hill — Oh, prejudice ! — It was as rich as 
 Devon. I endeavored to drink in the prospect, that I might spin 
 it out to you, as the silk-worm makes silk from mulberry leaves. 
 I cannot recollect it. Besides all the beauty, there were the 
 mountains of Annan Isle, black and huge over the sea. We 
 came down upon every thing suddenly ; there were in our way 
 the " bonny Doon," with the brig that Tarn o' Shanter crossed, 
 Kirk Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr. First 
 we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon, surrounded by every 
 phantasy of green in tree, meadow, and hill : the stream of the Doon, 
 as a farmer told us, is covered with trees " from head to foot." 
 You know those beautiful heaths, so fresh against the weather of 
 a summer's evening ; there was one stretching along behind the 
 trees. 
 
 I wish I knew always the humor my friends would be in at 
 opening a letter of mine, to suit it them as nearly as possible. I 
 could always find an egg-shell for melancholy, and, as for merri- 
 ment, a witty humor v/ill turn any thing to account. My head 
 is sometimes in such a whirl in considering the million likings 
 and antipathies of our moments, that I can get into no settled 
 strain in my letters. My wig ! Burns and sentimentality coming 
 across you and Frank Floodgate in ihe office. Oh, Scenery, that 
 thou shouldst be crushed between two puns ! As for them, 
 I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch region. I hope Brown 
 does not put them in his journal : if he does, I must sit on the 
 cutty-stool all next winter. We went to Kirk Alloway. " A 
 prophet is no prophet in his own country." We v/ent to the Cot- 
 tage and took some whisky. I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake 
 of writing some lines under the roof: they are so bad I cannot 
 transcribe them. The man in the cottage was a great bore with 
 his anecdotes. I hate the rascal. His life consists in fuzy, fuzzy, 
 fuzziest. He drinks glasses, five for the quarter, and twelve for 
 the hour ; he is a mahogany-faced old jackass who knew Burns ; 
 
JOHN KEATS. 119 
 
 he ought to have been kicked for having spoken to him. He calls 
 himself " a curious old bitch," but he is a flat old dog. I should 
 like to employ Caliph Vathek to kick him. Oh, the flummery 
 of a birth-place ! Cant ! cant ! cant ! It is enough to give a spirit 
 the guts-ache. Many a true word, they say, is spoken in jest — 
 this may be because his gab hindered my sublimity : the flat dog 
 made me write a flat sonnet. My dear Reynolds, I cannot write 
 about scenery and visitings. Fancy is indeed less than present 
 palpable reality, but it is greater than remembrance. You would 
 lift your eyes from Homer only to see close before you the real 
 Isle of Tenedos. You would rather read Homer afterwards than 
 remember yourself. One song of Burns's is of more worth to you 
 than all I could think for a whole year in his native country. His 
 misery is a dead weight upon the nimbleness of one's quill ; I 
 tried to forget it — to drink toddy without any care — to write a 
 merry sonnet — it won't do — he talked, he drank with black- 
 guards ; he was miserable. We can see horribly clear, in the 
 works of such a man, his whole life, as if we were God's spies. 
 What were his addresses to Jean in the after part of his life ? I 
 should not speak so to you — Yet, why not ? You are not in the 
 same case — you are in the right path, and you shall not be de- 
 ceived. I have spoken to you against marriage, but it was gene- 
 ral. The prospect in these matters has been to me so blank, that 
 I have not been unwilling to die. I would not now, for I have 
 inducements to live — I must see my little nephews in America, 
 and I must see you marry your lovely wife. My sensations are 
 sometimes deadened for weeks together — but, believe me, I have 
 more than once yearned for the time of your happiness to come, 
 as much as I could for myself after the lips of Juliet. From the 
 tenor of my occasional rhodomontade in chit-chat, you might have 
 been deceived concerning me in these points. Upon my soul, I 
 have been getting more and more close to you every day, ever since 
 I knew you, and now one of the first plecisures I look to is your 
 happy marriage — the more, since I have felt the pleasure of lov- 
 ing a sister-in-law. I did not think it possible to become so much 
 attached in so short a time. Things like these, and they are real, 
 have made me resolve to have a care of my health — you must be 
 as careful. 
 
120 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 The rain has stopped us to-day at the end of a dozen miles? 
 yet we hope to see Loch Lomond the day after to-morrow. I 
 will piddle out my information, as Rice says, next winter, at any 
 time when a substitute is wanted for Vingt-un. We bear the 
 fatigue very well : twenty miles a day, in general. A cloud 
 came over us in getting up Skiddaw — I hope to be more lucky in 
 Ben Lomond — and more lucky still in Ben Nevis. What I think 
 you would enjoy is, picking about ruins, sometimes Abbey, some- 
 times Castle. 
 
 Tell my friends I do all I can for them, that is, drink their 
 health in Toddy. Perhaps I may have some lines, by and by, to 
 send you fresh, on your own letter. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Part of the next letter illustrates, with singular felicity, the 
 peculiar action of a high imagination on the ordinary relations of 
 the sexes. The youthful companions of Keats, who saw how 
 gentle and courteous was his manner to women, and who held the 
 common belief that every poet was essentially sentimental, could 
 not comprehend his frequent avoidance of female society, and the 
 apparent absence of any engrossing passion ; the pardonable con- 
 ceit of conscious genius suggested itself to them as the probable 
 cause of this defective sympathy, and, when he manifested an oc- 
 casional interest in any one person, it was attributed rather to 
 satisfied vanity than to awakened love. But the careful study of 
 the poetical character at once disproves these superficial interpre- 
 tations, and the simple statement of his own feelings by such a 
 man as Keats is a valuable addition to our knowledge of the most 
 delicate and wonderful of the works of Nature — a Poet's heart. 
 For the time was at hand, when one intense affection was about 
 to absorb his entire being, and to hasten, by its very violence, the 
 calamitous extinction against which it struggled in vain. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 121 
 
 Inverary, July 18, [1818.] 
 
 My Dear Bailey, 
 
 The only day I have had a chance of seeing you when 
 you were last in London 1 took every advantage of — some devil 
 led you out of the way. Now I have written to Reynolds to tell 
 me where you will be in Cumberland — so that I cannot miss you. 
 And here, Bailey, I will say a ^ew words, written in a sane and 
 sober mind, (a very scarce thing with me,) for they may, here- 
 after, sAve you a great deal of trouble about me, which you do not 
 deserve, and for which I ought to be bastinadoed. 1 carry all 
 matters to an extreme ; so that when I have any little vexation, it 
 grows, in five minutes, into a theme for Sophocles. Then, and 
 in that temper, if I write to any friend, I have so little self-pos- 
 session, that I give him matter for grieving, at the very time, per- 
 haps, when I am laughing at a pun. Your last letter made me 
 blush for the pain I had given you. I know my own disposition 
 so well that I am certain of writing many times hereafter in the 
 same strain to you : now, you know how far to believe in them. 
 You must allow for Imagination. 1 know I shall not be able to 
 help it. 
 
 I am sorry you are grieved at my not continuing my visits to 
 Little Britain. Yet I think I have, as far as a man can do who 
 has books to read and subjects to think upon. For that reaspn I 
 have been no where else except to Wentworth Place, so nigh at 
 hand. Moreover, I have been too often in a state of health that 
 made it prudent not to hazard the night air. Yet, further, I will 
 confess to you that I cannot enjoy society, small or numerous. I 
 am certain that our fair are glad I should come for the mere sake 
 of my coming; but 1 am certain I bring with me a vexation they 
 are better without. If I can possibly, at any time, feel my tem- 
 per coming upon me, I refrain even from a promised visit. I am 
 certain I have not a right feeling towards women — at this moment 
 I am striving to be just to them, but I cannot. Is it because they 
 fall so far beneath my boyish imagination ? When I was a 
 school-boy I thought a fair woman a pure goddess ; my mind was 
 a soft nest in which some one of them slept, though she knew it 
 not. I have no right to expect more than their reality. I thought 
 them ethereal, above men. 1 find them perhaps equal — great by 
 
122 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 comparison is very small. Insult may be inflicted in more ways 
 than by word or action. One who is tender of being insulted, 
 does not like to think an insult against another. I do not like to 
 think insults in a lady's company. I commit a crime with her 
 which absence would not have known. Is it not extraordinary ? 
 — when among men, I have no evil thoughts, no malice, no spleen ; 
 I feel free to speak or to be silent ; I can listen, and from every 
 one I can learn ; my hands are in my pockets, I am free from all 
 suspicion, and comfortable. When I am among women, I have 
 evil thoughts, malice, spleen ; I cannot speak, or be silent ; I am 
 full of suspicions, and therefore listen to nothing ; I am in a hurry 
 to be gone. You must be charitable, and put all this perversity 
 to my being disappointed since my boyhood. Yet with such feel- 
 ings I am happier alone, among crowds of men, by myself, or with 
 a friend or two. With all this, trust me, I have not the least 
 idea that men of different feelings and inclinations are more short- 
 sighted than myself. I never rejoiced more than at my brother's 
 marriage, and shall do so at that of any of my friends. I must 
 absolutely get over this — but how ? the only way is to find the 
 root of the evil, and so cure it, '• with backward mutters of dis- 
 severing power." That is a difficult thing; for an obstinate 
 prejudice can seldom be produced but from a gordian complica- 
 tion of feelings, which must take time to unravel, and care to 
 keep unraveled. I could say a good deal about this, but I will 
 leave it, in hopes of better and more worthy dispositions — and, 
 also, content that I am wronging no one, for, after all, I do think 
 better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister 
 John Keats, five feet high, likes them or not. You appeared to 
 wish to know my moods on this subject ; don't think it a bore, my 
 dear fellow, — it shall be my Amen. 
 
 I should not have consented to myself, these four months, 
 tramping in the Highlands, but that I thought it would give me 
 more experience, rub off more prejudice, use [me] to more hard- 
 ship, identify finer scenes, load me with grander mountains, and 
 strengthen more my reach in poetry, than would stopping at home 
 among books, even though I should reach Homer. By this time 
 I am comparatively a mountaineer ; I have been among wilds and 
 mountains too much to break out much about iheir grandeur. I 
 
JOHN KEATS. 123 
 
 have not fed upon oat-cake long enough to be very much attached 
 to it. The first mountains I saw, though not so large as some 
 I have since seen, weighed* very solemnly upon me. The effect 
 is wearing away, yet I like them mainly. We have come this 
 evening with a guide — for without was impossible — into the mid- 
 dle of the Isle of Mull, pursuing our cheap journey to lona, and 
 perhaps Staffa. We would not follow the common and fashion- 
 able mode, for the great imposition of expense. We have come 
 over heath, and rock, and river, and bog, to what, in England, 
 would be called a horrid place. Yet it belongs to a shepherd 
 pretty well off. The family speak not a word but Galic, and we 
 have not yet seen their faces for the smoke, which, after visiting 
 everj^ cranny, (not excepting my eyes, very much incommoded for 
 writing,) finds its way out at the door. I am more comfortable 
 than I could have imagined in such a place, and so is Brown. 
 The people are ail very kind. We lost our way a little, yester- 
 day ; and inquiring at a cottage, a young woman, without a word, 
 threw on her cloak, and walked a mile in a mizzling rain and 
 splashy way to put us right again. 
 
 I could not have had a greater pleasure in these parts than 
 your mention of my sister. She is very much prisoned for me. 
 I am afraid it will be some time before I can take her to many 
 places I wish. 
 
 I trust we shall see you ere long in Cumberland — at least I 
 hope I shall, before my visit to America, more than once. I in- 
 tend to pass a whole year there, if 1 live to the completion of the 
 three next. My sister's welfare, and the hopes of such a stay in 
 America, will make me observe your advice. I shall be pru- 
 dent, and more careful of my health than I have been. 
 
 I hope you will be about paying your first visit to town, afler 
 settling when we come into Cumberland. Cumberland, however, 
 will be no distance to me after my present journey. I shall spin 
 to you [in] a minute. I begin to get rather a contempt of dis- 
 tances. I hope you will have a nice convenient room for a libra- 
 ry. Now you are so well in health, do keep it up by never 
 missing your dinner, by not reading hard, and by taking proper 
 exercise. You'll have a horse, I suppose, so you must make a 
 point of sweating him. You say I must study Dante : well, the 
 
124 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 only books I have with me are those three little volumes. I read 
 that fine passage you mention a few days ago. Your letter fol- 
 lowed me from Hampstead to Port Patrick, and thence to Glas- 
 gow. You must think me, by this time, a very pretty fellow. 
 
 One of the pleasantest bouts we have had was our walk to 
 Burns's Cottage, over the Doon, and past Kirk Alloway. I had 
 determined to write a sonnet in the Cottage. I did ; but it was so 
 wretched I destroyed it : however, in a few days afterwards I 
 wrote some lines cousin-german to the circumstance, which I will 
 transcribe, or rather cross-scribe in the front of this. 
 
 Reynolds's illness has made him a new man ; he will be 
 stronger than ever: before I left London he was really getting a 
 fat face. 
 
 Brown keeps on writing volumes of adventures to Dilke. 
 When we get in of an evening, and I have perhaps taken my rest 
 on a couple of chairs, he affronts my indolence and luxury, by 
 pulling out of his knapsack, first, his paper ; secondly, his pens ; 
 and lastly, his ink^ Now I would not care if he would change a 
 little. I say now, why not, Bailey, take out his pens first some- 
 times. But I might as well tell a hen to hold up her head before 
 she drinks, instead of afterwards. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain, 
 
 Where patriot battle had been fought, where glory had the gain ; 
 
 There is a pleasure on the heath, where Druids old have been. 
 
 Where mantles gray have rustled by, and swept the nettled green : 
 
 There is a joy in every spot made known in times of old, 
 
 New to the feet altho' each tale a hundred times be told ; 
 
 There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart, 
 
 More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart. 
 
 When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf. 
 
 Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron surf. 
 
 Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born 
 
 One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn. 
 
 Light heather-bells may tremble then — but they are far away ; 
 Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern — the Sun may hear his lay ; 
 
JOHN KEATS. 135 
 
 Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear, — 
 
 But their low voices are not heard, tho' come on travels drear ; 
 
 Blood-red the Sun may set behind black mountain peaks. 
 
 Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks. 
 
 Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air, 
 
 Ring-doves may fly convulsed across to some high cedared lair, — 
 
 But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground. 
 
 As Palmer's that with weariness mid-desert shrine hath found. 
 
 At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain. 
 Forgotten is the worldly heart — alone, it beats in vain I 
 Aye, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day. 
 To tell his forehead's swoon and faint, when first beg^»n decay. 
 He might make tremble many a one, whose spirit had gone forth 
 To find a bard's low cradle-place about the silent nonh ! 
 
 Scanty the hour, and few the steps, beyond the bourne of care. 
 Beyond the sweet and bitter world — beyond it unaware I 
 Scanty the hour, and few the steps — because a longer stay 
 Would bar return and make a man forget his mortal way ! 
 Oh, horrible ! to lose the sight of well-remembered face. 
 Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow — constant to every place. 
 Filling the air as on we move with portraiture intense. 
 More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense, 
 When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old. 
 Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and passions manifold ! 
 
 No, no — that horror cannot be I for at the cable's length 
 
 Man feels the gentle anchor pull, and gladdens in its strength : 
 
 One hour, half idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall. 
 
 But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial ; 
 
 He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down. 
 
 Upon rough marble diadem, that hill's eternal crown. 
 
 Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer. 
 
 That man may never lose his mind in mountains black and bare ; 
 
 Thai he may stray, league after league, some great birthplace to find, 
 
 And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind. 
 
 Dr.vANcuLLEx, July 23(1, [1818.] 
 My Dear To3i, 
 
 Just after my last had gone to the post, in came 
 one of the men with whom we endeavored to agree about going to 
 Staffa : he said what a pity it was we should turn aside, and not 
 
]26 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 see the curiosities. So we had a little tattle, and finjiUy agreed 
 that he should be our guide across the Isle of Mull. We set out, 
 crossed two ferries, one to the Isle of Kerrera, of little distance ; 
 the other from Kerrera to Mull, nine miles across. We did it in 
 forty minutes, with a fine breeze. The road through the island, 
 or rather track, is the most dreary you can think of; between 
 dreary mountains, over bog, and rock, and river, with our breeches 
 tucked up, and our stockings in hand. About eight o'clock we 
 arrived at a shepherd's hut, into which we could scarcely get for 
 the smoke, through a door lower than my shoulders. We found 
 our way into a little compartment, with the rafters and turf-thatch 
 blackened with smoke, the earth-floor full of hills and dales. We 
 had some white bread with us, made a good supper, and slept in 
 our clothes in some blankets ; our guide snored in another little 
 bed about an arm's length off. This morning we came about sax 
 miles to breakfast, by rather a better path, and we are now in, by 
 comparison, a mansion. Our guide is, I think, a very obliging 
 fellow. In the way, this morning, he sang us two Gaelic songs — 
 one made by a Mrs. Brown, on her husband's being drowned — 
 the other a Jacobin one on Charles Stuart. For some days Brown 
 has been inquiring out his genealogy here ; he thinks his grand- 
 father came from Long Island. He got a parcel of people round 
 him at a cottage door last evening, chatted with one who had been 
 a Miss Brown, and who, I think, from a likeness, must have been 
 a relation : he jawed with the old woman, flattered a young one, 
 and kissed a child, who was afraid of his spectacles, and finally 
 drank a pint of milk. They handle his spectacles as we do a 
 sensitive leaf. 
 
 July 26th. — Well ! we had a most wretched walk of thirty- 
 seven miles, across the Island of Mull, and then we crossed to 
 lona, or Icolmkill ; from Icolmkill we took a boat at a bargain to 
 take us to Staffa, and land us at the head of Loch Nakeal, whence 
 we should only have to walk half the distance to Oban again and 
 by a better road. All this is well passed and done, with this sin- 
 gular piece of luck, that there was an interruption in the bad 
 weather just as we saw Staffa, at which it is impossible to land 
 but in a tolerably calm sea. But I will first mention Icolmkill. 
 I know not whether you have heard much about this island ; I 
 
JOHN KEATS. 127 
 
 never did before I came nigh it. It is rich in the most interest- 
 ing antiquities. Who would expect to find the ruins of a fine 
 cathedral church, of cloisters, colleges, monasteries, and nunne- 
 ries, in so remote an island ? The beginning of these things was 
 in the sixth century, under the superstition of a would-be-bishop- 
 saint, who landed from Ireland, and chose the spot for its beauty ; 
 for, at that time, the now treeless place was covered with magni- 
 ficent woods. Columba in the Gaelic is Colm, signifying " dove;" 
 " kill " signifies " church ;" and I is as good as island : so I-colm- 
 kill means, the island of St. Columba's Church. Now this St. 
 Columba became the Dominic of the Barbarian Christians of the 
 North, and was famed also far South, but more especially was 
 reverenced by the Scots, the Picts, the Norwegians, and the 
 Irish. In a course of years, perhaps the island was considered 
 the most holy ground of the north ; and the old kings of the afore- 
 mentioned nations chose it for their burial-place. We were 
 shown a spot in the church-yard where they say sixty-one kings 
 are buried; forty-eight Scotch, from Fergus II. to Macbeth; 
 eight Irish ; four Norwegians ; and one French. They lay in 
 rows compact. Then we were shown other matters of later date, 
 but still very ancient ; many tombs of Highland chieftains — their 
 efiigies in complete armor, face upward, black, and moss-covered ; 
 abbots and bishops of the island, always of the chief clans- 
 There were plenty Macleans and Macdonalds ; among these lat- 
 ter the famous Macdonald, Lord of the Isles. There have been 
 three hundred crosses in the island, but the Presbyterian, destroyed 
 all but two, one of which is a very fine one, and completely cov- 
 ered with a shaggy, coarse moss. The old school-master, an 
 ignorant little man, but reckoned very clever, showed us these 
 things. He is a Maclean, and as much above four feet as he is 
 under four feet three inches. He stops at one glass of whisky, 
 unless you press another, and at the second, unless you press a 
 third. 
 
 I am puzzled how to give you an idea of StafFa. It can only 
 be represented by a first rate drawing. One may compare the 
 surface of the island to a roof; this roof is supported by grand 
 pillars of basalt, standing together as thick as honeycomb. The 
 finest thing is Fingal's Cave. It is entirely a hollowing out of ba- 
 
128 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 salt pillars. Suppose, now, the giants who rebelled against Jove, 
 had taken a whole mass of black columns and bound them to- 
 gether like bunches of matches, and then, with immense axes, had 
 made a cavern in the body of these columns. Of course the roof 
 and floor must be composed of the ends of these columns. Such 
 is Fingal's Cave, except that the sea has done the work of excava- 
 tion, and is continually dashing there. So that we walk along the 
 sides of the cave, on the pillars which are left, as if for conve- 
 nient stairs. The roof is arched somewhat Gothic-wise, and the 
 length of some of the entire side-pillars is fifty feet. About the 
 island you might seat an army of men, each on a pillar. The 
 length of the cave is 120 feet, and from its extremity, the view 
 into the sea, through the large arch at the entrance, is sublime. 
 The color of the columns is black, with a lurking gloom of pur- 
 ple therein. For solemnity and grandeur, it far surpasses the 
 finest cathedrals. At the extremity of the cave there is a small 
 perforation into another cave, at which, the waters meeting and 
 buffeting each other, there is sometimes produced a report as if of 
 a cannon, heard as far as lona, which must be twelve miles. As 
 we approached in the boat, there was such a fine swell of the sea 
 that the pillars appeared immediately arising from the crystal. 
 But it is impossible to describe it. 
 
 Not Aladdin magian 
 Ever such a work began ; 
 Not the wizard of the Dee 
 Ever such a dream could see ; 
 Not St. John, in Patmos' isle, 
 Li the passion of his toil. 
 When he saw the churches seven. 
 Golden aisled, built up in heaven. 
 Gazed at such a rugged wonder ! — 
 As I stood its roofing under, 
 Lo ! I saw one sleeping there. 
 On the marble cold and bare ; 
 While the surges washed his feet. 
 And his garments white did beat. 
 Drenched about the sombre rocks ; 
 On his neck his well-grown locks. 
 Lifted dry above the main. 
 Were upon the curl again. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 129 
 
 " What is this ? and what art thou V 
 
 Whispered I, and touch'd his brow ; 
 
 " What art thou ? and what is this 1" 
 
 Whispered I, and strove to kiss 
 
 The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes ; 
 
 Up he started in a trice : 
 
 " I am Lycidas," said he, 
 
 " Fam'd in fun'ral minstrelsy ! 
 
 This was architectur'd thus 
 
 By the great Oceanus ! — 
 
 Here his mighty waters play 
 
 Hollow organs all the day ; 
 
 Here, by turns, his dolphins all, 
 
 Finny palmers, great and small. 
 
 Come to pay devotion due, — 
 
 Each a mouth of pearls must strew ! 
 
 Many a mortal of these days. 
 
 Dares to pass our sacred waj'^s ; 
 
 Dares to touch, audaciously, 
 
 This cathedral of the sea ! 
 
 I have been the pontiff-priest. 
 
 Where the waters never rest. 
 
 Where a fledgy sea-bird choir 
 
 Soars for ever ! Holy fire 
 
 I have hid from mortal man ; 
 
 Proteus is my Sacristan ! 
 
 But the dulled eye of mortal 
 
 Hath passed beyond the rocky portal ; 
 
 So for ever will I leave 
 
 Such a taint, and soon unweave 
 
 All the magic of the place." 
 
 So saying, with a Spirit's glance 
 
 He dived ! 
 
 I am sorry T am so indolent as to write such stuff as this. It 
 can't be helped. 
 
 The western coast of Scotland is a most strange place ; it is 
 composed of rocks, mountains, mountainous and rocky islands, 
 intersected by lochs ; you can go but a short distance any where 
 from salt-water in the Highlands. 
 
 I assure you I often long for a seat and a cup o' tea at Well 
 Walk, especially now that the mountains, castles, and lakes are 
 becoming common to me. Yet I would rather summer it out, for 
 
130 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 on the whole I am happier than when I have time to be glum : 
 perhaps it may cure me. Immediately on my return I shall be- 
 gin studying hard, with a peep at the theatre now and then. I 
 have a slight sore throat, and think it better to stay a day or two 
 at Oban : then we shall proceed to Fort William and Inverness. 
 Brown, in his letters, puts down every little circumstance ; I 
 should like to do the same, but I confess myself too indolent, and 
 besides, next winter they will come up in prime order as we speak 
 of such and such things. 
 
 Remember me to all, including Mr. and Mrs. Bentley. 
 Your most affectionate brother, 
 
 John. 
 
 From Fort William Keats mounted Ben Nevis. When on the 
 summit a cloud enveloped him, and sitting on the stones, as it 
 slowly wafted away, showing a tremendous precipice into the 
 valley below, he wrote these lines : — 
 
 Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud 
 Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist ! 
 I look into the chasms, and a shroud 
 Vaporous doth hide them, — just so much I wist 
 Mankind do know of hell ; I look o'erhead. 
 And there is sullen mist, — even so much 
 Mankind can tell of heaven ; mist is spread 
 Before the earth, beneath me, — even such. 
 Even so vague is man's sight of himself! 
 Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, — 
 Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, 
 I tread on them,— that all my eye doth meet 
 Is mist and crag, not only on this height. 
 But in the world of thought and mental might ! 
 
 To Mrs. Wylie, the mother of his sister-in-law. 
 
 Inverness, August 6, [1818.] 
 My Dear Madam, 
 
 It was a great regret to me that I should leave all my 
 friends, just at the moment when I might have helped to soften 
 away the time for them. I wanted not to leave my brother Tom, 
 
JOHN KEATS. 131 
 
 but more especially, believe me, I should like to have remained 
 near you, were it but for an atom of consolation after parting with 
 so dear a daughter. My brother George has ever been more than 
 a brother to me ; he has been my greatest friend, and I can never 
 forget the sacrifice you have made for his happiness. As I walk 
 along the mountains here I am full of these things, and lay in 
 wait, as it were, for the pleasure of seeing you immediately on my 
 return to town. I wish, above all things, to say a word of comfort 
 to you, but I know not how. It is impossible to prove that black 
 is white ; it is impossible to make out that sorrow is joy, or joy 
 is sorrow. 
 
 Tom tells me that you called on Mrs. Haslam, with a news- 
 paper giving an account of a gentleman in a fur cap, falling over 
 a precipice in Kircudbrightshire. If it was me, I did it in a 
 dream, or in some magic interval between the first and second cup 
 of tea ; which is nothing extraordinary when we hear that Ma- 
 homet, in getting out of bed, upset a jug of water, and whilst it 
 was falling, took a fortnight's trip, as it seemed, to Heaven ; yet 
 was back in time to save one drop of water being spilt. As for 
 fur caps, I do not remember one beside my own, except at Car- 
 lisle : this was a very good fur cap I met in High-street, and I 
 dare say was the unfortunate one. I dare say that the Fates, see- 
 ing but two fur caps in the north, thought it too extraordinary, and 
 so threw the dies which of them should be drowned. The lot 
 fell upon Jones : I dare say his name was Jones. All I hope is 
 that the gaunt ladies said not a word about hanging ; if they did 
 I shall repeat that I was not half-drowned in Kircudbright. Stop ! 
 let me see ! — being half-drowned by falling from a precipice, is a 
 very romantic affair: why should I not take it to myself? How 
 glorious to be introduced in a drawing-room to a lady who reads 
 novels, with " Mr. So-and-so — Miss So-and-so ; Miss So-and-so, 
 this is Mr. So-and-so, who fell off a precipice and was half- 
 drowned." Now I refer to you, whether I should lose so fine an 
 opportunity of making my fortune. No romance lady could re- 
 sist me — none. Being run under a wagon ; side-lamed in a play- 
 house ; apoplectic through brandy ; and a thousand other tolerably 
 decent things for badness, would be nothing ; but being tumbled 
 over a precipice into the sea — oh ! it would make my fortune — 
 
132 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 especially if you could continue to hint, from this bulletin's au- 
 thority, that I was not upset on my own account, but that I dashed 
 into the waves after Jessy of Dumblane, and pulled her out by 
 the hair ; — but that, alas ! she was dead, or she would have made 
 me happy with her hand. However, in this you may use your 
 own discretion. But I must leave joking, and seriously aver, that 
 I have been very romantic indeed among these mountains and 
 lakes. I have got wet through, day after day ; eaten oat-cake, 
 and drank whisky ; walked up to my knees in bog ; got a sore 
 throat ; gone to see Icolmkill and StafFa ; met with unwholesome 
 food, just here and there, as it happened ; went up Ben Nevis, 
 and — N. B., came down again : sometimes, when I am rather 
 tired, I lean rather languishingly on a rock, and long for some fa- 
 mous beauty to get down from her palfrey in passing, approach 
 me, with — her saddle-bags, and give me — a dozen or two capital 
 roast- beef sandwiches. 
 
 When I come into a large town, you know there is no putting 
 one's knapsack into one's fob, so the people stare. We have been 
 taken for spectacle-venders, I'azor-sellers, jewelers, traveling lin- 
 en-drapers, spies, excisemen, and many things I have no idea of. 
 When I asked for letters at Port Patrick, the man asked, — What 
 regiment ? I have had a peep also at Little Ireland. Tell Hen- 
 ry I have not camped quite on the bare earth, yet, but nearly as 
 bad, in walking through Mull ; for the shepherds' huts you can 
 scarcely breathe in for the smoke, which they seem to endea\or 
 to preserve for smoking on a large scale. 
 
 I assure you, my dear Madam, that one of the greatest plea- 
 sures I shall have on my return, will be seeing you, and that I 
 shall ever be 
 
 Yours, with the greatest respect and sincerity, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 It was Keats's intention to return by Edinburgh ; but, on ar- 
 riving at Inverness, the inflammation in his throat, brought on by 
 the accidents and inconvenience of travel, caused him, at his 
 friend's solicitation, to return at once to London. Some mutual 
 friend had forwarded him an invitation from Messrs. Blackwood, 
 injudiciously adding the suggestion, that it would be very advisa= 
 
JOHN KEATS. 133 
 
 ble for him to visit tlie Modern Alliens, and endeavor to concili- 
 ate his literary enemies in that quarter. The sensibility and 
 moral dignity of Keats were outraged by this proposal : it may be 
 imagined what answer he returned, and also that this circum- 
 stance may not have been unconnected with the article on him 
 which appeared in the August number of the '• Edinburgh Maga- 
 zine," as part of a series that had commenced the previous year, 
 and concerning which he had already expressed himself freely. 
 
 Outside sheet of a letter to Mr. Bailey. 
 " There has been a flaming attack upon Hunt in the 'Edin- 
 burgh Magazine.' I never read any thing so virulent — accusing 
 him of the greatest crimes, depreciating his wife, his poetry, his 
 habits, his company, his conversation. These philippics are to 
 come ont 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, ' Poetas- 
 ter' — who, unfortunately, was of our party occasionally at Hamp- 
 stead, 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 Black- 
 wood'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 account, if he be a human be- 
 ing, and appears in squares and theatres, where we might ' possi- 
 bly meet.' " 
 
 Keats's first volume had been inscribed to Leigh Hunt, and 
 contained an ardent and affectionate Sonnet, written "on the day 
 when Mr. Leigh Hunt left prison." It was therefore at once as- 
 
 7 
 
134 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 sumed by the critics that Keats was not only a bad poet, but a 
 bad citizen. At ihis lime literary criticism had assumed an un- 
 usually political complexion. The triumph of the advocates of 
 established rights and enforced order, over all the hopes and 
 dreams that the French Revolution had generated, was complete, 
 and it was accompanied with the insolence of men whose cause 
 had little in it to move the higher impulses of our nature. Proud 
 of the overthrow of that fatal ambition, which had turned into the 
 gall of selfishness all the wholesome sympathy of a liberated na- 
 tion for the wrongs of others, and rejoicing in the pacification of 
 Europe, they cared little for the preservation of national liberties 
 from arbitrary poAver, or for the extirpation of those abuses and 
 that injustice, which had first provoked the contest and would 
 surely lead to its renewal, if tolerated or sustained. It was, per- 
 haps, too much to expect a recognition of what the French Revo- 
 lution had done for the mind of man, from those who had spent 
 their blood and treasure in resisting its immediate consequences, 
 and some intolerance was to Jbe forgiven in those who, when con- 
 jured in the name of Liberty, could point to the system of Napo- 
 leon, or in that of Humanity, to the " Reign of Terror." The 
 pious Wordsworth and the politic Southey, who had hailed the 
 day-star with songs of triumph, had fled affrighted from its bloody 
 noon, and few persons of generous temper and honest purpose re- 
 mained, whose imagination had not been tamed down before the 
 terrible realities, or whose moral sense had not been shocked into 
 despair. 
 
 Among these, however, were the men of letters, who were 
 designated, in ridicule, " The Cockney School." The epithet 
 had so much meaning as consisted in some of the leaders being 
 Londoners, and engaged in the editorship of the public press of 
 the metropolis. The strong and immediate contrasts between 
 town and country, seemed also to have the effect of rendering 
 many of these writers insensible to that discrimination of the rela- 
 tive worth and importance of natural objects, which habit and 
 tiaste requires, but which reason cannot strictly define. It is per- 
 fectly true that a blade of grass is, to the reverential observer, as 
 great a miracle of divine workmanship as the solar system — that 
 the valves of an unseemly shell may have, to the physiologist, all 
 
JOHN KEATS. 135 
 
 the importance of the circumfluent ocean — and that the Poet may- 
 well find in a daisy, "thoughts too deep for tears" — but there 
 ever will be gradations of interest in the susceptibilities even of 
 educated and accomplished m-en, and the admiration which would 
 be recognized as just when applied to a rare or expensive object, 
 will always appear unreal and coxcombical when lavished on 
 what is trivial and common. Nor could these writers, as a School, 
 be held altogether guiltless of the charge of literary conceit. The 
 scantiness of general sympathy drove them into a coterie ; and 
 the evils inseparable from a limited intercourse with other minds 
 grew up and flourished abundantly amongst them. They drew 
 their inspiration from books and from themselves, and became, in 
 many cases unconsciously, imitators of the peculiarities, as well 
 as of the beauties, of the elder models of language and style. It 
 was not so much that they were guilty of affected archaisms, as 
 that they delighted in giving that prominence to individual pecu- 
 liarities, great and small, which impart to the works of some early 
 poets an antiquarian as weW as literary interest, but which had 
 an almost comic effect when transferred to the habits and circum- 
 stances of a particular set of men in our own times. They fell 
 into the error of demanding public and permanent attention for 
 matters that could only claim a private and occasional interest, 
 and thus have they not only damaged their contemporary reputa- 
 tion, but have barred up, in a great degree, their access to future 
 fame. 
 
 Literary history affords us a singular parallel to the fate of 
 this school, in that of the Italian-French poets of the seventeenth 
 century, of whom Marino was the founder, and Boileau the de- 
 stroyer. Allowing for the discrepancies of times and nations — 
 the rich and indiscriminate diction, the copious and minute exer- 
 cise of fancy, the constant disproportion between the matter and 
 the form, which caused the author of the " Adonis" to be crowned 
 at Naples, adored at Paris, and forgotten by posterity, were here 
 revived, with indeed less momentary popularity, but, it is to be 
 hoped, with a better chance of being remembered for what is 
 really excellent and beautiful in their works. The spirit of Saint 
 Amant, unequal in its conceptions, but admirable in its execution, 
 might have lived again at Hampstead, with all its ostentatious 
 
136 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 contempt of superficial morality, but with its real profligacy con- 
 verted into a jaunty freedom and sentimental good-nature. There 
 too the spirit of Theophile de Viau might have audaciously con- 
 fronted what appeared to him as the superstition of his time, and 
 when vilified as " Roi des Libertins " by brutal and ignorant 
 men, in comparison with whom his life was singularly pure, he 
 might have been hunted thence as a felon over the face of Europe 
 in the name of loyalty and religion. But while, in France, an 
 ungenial and delusive criticism held up those remarkable authors 
 to public ridicule and obloquy, at least the victims of Boileau 
 recognized some power and faculty in the hand that struck them, 
 whereas the reviewers of " Blackwood " and the " Quarterly " 
 were persons evidently destitute of all poetic perception, directing 
 an unrefined and unscrupulous satire against political opponents, 
 whose intellectual merits they had no means of understanding. 
 This, indeed, was no combat of literary principles, no struggle of 
 thoughts, no competition of modes of expression, it was simply the 
 judgment of the policeman and the beadle over mental efforts and 
 spiritual emanations. 
 
 The article which appeared in the " Quarterly" was dull as 
 well as ungenerous. It had no worth as criticism, for the critic 
 (as indeed the man) must be tested by what he admires and loves, 
 not only by what he dislikes and abuses ; and it was eminently 
 stupid, for although the best burlesque is often but the reverse of 
 the most valuable work of art, and the richest harvest of humor 
 is among the high and goodly growths of human intelligence, this 
 book, as far as the reviewer was capable of understanding it, 
 might just as well have been one of those merely extravagant and 
 ridiculous productions which it is sheer waste of time to notice in 
 any way. The only impi'ession the review would have left on 
 the mind of a judicious reader, would have been that the writer 
 knew nothing to enable him to discuss ihe subject of poetry in any 
 way, and his avowal that he had not read, or could not read, the 
 work he undertook to criticise, was a vulgar impertinence which 
 should have prevented any one from reading his criticism. The 
 notice in " Blackwood" was still more scurrilous, but more amu- 
 sing, and inserted quotations of some length, which no doubt led 
 the minds of many readers to very different conclusions from 
 
JOHN KEATS. 137 
 
 those of the writer. The circumstance of Keats having been 
 brought up a surgeon, is the staple of the jokes of the piece — he 
 is told, " it is a better and a wiser thing to be a starved apothe- 
 cary, than a starved poet," and is bidden " back to his gallipots ;'' 
 just as an orthodox Jew might have bidden Simon Peter back to 
 his nets. At any rate, this was hardly the way to teach refine- 
 ment to low-born poets, and to show the superior breeding of aris- 
 tocratic reviewers. 
 
 On looking back at the reception of Keats by his literary con- 
 temporaries, the somewhat tardy appearance of the justification of 
 his genius by one who then held a wide sway over the taste of his 
 time, appears as a most unfortunate incident. If the frank ac- 
 knowledgment of the respect with which Keats had inspired Mr. 
 Jefi'rey, had been made in 1818 instead of 1820, the tide of public 
 opinion would probably have been at once turned in his favorj» 
 and the imbecile abuse of his political, rather than literary, an- 
 tagonists, been completely exposed. In the very first sentence 
 of his essay, indeed, Mr. Jeffrey lamented that these works had 
 not come under his notice earlier, and, in the late edition of his 
 collected articles, he expresses " the additional regret that he did 
 not even then go more largely into the exposition of the merits of 
 one, whom he ever regards as a poet of great power and promise, 
 lost to us by a premature death." This notice in the " Edinburgh 
 Review" referred principally to " Endymion," of which, after a 
 fair statement of objections to certain exaggerations and imperfec- 
 tions, it summed up the character and value as follows; and I 
 think it nearly impossible to express, in fewer or better words, the 
 impression usually left by this poem on those minds w^hich, from 
 their constitution, can claim to possess an opinion on the question. 
 
 " It [Endymion] is, in truth, at least as full of genius as of 
 absurdity, and he who does not find a great deal in it to admire 
 and to give delight, cannot, in his heart, see much beauty in the 
 two exquisite dramas to wjiich we have already alluded [the 
 * Faithful Shepherdess' of Fletcher, and the ' Sad Shepherd' of 
 Ben Jonson,] or find any great pleasure in some of the finest cre- 
 ations of Milton and Shakspeare. There are very many such 
 persons we readily believe, even among the reading and judicious 
 part of the community — correct scholars we have no doubt many 
 
138 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 of them, and, it may be, very classical composers in prose and in 
 verse, but utterly ignorant of the true genius of English poetry, 
 and incapable of estimating its appropriate and most exquisite 
 beauties. With that spirit we have no hesitation in saying Mr. 
 Keats is deeply imbued, and of those beauties he has presented 
 us with many sterling examples. We are very much inclined, 
 indeed, to add, that we do not know any book which we would 
 sooner employ, as a test to ascertain whether any one had in him 
 a native relish for poetry, and a genuine sensibility to its intrinsic 
 charm." 
 
 This peculiar treatment of the Greek mythology, which was 
 merely repulsive to the unschoiarly views of pedants, and quite 
 unintelligible to those who, knowing no more than Keats himself 
 did of the Grecian language, were utterly incapable of compre- 
 hending the faculty by which the Poet could communicate with 
 Grecian nature, is estimated by Mr. Jeffrey, with remarkable jus- 
 tice and force ; but, perhaps, without a full conception of the pro- 
 cess by which the will of Keats came into such entire harmony 
 with the sensuous workings of the old Grecian spirit, that not 
 only did his imagination delight in the same objects, but that it 
 was, in truth, what theirs under certain circumstances might have 
 been. He writes, 
 
 " There is something very curious in the way in v/hich Mr. 
 Keats, and Mr. Barry Cornwall also, have dealt with the pagan 
 mythology, of which they have made so much use in their poetry, 
 Instead of presenting its imaginary persons under the trite and 
 vulgar traits that belong to them in the ordinary systems, little 
 more is borrowed from these than the general conception of their 
 conditions and relations, and an original character and distinct in- 
 dividuality is bestowed upon them, which has all the merit of in- 
 vention and all the grace and attraction of the fictions on which 
 it is engrafted. The ancients, though they probably did not stand 
 in any great awe of their deities, have yet abstained, very much, 
 from any minute or dramatic representation of their feelings and 
 affections. In Hesiod and Homer they are coarsely delineated, 
 by some of 'their actions and adventures, and introduced to us 
 merely as the agents in those particular transactions, while in the 
 Hymns, from those ascribed to Orpheus and Homer down to those 
 
JOHN KEATS. 139 
 
 of Callimachus, we have little but pompous epilbels and invoca- 
 tions, with a flattering commemoration of their most famous ex- 
 ploits, and are never alloweJ to enter into their bosoms, or follow 
 out the train of their feeling-:^ with the presumption of ofir human 
 sympathy. Except the love-song of the Cyclops to his sea-nymph 
 in Theocritus — the Lamentation of Venus for Adonis in Moschus. 
 — and the more recent Legend of Apuleius, we scarcely recollect 
 a passage in all the writings of antiquity in which the passions of 
 an Immortal are fairly disclosed to the scrutiny and observation 
 of men. The author before us, however, and some of his con- 
 temporaries, have dealt differently with the subject, and sheltering 
 the violence of the fiction under the ancient traditionary fable, 
 have created and imagined an entire new set of characters, and 
 brought closely and minutely before us the loves and sorrows, 
 and perplexities of beings, with whose names and supernatural 
 attributes we had long been familiar, without any sense or feeling 
 of their personal character." 
 
 It appears from the " Life of Lord Byron " that he was ex- 
 cited by this article into a rage of jealous injustice. The recog- 
 nition, by so high an authority, of Keats as a Poet, already grea: 
 and becoming greater, was more than his patience could endure : 
 for though he had been very well content to receive the hearty 
 and honest admiration of Mr. Leigh Hunt and his friends, and tc 
 hold out a pretended liberal sympathy with their vieus and ob 
 jects, yet when they came to see one another closer, as they die- 
 in the latter years of his life, the mutual repugnance could nc 
 longer be concealed, and flamed up almost into hatred. The 
 noble poet wrote to the editor of the rival review, to send him — 
 " no more Keats, I entreat : flay him alive — if some of you don't. 
 I must skin him myself There is no bearing the driveling 
 idiotism of the manikin." Again he writes, '• Of the praises o. 
 that little * * * Keats — I shall observe, as Johnson did whei: 
 Sheridan the actor got a pension — ' What ! has he got a pension ? 
 — Then it is time I should give up mine !' Nobody could be 
 prouder of the praise of the ' Edinburgh ' than I was, or more 
 alive to their censures, as I showed in ' English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers.' At present all the men they have ever praised arc 
 degraded by that insane article. Why do n't they review and 
 
140 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 praise ' Solomon's Guide to Health V it is better sense, and as 
 much poetry as Johnny Keats." 
 
 After this unmeasured language, one is surprised to find Lord 
 Byron not only one of the sharpest reprovers of the critics upon 
 Keats, but emphatic in the acknowledgment of his genius. In a 
 long note (Nov. 1821), he attributes his indignation to Keats's 
 depreciation of Pope, which, he says, " hardly permitted me to 
 do justice to his own genius which, malgr^ all the fantastic fop- 
 peries of his style, was undoubtedly of great promise. His frag- 
 ment of ' Hyperion ' seems actually inspired ly ike Titjans, and is 
 as sublime as jEschyJus. He is a loss to our literature, and the 
 more so, as he himself, before his death, is said to have -been per- 
 suaded that he had not taken the right line, and was reforming 
 his style upon the more classical models of the language." To 
 Mr. Murray himself, a short time before, Byron had written, 
 " You know very well that I did not approve of Keats's poetry, 
 or principles of poetry, or of his abuse of Pope ; but, as he is 
 dead, omit all that is said about him, in any MSS. of mine or 
 publication. His 'Hyperion' is a fine monument, and will keep 
 his name." This injunction, however, has been so little attended 
 to by those who should have respected it, that the later editions 
 of Lord Byron's works contain all the ribald abuse I have quoted, 
 although the exclusion would, in literal terms, even extend to the 
 well-known flippant and false, but not ill-natured, stanza of the 
 11th canto of " Don Juan." 
 
 " John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, 
 Just as he really promu^ed something great. 
 
 If not intelligible, without Gre'^k 
 
 Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 
 
 Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
 Poor fellow ! His was an untovvard fate ; 
 
 'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle. 
 
 Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article." 
 
 The excuse offered by Byron for all this inconsistency is by 
 no means satisfactory, and this sort of repentant praise may be 
 attributed to a mixed feeling of conscious injustice, and to a cer- 
 tain gratification at the notion that Keats had fallen victim to a 
 
JOHN KEATS. 141 
 
 kind of attack which his own superior vigor and stouter fibre had 
 enabled him triumphantly to resist. In a letter to Murray (1821) 
 Byron writes, " I knew, by experience, that a savage review is 
 hemlock to a sucking author : and the one on me (which pro- 
 duced the ' English Bards,' &c.) knocked me down — but 1 got 
 up again. Instead of breaking a blood-vessel 1 drank three bot- 
 tles of claret, and began an answer, finding that there was nothing 
 in the article for which I could, lawfully, knock Jeffrey on the 
 head, in an honorable way. However, I would not be the person 
 who wrote that homicidal article, for all the honor and glory in 
 the world ; though I by no means approve of that school of scrib- 
 bling which it treats upon." Keals, as has been shown, was very 
 far from requiring three bottles of claret to give him the inclina- 
 tion to fight the author of the slander, if he could have found him, 
 — but the use he made of the attack was, to purify his style, cor- 
 rect his tendency to exaggeration, enlarge his poetical studies, 
 and produce, among other improved efforts, that very "Hyperion " 
 which called forth from Byron a eulogy as violent and unqualified 
 as the former onslaught. 
 
 " Review people," again wrote Lord Byron, " have no more 
 right to kill than any other footpads. However, he who would 
 die of an article in a review would have died of something else 
 equally trivial. The same nearly happened to Kirke White, who 
 died afterwards of a consumption." Now the cases of Keats and 
 Kirke White are just so far parallel, that Keats did die shortly 
 after the criticisms upon him, and also of consumption : his friends 
 also, v/hile he still lived, spent a great deal of useless care upon 
 these critics, and, out of an honest anger, gave encouragement to 
 the notion that their brutality had a most injurious effect on the 
 spirit and health of the Poet; but a conscientious inquiry entirely 
 dispels such a supposition. In all this correspondence it must be 
 seen how little importance Keats attaches to such opinions, how 
 rarely he alludes to them at all, and how easily, when he does so ; 
 how lowly was his own estimate of the very works they professed 
 to judge, in comparison with what he felt himself capable of pro- 
 ducing, and how completely he, in Ijis world of art, rested above 
 such paltry assailants. After his early death, the accusation was 
 revived by the affectionate indignation of Mr. Brown ; and Shel- 
 
142 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ley, being in Italy, readily adopted the same tone. On the publi- 
 cation of the volume containing "Lamia,"' "Isabella," "St. Ag- 
 nes' Eve," and " Hyperion," Shelley wrote a letter which, on 
 second thoughts, he left unfinished : it shows, however, how en- 
 tirely he believed Keats to be at the mercy of the critics, and how 
 he could bend for others that pride which ever remained erect for 
 himself. 
 
 " To the Editor of the ' Quarterly Review.' 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 " Should you cast your eye on tlie signature of this 
 letter before you read the contents, you might imagine that they 
 related to a slandei'ous paper which appeared in your Review 
 some time since. I never notice anonymous attacks. The wretch 
 who wrote it has doubtless the additional reward of a consciousness 
 of his motives, besides the thirty guineas a sheet, or whatever it is 
 that you pay him. Of course you cannot be answerable for all 
 the writings which you edit, and I certainly bear you no ill-will 
 for having edited the abuse to which I allude — indeed, I was too 
 much amused by being compared to Pharaoh, not to readily for- 
 give editor, printer, publisher, stitcher, or any one, excepting the 
 despicable writer, connected with something so exquisitely enter- 
 taining. Seriously speaking, 1 am not in the habit of permitting 
 myself to be disturbed by what is said or wj-itten of me, though 
 I dare say, I may be condemned sometimes justly enough. But 
 I feel, in respect to the writer in question, that ' 1 am there sitting, 
 where he durst not soar.' 
 
 " The case is different with the unfortunate subject of this 
 letter, the author of ' Endymion,' to whose feelings and situation 
 I entreat you to allow me to call your attention. J write consid- 
 erably in the dark ; but if it is Mr. GifTord that I am addressing, 
 I am persuaded that, in an appeal to his humanity and justice, he 
 will acknowledge the fas ah hoste doceri. I am aware that the 
 first duty of a reviewer is towards the public, and 1 am willing 
 to confess that the ' Endymion ' is a poem considerably defective, 
 and that, perhaps, it deserved as much censure as the pages of 
 your Review record against it ; but, not to mention that there is a 
 certain contemptuousness of phraseology from which it is difficult 
 
JOHN KEATS. 143 
 
 for a critic to abstain, in the review of ' Endymion,' I do not think 
 that the writer has given it its due praise. Surely the poem, with 
 all its faults, is a very remarkable production for a man of Keats's 
 age, and the promise of ultimate excellence is such as has rarely 
 been aflbrded even by such as have afterwards attained high lite- 
 rary eminence. Look at book ii., line 833, (fee, and book iii., 
 line 113 to 120; read down that page, and then again from line 
 193, I could cite many other passages, to convince you that it 
 deserved milder usage. Why it should have been reviewed at 
 all, excepting for the purpose of bringing its excellences into no- 
 tice, I cannot conceive, for it was very little read, and there was 
 no danger that it should become a model to the age of that false 
 taste, with which I confess that it is replenished- 
 
 *'■ Poor Keats was thrown into a dreadful state of mind by this 
 review, which, I am persuaded, was not written with any inten- 
 tion of producing the effect, to which it has, at least, greatly con- 
 tributed, of embittering his existence, and inducing a disease, from 
 which there are now but faint hopes of his recovery. The first 
 effects are described to me to have resembled insanity, and it was 
 by assiduous watching that he was restrained from effecting pur- 
 poses of suicide. The agony of his sufferings at length produced 
 the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs, and the usual process 
 of consumption appears to have begun. He is coming to pay me 
 a visit in Italy ; but I fear that, unless his mind can be kept tran- 
 quil, little is to be hoped from the mere influence of climate. 
 
 " But let me not extort anything from your pity. I have just 
 seen a second volume, published by him evidently in careless de- 
 spair. I have desired my bookseller to send you a copy, and 
 allow me to solicit your especial attention to the fragment of a 
 poem entitled ' Hyperion,' the composition of which was checked 
 by the Review in question. The great proportion of this piece is 
 surely in the very highest style of poetry. I speak impartially, 
 for the canons of taste to which Keats has conformed in his other 
 compositions, are the very reverse of my own. f leave you to 
 judge for yourself; it would be an insult to you to suppose that, 
 from motives however hoporablg, you would lend yourself to a 
 deception of the public." * * * * 
 
 This letfer was never sent ; but, in its place, when Keats was 
 
144 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 dead, Shelley used a very different tone, and hurled his con- 
 temptuous defiance at the anonymous slanderer, in these memora- 
 ble lines : — 
 
 " Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! 
 What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 
 Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? 
 The nameless worm would now itself disown ; 
 It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
 Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong, 
 But what was howling in one breast alone. 
 Silent with expectation of the song. 
 Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. 
 
 " Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
 Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me. 
 Thou noteless blot on a remembered name ! 
 But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
 f.i And ever in thy season be thou free 
 
 To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow ; 
 Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee ; 
 Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
 And like a beaten hound tremble thou shah— as now, 
 
 Adonais — Stanzas 36, 37. 
 
 Now, from the enthusiastic friend, let us turn, joyfully, to the 
 undeniable testimony of the Poet himself, writing confidentially 
 to his publisher. Mr. Hessey had sent him a letter that appeared 
 in the Morning Chronicle, of October 3d, earnestly remonstrating 
 against these examples of tyrannous criticism, and asking whether 
 they could have proceeded from the translator of Juvenal [Mr. 
 Giffbrd], who had prefixed to liis work " that manly and pathetic 
 narrative of genius oppressed and struggling with innumerable 
 difficulties, yet finally triumphing under patronage and encourage- 
 ment ; or from the biographer of Kirke White [Mr. Southey], 
 who had expostulated with the monthly reviewer, who sat down 
 to blast the hopes of a boy who had confessed to him all his hopes 
 and all his difficulties." The letter was signed "J. S.," and its 
 author remained unknown. The newspapers generally spoke 
 favorably of " Endymion,'' so that Keats could not even regard 
 the offensive articles as the general expression of the popular 
 
JOHN KEATS. 145 
 
 voice : he may, indeed, have experienced a momentary annoy- 
 ance, but, if no evidence survived, the noble candor and simplicity 
 of this answer is quite sufficient to phice the question in its true 
 light, and to silence forever the exclamations either of honest 
 wrath or contemptu<jus compassion. Still the malice was weak 
 only because the genius was strong ; the arrows were poisoned, 
 though the armor they struck was proof and able to save the life 
 within. 
 
 9th Oct. 1818. 
 My Dear Hessey, 
 
 You are very good in sending me the letters from the 
 Chronicle, and 1 am very bad in not acknowledging such a kind- 
 ness sooner : pray forgive me. It has so chanced that 1 have had 
 that paper every day. I have seen to-day's. 1 cannot but feel 
 indebted to those gentlemen who have taken my part. As for the 
 rest, I begin to get a little acquainted with my own strength and 
 weakness. Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the 
 man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic 
 on his own works. My own domestic criticism has given me pain 
 without comparison beyond what "Blackwood" or the "Quarter- 
 ly " could inflict : and also when 1 feel I am right, no external praise 
 can give me such aglow as my own solitary reperception and rati- 
 fication of what is fine. J. S. is perfectly right in regard to the 
 "slip-shod Endymion." That it is so, is no fault of mine. No! 
 though it may sound a little paradoxical, it is as good as I had power 
 to make it by myself. Had I been nervous about it being a perfect 
 piece, and with that view' asked advice, and trembled over every 
 page, it would not have been written ; for it is not in my nature to 
 fumble. I will write independently. I have written independently 
 without judgment. I may write independently, and with judgment, 
 hereafter. The Genius of Poetry must work out its own salva- 
 tion in a man. It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by 
 sensation and watchfulness in itself. That which is creative 
 must create itself. In " Endymion " I leaped headlong into the 
 sea, and thereby have become better acquainted with the sound- 
 ings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon 
 the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comforta. 
 
146 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ble advice. I was never afraid of failure ; for I would sooner 
 fail than not be among the greatest. But I am nigh getting into 
 a rant ; so, with remembrances to Taylor and Woodhouse, &c., 
 I am, 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 On returning to the south, Keats found his brother alarmingly 
 ill, and immediately joined him at Teignmouth. They return- 
 ed together to Hampstead, where he gradually sunk under the 
 disease, affectionately tended and fraternally mourned. He was 
 of a most gentle and witty nature, and resembled John in charac- 
 ter and appearance. In Keats's copy of Shakspeare, the words 
 Poor Tom, in " King Lear," are pathetically underlined. 
 
 Teignmouth, Sept. 1818. 
 My Dear Bailey, 
 
 When a poor devil is drowning, it is said he comes 
 thrice to the surface before he makes his final sink ; if, however, 
 at third rise, he can manage to catch hold of a piece of weed or 
 rock, he stands a fair chance, as I hope I do now, of being saved. 
 I have sunk twice in our correspondence, have risen twice, and 
 have been too idle, or something worse, to extricate myself. I 
 have sunk the third time, and just now risen again at this two of 
 the clock p. M.j and saved myself from utter perdition by begin- 
 ning this, all drenched as I am, and fresh from the water. And 
 I would rather endure the present inconvenience of a wet jacket 
 than you should keep a laced one in store for me. Why did I 
 not stop at Oxford in my way ? How can you ask such a ques- 
 tion ? Why did I not promise to do so ? Did I not, in a letter 
 to you, make a promise to do so ? Then how can you be so un- 
 reasonable as to ask me why I did not ? This is the thing — 
 (for I have been rubbing my invention ; trying several sleights : 
 I first polished a cold, felt it in my fingers, tried it on the table, 
 but could not pocket it : I tried chilblains, rheumatism, gout, 
 tight boots, — nothing of that sort would do, — so this is, as I was 
 going to say, the thing) — I had a letter from Tom, saying how 
 much better he had got, and thinking he had better stop. I went 
 
JOHN KEATS. 147 
 
 down to prevent his coming up. Will not this do ? Turn it 
 which way you like — it is selvaged all round. 1 have used it, 
 these three last days, to keep out the abominable Devonshire 
 weather. By the by, you may say what you will of Devonshire : 
 the truth is, it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy, haily, 
 floody, muddy, slipshod county. The hills are very beautiful, 
 when you get a sight of 'em ; the primroses are out, — but then 
 you are in ; the cliffs are of a fine deep color, but then the 
 clouds are continually vieing with them. The women like your 
 London people in a sort of negative way — because the native 
 men are the poorest creatures in England. When I think of 
 Wordsworth's Sonnet, "Vanguard of Liberty ! ye men of Kent !" 
 the degenerated race about me are pulvis Ipecac, simplex — a 
 strong dose. Were I a corsair, I'd make a descent on the south 
 coast of Devon ; if I did not run the chance of having coward- 
 ice imputed to me. As for the men, they'd run away into the 
 Methodist meeting-houses ; and the women would be glad of it. 
 Had England been a large Devonshire, we should not have won 
 the battle of Waterloo. There are knotted oaks, there are lusty 
 rivulets, there are meadows such as are not elsewhere, — but 
 there are no thews and sinews. '' Moore's Almanack" is here 
 a curiosity : arms, neck, and shoulders may at least be seen 
 there, and the ladies read it as some out-of-the-way romance. 
 Such a quelling power have these thoughts over me that I fancy 
 the very air of a deteriorating quality. I fancy the flowers, all 
 precocious, have an Acrasian spell about them ; I feel able to 
 beat off the Devonshire waves like soap-froth. I think it well, 
 for the honor of England, that Julius Ccesar did not first land in 
 this county. A Devonshirer, standing on his native hills, is not 
 a distinct object ; he does not show against the light ; a wolf or 
 two would dispossess him. I like, I love England — I like its 
 living men — give me a long brown plain for my money, so I 
 may meet with some of Edmund Ironside's descendants; give me 
 a barren mould, so I may meet with some shadowing of Alfred 
 in the shape of a gipsey, a huntsman, or a shepherd. Scenery 
 is fine, but human nature is finer ; the sward is richer for the 
 tread of a real nervous English foot ; the eagle's nest is finer, 
 for the mountaineer having looked into it. Are these facts or 
 
148 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 prejudices ? Whatever they be, for them I shall never be able to 
 relish entirely any Devonshire scenery. Homer is fine, Achil- 
 les is fine, Diomed is fine, Shakspeare is fine — Hamlet is fine, 
 Lear is fine — but dwindled Englishmen are not fine. Where, 
 too, the women are so passable, and and have such English names, 
 such as Ophelia, Cordelia, &c., that they should have such par- 
 amours, or rather imparamours ! As for them, I cannot, in thought, 
 help wishing, as did the cruel emperor, that they had but one 
 head, that I might cut it off, to deliver them from any horrible 
 courtesy they may do their undeserving countrymen. 1 wonder 
 I meet with no born monsters. O ! Devonshire, last night I 
 thought the moon had dwindled in heaven. 
 
 I have never had your Sermon from Wordsworth, but Mr. 
 Dilke lent it me. You know my ideas about Religion. I do not 
 think myself more in the right than other people, and that nothing 
 in this world is provable. I wish I could enter into all your 
 feelings on the subject, merely for one short ten minutes, and 
 give you a page or two to your liking. 1 am sometimes so very 
 skeptical as to think Poetry itself a mere Jack o' Lanthorn to 
 amuse whoever may chance to be struck with its brilliance. As 
 tradesmen say every thing is worth what it will fetch, so probably 
 every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardor of 
 the pursuer — being in itself a nothing. Ethereal things may at 
 least be thus real, divided under three heads — things real, things 
 semi-real, and nothings ; things real, such as existences of sun, 
 moon, and stars, and passages of Shakspeare ; things semi-real, 
 such as love, the clouds, &c., which require a greeting of the 
 spirit to make them wholly exist ; and nothings, which are made 
 great and dignified by an ardent pursuit — which, by the by, stamp 
 the Burgundy-mark on the bottles of our minds, insomuch as they 
 are able to " consecrate whatever they look upon.'' I have written 
 a sonnet here of a somewhat collateral nature. So don't imagine 
 it is " apropos des bottes." 
 
 " Four seasons fill the measure of the year," &c.* 
 
 Aye, this may be carried- — but what am I talking of? It is 
 an old maxim of mine, and of course must be well known, that 
 
 * See the " Literary Remains." 
 
JOHN KEATS. 149 
 
 every point of thous'Ht is the centre of an intellectual world. The 
 two uppermost thoughts in a man's mind are the two poles of his 
 world ; he revolves on them, and every thing is southward and 
 northward to him through their means. We take but three steps 
 from feathers to iron. Now, my dear fellow, I must, once for all, 
 tell you I have not one idea of the truth of any of my specula- 
 tions : I shall never be a reasoner, because I care not to be in the 
 right, when retired from bickering and in a proper philosophical 
 temper. So you must not stare, if, in any fuiure letter, I endea- 
 vor to prove that Apollo, as he had catgut strings to his lyre, used 
 a cat's paw as a pecten — and, further, from [the] said pecten's 
 reiterated and continual teasing, came the term hen-pecked. 
 
 My brother Tom desires to be remembered to you ; he has 
 just this moment had a spitting of blood, poor fellow ! Remember 
 me to Grey and Whitehead. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 JoH^- Keats. 
 
 [Post-mark Hampstead, 27 Oct., 1818 ] 
 My Dear Woodhouse, 
 
 Your letter gave me great satisfaction, more on 
 account of its friendliness than any relish of that matter in it 
 which is accounted so acceptable in the " genus irritabile." The 
 best answer I can give you is in a clerklike manner to make 
 some observations on two principal points which seem to point like 
 indices into the midst of the whole pro and con about genius, and 
 views, and achievements, and ambition, et cetera. 1st. As to the 
 poetical character itself (I mean that sort, of which, if I am any 
 thing, I am a member ; that sort distinguished from the Words- 
 worthian, or egotistical sublime ; which is a thing per se, and 
 stands alone), it is not itself — it has no self — it is every thing and 
 nothing — it has no character — it enjoys light and shade — it lives 
 in gusts, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or ele- 
 vated, — it has as much delight in conceiving an lago as an Imo- 
 gen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher delights the cameleon 
 poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side of things, 
 
150 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 any more than from its taste for the bright one, because they both 
 end in speculation. A poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in 
 existence, because he has no identity ; he is continually in for, 
 and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, the sea, and 
 men and women, v/ho are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and 
 have about them an unchangeable attribute ; the poet has none, 
 no identity. He is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's 
 creatures. If, then, he has no self, and if I am a poet, where is 
 the wonder that I should say I would write no more ? Might I 
 not at that very instant have been cogitating on the characters of 
 Saturn and Ops ? It is a wretched thing to confess, but it is a 
 very fact, that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted 
 as an opinion growing out of my identical nature. How can it, 
 when I have no nature ? When I am in a room with people, if I 
 am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then, not 
 myself goes home to myself, but the identity of every one in the 
 room begins to press upon me, [so] that I am in a very little time 
 annihilated — not only among men ; it would be the same in a 
 nursery of children. I know not whether I make myself wholly 
 understood : I hope enough to let you see that no dependence is 
 to be placed on what I said that day. 
 
 In the second place, I will speak of my views, and of the life 
 I purpose to myself. I am ambitious of doing the world some 
 good : if I should be spared, that may be the work of future years 
 — in the interval 1 will assay to reach to as high a summit in 
 poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer. The faint 
 conceptions I have of poems to come bring the blood frequently 
 into my forehead. All I hope is, that I may not lose all interest 
 in human affairs — that the solitary indifference I feel for applause, 
 even from the finest spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of vision 
 I may have. I do not think it will. I feel assured I should write 
 from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, 
 even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning, and no 
 eye ever shine upon them. But even now I am perhaps not 
 speaking from myself, but from some character in whose soul I 
 now live. 
 
 I am sure, however, that this next sentence is from mvvself. — 
 
JOHN KEATS. 151 
 
 I feel your anxiety, good opinion, and friendship, in the highest 
 degree, and am 
 
 Yours most sincerely, 
 
 John Keats, 
 
 Oct. 29, 1818. 
 
 My Dear George," 
 
 There was a part in your letter which gave me 
 great pain ; that where you lament not receiving letters from 
 England. I intended to have written immediately on my return 
 from Scotland (which was two months earlier than I intended, on 
 account of my own, as well as Tom's health), but then I was told 
 by Mrs. W. that you had said you did not wish any one to write, 
 till we had heard from you. This I thought odd, and now I see 
 that it could not have been so. Yet, at the time, I suffered my 
 unreflecting head to be satisfied, and went on in that sort of care- 
 less and restless life with which you are well acquainted. I am 
 grieved to say that T am not sorry you had not letters at Philadel- 
 phia : you could have had no s^ood news of Tom ; and I have 
 been withheld, on his account, from beginning these many days. 
 I could not bring myself to say the truth, that he is no better, but 
 much worse : however, it must be told, and you, my dear brother 
 and sister, take example from me, and bear up against any ca- 
 lamity, for my sake, as I do for yours. Ours are ties, which, 
 independent of their own sentiment, are sent us by Providence, to 
 prevent the effects of one great solitary grief: I have Fanny,* 
 and 1 have you — three people whose happiness, to me, is sacred, 
 and it does annul that selfish sorrow which I should otherwise fall 
 into, living, as I do, with poor Tom, who looks upon me as his 
 only comfort. The tears will come into your eyes : let them ; 
 and embrace each other : thank Heaven for what happiness you 
 have, and, after thinking a moment or two that you suffer in com- 
 mon with all mankind, hold it not a sin to regain your cheerful- 
 ness. 
 
 Your welfare is a delight to me which I cannot express. The 
 moon is now shining full and brilliant ; she is the same to me in 
 
 His sister. 
 
152 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 matter that you are in spirit. If you were here, my clear sister, 
 I could not pronounce the words which I can write to you from a 
 distance. 1 have a tenderness for you, and an admiration which 
 I feel to be as great and more chaste than I can have for any 
 woman in the world. You will mention Fanny — her character 
 is not formed : her identity does not press upon me as yours does. 
 1 hope from the bottom of my heart that 'I may one day feel as 
 much for her as I do for you. I know not how it is, my dear 
 brother, I have never made any acquaintance of my own — nearly 
 all through your medium ; through you I know, not only a sister, 
 but a glorious human being ; and now I am talking of those to 
 whom you have made me known, I cannot forbear mentioning 
 Haslam, as a most kind, and obliging, and con>tant friend. His 
 behavior to Tom during my absence, and since my return, has 
 endeared him to me for ever, besides his anxiety about you. 
 
 To-morrow I shall call on your mother and exchange in- 
 formation with her. I intend to write you such columns that it 
 will be impossible for me to keep any order or method in what I 
 write ; that will come first which is uppermost in my mind ; not 
 that which is uppermost in my heart. Besides, I should wish 
 to give you a picture of our lives here, whenever by a touch I 
 can do it. 
 
 I came by ship from Inverness, and was nine days at sea 
 without being sick. A little qualm now and then put me in 
 mind of you ; however, as soon as you touch the shore, all the 
 horrors of sickness are soon forgotten, as was the case with a 
 lady on board, who could not hold her head up all the way. We 
 had not been into the Thames an hour before her tongue began 
 to some tune — paying oiF, as it was fit she should, all old scores. 
 I was the only Englishman on board. There was a downright 
 Scotchman, who, hearing that there had been a bad crop of pota- 
 toes in England, had brought some triumphant specimens from 
 Scotland. These he exhibited with natural pride to all the 
 ignorant lightermen and watermen from the Nore to the Bridge. 
 I fed upon beef all the vvay, not being able to eat the thick 
 porridge which the ladies managed to manage, with large, awk- 
 ward, horn-spoons into the bargain. Reynolds has returned from 
 a six-weeks' enjoyment in Devonshire ; he is well, and persuades 
 
JOHN KEATS. 153 
 
 me to publish my "Pot of Basil," in answer to the attack made 
 on me in " Blackwood's Magazine" and the " Quarterly Review." 
 There have been two letters in my defence in the Chronicle, and 
 one in the Examiner, copied from the Exeter paper, and written 
 by Reynolds. I don't know who wrote those in the Chronicle. 
 This is a mere matter of moment : I think I shall be among the 
 English Poets after my death. Even as a matter of present 
 interest, the attempt to crush me in the " Quarterly" has only 
 brought me more into notice, and it is a common expression among 
 book-men, " I wonder the ' Quarterly' should cut its own throat." 
 It does me not the least harm in society to make me appear little 
 and ridiculous: I know when a man is superior to me, and give 
 him all due respect ; he will be the last to laugh at me ; and, as 
 for the rest, I feel that 1 make an impression upon them which 
 insures me personal respect while I am in sight, whatever they 
 may say when my back is turned. 
 
 The Misses are very kind to me, but they have lately 
 
 displeased me much, and in this way : — now I am coming the 
 Richardson ! — On my return, the first day I called, they were in a 
 sort of taking or bustle about a cousin of theirs, who, having fallen 
 out with her grandpapa in a serious manner, was invited by Mrs. 
 
 to take asylum in her house. She is an East-Indian, and 
 
 ought to be her grandfather's heir. At the time I called, Mrs. 
 
 was in conference with her up stairs, and the young ladies 
 
 were warm in her praise down stairs, calling her genteel, inter- 
 esting, and a thousand pretty things, to which I gave no heed, 
 not being partial to nine days' wonders. Now all is completely 
 changed : they hate her, and, from what I hear, she is not without 
 faults of a real kind ; but she has others, which are more apt to 
 make women of inferior claims hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, 
 but is, at least, a Charmian : she has a rich Eastern look ; she 
 has fine eyes, and fine manners. When she comes into the room 
 she makes the same impression as the beauty of a leopardess. 
 She is too fine and too conscious of herself to repulse any man 
 who may address her: from habit she thinks that nothing particu- 
 lar. I always find myself at ease with such a woman : the pic- 
 lure before me always gives me a life and animation which I can- 
 not possibly feel with any thing inferior. I am, at such times, 
 
154 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 too much occupied in admii'ing to be awkward or in a tremble : I 
 forget myself entirely, because I live in her. You will, by this 
 time, think 1 am in love with her, so, before I go any further, I 
 will tell you I am not. She kept me awake one night, as a tune 
 of Mozart's might do. I speak of the thing as a pastime and an 
 amusement, than which I can feel none deeper than a conversa- 
 tion with an imperial woman, the very " yes" and "no" of whose 
 life is to me a banquet. I don't cry to take the moon home with 
 me in my pocket, not do I fret to leave her behind me. I like 
 her, and her like, because one has no sensation : what we both 
 are is taken for granted. You will suppose I have, by this, had 
 
 much talk with her — no such thing ; there are the Misses 
 
 on the look out.^ They think I don't admire her because I don't 
 stare at her ; they call her a flirt to me — what a want of know- 
 ledge ! She walks across a room in such a manner that a man 
 is drawn towards her with magnetic power ; this they call flirt- 
 ing ! They do not know things ; they do not know what a woman 
 is. I believe, though, she has faults, the same as Charmian and 
 Cleopatra might have had. Yet she is a fine thing, speaking in a 
 worldly way ; for there are two distinct tempers of mind in which 
 we judge of things — the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical ; 
 and the unearthly, spiritual and ethereal. In the former, Bona- 
 parte, Lord Byron, and this Charmian, hold the first place in our 
 minds; in the latter, John Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his 
 child's cradle, and you, my dear sister, are the conquering feel- 
 ings. As a man of the world, I love the rich talk of a Charmian; 
 as an eternal being, I love the thought of you. I should like her 
 to ruin me, and I should like you to save me. 
 
 , " I am free from men of pleasure's cares, 
 
 By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs." 
 
 This is " Lord Byron," and is one of the finest things he has 
 said. 
 
 I have no town-talk for you : as for politics, they are, in my 
 opinion, only sleepy, because they will soon be wide awake. 
 Perhaps not ; for the long-continued peace of England has given 
 us notions of personal safety which are likely to prevent the re- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 155 
 
 establishment of our oational honesty. There is, of a truth, no- 
 thing manly or sterling in any part of the Government. There 
 are many madmen in the country, I have no doubt, who would 
 like to be beheaded on Tower-hill, merely because of the sake of 
 ^clai ; there are many men, who. like Hunt, from a principle of 
 taste, would like to see things go on better : there are many, like 
 Sir F. Burdett, who like to sit at the head of political dinners ; — 
 but there are none prepared to suffer in obscurity for their 
 country. The motives of our worst men are interest, and of our 
 bes^ vanity; we have no Milton, or Algernon .Sidney. Go- 
 vernors, in these days, lose the title of man, in exchange for that 
 of Diplomate or Minister. We breathe a sort of official atmo- 
 sphere. All the departments of Government have strayed far 
 from simplicity, which is the greatest of strength. There is as 
 much difference in this, between the present Government and 
 Oliver Cromwell's, as there is between the Twelve Tables of 
 Rome and the volumes of Civil Law which were digested by 
 Justinian. A man now entitled Chancelor has the same honor 
 paid him, whether he be a hog or a Lord Bacon. No sensation 
 is created by greatness, but by the number of Orders a man has 
 at his button-hole. Notwithstanding the noise the Liberals make 
 in favor of the cause of Napoleon, I cannot but think he has done 
 more harm to the life of Liberty than any one else could have 
 done. Not that the Divine Right gentlemen have done, or intend 
 to do, any good — no, they have taken a lesson of him, and will 
 do all the further harm he would have done, without any of the 
 good. The worst thing he has taught them is, how to organize 
 their monstrous armies. The Emperor Alexander, it is said, in- 
 tends to divide his Empire, as did Dioclesian, creating two Czars 
 besides himself, and continuing supreme monarch of the whole. 
 Should he so do, and they, for a series of years, keep peaceable 
 among themselves, Russia may spread her conquest even to 
 China. I think it a very likely thing that China may fall of 
 itself: Turkey certainly will. Meanwhile European North Rus- 
 sia will hold its horn against the rest of Europe, intriguing con- 
 stantly with France. Dilke. whom you know to be a Godwin- 
 perfectibility man, pleases himself with the idea that America 
 will be the country to take up the human intellect where Eng- 
 
156 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 land leaves off. I differ there with him greatly : a country like 
 the United States, whose greatest nnen are Franklins and Wash- 
 ingtons, will never do that : they are great nnen doubtless ; but 
 how are they to be connpared to those, our countrymen, Milton 
 and the two Sidneys ? The one is a philosophical Quaker, full 
 of mean and thrifty maxims ; the other sold the very charger 
 who had taken him through all his battles. Those Americans 
 are great, but they are not sublime men ; the humanity of the 
 United States can never reach the sublime. Birkbeck's mind is 
 too much in the American style ; you must endeavor to enforce 
 a little spirit of another sort into the settlement, — always with 
 great caution ; for thereby you may do your descendants more 
 good than you may imagine. If I had a prayer to make for any 
 great good, next to Tom's recovery, it should be that one of your 
 children should be the first American poet. I have a great mind 
 to make a prophecy ; and they say that prophecies work out their- 
 own fulfillment. 
 
 'Tis the witching hour of night, 
 Orbed is the moon and brig^ht, 
 And the stars they glisten, glisten,' 
 Seeming with bright eyes to listen — 
 
 For what listen they] 
 For a song and for a charm, 
 See they glisten in alarm. 
 And the moon is waxing warm 
 
 To hear what I shall say. 
 
 Moon ! keep wide thy golden ears — 
 Hearken, stars I and hearken, spheres ! — 
 Hearken, thou eternal sky ! 
 I sing an infant's lullaby, 
 
 A pretty lullaby. 
 Listen, listen, listen, listen. 
 Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, 
 
 And hear my lullaby ! 
 Though the rushes that will make 
 Its cradle still are in the lake — 
 Though the linen that will be 
 Its swathe, is on the cotton tree — 
 Though the woolen that will keep 
 It warm, is on the silly sheep — 
 
JOHN KEATS. 157 
 
 Listen, starlight, listen, listen. 
 Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten. 
 
 And hear my lullaby ! 
 Child, I see thee ! Child, I've found thee 
 Midst of the quiet all around thee I 
 Child, I see thee ! Child, I spy thee ! 
 And thy mother sweet is nigh thee ! 
 Child, I know thee ! Child, no more, 
 But a poet evermore ! 
 See, see, the lyre, the lyre. 
 In a flame of fire. 
 Upon the little cradle's top 
 Flaring, flaring, flaring. 
 Past the eyesight's bearing. 
 Awake it from its sleep, 
 Aud see if it can keep 
 Its eyes upon the blaze — 
 
 Amaze, amaze ! 
 It stares, it stares, it stares, 
 It dares what no one dares ! 
 It lifts its little hand into the flame 
 Unharmed, and on the strings 
 Paddles a little tune, and sings. 
 With dumb endeavor sweetly — 
 Bard art thou completely ! 
 
 Little child 
 
 O' th' western wild. 
 Bard art thou completely ! 
 Sweetly with dumb endeavor, 
 A poet now or never. 
 
 Little child 
 
 O' th' western wild, 
 A poet now or never ! 
 
 Notwithstanding your happiness and your recommendations, I 
 hope I shall never marry ; though the most beautiful creature 
 were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk ; though 
 the carpet were of silk, and the curtains of the morning clouds, 
 the chairs and sofas stuffed with cygnet's down, the food manna, 
 the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winandermere, I 
 should not feel, or rather my happiness should not be, so fine ; 
 my solitude is sublime — for, instead of what I have described, 
 there is a sublimity to welcome me home ; the roaring of the 
 
 8 
 
158 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 wind is my wife ; and the stars through my window-panes are 
 my children ; the mighty abstract Idea of Beauty in all things, I 
 have, stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness. 
 An amiable wife and sweet children 1 contemplate as part of that 
 Beauty, but I must have a thousand of those beautiful particles to 
 fill up my heart. I feel more and more every day, as my imagi- 
 nation strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone, but in a 
 thousand worlds. No sooner am 1 alone, than shapes of epic 
 greatness are stationed around me, and serve my spirit the office 
 which is equivalent to a King's Bodyguard : " then Tragedy with 
 scepter'd pall comes sweeping by :" according to my state of 
 mind, I am with Achilles shouting in the trenches, or with Theo- 
 critus in the vales of Sicily ; or throw my whole being into Troi- 
 lus, and, repeating those lines, '•' I wander like a lost soul upon 
 the Stygian bank, staying for waftage," I melt into the air with a 
 voluptuousness so delicate, that I am content to be alone. Those 
 things, combined with the opinion I have formed of the generality 
 of women, who appear to me as children to whom 1 would rather 
 give a sugar-plum than my time, form a barrier against matrimo- 
 ny which I rejoice in. I have written this that you might see 
 that I have my share of the highest pleasures of life, and that, 
 though I may choose to pass my days alone, I shall be no solitary ; 
 you see there is nothing splenetic in all this. The only thing 
 that can ever affect me personally for more than one short pass- 
 ing day, is any doubt about my powers for poetry : I seldom have 
 any ; and I look with hope to the nighing time when I shall have 
 none. I am as happy as a man can be — that is, in myself; I 
 should be happier if Tom were well, and if I knew you were 
 passing pleasant days. Then I should be most enviable — with 
 the yearning passion I have for the beautiful, connected and made 
 one with the the ambition of my intellect. Think of my pleasure 
 in solitude in comparison with my commerce with the world : 
 there I am a child, there they do not know me, not even my most 
 intimate acquaintance ; I give into their feelings as though I were 
 refraining from imitating a little child. Some think me middling, 
 others silly, others foolish : every one thinks he sees my weak 
 side against my will, when, in truth, it is with my will. I am 
 content to be thought all this, because I have in my own breast 
 
JOHN KEATS. 159 
 
 so great a resource. This is one great reason why they like me 
 so. because they can all show to advantage in a room, and eclipse 
 (fix)m a certain tact) one who is reckoned to be a good poet. I 
 hope I am not here playing tricks " to make the angels weep.' I 
 think not ; for I have not the least contempt for my species ; and, 
 though it may sound parodoxical, my greatest elevations of soul 
 leave me every time more humbled. Enough of this, though, in 
 your love for me, you will not think it enough. 
 
 Tom is rather more easy than he has been, but is still so 
 nervous that I cannot speak to him of you ; — indeed it is the care 
 I have had to keep his mind aloof from feelings too acute, that has 
 made this letter so rambling. I did not like to write before him 
 a letter he knew was to reach your hands ; I cannot even now 
 ask him for any message ; his heart speaks to you. 
 
 Be as happy as you can, and believe me, dear Brother and 
 Sister, your anxious and affectionate Brother, 
 
 John. 
 This is my birth-dav. 
 
 Well Walk, Xav. 24th, 1818. 
 My Dear Rice, 
 
 .Your amende honorable I must call •• un surcroit d'amitU" 
 for T am not at all sensible of any thing but that you were unfor- 
 tunately engaged, and I was unfortunately in a hurry. 1 com- 
 pletely understand your feeling in this mistake, and find in it that 
 balance of comfort which remains after regretting your uneasi- 
 ness. I have long made up my mind to take for granted the 
 genuine-heartedness of my friends, notwithstanding any temporary 
 ambiguousness in their behavior or their tongues — nothing of 
 which, however, I had the least scent of this morning. I say 
 completely understand ; for I am everlastingly getting my mind 
 into such like painful trammels — and am even at this moment 
 suffering under them in the case of a friend of ours. I will tell 
 you two most unfortunate and parallel slips — it seems downright 
 pre-intenlion : A friend says to me, " Keats, I shall go and see 
 Severn this week." — " Ah ! (says I) you want him to take your 
 portrait." And again, " Keats," says a friend, " when will you 
 
160 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 come to town again ?" " I will/"' says I, " let you have the MS. 
 next week." In both these cases I appeared to attribute an in- 
 terested motive to each of my friends' questions — the first made 
 him flush, the second made him look angry : — and yet I am in- 
 nocent in both cases ; my mind leapt over every interval, to what 
 I saw was, per se, a pleasant subject with him. You see I have 
 no allowances to make — you see how far I am from supposing 
 you could show me any neglect. I very much regret the long 
 time I have been obliged to exile from you ; for I have one or 
 two rather pleasant occasions to confer upon with you. What I 
 have heard from George is favorable. I expect a letter from the 
 settlement itself. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 I cannot give any good news of Tom. 
 
 Wentwokth Place, Hampstead, 18 Dec. 1818. 
 My Dear Woodhouse, 
 
 I am greatly obliged to you. I must needs feel flattered 
 by making an impression on a set of ladies. I should be content 
 to do so by meretricious romance verse, if they alone, and not 
 men, were to judge. I should like very much to know those 
 ladies — though look here, Woodhouse — 1 have a new leaf to turn 
 over : I must work ; I must read ; I must write. I am unable to 
 afford time for new acquaintances. I am scarcely able to do my 
 duty to those I have. Leave the matter to chance. But do not 
 forget to give my remembrances to your cousin. 
 
 Yours most sincerely, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 Believe me, I have rather rejoiced at your happiness 
 than fretted at your silence. Lideed T am grieved, on your ac- 
 count, that I am not at the same time happy. But I conjure you 
 to think, at present, of nothing but pleasure ; " Gather the rose," 
 &c., gorge the honey of life. I pity you as much that it cannot 
 last for ever, as I do myself now drinking bitters. Give yourself 
 
JOHX KEATS. 161 
 
 up to it — you cannot help it — and I have a consolation in thinking 
 so. T never was in love, yet the voice and shape of a woman has 
 haunted me these two days — at such a time when the relief, the 
 feverish relief of poetry, seems a much less crime. This morn- 
 ing poetry has conquered — I have relapsed into those abstractions 
 which are my only life — I feel escaped from a new, strange, and 
 threatening sorrow, and I am thankful for it. There is an awful 
 warmth about my heart, like a load of Immortality. 
 
 Poor Tom — that woman and poetry were ringing changes in 
 my senses. Now I am, in comparison, happy. I am sensible 
 this will distress you — you must forgive me. Had I known you 
 would have set out so soon I would have sent you the '•' Pot of 
 Basil."' for I had copied it out ready. Here is a free translation 
 of a Sonnet of Ronsard, which I think will please you. I have 
 the loan of his works — they have great beauties. 
 
 Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies. 
 For more adornment, a full thousand years ; 
 She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dies. 
 And shaped and tinted her above all Peers : 
 Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings. 
 And underneath her shadow filled her eyes 
 With such a richness that the cloudy Kings 
 Of high Olympus uttered slavish sighs. 
 "When from the Heavens T saw her first descend. 
 My heart took fire, and only burning pains, 
 They were my pleasures — they my Life's sad end ; 
 Love poured her beauty into my warm veins, 
 [So that her image in my soul upgrew. 
 The only thing adorable and true." — Ed.l* 
 
 * The second sonnet in the "Amours de Cassandre .-" she was a damosel 
 of Blois — ** Ville de Blois — naissance de ma dame.' 
 
 " Xature omant Cassandre, qui deuoit 
 De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles. 
 La composa de cent beautez nouuelles 
 Que des mille ans en espargne elle auoit. — 
 De tous les biens qu' Amour au Ciel coanoit 
 
162 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 I had not the original by me when I wrote it, and did not re- 
 collect the purport of the last lines. 
 
 I should have seen Rice ere this, but I am confined by Saw- 
 ney's mandate in the house now, and have, as yet, only gone out 
 in fear of the damp night. I shall soon be quite recovered. 
 Your offer I shall remember as though it had even now taken 
 place in fact. I think it cannot be. Tom is not up yet — I can- 
 not say he is better. I have not heard from George. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 It may be as well at once to state that the lady alluded to in 
 the above pages inspired Keats with the passion that only ceased 
 with his existence. Where personal feelings of so profound a 
 character are concerned, it does not become the biographer, in any 
 case, to do more than to indicate their effect on the life of his 
 hero, and where the memoir so nearly approaches the times of its 
 subject that the persons in question, or, at any rate, their near re- 
 lations, may be still alive, it will at once be felt how indecorous 
 would be any conjectural analysis of such sentiments, or, indeed, 
 any more intrusive record of them than is absolutely necessary 
 for the comprehension of the real man. True, a poet's love is, 
 above all other things, his life ; true, a nature, such as that of 
 Keats, in which the sensuous and the ideal were so interpenetrated 
 that he might be said to think because he felt, cannot be under- 
 stood without its affections ; but no comment, least of all that of 
 one personally a stranger, can add to the force of the glowing 
 and solemn expressions that appear here and there in his corre- 
 
 Comrae vu tresor cherement sous ces allies, 
 EUe enrichit les Graces immortelles 
 De son bel oeil qui les Dieux esmouuoit. — 
 Du Ciel k peine elle estoit descendu6 
 Quand ie la vey, quand mon asme esperduS 
 En deuint foUe, et d'vn si poignant trait, 
 Amour couler ses beautez en mes veines, 
 Qu' autres plaisirs ie ne sens que mes peines, 
 Ny autre bien qu' adorer son portrait." 
 
JOHN KEATS. J63 
 
 spondence. However sincerely the devotion of Keats may have 
 been requited, it will be seen that his outward circumstances soon 
 became such as to render a union very difficult, if not impossible. 
 Thus these years were passed in a conflict in which plain poverty 
 and mortal sickness met a radiant imagination and a redundant 
 heart. Hope was there, with Genius, his everlasting sustainer, 
 and Fear never approached but as the companion of Necessity. 
 The strong power conquered the physical man, and made the very 
 intensity of his passion, in a certain sense, accessory to his death : 
 he might have lived longer if he had lived less. But this should 
 be no matter of self-reproach to the object of his love, for the 
 same may be said of the very exercise of his poetic faculty, and 
 of all that made him what he was. It is enough that she has 
 preserved his memory with a sacred honor, and it is no vain as- 
 sumption, that to have inspired and sustained the one passion of 
 this noble being has been a source of grave delight and earnest 
 thankfulness, through the changes and chances of her earthly pil- 
 grimage. 
 
 When Keats was left alone by his brother's death, which took 
 place early in December, Mr. Brown pressed on him to leave his 
 lodgings and reside entirely in his house : this he consented to, 
 and the cheerful society of his friend seemed to bring back his 
 spirits, and at the same time to excite him to fresh poetical exertions. 
 It was then he began "Hyperion;" that poem full of the " large 
 utterance of the early Gods," of which Shelley said, that the 
 scenery and drawing of Saturn dethroned by the fallen Titans 
 supassed those of Satan and his rebellious angels, in " Paradise 
 Lost." He afterwards published it as a fragment, and still later 
 re-cast it into the shape of a Vision, which remains equally unfin- 
 ished. Shorter poems were scrawled, as they happened to sug- 
 gest themselves, on the first scrap of paper at hand, which was 
 afterwards used as a mark for a book, or thrown any where aside. 
 It seemed as if, w^hen his imagination was once relieved, by writ- 
 ing down its effusions, he cared so little about them that it re- 
 quired a friend at hand to prevent them from being utterly lost. 
 The admirable '- Ode to a Nightingale " was suggested by the 
 continual song of the bird that, in the spring of 1819, had built 
 her nest close to the house, and which often threw Keats into a 
 
1G4 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 sort of trance of tranquil pleasure. One morning he took his 
 chair from the breakfast-table, placed it upon the grass-plot under 
 a plum-tree, and sat there for two or three hours with some scraps 
 of paper in his hands. Shortly afterwards, Mr. Brown saw him 
 thrusting them away, as waste paper, behind "Some books, and had 
 considerable difficulty in putting together and arranging the 
 stanzas of the Ode. Other poems as literally " fugitive " were 
 rescued in much the same way — for he permitted Mr. Brown to 
 copy whatever he could pick up, and sometimes assisted him. 
 
 The odes "To the Nightincrale '"' and "To a Grecian Urn" 
 were first published in a periodical entitled the " Annals of Fine 
 Arts." Soon after he had composed them, he repeated, or rather 
 chanted, them to Mr. Haydon, in a sort of recitative that so well 
 suited his deep grave voice, as they strolled together through 
 Kilburn meadows, leaving an indelible impression on the mind of 
 his surviving friend. 
 
 The journal-letters to his brother and sister in America are 
 the best records of his outer existence. I give them in their sim- 
 plicity, being assured that thus they are the best. They are full 
 of a genial life which will be understood and valued by all to 
 whom a book of this nature presents any interest whatever : and, 
 when it is remembered how carelessly they are written, how little 
 the writer ever dreamt of their being redeemed from the far West 
 or exposed to any other eyes than those of the most familiar 
 affection, they become a mirror in which the individual character 
 is shown with indisputable truth, and from which the fairest 
 judgment of his very self can be drawn. 
 
 [1818—19.] 
 
 My Dear Brother and Sister, 
 
 You will have been prepared, before this reaches you, 
 for the worst nev/s you could have, nay, if Haslam's letter arrived 
 in proper time, I have a consolation in thinking the first shock 
 will be passed before you receive this. The last days of poor 
 Tom were of the most distressing nature ; but his last moments 
 were not so painful, and his very last was without a a pang. I 
 will not enter into any parsonic comments on death. Yet the 
 
JOHN KEATS. 165 
 
 commonest observations of the commonest people on death are 
 true as their proverbs. I have a firm belief in immortality, and 
 so had Tom. 
 
 During poor Tom's illness I was not able to write, and since 
 his death the task of beginning has been a hinderance to me. 
 Within tliis last week I have been every where, and I will tell 
 you, as nearly as possible, how I go on. I am going to domesti- 
 cate with Brown, that is, we shall keep house together. I shall 
 have the front-parlor, and he the back one, by which I shall avoid 
 the noise of Bentley's children, and be able to go on with my 
 studies, which have been greatly interrupted lately, so that I have 
 not the shadow of an idea of a book in my head, and my pen 
 seems to have grown gouty for verse. How are you going on 
 now ? The going on of the world makes me dizzy. There you 
 are with Birkbeck, here I am with Brown ; sometimes I imagine 
 an immense separation, and sometimes, as at present, a direct 
 communication of spirit with you. That will be one of the 
 grandeurs of immortality. There will be no space, and conse- 
 quently the only commerce between spirits will be by their 
 intelligence of each other — when they will completely understand 
 each other, while we, .in this world, merely comprehend each 
 otiier in different degrees ; the higher the degree of good, so 
 higher is our Love and Friendship. I have been so little used to 
 writing lately that 1 am afraid you will not smoke my meaning, 
 so I will give you an example. Suppose Brown, or Haslam, or 
 any one else, whom I understand in the next degree to what I do 
 you, were in America, they would be so much the further from 
 me in proportion as their identity was more impressed upon me. 
 Now the reason why I do not feel, at the present moment, so far 
 from you, is that I remember your ways, and manners, and 
 actions ; I know your manner of thinking, your manner of feeling ; 
 I know what shape your joy or your sorrow would take ; I know 
 the manner of your walking, standing, sauntering, sitting down, 
 laughing, punning, and every action, so truly that you seem near 
 to me. You will remember me in the same manner, and the 
 more when I tell you that I shall read a page of Shakspeare every 
 Sunday at ten o'clock ; you read one at the same time, and we 
 
 8* 
 
166 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 shall be as near each other as blind bodies can be in the same 
 room. 
 
 Thursday. — This morning is very fine. What are you doing- 
 this morning ? Have you a clear hard frost, as we have ? How 
 do you come on with the gun ? Have you shot a Buffalo ? Have 
 you met with any Pheasants ? My thoughts are very frequently 
 in a foreign country. I live more out of England than in it. The 
 mountains of Tartary are a favorite lounge, if I happen to miss 
 the Alleghany ridge, or have no whim for Savoy. There must 
 be great pleasure in pursuing game — pointing your gun — no, it 
 won't do — now — no — rabbit it — now, bang — smoke and feathers — 
 where is it ? Shall you bo able to get a good pointer or so ? 
 Now I am not addressing myself to G. Minor — and yet I am, for 
 you are one. Have you some warm furs ? By your next letter 
 I shall expect to hear exactly how you get on ; smother nothing ; 
 let us have all — fair and foul — all plain. Will the little bairn 
 have made his entrance before you have this ? Kiss it for me, 
 and when it can first know a cheese from a caterpillar show it my 
 picture twice a week. You will be glad to hear that GifFord's 
 attack upon me has done me service — it has got my book among 
 several sets, nor must I forget to mention, once more, what I sup- 
 pose Haslam has told you, the present of a 25/. note I had anony- 
 mously sent me. Another pleasing circumstance I may mention, 
 on the authority of Mr. Neville, to whom I had sent a copy of 
 " Endymion." It was lying on his cousin's table, where it had 
 been seen by one of the JMisses Porter, (of Romance celebrity,) 
 who expressed a wish to read it ; after having dipped into it, in 
 a day or two she returned it, accompanied by the following let- 
 ter : — 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " As my brother is sending a messenger to Esher, I 
 cannot but make the same the bearer of my regrets for not hav- 
 ing had the pleasure of seeing you the morning you called at the 
 gate, I had given orders to be denied, I was so very unwell with 
 my still adhesive cold ; but had I known it was you, I should 
 have broken off the interdict for a few minutes, to say how very 
 much I am delighted with ' Endymion.' I had just finislied the 
 
JOHN KEATS. 167 
 
 poem, and have now done as you permitted, lent it to Miss Fitz- 
 gerald. 
 
 " I regret you are not personally acquainted with the author, 
 for I should have been happy to have acknowledged to him, 
 through the advantage of your communication, the very rare de- 
 light my sister and myself have enjoyed from this first fruits of 
 his genius. I hope the ill-natured review will not have damped 
 such true Parnassian fire. It ought not, for when life is granted 
 to the possessor^ it always burns its brilliant way through every 
 obstacle. Had Chatterton possessed sufficient manliness of mind 
 to know the magnanimity of patience, and been aware that great 
 talents have a commission from heaven, he would not have de- 
 serted his post, and his name might have paged with Milton. 
 
 " Ever much yours, 
 
 "Jane Porter." 
 "Diiton Cottage, Bee. 4, 1818. 
 " To H. Neville, Esq., Esher." 
 
 Now I feel more obliged than flattered by this — so obliged that 
 I will not, at present, give you an extravaganza of a Lady Ro- 
 mance. I will be introduced to them first, if it be merely for the 
 pleasure of writing you about them. Hunt has asked me to 
 meet Tom Moore, so you shall hear of him also some day. 
 
 I am passing a quiet day, which I have not done for a long 
 time, and if I do continue so, I feel 1 must again begin with my 
 poetry, for if I am not in action, mind or body, I am in pain, and 
 from that I suffer greatly by going into parties, when from the 
 rules of society and a natural pride, I am obliged to smother my 
 spirits and look like an idiot, because I feel my impulses, if given 
 way to, would too much amaze them. I live under an everlast- 
 ing restraint, never relieved except when I am composing, so 1 
 will write away. 
 
 Friday. — I think you knew before you left England, that my 
 next subject would be the " Fall of Hyperion." I went on a little 
 with it last night, but it will take some time to get into the vein 
 again. I will not give you any extracts, because I wish the whole 
 to make an impression. I have, however, a few poems which 
 you will like, and I will copy them out on the next sheet. T will 
 
LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 write to Haslam this morning to know when the packet sails, and 
 till it does I will write something every day. After that my jour- 
 nal ^hall go on like clockwork, and you must not complain of its 
 dullness ; for what I wish is to write a quantity to you, knowing 
 well that dullness itself from me will be instructing to you. You 
 may conceive how this not having been done has weighed upon 
 me. I shall be better able to judge from your next what sort of 
 information will be of most service or amusement to you. Per- 
 haps, as you are fond of giving me sketches of characters, you 
 may like a little pic-nic of scandal, even across the Atlantic. 
 
 Shall I give you Miss ? She is about my height, with 
 
 a fine style of countenance of the lengthened sort ; she wants 
 sentiment in every feature ; she manages to make her hair 
 look well ; her nostrils are very fine, though a little pain- 
 ful ; her mouth is bad and good ; her profile is better than her 
 full face, which, indeed, is not full, but pale and thin, without 
 showing any bone ; her shape is very graceful, and so are her 
 movements; her arms are good, her hands bad-ish, her feet 
 tolerable. She is not seventeen, but she is ignorant ; monstrous 
 in her behavior, flying out in all directions, calling people such 
 names that I was forced lately to make use of the term — Minx : 
 this is, I think, from no innate vice, but from a penchant she has 
 for acting stylishly. I am, however, tired of such style, and shall 
 decline any more of it. She had a friend to visit her lately; you 
 have known plenty such — she plays the music, but without one 
 sensation but the feel of the ivory at her fingers ; she is a down- 
 right Miss, without one set-ofF. We hated her, and smoked her, 
 
 and baited her, and, I think, drove her away. Miss thinks 
 
 her a paragon of fashion, and says she is the only woman in the 
 world she would change persons with. What a stupe — she is as 
 superior as a rose to a dandelion. 
 
 It is some days since I wrote the last page, but 1 never know ; 
 but 1 must write. I am looking into a book of Dubois' — he has 
 written directions to the players. One of them is very good : " In 
 singing, never mind the music — observe what time you please. 
 It would be a pretty degradation, indeed, if you were obliged to 
 confine your genius to the dull regularity of a fiddler — horse-hair 
 and cat-guts. No, let him keep your time and play your time ; 
 
JOHN KEATS. 169 
 
 dodge him." I will now copy out the sonnet and letter I have 
 spoken of. The outside cover was thus directed, " Messrs. Tay- 
 lor and Hessey, Booksellers, 93 Fleet-street, London," and it 
 contained this : " Messrs. Taylor and Hessey are requested to 
 forward the enclosed letter, by some safe mode of conveyance, to 
 the author of ' Endymion,' who is not known at Teignmouth ; or, 
 if they have not his address, they will return the letter by post, 
 directed as below, within a fortnight. Mr. P. Fenbank, P. O., 
 Teignmouth, 9th November, 1818." In this sheet was enclosed 
 the following, with a superscription, " Mr. John Keats, Teign- 
 mouth ;" then came "Sonnet to John Keats," which 1 could not 
 copy for any in the world but you, who know that I scout " mild 
 light and loveliness," or any such nonsense, in myself. 
 
 " Star of high promise ! Not to this dark age 
 Do thy mild light and loveliness belong ; 
 For it is blind, intolerant, and wrong, 
 Dead to empyreal soarings, and the rage 
 Of scoffing spirits bitter war doth wage 
 With all that bold integrity of song ; 
 Yet thy clear beam shall shine through ages strong. 
 To ripest times a light and heritage. 
 And those breathe now who dote upon thy fame, ^ 
 Whom thy wild numbers wrap beyond their being. 
 Who love the freedom of thy lays, their aim 
 Above the scope of a dull tribe unseeing, 
 And there is one whose hand will never scant. 
 From his poor store of fruits, all thou canst want. 
 
 (Turn over.)" 
 
 I turned over, and found a £25 note. Now this appears to 
 me all very proper; if I had refused it, I should have behaved in 
 a very braggadocio dunder-headed manner ; and yet the present 
 galls me a little, and I do not know that I shall not return it, if I ever 
 meet with the donor, after whom to no purpose have I written. 
 
 I must not forget to tell you, that a few days since I went with 
 Dilke a-shooting on the heath, and shot a tomtit ; there were as 
 many guns abroad as birds. 
 
 Thursday. — On my word, I think so little, I have not one 
 opinion upon any thing except in matters of taste. T never can 
 
170 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty, 
 and I find myself very young-minded, even in that perceptive 
 power, which I hope will increase. A year ago I could not un- 
 derstand, in the slightest degree, Raphael's Cartoons ; now I be- 
 gin to read them a little. And how did I learn to do so ? By 
 seeing something done in quite an opposite spirit ; I mean a pic- 
 ture of Guido's, in which all the Saints, instead of that heroic 
 simplicity and unaffected grandeur, which they inherit from 
 Raphael, had, each of them, both in countenance and gesture, all 
 the canting, solemn, melo-dramatic mawkishness of .Mackenzie's 
 Father Nicholas. When 1 was last at Haydon's, I looked over a 
 book of prints, taken from the fresco of the church at Milan, the 
 name of which I forget. In it were comprised specimens of the 
 first an*-! second age in Art in Italy. I do not think I ever had a 
 greater treat, out of Shakspeare ; full of romance and the most 
 tender feeling; magnificence of drapery beyond every thing I 
 ever saw, not excepting Raphael's, — but grotesque to a curious 
 pitch ; yet still making up a fine whole, even finer to me than 
 more accomplished works, as there was left so much room for 
 imagination. I have not heard one of this last course of Hazlitt's 
 Lectures. They were upon Wit and Humor, the English Comic 
 Writers. &;c. 
 
 I do not think I have any thing to say in the business-way. 
 You will let me know what you would wish done with your pro- 
 perty in England — what things you would wish sent out. But I 
 am quite in the dark even as to your arrival in America. Your 
 first letter will be the key by which I shall open your hearts and 
 see what spaces want filling with any particular information. 
 Whether the affairs of Europe are more or less interesting to you ; 
 whether you would like to hear of the Theatres, the Bear Garden, 
 the Boxers, the Painters, the Lecturers, the Dress, the progress of 
 
 Dandyism, the progress of Courtship, or the fate of Mary M , 
 
 being a full, true, and ires particular account of Miss Mary's ten 
 suitors ; how the first tried the effect of swearing, the second of 
 stammering, the third of whispering, the fourth of sonnets, the 
 fifth of Spanish-leather boots, the sixth of flattering her body, the 
 seventh of flattering her mind, the eighth of flattering himself, the 
 ninth of sticking to the mother, the tenth of kissing the chamber- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 171 
 
 maid and bidding her tell her mistress — but he was soon dis- 
 charged. 
 
 And now, for the time, 1 bid you good-bye. 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother, 
 
 JOHX. 
 
 February 14, [1629.] 
 My Dear Buother a^'d Sister, 
 
 How is il that we have not heard from you at the Set- 
 tlement ? Surely the letters have miscarried. I am still at 
 Wentworth Place ; indeed, I have kept in doors lately, resolved, 
 if possible, to rid myself of my sore throat ; consequently I have 
 not been to see your mother since my return from Chichester. 
 Nothing worth speaking of happened at either place. I took 
 down some of the thin paper, and wrote on it a little poem called 
 '• St. Agnes'" Eve," which you will have as it is, when I have 
 finished the blank part of the rest for you. 1 went out twice, at 
 Chichester, to old dowager card-parties. I see very little now, 
 and very few persons, — being almost tired of men and things. 
 Brown and Dilke are very kind and considerate towards me. 
 Another satire is expected from Lord Byron, called '• Don Gio- 
 vanni.'' Yesterday I went to town for the fifct time these three 
 weeks. 1 met people from all parts and of all sects. Mr. Wood- 
 house was looking up at a book-window in Newgate-street, and, 
 being short sighted, twisted his muscles into so queer a st^ie, that 
 I stood by, in doubt whether it was him or his brother, if he has 
 one ; and, turning round, saw Mr. Hazlitt, with his son. Wood- 
 he use proved to be Woodhouse, and not his brother, on his features 
 subsiding. I have had a little business with Mr. Abbey ; from 
 time to time he has behaved to me with a little hrusquerie ; this 
 hurt me a little, especially when I knew him to be the only man 
 in England who dared to say a thing to me I did not approve of, 
 without its being resented, or, at least, noticed; — so I wrote him 
 about it, and have made an alteration in my favor. I expect from 
 this to see more of Fanny, who has been quite shut up from me. 
 I see Cobbett has been attacking the Settlement ; but I cannot tell 
 what to believe, and shall be all at elbows till I hear from you. 
 Mrs. S. met me the other day. I heard she said a thinir I am not 
 
172 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 at all contented with. Says she, " O, he is quite the little poet." 
 Now this is abominable ; you might as well say Bonaparte is 
 " quite the little soldier." You see what it is to be under six feet, 
 and not a Lord. 
 
 In my next packet 1 shall send you my " Pot of Basil," " St. 
 Agnes' Eve," and, if I should have finished it, a little thing, called 
 the "Eve of St. Mark." You see what fine Mother RadclifFe 
 names I have. It is not my fault; 1 did not search for them. I 
 have not gone on with "Hyperion," for, to tell the truth, I have 
 not been in great cue for writing lately. I must wait for the 
 spring to rouse me a little. 
 
 Friday, l&th February. — The day before yesterday I went to 
 Romney-street ; your mother was not at home. We lead very 
 quiet lives here ; Dilke is, at present, at Greek history and anti- 
 quities ; and talks of nothing but the Elections of Westminster 
 and the Retreat of the Ten Thousand. I never drink above three 
 glasses of wine, and never any spirits and water; though, by the 
 by, the other day Woodhouse took me to his coffee-house, and 
 ordered a bottle of claret. How I like claret ! when I can get 
 claret, I must drink it. 'Tis the only palate affair that I am at all 
 sensual in. WoifW it not be a good spec, to send you some vine- 
 roots ? Could it be done ? I'll inquire. If you could make some 
 wine like claret, to drink on summer evenings in an arbor ! It 
 fills one's mouth with a gushing freshness, then goes down cool 
 and feverless : then, you do not feel it quarreling with one's liver. 
 No ; 'tis rather a peace-maker, and lies as quiet as it did in the 
 grape. Then it is as fragrant as the Queen Bee, and the miore 
 ethereal part mounts into the brain, not assaulting the cerebral 
 apartments, like a bully looking for his trull, and hurrying from 
 door to door, bouncing against the wainscot, but rather walks 
 like Aladdin about his enchanted palace, so gently that you 
 do not feel his step. Other wines of a heavy and spirituous 
 nature transform a man into a Silenus, this makes him a Hermes, 
 and gives a woman the soul and immortality of an Ariadne, for 
 whom Bacchus always kept a good cellar of claret, and even of 
 that he never could persuade her to take above two cups. 'I said 
 this same claret is the only palate-passion I have ; I forgot game ; 
 
JOHN KEATS. 173 
 
 I must plead guilty to the breast of a patridge, the back of a hare, 
 the back-bone of a grouse, the wing and side of a pheasant, and a 
 woodcock jMSsim. Talking of game (I wish I could make it), 
 the lady whom I met at Hastings, and of whom I wrote you, I 
 think, has lately sent me many presents of game, and enabled me 
 to make as many. She made me take home a pheasant the other 
 day, which I gave to Mrs. Dilke. The next I intend for your 
 mother. I have not said in any letter a word about my own 
 affairs. In a word, I am in no despair about them. My poem 
 has not at, all succeeded. In the course of a year or so I think I 
 shall try the public again. In a selfish point of view I should 
 suffer my pride and my contempt of public opinion to hold me 
 silent ; but for yours and Fanny's sake, I will pluck up spirit and 
 try it again. I have no doubt of success in a course of years, if 
 I persevere; but I must be patient: for the reviewers have ener- 
 vated men's minds, and made them indolent ; ^qw think for them- 
 selves. These reviews are getting more and more powerful, 
 especially the " Quarterly." They are like a superstition, which, 
 the more it prostrates the crowd, and the longer it continues, the 
 more it becomes powerful, just in proportion to their increasing 
 weakness. I was in hopes that, as people saw, as they must do 
 now, all the trickery and iniquity of these plagues, they would 
 scout them ; but no ; they are like the spectators at the Westmin- 
 ster cock-pit, they like the battle, and do not care who wins or 
 who loses. 
 
 On Monday we had to dinner Severn and Cawthorn, the book- 
 seller and print-virtuoso ; in the evening Severn went home to 
 paint, and we other three went to the play, to see Shell's new 
 tragedy ycleped " Evadne." In the morning Severn and I took 
 a turn round the Museum ; there is a sphinx there of a giant 
 size, and most voluptuous Egyptian expression ; I had not seen 
 it before. The play was bad, even in comparison with 1818, 
 the " Augustan age of the drama." The whole was made up 
 of a virtuous young woman, an indignant brother, a suspecting 
 lover, a libertine prince, a gratuitous villain, a street in Naples, 
 a cypress grove, lilies and roses, virtue and vice, a bloody sword, 
 a spangled jacket, one " Lady Olivia," one Miss O'Neil, alias 
 " Evadne," alias " Bellamira." The play is a fine amusement, 
 
]74 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 as a friend of mine once said to me : " Do what you will," says 
 he, " a poor gentleman who wants a guinea cannot spend his two 
 shillings better than at the playhouse." The pantomime was 
 excellent; I had seen it before, and enjoyed it again. 
 
 Your mother and I had some talk about Miss . Says I, 
 
 " Will Henry have that Miss , a lath with a boddice, she 
 
 who has been fine-drawn, — fit for nothing but to cut up into crib- 
 bage-pins ; one who is all muslin ; all feathers and bone ? Once, 
 in traveling, she was made use of as a linch-pin. I hope he 
 will not have her, though it is no uncommon thing to be smitten 
 ivith a staff ; — though she might be useful as his walking-stick, 
 his fishing-rod, his tooth-pick, his hat-stick (she runs so much in 
 his head). Let him turn farmer, she would cut into hurdles; 
 let him write poetry, she would be his turn-style. Her gown is 
 like a flag on a pole : she would do for him if he turn freemason ; 
 I hope she will prove a flag of truce. When she sits languish- 
 ing, with her one foot on a stool, and one elbow one the table, 
 and her head inclined, she looks like the sign of the Crooked 
 Billet, or the frontispiece to ' Cinderella,' or a tea-paper wood- 
 cut of Mother Shipton at her studies." 
 
 The nothing of the day is a machine called the " Veloci- 
 pede." It is a wheel-carriage to ride cock-horse upon, sitting 
 astride and pushing it along with the toes, a rudder-wheel in 
 hand. They will go seven miles an hour. A handsome geld- 
 ing will come to eight guineas ; however, they will soon be 
 cheaper, unless the army takes to them. 
 
 I look back upon the last month, and find nothing to write 
 about ; indeed, I do not recollect one thing particular in it. It's 
 all alike ; we keep on breathing ; the only amusement is a little 
 scandal, of however fine a shape, a laugh at a pun, — and then, 
 after all, we wonder how we could enjoy the scandal, or laugh 
 at the pun . 
 
 I have been, at different times, turning it in my head, wheth- 
 er I should go to Edinburgh, and study for a physician. I am 
 afraid I should not take kindly to it ; I am sure I could not take 
 fees : and yet I should like to do so ; it is not worse than writing 
 poems, and hanging them up to be fly-blown on the Review 
 shambles. Every body is in his own mess : here is the Parson 
 
JOHN KEATS. 175 
 
 at Hampstead quarreling with all the world ; he is in the wrong 
 by this same token ; when the black cloth was put up in the church, 
 for the Queen's mourning, he asked the workmen to hang it wrong 
 side outwards, that it might be better when taken down, it being his 
 perquisite. 
 
 Friday^ I9th March. — This morning I have been reading 
 The False One." Shameful to say, I was in bed at teo — I 
 mean, this morning. The *• Blackwood's Reviewers" have com- 
 mitted themselves to a scandalous heresy ; they have been put- 
 ting up Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, against Burns : the sense - 
 less villains ! The Scotch cannot manage themselves at all, they 
 want imagination ; and that is why they are so fond of Hogg, 
 who has so little of it. This morning I am in a sort of temper, 
 indolent and supremely careless ; I long after a stanza or two 
 of Thomson's " Castle of Indolence ;" my passions are all 
 asleep, from ray having slumbered till nearly eleven, and weak- 
 ened the animal fibre all over me, to a delightful sensation, about 
 three degrees on this side of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl, 
 and the breath of lilies, I should call it languor ; but, as I am, I 
 must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy, the fibres of the 
 brain are relaxed, in common with the rest of the *body, and to 
 such a happy degree, that pleasure has no show of enticement, 
 and pain no unbearable firown ; neither Poetry, nor Ambition, nor 
 Love, have any alertness of countenance ; as they pass by me, 
 they seem rather like three figures on a Greek vase, two men 
 and a woman, whom no one but myself could distinguish in their 
 disguisement. This is the only happiness, end is a rare instance 
 of advantage in the body overpowering the mind. 
 
 I have this moment received a note from Haslam, in which he 
 writes that he expects the death of his father, who has been for 
 some time in a state of insensibility ; I shall go to town to-mor- 
 row to see him. This is the world ; thus we cannot expect to 
 give away many hours to pleasure ; circumstances are like clouds, 
 continually gathering and bursting ; while we are laughing, the 
 seed of trouble is put into the wide arable land of events ; while 
 we are laughing, it sprouts, it grows, and suddenly bears a poi- 
 sonous fruit, which we must pluck. Even so we have leisure to 
 reason on the misfortunes of our friends: our own touch us too 
 
176 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 nearly for u'ords. Very few men have ever arrived at a com- 
 plete disinterestedness of mind ; very few have been interested by 
 a pure desire of the benefit of others : in the greater part of the 
 benefactors of humanity, some meretricious motive has sullied 
 their greatness, some melo-dramatic scenery has fascinated them. 
 From the manner in which I feel Haslam's misfortune I perceive 
 how^ far I am from any humble standard of disinterestedness ; yet 
 this feeling ought t3 be carried to its highest pitch, as there is no 
 fear of its ever injuring society- In wild nature, the Hawk would 
 lose his breakfast of robins, and the Robin his worms ; the Lion 
 must starve as well as the Swallow. The great part of men sway 
 their way with the same instinctiveness, the same unwandering 
 eye from their purposes, the same animal eagerness, as the Hawk : 
 the Hawk wants a mate, so does the Man : look at them both ; 
 they set about it, and procure one in the same manner ; they want 
 both a nest, and they both set about one in the same manner. 
 The noble animal, ^lan, for his amusement, smokes his pipe, the 
 Hawk balances about the clouds : that is the only difference of 
 their leisures. This is that which makes the amusement of life 
 to a speculative mind ; I go among the fields, and catch a glimpse 
 of a stoat or a field-mouse, peeping out of the vrithered grass ; the 
 creature hath a purpose, and its eyes are bright with it ; I go 
 amongst the buildings of a city, and I see a man hurrying along — 
 to what ? — the creature hath a purpose, and its eyes are bright 
 with it : — but then, as Wordsworth says, " We have all one hu- 
 man heart !"' There is an electric fire in human nature, tending 
 to purify ; so that, among these human creatures, there is contin- 
 ually some birth of new heroism ; the pity is, that we must won- 
 der at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish. I have no 
 doubt that thousands of people, never heard of, have had hearts 
 completely disinterested. I can remember but two, Socrates and 
 Jesus. Their histories evince it. What I heard Taylor observe 
 with respect to Socrates is true of Jesus : that, though he trans- 
 mitted no writing of his own to posterity, we have his mind, and 
 his sayings, and his greatness, handed down to us by others. Even 
 here, though I am pursuing the same instinctive course as the 
 veriest animal you can think of — I am, however, young and writ- 
 ing at random, straining after particles of light in the midst of a 
 
JOHN KEATS. 177 
 
 great darkness, without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, 
 of any one opinion — yet, in this may I not be free from sin f 
 May there not be superior beings, amused with any graceful, 
 though instinctive, attitude my mind may fall into, as I am enter- 
 tained with the alertness of the stoat, or the anxiety of the deer ? 
 Though a quarrel in the street is a thing to be hated, the energies 
 displayed in it are fine ; the commonest man shows a grace in his 
 quarrel. By a superior Being our reasonings may take the same 
 tone ; though erroneous, they may be fine. This is the very 
 thing in which consists Poetry, and if so, it is not so fine a thing 
 as Philosophy, for the same reason that an eagle is not so fine a 
 thing as truth. Give me this credit, do you not think I strive to 
 know myself? Give me this credit, and you will not think, that 
 on my own account I repeat the lines of Milton : — 
 
 " How charming is divine philosophy, 
 Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose. 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute." 
 
 No, not for myself, feeling grateful, as I do, to have got into a 
 state of mind to relish them properly. Nothing ever becomes real 
 till it is experienced ; even a proverb is no proverb to you till life 
 has illustrated it. 
 
 I am afraid that your anxiety for me leads you to fear for the 
 violence of my temperament, continually smothered down : for 
 that reason, 1 did not intend to have sent you the following Sonnet ; 
 but look over the two last pages, and ask yourself if I have not 
 that in me which will bear the buffets of the world. It will be 
 the best comment on my Sonnet ; it will show you that it was 
 written with no agony but that of ignorance, with no thirst but 
 that of knowledge, when pushed to the point ; though the first 
 steps to it were through my human passions, they went away, and 
 I wrote with my mind, and, perhaps, I must confess, a little bit of 
 my heart. 
 
 " Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell," &c.* 
 
 I went to bed and enjoyed uninterrupted sleep : sane I went 
 to bed, and sane I arose. 
 
 * See the " Literary Remains." 
 
178 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 15th April. — You see what a time it is since I wrote; all that 
 time I have been, day after day, expecting letters from you. I 
 write quite in the dark. In hopes of a letter to-day I deferred 
 till night, that I might write in the light. It looks so much like 
 rain, I shall not go to town to-day, but put it off till to-morrow. 
 Brown, this morning, is writing some Spenserian stanzas against 
 
 Miss B and me : so I shall amuse myself with him a little, 
 
 in the manner of Spenser. 
 
 " He is to weet a melancholy carle : 
 
 Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, 
 
 As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle 
 
 It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair 
 
 Its light balloons into the summer air ; 
 
 Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom. 
 
 No brush had touched his chin, or razor sheer ; 
 
 No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom, 
 But new he was, and bright, as scarf from Persian loom. 
 
 " Ne cared he for wine or half-and-half ; 
 
 Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl ; 
 
 And sauces held he worthless as the chaff ; 
 
 He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl ; 
 
 Ne with lewd ribalds sat he cheek by jowl ; 
 
 Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair ; 
 
 But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul 
 
 Panted, and all his food was woodland air ; 
 Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare. 
 
 " The slang of cities in no wise he knew, 
 
 Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek ; 
 
 He sipped no " olden Tom," or " ruin blue," 
 
 Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drank full meek 
 
 By many a damsel-brave, and rouge of cheek ; 
 
 Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat. 
 
 Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek 
 
 For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat, 
 Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet." 
 
 This character would insure him a situation in the establishment 
 of the patient Griselda. Brown is gone to bed, and I am tired of 
 writing ; there is a north wind playing green-gooseberry with the 
 
JOHN KEATS. 179 
 
 trees, it blows so keen. I don't care, so it helps, even with a side- 
 wind, a letter to me. 
 
 The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more and more ; it is 
 that one in which he meets with Paulo and Francesca. I had 
 passed many days in rather a low state of mind, and in the midst 
 of them I dreamt of being in that region of Hell. The dream was 
 one of the most delightful enjoyments I ever had in my life ; I 
 floated about the wheeling atmosphere, as it is described, with a 
 beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were joined, it seemed for an 
 age ; and in the midst of all this cold and darkness I was warm ; 
 ever-flowery tree-tops sprung up, and we rested on them, some- 
 times with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind blew us away 
 again. I tried a Sonnet on it : there are fourteen lines in it, but 
 nothing of what I felt. Oh ! that I could dream it every night. 
 
 " When lulled Argus, baffled, swooned and slept," &c.* 
 
 I want ver}^ much a little of your wit, my dear sister — a let- 
 ter of yours just to bandy back a pun or two across the Atlantic, 
 and send a quibble over the Floridas. Now, by this time you 
 have crumpled up 5-our large bonnet, what do you wear ? — a 
 cap ! Do you put your hair in paper of nights ? Do you pay 
 the Misses Birkbeck a morning visit ? Have you any tea, or do 
 you milk-and-water with them 1 What place of worship do you 
 go to — the Quakers, Moravians, the Unitarians, or the Metho- 
 dists ? Are there any flowers in bloom you like ? Any beautiful 
 heaths ? Any streets full of corset-makers ? What sort of shoes 
 have you to put those pretty feet of yours in ? Do you desire com- 
 pliments to one another ? Do you ride on horseback ? What do 
 you have for breakfast, dinner, and supper, without mentioning 
 lunch and bite, and wet and snack, and a bit to stay one's sto- 
 mach ? Do you get any spirits ? Now you might easily distil 
 some whisky, and, going into the woods, set up a whisky-shop for 
 the monkeys ! Do you and the other ladies get groggy on any 
 thing ? A little so-so-ish, so as to be seen home with a lanthorn ? 
 You may perhaps have a game at Puss-in-the-corner : ladies are 
 
 * See the " Literary Remains." 
 
160 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 warranted to play at this game, though they have not whiskers. 
 Have you a fiddle in the Settlement, or, at any rate, a Jew's-harp 
 which will play in spite of one's teeth ? When you have nothing 
 else to do for a whole day, I'll tell you how you may employ it : 
 first get up, and when you are dressed, as it would be pretty ear- 
 ly, with a high wind in the woods, give George a cold pig, with 
 my compliments, then you may saunter into the nearest coffee- 
 house, and after taking a dram and a look at the " Chronicle," 
 go and frighten the wild bears on the strength of it. You may as 
 well bring one home for breakfast, serving up the hoofs, garnished 
 with bristles, and a grunt or two, to accompany the singing of the 
 kettle. Then, if George is not up, give him a colder pig, always 
 with my compliments. After you have eaten your breakfast, 
 keep your eye upon dinner, it is the safest way; you should keep 
 a hawk's eye over your dinner, and keep hovering over it till due 
 time, then pounce upon it, taking care not to break any plates. 
 While you are hovering with your dinner in prospect, you may 
 do a thousand things — put a hedge-hog into George's hat, pour a 
 little water into his rifle, soak his boots in a pail of water, cut his 
 jacket round into shreds, like a Roman kilt, or the back of my 
 
 grandmother's stays, tear off his buttons 
 
 The following poem, the last I have written, is the first and 
 only one with which I have taken even moderate pains ; I have, 
 for the most part, dashed off my lines in a hurry; this one I have 
 done leisurely ; I think it reads the more richly for it, and it will 
 I hope encourage me to write other things in even a more peacea- 
 ble and healthy spirit. You must recollect that Psyche was not 
 embodied as a goddess before the time of Apuleius the Platonist, 
 who lived after the Augustan age, and consequently the goddess 
 was never worshipped or sacrificed to with any of the ancient fer- 
 vor, and perhaps never thought of in the old religion : I am more 
 orthodox than to let a heathen goddess be neglected. 
 
 {Here folhiL's the " Ode to Psyche'^ already puhlished.) 
 
 I have been endeavoring to discover a better Sonnet stanza 
 than we have. The legitimate does not suit the language well, 
 from the pouncing rhymes ; the other appears too elegiac, and 
 
JOHN KEATS. 181 
 
 the couplet at the end of it has seldom a pleasing effect. I do not 
 pretend to have succeeded. It will explain itself: — 
 
 " If by doll rhTtaes oar Engtisli most be chained" ice.* 
 
 This is the third of May, and every thing is ia delightful for- 
 wardness : the violets are not withered before the peeping of the 
 first rose. You must let me know every thing, now parcels go 
 and come — what papers you have, and what newspapers you 
 want, and other things. God bless you, ray dear brother and 
 sister. 
 
 Your ever affectionate brother, 
 
 JoKx Keats. 
 
 The family of George Keats in America possess a Dante co- 
 vered with his brother's maiginal notes and observaticHis, and 
 these annotations on *^ Paradise Lost," appeared in an American 
 periodical of much literary and philosc^hical merit, entitled '* The 
 Dial :" they were written in the ffy-leaves of the book, and are in 
 the tone of thought that generated -' Hyperion." 
 
 NOTES ON MILTON. 
 
 " The genius of Bfilton, more particularly in respect to its 
 span in immensity, calculated him by a sort of birth-right for such 
 an aigument as the * Paradise Lost.' He had an exquisite pas- 
 sion for what is properly, in the sense of ease and pleasure, poeti- 
 cal luxury ; and with that, it appears to me, he would fain have 
 been content, if he could, so doing, preserve his self-respect and 
 feeling of duty performed ; but there was working in him, as it 
 were, that same sort of thing which operates in the great world to 
 the end of a prophecy's being accomplished. Therefore he de- 
 voted himself rather to the ardors than the pleasures of song, so- 
 lacing himself, at intervals, with cups of old wine ; and those 
 are, with some exceptions, the finest parts of the poem. With 
 some exceptions ; for the spirit of mounting and adventure can 
 never be imfhiitful nor unrewarded. Had he not broken through 
 
 * See the ** Litenry Remains.'* 
 9 
 
182 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the clouds which envelop so deliciously the Elysian fields of verse, 
 and committed himself to the extreme, we should never have seen 
 Satan as described. 
 
 ' But his face 
 Deep scars of thunder had entrenched/ &c. 
 
 " There is a greatness which the ' Paradise Lost ' possesses 
 over every other Poem, the magnitude of contrast, and that is 
 softened by the contrast being ungrotesque to a degree. Heaven 
 moves on like music thoughout. 
 
 " Hell is also peopled with angels ; it also moves on like 
 music, not grating and harsh, but like a grand accompaniment in 
 the bass to Heaven. 
 
 " There is always a great charm in the openings of great 
 Poems, particularly where the action begins, as that of Dante's 
 Hell. Of Hamlet, the first step must be heroic and full of 
 power ; and nothing can be more impressive and shaded than the 
 commencement here : — 
 
 ' Round he throws his baleful eyes 
 That witnessed huge aflBiction and dismay, 
 Mixed with obdurate pride and stedfast hate ;' &c. 
 
 Par. Lost, Book I., 1. 56. 
 
 " * To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven/ 
 
 Book L, 1. 32L 
 
 " There is a cool pleasure in the very sound of vale. 
 
 " The English word is of the happiest chance [choice]. MiL 
 ton has put vales in Heaven and Hell with the very utter affec- 
 tion and yearning of a great Poet. It is a sort of Delphic abstrac- 
 tion, a beautiful thing made more beautiful by being reflected 
 and put in a mist. The next mention of ' vale ' is one of the 
 most pathetic in the whole range of poetry. 
 
 ' Others more mild 
 Retreated in a silent valley, sing, 
 With notes angelical, to many a harp. 
 
JOHN KEATS. lb. 
 
 Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall 
 By doom of battle ! and complain that fate 
 Free virtue should inthrall to force or chance. 
 Their song was partial ; but the harmony 
 (What could it less when spirits immortal sing?) 
 Suspended hell, and took with ravishment 
 The thronging audience.' 
 
 Book II„ 1. 547. 
 
 '' How much of the charm is in the word valley ! 
 
 " The light and shade, the sort of black brightness, the ebon 
 diamonding, the Ethiop immortality, the sorrow, the pain, the sad 
 sweet melody, the phalanges of spirits so depressed as to be ' up- 
 lifted beyond hope,' the short mitigation of misery, the thousand 
 melancholies and magnificencies of the following lines leave no 
 room for any thing to be said thereon, but 'so it is.' 
 
 * That proud honor claimed 
 Azazel as his right, a cherub tall. 
 Who forthwith from the glittermg staff unfurled 
 The imperial ensign, which, full high advanced. 
 Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, 
 With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed, 
 Seraphic arms and trophies ; all the while 
 Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds ; 
 At which the universal host up-sent 
 A shout, that tore hell's concave, and beyond 
 Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
 All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
 Ten thousand banners rise into the air 
 With orient colors waving ; with them rose 
 A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms 
 Appeared, and serried shields in thick array. 
 Of depth immeasurable ; anon they move 
 In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
 Of flutes and soft recorders ; such as raised 
 To height of noblest temper heroes old 
 Arming to battle ; and instead of rage 
 Deliberate valor breathed, firm and unmoved 
 With dread of death to flight or foul retreat ; 
 Nor wanting power to mitigate and suage 
 With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase 
 Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain 
 From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they 
 
184 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Breathing united force, with fixed thought, 
 Moved on in silence to soft pipes, that charmed 
 Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil ; and now 
 Advanced in view they stand, a horrid front 
 Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise 
 Of warriors old with ordered spear and shield, 
 Awaiting what command their mighty chief 
 Had to impose.' 
 
 Book L, 1. 533—567. 
 
 " How noble and collected an indignation against kings, line 
 595, Book 1st. His very wishing should have had power to 
 pluck that feeble animal Charles from his bloody throne. The 
 evil days had conje to him : he hit the new system of things a 
 mighty mental blow ; the exertion must have had, or is yet to 
 have, some sequences. 
 
 " The management of this poem is Apollonian. Satan first 
 ' throws round his baleful eyes,' then awakes his legions ; he 
 consults, he sets forward on his voyage, and just as he is getting 
 to the end of it, see the Great God and our first Parent, and that 
 same Satan, all brought in one vision ; we have the invocation to 
 light before we mount to heaven, we breathe more freely, we 
 feel the great author's consolations coming thick upon him at a 
 time when he complains most ; v/e are getting ripe for diversity ; 
 the immediate topic of the poem opens with a grand perspective 
 of all concerned. 
 
 " Book IV. A friend of mine says this book has the finest 
 opening of any ; the point of time is gigantically critical, the wax 
 is melted, the seal about to be applied, and Milton breaks out, 
 
 ' O for that warning voice,' &c. 
 
 There is, moreover, an opportunity for a grandeur of tenderness. 
 The opportunity is not lost. Nothing can be higher, nothing so 
 more than Delphic. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 185 
 
 '•' There are two specimens of very extraordinary beauty in 
 the ' Paradise Lost ;' they are of a nature, so far as I have read, 
 unexampled elsewhere : they are entirely distinct from the brief 
 pathos of Dante, and they are not to be found even in Shakspeare. 
 These are, according to the great prerogative of poetry, better 
 described in themselves than by a volume. The one is in line 
 268, Book IV : 
 
 * Not that fair field 
 Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers, 
 Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis 
 Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain 
 To seek her through the world.' 
 
 " The other is that ending ' nor could the Muse defend her son.' 
 
 ' But drive far ofl" the barbarous dissonance 
 Of Bacchus and his revelers, the race 
 Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard 
 In Rhodope, whe:e woods and rocks had ears 
 To rapture, till the savage clamor drowned 
 Both harp and voice ; nor could the Muse defend 
 Her son.' 
 
 " These appear exclusively Miltonic, without the shadow of 
 another mind ancient or modern. 
 
 " Book YI, line 5S. Reluctant, with its original and modern 
 meaning combined and woven together, with all its shades of sig- 
 nification, has a powerful effect. 
 
 •' Milton in many instances pursues his imagination to the ut- 
 most, he is ' sagacious of his quarry,' he sees beauty on the wing, 
 pounces upon it, and gorges it to the producing his essential verse. 
 
 ' So from the root springs lither the green stalk.' 
 
 " But in no instance is this sort of perseverance more exem- 
 plified, than in wliat may be called his stationing or statuary. He 
 is not content with simple description, he must station ; thus here 
 
186 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 we not only see how the birds ' luith dang despised the ground,^ but 
 we see them ^ under a cloud in prospect.^ So we see Adam ^fair 
 indeed and tall,^ ^ under a plantain,'' and so we see Satan -'rfi^^- 
 gured' ' on the Assyrian mount.' " 
 
 The copy of "Spenser" which Keats had in daily use, con- 
 tains the following stanza, inserted at the close of Canto ii, Book 
 V. His sympathies were very much on the side of the revolu- 
 tionary " Gyant," who " undertook for to repair " the " realms 
 and nations run awry," and to suppress " tyrants that make men 
 subject to their law," " and lordings curbe that commons over- 
 aw," while he grudged the legitimate victory, as he rejected the 
 conservative philosophy, of the " righteous Artegall " and his 
 comrade, the fierce defender of privilege and order. And he ex- 
 pressed, in this ex post facto prophecy, his conviction of the ulti- 
 mate triumph of freedom and equality by the power of transmitted 
 knowledge. 
 
 " In after-time, a sage of mickle lore 
 Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took, 
 And did refit his limbs as heretofore. 
 And made him read in many a learned book. 
 And into many a lively legend look ; 
 Thereby in goodly themes so training him. 
 That all his brutishness he quite forsook, 
 When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim. 
 The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim " 
 
 The " Literary Remains " will contain many sonnets and 
 songs, written during these months, in the intervals of more com- 
 plete compositions ; but the following pieces are so fragmentary 
 as more becomingly to take their place in the naiTative of the 
 author's life, than to show as substantive productions. Yet it is, 
 perhaps, just in verses like these that the individual character 
 pronounces itself most distinctly, and confers a general interest 
 which more care of art at once elevates and diminishes. The 
 occasional verses of a great poet are records, as it were, of his 
 poetical table-talk, remembrances of his daily self and its Intel- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 187 
 
 lectual companionship, more delightful from what they recall, than 
 for what they are — more interesting for what they suggest, than 
 for what they were ever meant to be. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Where's the Poet ? show him ! show him ! 
 
 Muses nine ! that I may know him ! 
 
 'Tis the man who with a man 
 
 Is an equal, be he King, 
 
 Or poorest of the beggar-clan, 
 
 Or any other wondrous thing 
 
 A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato ; 
 
 *Tis the man who with a bird. 
 
 Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to 
 
 All its instincts ; he hath heard 
 
 The Lion's roaring, and can tell 
 
 What his horny throat expresseth ; 
 
 And to him the Tiger's yell 
 
 Comes articulate and presseth 
 
 On his ear Uke mother-tongue. 
 
 MODERN LOVE. 
 
 And what is love 1 It is a doll dress'd up 
 
 For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle ; 
 
 A thing of soft misnomers, so divine 
 
 That silly youth doth think to make itself 
 
 Divine by loving, and so goes on 
 
 Yawning and doting a whole summer long. 
 
 Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara. 
 
 And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots ; 
 
 Then Cleopatra lives at number seven, 
 
 And Anthony resides in Brunswick Square. 
 
 Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world, 
 
 If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts. 
 
 It is no reason why such agonies 
 
 Should be more common than the growth of weeds. 
 
 Fools ! make me whole again that weighty pearl 
 
 The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say 
 
 That ye may love in spite of beaver hats. 
 
188 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 FRAGMENT OF THE « CASTLE BUILDER. 
 
 To-night r]l have my friar — let me think 
 About my room — Til have it in the pink ; 
 It should be rich and sombre, and the moon. 
 Just in its mid-life in the midst of June, 
 Should look thro' four large windows and display- 
 Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way, 
 Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor ; 
 The tapers keep aside, an hour and more. 
 To see what else the moon alone can show ; 
 "While the night-breeze doth softly let us know 
 My terrace is well bower'd with oranges. 
 Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees 
 A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove 
 Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love ; 
 A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there. 
 All fiuislied but some ringlets of her hair ; 
 A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon 
 A glorious folio of Anacreon ; 
 A skull upon a mat of roses lying, 
 Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying ; 
 An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails 
 Of passion-flower ; — just in time there sails 
 A cloud across the moon — the lights bring in ! 
 And see what more my phantasy can win. 
 It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad ; 
 The draperies are so, as tho' they bad 
 Been made for Cleopatra's winding sheet ; 
 And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet 
 A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face;. 
 In letters raven-son^bre, you may trace. 
 Old " Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin." 
 Greek busts and statuary have ever been 
 Held, by the finest spirits, fitter fir 
 Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar ; 
 Therefore 'tis sure a want of attic taste 
 That I should rather love a gothic waste 
 Of eyesight on cinque-colored potter's clay. 
 Than on the marble fairness of old Greece. 
 My table-coverlits (rf Jason's fleece 
 
JOHN KEATS. 189 
 
 And black Numidian sheep wool should be wrought. 
 
 Gold, black, and heavy from the Lama brought. 
 
 My ebon sofas should delicious be 
 
 With down from Leda's cygnet progeny. 
 
 My pictures all Salvator's, save a few 
 
 Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new, 
 
 Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence. 
 
 My wine — O good ! 'tis here at my desire. 
 
 And I must sit to supper with my friar. 
 
 ***** 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 " Under the flag 
 Of each his faction, they to battle bring 
 Their embryo atoms." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 
 Lethe's weed, and Herme's feather ; 
 
 Come to-day, and come to-morrow, 
 I do love you both together! — 
 I love to mark sad faces in fair weather ; 
 
 And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder 
 Fair and foul I love together : 
 
 Meadows sweet where flames are under. 
 
 And a giggle at a wonder ; 
 
 Visage sage at pantomime ; 
 
 Funeral, and steeple-chime ; 
 
 Infant playing with a skull ; 
 
 Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull ; 
 
 Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ; 
 
 Serpents in red roses hissing ; 
 
 Cleopatra regal-dress'd 
 
 With the aspic at her breast ; 
 
 Dancing music, music sad. 
 
 Both together, sane and mad ; 
 
 Muses bright, and muses pale ; 
 
 Sombre Saturn, Momus hale ; — 
 
 Laugh and sigh ; and laugh again ; 
 
 Oh the sweetness of the pain ! 
 9* 
 
190 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Muses bright, and muses pale. 
 Bare your faces of the veil ; 
 Let me see : and let me write 
 Of the day, and of the night — 
 Both together : — let me slake 
 All my thirst for sweet heart-ache ! 
 Let my bower be of yew, 
 Interwreath'd with myrtles new ; 
 Pines and lime-trees full in bloom, 
 And my couch a low grass tomb. 
 
 A singular instance of Keats's delicate perception occurred in 
 the composition of the " Ode on Melancholy." In the original 
 manuscript, he had intended to represent the vulgar connection 
 of Melancholy with gloom and horror, in contrast with the emo- 
 tion that incites to, 
 
 " glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
 Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;" 
 
 and which essentially 
 
 " lives in Beauty — Beauty that must die, 
 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
 Bidding adieu." 
 
 The first stanza, therefore, was the following : as grim a picture 
 as Blake or Fuseli could have dreamed and painted : 
 
 " Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones. 
 And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast, 
 Stitch shrouds together for a sail, with groans 
 To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast ; 
 Although your rudder be a dragon's tail 
 Long severed, yet still hard with agony. 
 Your cordage large uprootings from the skull 
 Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail 
 To find the Melancholy — whether she 
 Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull." 
 
JOHN KEATt 
 
 191 
 
 But no sooner was this written, than the poet became conscious 
 that the coarseness of the contrast would destroy the general effect 
 of luxurious tenderness which it was the object of the poem to 
 produce, and he confined the gross notion of melancholy to less 
 violent images, and let the ode at once begin, — 
 
 No, no I go not to Lethe, neither twist 
 
 Wolf's bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; 
 
 Xor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed 
 
 By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine," &c. 
 
 The "Eve of St. Agnes" was begun on a visit in Hampshire, 
 at the commencement of this year, and finished on his return to 
 Hampstead. It is written still under Spenserian influences, but 
 with a striking improvement in form, both of diction and versifi- 
 cation ; the story is easily conducted, and the details picturesque 
 in the highest degree, without the intricate designing of the earlier 
 poems. Lord Jeffrey remarks : " The glory and charm of the 
 poem is the description of the fair maiden's antique chamber and 
 of all that passes in that sweet and angel-guarded sanctuary, eve- 
 ry part of which is touched with colors at once rich and delicate, 
 and the whole chastened and harmonized in the midst of its gor- 
 geous distinctness by a pervading grace and purity, that indicate 
 not less clearly the exaltation, than the refinement of the author's 
 fancy." 
 
 The greater part of this summer [1819] was passed at Shank- 
 lin, in the Isle of Wight, in company with Mr. Brown, who ear- 
 nestly encouraged the full development of the genius of his friend. 
 A combination of intellectual effort was here attempted which 
 could hardly have been expected to be very successful. They 
 were to write a play between them — Brown to supply the fable, 
 characters, and dramatic conduct — Keats, the diction and the verse. 
 The two composers sat at a table, and as Mr. Brown sketched 
 out the incidents of each scene, Keats translated them into his 
 rich and ready language. As a literary diversion, this process 
 
192 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 was probably both amusing and instructive, but it does not require 
 any profound aesthetic pretensions to pronounce that a work of art 
 thus created could hardly be worthy of the name. Joint compo- 
 sitions, except of a humorous character, are always dangerous 
 attempts, and it is doubtful whether such a transference of facul- 
 ties as they presuppose, is possible at all ; at any rate, the unity 
 of form and feeling must receive an injury hard to be compensa- 
 ted by any apparent improvement of the several parts. Nay. it 
 is quite conceivable that two men. either of whom would have 
 separately produced an effective work, should give an incomplete 
 and hybrid character to a common production, sufficient to neu- 
 tralize every excellence and annihilate every charm. A poem or 
 a drama is not a picture, in which one artist may paint the land- 
 scape, and another the figures ; and a certain imperfection and in- 
 feriority of parts is often more agreeable than an attempt at that 
 entire completeness which it is only given to the very highest to 
 attain. The incidents, as suggested by Mr. Brown, after some 
 time struck Keats as too melo-dramatic, and he completed the fifth 
 act alone. This tragedy, '• Otho the Great," was sent to Drury 
 Lane, and accepted by Elliston. with a promise to bring it for- 
 ward the same season. Kean seems to have been pleased with 
 the principal character, and to haye expressed a desire to act it. 
 The manager, however, from some unknown cause, declared him- 
 self unable to perform his engagement, and ^Ir. Brown, who con- 
 ducted the negotiation without mention of Keats's name, withdrew 
 the manuscript and offered it to Covent Garden, where it met 
 with no better fate, to the considerable annoyance of the author, 
 who wrote to his friend Rice, " 'Twould do one's heart good to see 
 Macready in Ludolph.'" The unfitness of this tragedy for rep- 
 resentation is too apparent to permit the mauagersof the two thea- 
 tres to be accused of injustice or partiality. Had the name of 
 Keats been as popular as it was obscure, and his previous writing 
 as successful as it was misrepresented and misunderstood, there 
 was not sufficient interest in either the plot or the characters to 
 keep the play on the stage for a week. The story is confused 
 and unreal, and the personages are mere embodied passions ; the 
 heroine and her brother walk through the whole piece like the 
 demons of an old romance, and the historical character, who gives 
 
JOILN' KEATS. 193 
 
 his name to the play, is almost excluded from its action and made 
 a part of the pageantry. To the reader, however, the want of in- 
 terest is fully redeemed by the beauty and power of passages 
 continually recurring, and which are not cited here, only because 
 it is pleasanter for everyone to find them out for himself There 
 is scarce a page without some touch of a great poet, and the con- 
 trast between the glory of the diction and the poverty of the in- 
 vention is very striking. I own I doubt whether if the contri- 
 vance of the double authorship had not been resorted to, Keats 
 could of himself, at least at this time, have produced a much bet- 
 ter play : the failure of G)leridge*s " Remorse " is an example to 
 the point, and it is probable that the philosophic generalities of the 
 one poet did not stand more in the way of dramatic excellence 
 than the superhuman imagery and creative fancy of the other ; 
 it is conceivable that Keats might have written a '• Midsummer's 
 Night Dream,'' just as Coleridge might have written a " Ham- 
 let ;'' but In both that great human element would have been want- 
 ing, which Shakspeare so wonderfully combines with abstract re- 
 flection and with fairy-land. 
 
 As soon as Keats had finished ••' Otho,'*' Mr. Brown suggested 
 to him the character and reign of King Stephen, beginning with 
 his defeat by the Empress Maud and ending with the death of 
 his sion Eustace, as a fine subject for an English historical tra- 
 gedy. This Keats undertook, assuming, however, to himself the 
 whole conduct of the dreima, and wrote some hundred and thirty 
 lines ; this task, however, soon gave place to the impressive tale 
 of " Lamia," which had been in hand for some time, and which 
 he wrote with great care, after much study of Dryden's versifi- 
 cation. It is quite the perfection of narrative poetry. The story 
 was taken from that treasure-house of legendary philosophy, 
 'Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy." 
 
 He contemplated a poem of some length on the subject of 
 " Sabrina," as suggested by Milton, and often spoke of it, but I 
 do not find any fragments of the work. 
 
 A letter to Mr. Reynolds, dated Shanklin, July 12, contains 
 allusions to his literary progress and his pecuniary difficulties. 
 
194 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " You will be glad to hear, under my own hand, (though 
 Rice says we are like Sauntering Jack and Idle Joe,) how dili- 
 gent I have been, and am being. I have finished the act, and in 
 the interval of beginning the second have proceeded pretty well 
 with ' Lamia,' finishing the first part, which consists of about four 
 hundred lines. ... I have great hopes of success, because I 
 make use of my judgment more deliberately than I have yet done ; 
 but in case of failure with the world, I shall find my content. 
 And here (as I know you have my good at heart as much as a 
 brother) I can only repeat to you what J have said to George — 
 that however I should like to enjoy what the competencies of life 
 procure, I am in no wise dashed at a different prospect. I have 
 spent too many thoughtful days, and moralized through too many 
 nights for that, and fruitless would they be, indeed, if they did 
 not, by degrees, make me look upon the affairs of the world with 
 a healthy deliberation. I have of late been moulting : — not for 
 fresh feathers and wings, — they are gone, and in their stead I 
 hope to have a pair of patient sublunary legs. I have altered, 
 not from a chrysalis into a butterfly, but the contrary ; having 
 too little loopholes, whence I may look out into the stage of the 
 world : and that world, on our coming here, I almost forgot. 
 The first time I sat down to write, I could scarcely believe in the 
 necessity for so doing. It struck me as a great oddity. Yet the 
 very corn which is now so beautiful, as if it had only took to 
 ripening yesterday, is for the market ; so, why should I be 
 delicate ?" 
 
 Shanklin, Augusts, 1819. 
 My Dear Dilke, 
 
 I will not make my diligence an excuse for not writing 
 to you sooner, because I consider idleness a much better plea. 
 A man in the hurry of business of any sort, is expected, and 
 ought to be expected, to look to every thing ; his mind is in a 
 whirl, and what matters it, what whirl ? But to require a letter 
 of a man lost in idleness, is the utmost cruelty ; you cut the 
 thread of his existence ; you beat, you pummel him ; you sell his 
 
JOHX KEATS. 195 
 
 goods and chattels ; 3'ou put him in prison ; you impale him ; 
 you crucify him. If I had not put pen to paper since I saw you, 
 this would be to me a vi et armis taking up before the judge ; but 
 having got over my darling lounging habits a little, it is with 
 scarcely any pain I come to this dating from Shanklin. The 
 Isle of Wight is but so-so, &c. Rice and I passed rather a dull 
 time of it. I hope he will not repent coming with me. He was 
 unwell, and I was not in very good health ; and I am afraid we 
 made each other worse by acting upon each other's spirits. We 
 would grow as melancholy as need be. J confess I cannot bear 
 a sick person in a house, especially alone. It weighs upon me 
 da}'^ and night, and more so when perhaps the cause is irretriev- 
 able. Indeed. I think Rice is in a dangerous state. I have had 
 a letter from him which speaks favorably of his health at present. 
 Brown and I are pretty well harnessed again to our dog-cart. I 
 mean the tragedy, which goes on sinkingly. We are thinking of 
 introducing an elephant, but have not historical reference within 
 reach to determine us as to Otho's menagerie. When Brown 
 first mentioned this I took it for a joke ; however, he brings such 
 plausible reasons, and discourses so eloquently on the dramatic 
 effect, that I am giving it a serious consideration. The Art of 
 Poetry is not sufficient for us, and if we get on in that as well as 
 we do in painting, we shall, by next winter, crush the Reviews 
 and the Royal Academy. Indeed, if Brown would take a little 
 of my advice, he could not fail to be first pallette of his day. But, 
 odd as it may appear, he says plainly that he cannot see any 
 force in my plea of putting skies in the back-ground, and leaving 
 Indian-ink out of an ash-tree. The other day he was sketching 
 Shanklin Church, and as I saw how the business was going on, I 
 challenged him to a trial of skill : he lent me pencil and paper. 
 We keep the sketches to contend for the prize at the Gallery. I 
 will not say whose I think best, but really I do not think Brown's 
 done to the top of the Art. 
 
 A word or two on the Isle of Wight. I have been no further 
 than Steephill. If I may guess, I should [say] that there is no 
 finer part in the island than from this place to Steephill. I do 
 not hesitate to say it is fine. Bonchurch is the best. But I have 
 been so many finer walks, with a back-ground of lake and moun- 
 
196 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tain, instead of the sea, that I am not much touched with it, though 
 I credit it for all the surprise I should have felt if it had taken 
 my cockney maiden-head. But I may call myself an old stager 
 in the picturesque, and unless it be something very large and 
 overpowering, I cannot receive any extraordinary relish. 
 
 1 am sorry to hear that Charles is so much oppressed at West- 
 minster, though I am sure it will be the finest touchstone for his 
 metal in the world. His troubles will grow, day by day, less, as 
 his age and strength increase. The very first battle he wins will 
 lift him from the tribe of Manasseh. I do not know how I should 
 feel were I a father, but I hope I should strive w4th all my power 
 not to let the present trouble me. When your boy shall be 
 twenty, ask him about his childish troubles, and he will have no 
 more memory of them than you have of yours. 
 
 So Reynolds's piece succeeded : that is all well. Papers 
 have, with thanks, been duly received. We leave this place on 
 the 13th, and will let you know where we may be a few days 
 after. Brown says he will write when the fit comes on him. 
 If you will stand law expenses I'll beat him into one before his 
 time. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 In August, the friends removed to Winchester, where Mr. 
 Brown, however, soon left him alone. This was always a favor- 
 ite residence of Keats : the noble cathedral and its quiet close — 
 the green-sward and elm-tree walks, were especially agreeable 
 to him. He wrote thence the followino: letters and extracts : — 
 
 To Mr. Haydon. 
 
 I came here in the hopes of getting a library, but there is 
 none : the High Street is as quiet as a lamb. At Mr. Cross's is a 
 very interesting picture of Albert Durer, who, being alive in 
 such warlike times, was perhaps forced to paint in his gauntlets, 
 so we must make all allowances. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 197 
 
 I have done Dothing, except for the amusement of a few peo- 
 ple who refine upon their feelings till any thing in the ww-under- 
 standable way will go down with them. I have no cause to com- 
 plain, because I am certain any thing really fine will in these 
 days be felt. I have no doubt that if I had written " Othello " I 
 should have been cheered. I shall go on with patience. 
 
 To Mr. Bailey. 
 
 We removed to Winchester for the convenience of a library, 
 and find it an exceedingly pleasant town, enriched with a beauti- 
 ful cathedral, and surrounded by a fresh-looking country. We 
 are in tolerably good and cheap lodgings. Within the.se two 
 months I have written fifteen hundred lines, most of which, be- 
 sides many more of prior composition, j^ou will probably see by 
 next winter. I have written two tales, one from Boccacio, called 
 the " Pot of Basil,'' and another called " St. Agnes' Eve," on a 
 popular superstition, and a third called " Lamia " (half-finished). 
 I have also been writing parts of my '• Hyperion,'' and completed 
 four acts of a tragedy. It was the opinion of most of my friends 
 that I should never be able to write a scene : I will endeavor to 
 wipe away the prejudice. I sincerely hope you will be pleased 
 when my labors, since we last saw each other, shall reach you. 
 One of my ambitions is to make as great a revolution in modem 
 dramatic writing as Kean has done in acting. Another, to upset 
 the drawling of the blue-stocking literary world. If, in the 
 course of a few years, I do these two things, I ought to die con- 
 tent, and my friends should drink a dozen of claret on my tomb. 
 I am convinced more and more every day, that (excepting the 
 human-friend philosopher), a fine writer is the most genuine being 
 in the world. Shakspeare and the "Paradise Lost " every day 
 become greater wonders to me. I look upon fine phrases like a 
 lover. 
 
 I was glad to see, b}- a passage of one of Brown's letters, 
 some time ago^from the North, that you were in such good spirits- 
 Since that, you have been married, and in congratulating you, I 
 wish you every continuance of them. Present my respects to 
 Mrs. Bailey. This sounds oddly to me, and I dare say I do it 
 
198 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF 
 
 awkwardly enough ; but I suppose by this time it is nothing new 
 
 to you. 
 
 Brown's remembrances to you. As far as I know, we shall 
 remain at Winchester for a goodish while. 
 
 Ever your sincere friend. 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 WixcHESTEK, 23rf August, 1819. 
 
 My DeaFu Taylor, 
 
 * * * ^ * 
 
 I feel every confidence that, if I choose, I may be a popular 
 writer. That I will never be ; but for all that I will get a liveli- 
 hood. I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a 
 woman. They are both a cloying treacle to the wings of inde- 
 pendence. ] shall now consider them (the people) as debtors to 
 me for verses, not myself to them for admiration, which I can do 
 without. I have of late been indulging my spleen by composing 
 a preface at them ; after all resolving never to write a preface at 
 all. " There are so many verses," would I have said to them ; 
 " give so much means for me to buy pleasure with, as a relief to 
 my hours of labor." You will observe at the end of this, if you 
 put down the letter, " How a solitary life engenders pride and 
 egotism !" True — I know it does : but this pride and egotism 
 wall enable me to write finer things than any thing else could, so 
 I will indulge it. Just so much as t am humbled by the genius 
 above my grasp, am I exalted and look with hate and contempt 
 upon the literary world. A drummer-boy who holds out his hand 
 familiarly to a field-marshal, — that drummer-boy with me is the 
 good word and favor of the public. Who could wish to be among 
 the common-place crowd of the little-famous, who are each indi- 
 vidually lost in a throng made up of themselves ? Is this worth 
 louting or playing the hypocrite for ? To beg suffrages for a 
 seat on the benches of a myriad-aristocracy in letters ? This is 
 not wise — I am not a wise man. 'Tis pride. I will give you 
 a definition of a proud man. He is a man who has neither 
 vanity nor wisdom — one filled with hatred cannot be vain, 
 neither can he be wise. Pardon me for hammerinor instead of 
 
JOHN KEATS. 199 
 
 writing. Remember me to Woodhouse, Hessey, and all in Percy 
 
 Street. 
 
 Ever yours sincerely, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Winchester, August 25, [1819.] 
 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 By this post I write to Rice, who will tell you why 
 we have left Shanklin, and how we like this place. I have in- 
 deed scarcely any thing else to say, leading so monotonous a life, 
 unless I was to give you a history of sensations and day night- 
 mares. You would not find me at all unhappy in it, as all my 
 thoughts and feelings, which are of the selfish nature, home spe- 
 culations, every day continue to make me more iron. I am con- 
 vinced more and more, every day, that fine writing is, next to fine 
 doing, the top thing in the world ; the " Paradise Lost " becomes 
 a greater wonder. The more I know what my diligence may in 
 time probably efTect, the more does my heart distend with pride and 
 obstinacy. I feel it in my power to become a popular writer. I 
 feel it in my power to refuse the poisonous suffrage of a public. 
 My own being, which I know to be, becomes of more consequence 
 to me than the crowds of shadows in the shape of men and women 
 that inhabit a kingdom. The soul is a world of itself, and has 
 enough to do in its own home. Those whom 1 know already, 
 and who have grown as it were a part of myself, I could not do 
 without ; but for the rest of mankind, they are as much a dream 
 to me as Milton's "Hierarchies." I think if I had a free and 
 healthy and lasting organization of heart, and lungs as strong a.s 
 an ox, so as to be able [to bear] unhurt the shock of extreme 
 thought and sensation without weariness, I could pass my life very 
 nearly alone, though it should last eighty years. But I feel my 
 body too weak to support me to this height ; I am obliged con- 
 tinually to check myself, and be nothing. 
 
 It would be vain for me to endeavor after a more reasonable 
 manner of writing to you. I have nothing to speak of but my- 
 self, and what can I say but what I feel ? If you should have 
 any reason to regret this state of excitement in me, I will turn 
 
200 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the tide of your feelings in the right channel, by mentioning that 
 it is the only state for the best sort of poetry — that is all I care 
 for, all I live for. Forgive me for not filling up the whole sheet ; 
 letters become so irksome to me, that the next time I leave Lon- 
 don I shall petition them all to be spared to me. To give me 
 credit for constancy, and at the same time waive letter-writing, 
 will be the highest indulgence I can think of. 
 
 Ever your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Winchester, Wednesday Evening. 
 My Deae Dilke, 
 
 Whatever I take to, for the time, I cannot leave 
 off in a hurry ; letter-writing is the go now ; I have consumed a 
 quire at least. You must give me credit, now, for a free letter, 
 when it is in reality an interested one on two points, the one re- 
 questive, the other verging to the pros and cons. As I expect they 
 will lead me to seeing and conferring with you for a short time, I 
 shall not enter at all upon a letter I have lately received from 
 George, of not the most comfortable intelligence, but proceed to 
 these two points, which, if you can Hume out into sections and 
 subsections, for my edification, you will oblige me. The first I 
 shall begin upon ; the other will follow like a tail to a comet. I 
 have written to Brown on the subject, and can but go over the 
 same ground with you in a very short time, it not being more in 
 length than the ordinary paces between the wickets. It concerns 
 a resolution I have taken to endeavor to acquire something by 
 temporary writing in periodical works. You must agree with me 
 how unwise it is to keep feeding upon hopes, which depending so 
 much on the state of temper and imagination, appear gloomy or 
 bright, near or afar off, just as it happens. Now an act has three 
 parts — to act, to do, and to perform — I mean I should do some- 
 thing for my immediate welfare. Even if I am swept away like 
 a spider from a drawing-room, I am determined to spin — home- 
 spun, any thing for sale. Yea, I will traffic, any thing but mort- 
 gage my brain to Blackwood. I am determined not to lie like a 
 dead lump. You may say I want tact. That is easily acquired. 
 You may be up to the slang of a cock-pit in three battles. It is 
 
JOHN KEATS. 201 
 
 fortunate I have not, before this, been tempted to venture on the 
 common. I should, a year or two ago, liave spoken my mind on 
 every subject with the utmost simplicity. I hope I have learned 
 a little belter, and am confident I shall be able to cheat as well as 
 any literary Jew of the market, and shine up an article on any 
 thing, without much knowledge of the subject, aye, like an orange. 
 I would willingly have recourse to other means. I cannot ; I am 
 fit for nothing but literature. Wait for the issue of this tragedy ? 
 No : there cannot be greater uncertainties, east, west, north, and 
 south, than concerning dramatic composition. How many months 
 must I wait ! Had I not better begin to look about me now ? If 
 better events supersede this necessity, what harm will be done ? 
 I have no trust whatever on poetry. I don't wonder at it: the 
 marvel is to me how people read so much of it. I think you will 
 see the reasonableness of my plan. To forward it, I purpose liv- 
 ing in cheap lodgings in town, that I may be in the reach of books 
 and information, of which there is here a plentiful lack. If I can 
 [find] any place tolerably comfortable, I will settle myself and 
 fag till I can afford to buy pleasure, which, if [I] never can afford, 
 I must go without. Talking of pleasure, this moment I was 
 writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my mouth a 
 nectarine. Good God, how fine ! It went down soft, pulpy, 
 slushy, oozy — all its delicious embmipoint melted down my throat 
 like a large beatified strawberry. Now I come to my request. 
 Should you like me for a neighbor again ? Come, plump it out, 
 I won't blush. I should also be in the neighborhood of Mrs. Wy- 
 lie, which I should be glad of, though that of course does not in- 
 fluence me. Therefore will you look about Rodney Street for a 
 couple of rooms for me — rooms like the gallant's legs in Massin- 
 ger's time, " as good as the times allow, Sir !" I have written 
 to-day to Reynolds, and to Woodhouse. Do you know him ? He 
 is a friend of Taylor's, at whom Brown has taken one of his fun- 
 ny odd dislikes. I'm sure he's wrong, because Woodhouse likes 
 my poetry — conclusive. I ask your opinion, and yet I must say 
 to you, as to him (Brown), that if you have any thing to say 
 against it I shall be as obstinate and heady as a Radical. By the 
 " Examiners " coming in your handwriting you must be in town. 
 They have put me into spirits. Notwithstanding my aristocratic 
 
202 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 temper, I caDnot he'p being very much pleased with the present 
 public proceedings. I hope sincerely I shall be able to put a mite 
 of help to the liberal side of the question before I die. If you 
 should have left town again (for your holidays cannot be up yet), 
 let me know when this is forwarded to you. A most extraordi- 
 nary mischance has befallen two letters I wrote Brown — one from 
 London, whither I was obliged to go on business for George; the 
 other from this place since my return. I can't make it out. I 
 am excessively sorry for it. I shall hear from Brown and from 
 you almost together, for I have sent him a letter to-day. 
 
 Ever your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Wi>f CHESTER, Sept. b, 1819. 
 My Dear Taylor, 
 
 This morning I received yours of the 2nd, and with 
 it a letter from Hessey, inclosing a bank post bill of £30, an am- 
 ple sum I assure you — more I had not thought of. You should 
 not have delayed so long in Fleet Street ; leading an inactive life 
 as you did was breathing poison : you will find the country air do 
 more for you than you expect. But it must be proper country 
 air. You must choose a spot. What sort of a place is Retford ? 
 You should have a dry, gravelly, barren, elevated country, open 
 to the currents of air, and such a place is generally furnished with 
 the finest springs. The neighborhood of a rich, inclosed, fulsome, 
 manured, arable land, especially in a valley, and almost as bad 
 on a flat, would be almost as bad as the smoke of Fleet Street. 
 Such a place as this was Shanklin, only open to the south-east, 
 and surrounded by hills in every other direction. From this 
 south-east came the damps from the sea, which, having no egress, 
 the air would for days together take on an unhealthy idiosyncra- 
 sy altogether enervating and weakening as a city smoke. I felt 
 it very much. Since I have been here in Winchester I have been 
 improving in health : it is not so confined, and there is, on one 
 side of the city, a dry chalky down, where the air is worth six- 
 pence a pint. So if you do not get better at Retford, do not im- 
 pute it to your own weakness until you have well considered the 
 
JOHN KEATS. 203 
 
 nature of the air and soil — especially as Autumn is encroaching 
 — for the Autumn fog over a rich land is like the steam from cab- 
 bage water. What makes the great difference between valesmen, 
 flatlandmen, and mountaineers ? The cultivation of the earth in 
 a great measure. Our health, temperament, and disposition, are 
 taken more (notwithstanding the contradiction of the history of 
 Cain and Abel) from the air we breathe, than is generally imag- 
 ined. See the difference between a peasant and a butcher. I 
 am convinced a great cause of it is the difference of the air they 
 breathe : the one takes his mingled with the fume of slaughter, 
 the other from the dank exhalement from the glebe ; the teeming 
 damp that comes up from the plough-furrow is of more effect in 
 taming the fierceness of a strong man than his labor. Let him 
 be mowing furze upon a mountain, and at the day's end his 
 thoughts will run upon a pick-axe if he ever had handled one ; — 
 let him leave the plough, and he will think quietly of his supper. 
 Agriculture is the tamer of men — the steam from the earth is like 
 drinking their mother's milk — it enervates their nature. This 
 appears a great cause of the imbecility of the Chinese : and if 
 this sort of atmosphere is a mitigation to the energies of a strong 
 man, how much more must it injure a weak one, unoccupied, un- 
 exercised ? For what is the cause of so many men maintaining 
 a good state in cities, but occupation ? An idle man, a man who 
 is not sensitively alive to self-interest, in a city, cannot continue 
 long in good health. This is easily explained. If you were to 
 walk leisurely through an unwholesome path in the fens, with a 
 little horror of them, you would be sure to have your ague. But 
 let Macbeth cross the same path, with the dagger in the air lead- 
 ing him on, and he would never have an ague or any thing like it. 
 You should give these things a serious consideration. Notts, I 
 believe, is a flat country. You should be on the slope of one of 
 the dry barren hills in Somersetshire. I am convinced there is as 
 harmful air to be breathed in the country as in town. 
 
 I am greatly obliged to you for your letter. Perhaps, if you 
 had had strength and spirits enough, you would have felt offended 
 by my offering a note of hand, or, rather, expressed it. However, 
 I am sure you will give me credit for not in anywise mistrusting 
 you ; or imagining that you would take advantage of any power 
 
204 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 I might give you over me. No, it proceeded from my serious re- 
 solve not to be a gratuitous borrower, from a great desire to be 
 correct in money matters, to have in my desk the chronicles of 
 them to refer to, and know my worldly non-estate : besides, in 
 case of my death, such documents would be but just, if merely as 
 memorials of the friendly turns I had done to me. 
 
 Had I known of your illness I should not have written in 
 such fiery phrase in my first letter. I hope that shortly you will 
 be able to bear six times as much. 
 
 Brown likes the tragedy very much, but he is not a fit judge 
 of it, as I have only acted as midwife to his plot, and of course he 
 will be fond of his child. I do not think I can make you any ex- 
 tracts without spoiling the effect of the whole when you come to 
 read it. I hope you will then not think my labor misspent. Since 
 I finished it I have finished " Lamia," and am now occupied in 
 revising " St. Agnes' Eve," and studying Italian. Ariosto I find 
 as diffuse, in parts, as Spenser. 1 understand completely the 
 difference between them. I will cross the letter with some lines 
 from " Lamia." 
 
 Brown's kindest remembrances to you, and I am ever your 
 most sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 I shall be alone here for three weeks, expecting account of 
 your health. 
 
 Winchester, 22(1 Sept., 1819. 
 My Dear Reynolds, 
 
 I was very glad to hear from Woodhouse that you 
 would meet in the country. I hope you will pass some pleasant 
 time together ; which I wish to make pleasanter by a brace of 
 letters, very highly to be estimated, as really I have had very bad 
 luck with this sort of game this season. I " kepen in solitarinesse," 
 for Brown has gone a- visiting. I am surprised myself at the plea- 
 sure I live alone in. I can give you no news of the place here, 
 or any other idea of it, but what I have to this effect writen to 
 George. Yesterday, I say to him, was a grand day for Winches- 
 ter. They elected a mayor. It was indeed high time the place 
 
JOHN IvEATS. 20 
 
 should receive some sort of excitement. There was nothing going 
 on — all asleep — not an old maid's sedan returning from a card- 
 party ; and if any old women got tipsy at christenings they did 
 not expose it in the streets. 
 
 The side streets here are excessively maiden-lady like ; the 
 door-steps always fresh from the flannel. The knockers have a 
 staid, serious, nay, almost awful quietness about them. I never 
 saw so quiet a collection of lions' and rams' heads. The doors 
 [are] most part black, with a little brass handle just above the 
 keyhole, so that in Winchester a man may very quietly shut him- 
 self out of his own house. 
 
 How beautiful the season is now. How fine the air — a tem- 
 perate sharpness about it. R.eally, without joking, chaste weather 
 — Dian skies. 1 never liked stubble-fields so much as now — aye, 
 better than the chilly green of the Spring. Somehow, a stubble- 
 field looks warm, in the same way that some pictures look warm. 
 This struck me so much in my Sunday's walk that I composed 
 upon it.* 
 
 " Season of mists and mellow fioiitfiilness," &;c. 
 
 I hope you are better employed than in gaping after weather. 
 I have been, at different times, so happy as not to know what 
 weather it was. No, I will not copy a parcel of verses. I always 
 somehow associate Chatterton with Autumn. He is the purest 
 writer in the English language. He has no French idiom or par- 
 ticles, like Chaucer ; "tis genuine English idiom in English words. 
 I have given up '•' Hyperion," — there were too many Miltonic 
 inversions in it — Miltonic verse cannot be written but iii an artful, 
 or, rather, artist's humor. I wish to give myself up to other 
 sensations. English ought to be kept up. It may be interesting 
 to you to pick out some lines from " Hyperion," and put a mark, 
 +, to the false beauty, proceeding from art, and 1, 2, to the true 
 voice of feeling. Upon my soul, 'twas imagination ; I cannot 
 make the distinction — every now and then there is a Miltonic in- 
 tonation — but I cannot make the division properly. The fact is, 1 
 
 * See the fine lines, " To Autumn," in the collected works. 
 10 
 
206 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 must take a walk ; for I am writing a long letter to George, and 
 have been employed at it all the morning. You will ask, have I 
 heard from George ? I am sorry to say, not the best news — I 
 hope for better. This is the reason, among others, that if I write 
 to you it must be in such a scrap-like way. I have no meridian 
 to date interests from, or measure circumstances. To-night I am 
 all in a mist : I scarcely know what's what. But you, knowing 
 my unsteady and vagarish disposition, will guess that all this tur- 
 moil will be settled by to-morrow morning. It strikes me to-night 
 that I have led a very odd sort of life for the two or three last 
 years — here and there, no anchor — I am glad of it. If you can 
 get a peep at Babbicomb before you leave the country, do. I 
 think it the finest place I have seen, or is to be seen in the south. 
 There is a cottage there I took warm water at, that made up for 
 the tea. I have lately shirk'd some friends of ours, and I advise 
 you to do the same. I mean the blue-devils — I am never at home 
 to them. You need not fear them while you remain in Devon- 
 shire. There will be some of the family waiting for you at the 
 coach-office — but go by another coach. 
 
 I shall beg leave to have a third opinion in the first discussion 
 you have with Woodhouse — ^just half-way between both. You 
 know I will not give up any argument. In my walk to-day, I 
 stoop'd under a railing that lay across my path, and asked myself 
 "why I did not get over;" "Because," answered I, "no one 
 wanted to force you under." I would give a guinea to be a rea- 
 sonable man — good, sound sense — a says-what-he-thinks-and-does- 
 what-he-says-man — and did not take snuff. They say men near 
 death, however mad they may have been, come to their senses : I 
 hope I shall here in this letter ; there is a decent space to be very 
 sensible in — many a good proverb has been in less — nay, I have 
 heard of the statutes at large being changed into the statutes at 
 small, and printed for a watch-paper. 
 
 Your sisters, by this time, must have got the Devonshire " ees" 
 — short ees — you know 'em ; they are the prettiest ees in the 
 language. O, how I admire the middle-sized delicate Devonshire 
 girls of about fifteen. There was one at an inn door holding a 
 quartern of brandy ; the very thought of her kept me warm a 
 
JOHN KEATS. 207 
 
 whole stage — and a sixteen-miler too. " You'll pardon me for 
 being jocular."' 
 
 Ever your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Sept. 23, 1819. 
 To Mr. Brown. 
 
 " Now I am going to enter on the subject itself. It is quite 
 time I should set myself doing something, and live no longer upon 
 hopes. I have never yet exerted myself. I am getting into an 
 idle-minded, vicious way of life, almost content to live upon others. 
 In no period of my life have I acted with any self-will, but in 
 throwing up the apothecary profession. That I do not repent of. 
 
 Look at , if he was not in the law, he would be acquiring, by 
 
 his abilities, something towards his support. My occupation is 
 entirely literary : I will do so, too. I will write, on the liberal 
 si()e of the question, for whoever will pay me. I have not known 
 yet what it is to be diligent. I purpose living in town in a cheap 
 lodging, and endeavoring, for a beginning, to get the theatricals of 
 some paper. When I can afford to compose deliberate poems, I 
 will. I shall be in expectation of an answer to this. Look on my 
 side of the question. I am convinced I am right. Suppose the 
 tragedy should succeed, — there will be no harm done. And here 
 I will take an opportunity of making a remark or two on our 
 friendship, and on all your good offices to me. I have a natural 
 timidity of mind in these matters ; liking better to take the feel- 
 ing between us for granted, than to speak of it. But, good God ! 
 what a short while you have known me ! I feel it a sort of duty 
 thus to recapitulate, however unpleasant it may be to you. You 
 have been living for others more than any man I know. This 
 is a vexation to me, because it has been depriving you, in the 
 very prime of your life, of pleasures which it was your duty to 
 procure. As I am speaking in general terms, this may appear non- 
 sense ; you, perhaps, will not understand it ; but if you can go 
 over, day by day, any month of the last year, you will know what 
 I mean. On the whole, however, this is a subject that I cannot 
 express myself upon. I speculate upon it frequently; and, be- 
 
208 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 lieve me, the end of my speculations is always an anxiety for 
 your happiness. This anxiety will not be one of the least incite- 
 ments to the plan I purpose pursuing. I had got into a habit of mind 
 of looking towards you as a help in all difficulties. This very 
 habit would be the parent of idleness and difficulties. You will 
 see it is a duty I owe myself to break the neck of it. I do nothing 
 for my subsistence — make no exertion. At the end of another 
 year you shall applaud me, not for verses, but for conduct. While 
 I have some immediate cash, I had better settle myself quietly, 
 and fag on as others do. I shall apply to Hazlitt, who knows the 
 market as well as any one, for something to bring me in a few 
 pounds as soon as possible. I shall not suffer my pride to hinder 
 me. The whisper may go round ; I shall not hear it. If I can 
 get an article in the ' Edinburgh,' I will. One must not be deli- 
 cate. Nor let this disturb you longer than a moment. I look 
 forward, with a good hope that we shall one day be passing free, 
 untrammeled, unanxious time together. That can never be if I 
 continue a dead lump. I shall be expecting anxiously an answer 
 from you. If it does not arrive in a few days this will have mis- 
 carried, and I shall come straight to before I go to town, 
 
 v/hich you, I am sure, will agree had better be done while I still 
 have some ready cash. By the middle of October I shall expect 
 you in London. We will then sit at the theatres. If you have 
 any thing to gainsay, I shall be even as the deaf adder which 
 stoppeth her ears." 
 
 On the same day he wrote another letter, having received one 
 from Mr. Brown in the interval. He again spoke of his purpose. 
 
 " Do not suffer me to disturb you unpleasantly : I do not mean 
 that you should not suffer me to occupy your thoughts, but to oc- 
 cupy them pleasantly ; for, I assure you, I am as far from being 
 unhappy as possible. Imaginary grievances have always been 
 more my torment than real ones. You know this well. Real 
 ones will never have any other effect upon me than to stimulate 
 me to get out of or avoid them. This is easily accounted for. 
 Our imaginary woes are conjured up by our passions, and are 
 fostered by passionate feeling : our real ones come themselves. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 2G9 
 
 and are opposed by an abstract exertion of mind. Real griev- 
 ances are displacers of passion. The imaginary nail a man down 
 for a sufferer, as on a cross ; the real spur him up into an agent. 
 I wish, at one view, you would see my heart towards you. 'Tis 
 only from a high tone of feeling that I can put that word upon 
 paper — out of poetry. I ought to have waited for your answer to 
 my last before I wrote you this. I felt, however, compelled to 
 
 make a rejoinder to yours, I had written to on the subject 
 
 of my last, I scarcely know whether I shall send my letter now. 
 I think he would approve of my plan ; it is so evident. Nay, I 
 am convinced, out and out, that by prosing for a while in periodi- 
 cal works I may maintain myself decently." 
 
 The gloomy' tone of this correspondence soon brought Mr. 
 Brown to Winchester. Up to that period Keats had always ex- 
 pressed himself most averse to writing for any periodical publica- 
 tion. The short contributions to the "Champion" were rather 
 acts of friendship than literary labors. But now Mr. Brown, 
 knowing what his pecuniary circumstances were, and painfully 
 conscious that the time spent in the creation of those works which 
 were destined to be the delight and solace of thousands of his 
 fellow creatures, must be unprofitable to him in procuring the 
 necessities of life, and, above all, estimating at its due value that 
 spirit of independence which shrinks from materializing the obli- 
 gations of friendship into daily bread, gave every encouragement 
 to these designs, and only remonstrated against the project of the 
 following note, both on account of the pain he would himself suffer 
 from the privation of Keats's society, but from the belief that the 
 scheme of life would not be successful. 
 
 Winchester, Oct. Ut, [1819.] 
 My Dear Dilke, 
 
 For sundry reasons which I will explain to you when I 
 come to town, I have to request you will do me a great favor, as 
 I must call it, knowing how great a bore it is. That your imagi- 
 nation may not have time to take too great an alarm, I state im- 
 mediately that I want you to hire me a couple of rooms (a sitting- 
 room and bed-room for myself alone) in Westminster. Quietness 
 
210 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 and cheapness are the essentials ; but as I shall, with Brown, be 
 returned by next Friday, you cannot, in that space, have sufficient 
 time to make any choice selection, and need not be very particu- 
 lar, as I can, when on the spot, suit myself at leisure. Brown 
 bids me remind you not to send the " Examiners " after the third. 
 Tell Mrs. D. I am obliged to her for the late ones, which I see 
 are directed in her hand. Excuse this mere business-letter, for I 
 assure you I have not a syllable at hand on any subject in the 
 world. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 The friends returned to town together, and Keats took posses- 
 sion of his new abode. But he had miscalculated his own powers 
 of endurance : the enforced absence from his friends was too 
 much for him, and a still stronger impulse drew him back again 
 to Hampstead. She, whose name 
 
 " Was ever on his lips 
 But never on his tongue," 
 
 exercised too mighty a control over his being for him to remain at 
 a distance, which was neither absence nor presence, and he soon 
 returned to where at least he could rest his eyes on her habitation, 
 and enjoy each chance opportunity of her society. I find a frag- 
 ment written about this date, and under this inspiration, but it is 
 still an interesting study of the human heart, to see how few 
 traces remain in his outward literary life of that passion which 
 was his real existence. 
 
 TO 
 
 What can I do to drive away 
 
 Remembrance from my eyes ? for they have seen. 
 
 Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen ! 
 
 Touch has a memory. O say, love, say. 
 
 What can I do to kill it and be free 
 
 In my old hberty 1 
 
 When every fair one that I saw was fair. 
 
 Enough to catch me in but half a snare. 
 
 Not keep me there : 
 
JOHN KEATS. 211 
 
 When, howe'er poor or particolor'd things, 
 
 My muse had wings, 
 
 And ever ready was to take her course 
 
 Whither I bent her force, 
 
 Unintellectual, yet divine to me ; — 
 
 Divine, I say ! — What sea-bird o'er the sea 
 
 Is a philosopher the while he goes 
 
 Winging along where the great water throes ? 
 
 How shall I do 
 
 To get anew 
 
 Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more 
 
 Above, above 
 
 The reach of fluttering Love, 
 
 And make him cower lowly while I soar 1 
 
 Shall I gulp wine 1 No, that is vulgarism, 
 
 A heresy and schism. 
 
 Foisted into the canon law of love ; — 
 
 No, — wine is only sweet to happy men ; 
 
 More dismal cares 
 
 Seize on me unawares, — 
 
 Where shall I learn to get my peace again ? 
 
 To banish thoughts of that most hateful land, 
 
 Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand 
 
 Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life ; 
 
 That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour, 
 
 Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, 
 
 Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods ; 
 
 Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods. 
 
 Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind ; 
 
 Whese rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind. 
 
 Would fright a Dryad ; whose harsh herbaged meads 
 
 Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds ; 
 
 There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song, 
 
 And great unerring Nature once seems wrong. 
 
 O, for some sunny spell 
 
 To dissipate the shadows of this hell ! 
 
 Say they are gone, — with the new dawning light 
 
 Steps forth my lady bright ! 
 
 O, let me once more rest 
 
 My soul upon that dazzling breast ! 
 
 Let once again these aching arms be placed. 
 
 The tender gaolers of thy waist ! 
 
212 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 And let me feel that warm breath here and there 
 
 To spread a rapture in my very hair, — 
 
 O, the sweetness of the pain ! 
 
 Give me those lips again ! 
 
 Enough ! Enough ! it is enough for me 
 
 To dream of thee ! 
 
 Wentworth Place, Hampstead, llih Nov. [1819.] 
 My Dear Taylor, 
 
 I have come to a determination not to publish any thing 
 I have now ready written ; but, for all that, to publish a poem before 
 long, and that I hope to make a fine one. As the marvelous is 
 the most enticing, and the surest guarantee of harmonious numbers, 
 I have been endeavoring to persuade myself to untether Fancy, 
 and to let her manage for herself. I and myself cannot agree about 
 this at all. Wonders are no wonders to me. I am more at home 
 amongst men and women. I would rather read Chaucer and 
 Ariosto. The little dramatic skill I may as yet have, however 
 badly it might show in a drama, would, I think, be sufficient for a 
 poem. I wish to diffuse the coloring of St. Agnes' Eve through- 
 out a poem in which character and sentiment would be the figures 
 to such drapery. Two or three such poems, if God should spare 
 me, v/ritten in the course of the next six years, would be a famous 
 Gradus ad Parnassum altissimum. I mean they would nerve me 
 up to the writing of a few fine plays — my greatest ambition, when 
 I do feel ambitious. I am sorry to say that is very seldom. The 
 subject we have once or tv.'ice talked of appears a promising one 
 — the Earl of Leicester's history. I am this morning reading 
 Holingshed's " Elizabeth." You had some books awhile ago, you 
 promised to send me, illustrative of my subject. If you can lay 
 hold of them, or any other which may be serviceable to me, I 
 know you v/ill encourage my low-spirited muse by sending them, 
 or rather by letting me know where our errand-cart man shall 
 call with my little box. I will endeavor to set myself selfishly 
 at work on this poem that is to be. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 213 
 
 Abou this time he wrote this to his brother George : — 
 
 " From the lime you left us our friends say I have altered so 
 completely I am not the same person. I dare say you have 
 altered also. Mine is not the same hand I clenched at Hammond.* 
 We are like the relic garments of a saint, the same and not the 
 same ; for the careful monks patch it and patch it till there is not 
 a thread of the original in it, and still they show it for St. Antho- 
 ny's shirt. This is the reason why men who have been bosom- 
 friends for a number of years afterwards meet coldly, neither of 
 them know why. Some think I have lost that poetic fire and 
 ardor they say I once had. The fact is, I perhaps have, but 
 instead of that I hope I shall substitute a more thoughtful and 
 quiet power. I am more contented to read and think, but seldom 
 haunted with ambitious thoughts. I am scarcely content to write 
 the best verse from the fever they leave behind. I want to com- 
 pose without this fever ; I hope 1 shall one day. 
 
 " You cannot imagine how well I can live alone. I told the 
 servant to-day I was not at home to any one that called. I am 
 not sure how I shall endure loneliness and bad weather at 
 the same time. It is beautiful weather now. I walk for an 
 hour every day before dinner. My dear sister, I have all the 
 "Examiners" ready for you. I will pack them up when the 
 business with Mr. Abbey comes to a conclusion. I have dealt out 
 your best wishes like a pack of cards, but, being always given to 
 cheat, I have turned up ace. You see I am making game of you. 
 I see you are not happy in America. As for pun-making, I wish 
 it were as profitable as pin-making. There is but little business 
 of that sort going on now. We struck for wages like the Man- 
 chester weavers, but to no purpose, for we are all out of employ. 
 I am more lucky than some, you see, as I have an opportunity 
 of exporting a pun, — getting into a little foreign trade, which is a 
 comfortable thing. You have heard of Hook the farce-writer. 
 Horace Smith was asked if he knew him. ' Oh yes,' says he, 
 ' Hook and I are very intimate.' Brown has been taking 
 French lessons at the cheap rate of two-and-sixpence a page, and 
 
 The surgeon to whom he was apprenticed. 
 10* 
 
214 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Reynolds observed, ' Gad, the man sells his lessons so cheap, he 
 must have stolen them.' I wish you could get change for a pun 
 in silver currency, and get with three-and-a-half every night in 
 Drury pit." 
 
 In the beginning of the winter George Keats suddenly ap- 
 peared in England, but remained only for a short period. On 
 his arrival in America, w^ith his wife, he found that their limited 
 means required an immediate retirement into, what were then, 
 the solitudes of the far West, but which the labor of enterprising 
 men has now peopled with life and planted with civilization. 
 From Philadelphia these two children of the old world, and nearly 
 children in life, (she was just sixteen.) proceeded to Pittsburgh 
 and descended the Ohio to Cincinnati. Down that beautiful river, 
 then undisturbed by the panting of the steamboat or the tumult of 
 inhabited shores, their lonely boat found its way to Cincinnati, 
 where they resided for some time. George Keats paid a visit 
 shortly after to Kentucky, w^here he lived in the same house with 
 Audubon the naturalist, who, seeing him one day occupied in 
 chopping a log, after watching him with a curious interest, ex- 
 claimed, " You will do well in this country ; I could chop that 
 log in ten minutes ; you have taken near an hour ; but your per- 
 sistence is worth more than my expertness.'"' A boat in which 
 he invested his money completely failed as a speculation, and his 
 voyage to England seems to have been undertaken in the hope of 
 raising capital for some more successful venture. I am unable 
 to determine whether he took back with him any portion of what 
 remained of John's fortune, but he did receive his share of his 
 brother Tom's property, and he may possibly have repaid himself 
 for what he had spent for John out of John's share. John's pro- 
 fessional education had been so expensive that it only required a 
 certain amount of that carelessness in money-matters incidental 
 to men of higher natures to account for the continual embarrass- 
 ment in which he found himself, without having indulged in any 
 profligate habits. Tom's long sickness was also a great expense 
 to the family, so that the assistance of the more prudent and for- 
 tunate brother was frequently required to make up deficiencies. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 215 
 
 This was, no doubt, the reason why, out of the llOOZ. left by- 
 Tom, George received 4407., and John little more than 2007. 
 When George returned the second time to America he certainly 
 left his brother's finances in a deplorable state ; it is probable he 
 was not aware how very small a sum remained for John's sub- 
 sistence, or it would have been hardly justifiable for him to have 
 repaid himself any portion of what he had advanced, except he 
 was convinced that whatever he did take would be so reproduc- 
 tive that it was indisputably the best thing to be done with the 
 money at the time, whatever was to be its ultimate destination. 
 The subject was so painful a one, and the increasing melancholy, 
 both physical and moral, of Keats so manifest, that there can be 
 no ground for discrediting his brother's positive assertion, that, 
 when he left London, he had not the courage to lay before him 
 the real state of their affairs, but that he kept to the pleasing side 
 of things, and encouraged him in the belief that the American 
 speculation would produce enough to restore both of them to com- 
 fortable circumstances. At the same time it might well be per- 
 mitted to John's friends, who did not know the details of the 
 affair, to be indignant at the state of almost destitution to which 
 so noble a man was reduced, while they believed that his brother 
 in America had the means of assisting him. But, on the other 
 hand, after Keats's death, when George was ready to give the 
 fullest explanation of the circumstances, when the legal admi- 
 nistration of John's effects showed that no debts were owing to 
 the estate, and when, without the least obligation, he offered to do 
 his utmost to liquidate his brother's engagements, it was only 
 just to acknowledge that they had been deceived by appearances, 
 and that they fully acquitted him of unfraternal and ungenerous 
 conduct. Their accusations rankled long and bitterly in his 
 mind, and were the subject of a frequent correspondence with his 
 friends in England. I have extracted the following portion of a 
 letter, dated " Louisville, April 20th, 1825," as an earnest ex- 
 pression of his feelings, and also as giving an interesting delinea- 
 tion of the Poet's character, by one who knew him so well : and 
 I am glad to find such a confirmation of what has been so often 
 stated in these pages, that the faults of Keats's disposition were 
 precisely the contrary of those attributed to him by common 
 opinion. 
 
216 LIFE ASD LETTERS OF 
 
 LonsTiLLZ,. April 20, 1825. 
 '• * * * Your letter has in some measure relieved 
 
 my mind of a load that has sorely pressed for years. I felt inno- 
 cent of the unfeeling, mean conduct imputed to me by some of my 
 brother's friends, and knew that the knowledge of the facts would 
 soon set that to rights ; but I could not rest while under the im- 
 pression that he really suffered through my not forwarding him 
 money at the time when I promised, but had not the power. Your 
 saying, ' that he knew nothing of want, either of friends or money,' 
 and giving proofs of the truth of it. made me breathe freely — 
 enabled me to cherish his memory, iviihout the feeling of having 
 caused him misery, however unavoidably, while a living Friend 
 and Brother. I do not doubt but that he complained of me ; al- 
 though he was the noblest fellow, whose soul was ever open to my 
 inspection, his nervous, morbid temperament at times led him to 
 misconstrue the motives of his best friends. I have been instru- 
 mental times innumerable in correcting erroneous impressions so 
 formed of those very persons who have been most ready to believe 
 the stories lately circulated against me, and I almost believe that 
 if I had remained his companion, and had the means, as I had the 
 wish, to ha\ e devoted my life to his fame and happiness, he might 
 have been living at this hour. His temper did not unfold itself to 
 you, his friend, until the vigor of his mind was somewhat impaired, 
 and he no longer possessed the power to resist the pettishness he 
 formerly considered he had no right to trouble his friends with. 
 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 humor, from many a bitter fit of 
 hypochondriasm. He avoided teasing any one with his miseries 
 but Tom and myself, and often asked our forgiveness ; venting 
 and discussing them gave him relief. I do not mean to say that 
 he did not receive the most indulgent attention from his manv de- 
 voted friends ; on the contrary, I shall ever look with admiration 
 on the exertions made for his comfort and happiness by his nume- 
 rous friends. No one in England understood his character per- 
 fectly but poor Tom, and he had net the power to divert his fre- 
 quent melancholy, and eventually increased his disease most fear- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 217 
 
 fully by the horrors of his own lingering death. If I did not feel 
 fully persuaded that my motive was to acquire an independence 
 to support us all in case of necessity, I never should forgive my- 
 self for leaving him. Some extraordinary exertion was necessary 
 to retrieve our affairs from the gradual decline they were suffer- 
 ing. That exertion I made, whether wisely or not, future events 
 had to decide. After all, Blackwood and the Quarterly, asso- 
 ciated with our family disease, consumption, were ministers of 
 death sufficiently venomous, cruel, and deadly, to have consigned 
 one of less sensibility to a premature grave. I have consumed 
 many hours in devising means to punish those literary gladiators, 
 but am always brought to the vexing conclusion that they are in- 
 vulnerable to one of my prowess. Has much been said in John's 
 defence against those libelers both of his character and writings ? 
 His writings were fair game, and liable to be assailed by a sneak- 
 ing poacher, but his character as represented by Blackwood was 
 not. A good cudorelinop should have been his reward if he had 
 been within my reach. John was the very soul of courage and 
 manliness, and as much like the Holy Ghost as Johnny Keats. I 
 am much indebted for the interest you have taken in my vindica- 
 tion, and will observe further for your satisfaction, that Mr. Abbey, 
 who had the management of our money concerns, in a letter lately 
 received, expressed himself ' satisfied that my statement of the 
 acccount between John and me was correct.' He is the only per- 
 son who is in possession of data to refute or confirm my story. 
 My not having written to you seems to have been advanced as a 
 proof of my worthlessness. If it prove any thing, it proves my 
 humility, for I can assure you, if 1 had known you felt one-half 
 the interest in my fate unconnected with my brother it appears 
 you did, the explanation would have been made when I first be- 
 came acquainted there was a necessity for it. — I should never 
 have given up a communication with the only spirits in existence 
 who are congenial to me, and at the same time know me. Un- 
 derstand me, when I failed to write, it was not from a diminished 
 respect or friendliness towards you, but under the impression that 
 1 had moved out of your circle, leaving but faint traces that I had 
 ever existed within it." 
 
218 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Soon after George's departure, Keats wrote to his sister-in-law, 
 and there is certainly nothing in the letter betokening any dimi- 
 nution of his liveliness or sense of enjoyment. He seems, on the 
 contrary, to regard his brother's voyage in no serious light — pro- 
 bably anticipating a speedy reunion, and with pleasant plans for a 
 future that never was to come. But these loving brothers had 
 now met and parted for the last time, and this gay letter remains 
 the last record of a cheerful and hopeful nature that was about to 
 be plunged into the darkness of pain and death, and of an affection 
 which space could not diminish, and which time preserved, till 
 after many years of honest, useful, and laborious life, he who re- 
 mained, also past away, transmitting to other generations a name 
 that genius has illustrated above the blazon of ordinary nobilities. 
 
 My Dear Sister, 
 
 By the time you receive this your troubles will be over, 
 and George have returned to you. On Henry's marriage there 
 was a piece of bride's cake sent me, but as it missed its way, I 
 suppose the bearer was a conjurer, and wanted it for his own 
 
 private use. Last Sunday George and 1 dined at . Your 
 
 mother, with Charles, were there, and fool L , who sent the 
 
 sly disinterested shawl to Miss M , with his own heathen name 
 
 engraved in the middle of it. The evening before last we had a 
 piano- forte dance at Mrs. Dilke's ; there was little amusement in 
 the room, but a Scotchman to hate : some persons you must have 
 observed have a most unpleasant effect on you, when speaking in 
 profile : this Scot is the most accomplished fellow in this way I 
 ever met with: the effect was complete; it went down like a dose 
 of bitters, and I hope will improve my digestion. At Taylor's too 
 there was a Scotchman, but he was not so bad, for he was as clean 
 as he could get himself. George has introduced an American to 
 us : I like him in a moderate way. I told him I hated English- 
 men, as they were the only men I knew. He does not understand 
 this. Who would be Braggadocio to Johnny Bull ? Johnny's 
 house is his castle, and a precious dull castle it is: how many 
 dull castles there are in so-and-so crescent ! I never wish myself 
 a general visitor and newsmonger, but when 1 write to you — I 
 should then, for a day or two, lik^ to have the knowledge of that 
 
JOHN KEATS. 219 
 
 -, for instance ; of all the people of a wide acquaintance' to 
 
 tell you about, only let me have his knowledge of family affairs, 
 and I would set them in a proper light, but bless me, I never go 
 any where. 
 
 My pen is no more garrulous than my tongue. Any third 
 person would think 1 was addressing myself to a lover of scandal, 
 but I know you do not like scandal, but you love fun ; and if 
 scandal happen to be fun, that is no fault of ours. The best 
 thing I have heard is your shooting, for it seems you follow the 
 gun. I like your brothers the more I know of them, but I dislike 
 mankind in general. Whatever people on the other side of the 
 question may say, they cannot deny that they are always surpris- 
 ed at a good action, and never at a bad one. I am glad you 
 have doves in America. " Gertrude of Wyoming," and Birk- 
 beck's book, should be bound together as a couple of decoy- 
 duck: ; one is almost as practical as the other. I have been sit- 
 ting in the sun while I wrote this, until it is become quite oppres- 
 sive : the Vulcan heat is the natural heat for January. Our Irish 
 servant has very much piqued me this morning, by saying her 
 father is very much like my Shakspeare, only he has more color 
 than the engraving. If you were in England, I dare say you 
 would be able to pick out more amusement from society than I 
 am able to do. To me it is all as dull here as Louisville is to you. 
 I am tired of theatres ; almost all parties I chance to fall into, I 
 know by heart ; I know the different styles of talk in different 
 places ; what subjects will be started ; and how it will proceed ; 
 like an acted play, from the first to the last act. I know three 
 witty people, all distinct in their excellence — Rice, Reynolds, and 
 Richard — Rice is the wisest — Reynolds the playfulest — Richards 
 the out-of-the-wayest. The first makes you laugh and think ; 
 the second makes you laugh and not think ; the third puzzles 
 your head ; I admire the first, I enjoy the second, and I stare at 
 the third ; the first is claret, the second ginger-beer, the third is 
 creme de Byrapymdrag ; the first is inspired by Minerva, the 
 second by Mercury, the third by Harlequin Epigram, Esq. ; the 
 first is neat in his dress, the second careless, the third uncom- 
 fortable ; the first speaks adagio, the second allegretto, and the 
 third both together ; the first is Swiftean, the second Tom Crib- 
 
220 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ean, the third is Shaadean. I know three people of no wit at all, 
 each distinct in his excellence, A., B. and C. A. is the foolish- 
 est, B. is the sulkiest, and C. is the negative; A. makes you 
 yawn, B. makes you hate, and as for C. you never see him at all, 
 though he were six feet high ; I bear the first, 1 forbear the second, 
 I am not certain that the third is ; the first is gruel, the second 
 ditch-water, and the third is spilt and ought to be wiped up; A. 
 is inspired by Jack of the Clock, B. has been drilled by a Russian 
 Serjeant. C. they say is not his mother's true child, but she bought 
 [him] of the man who cries " young lambs to sell." * * 
 
 I will send )^ou a close written sheet on the first of next month ; 
 but, for fear of missing the mail, I must finish here. God bless 
 you, my dear sister. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 The study of Italian, to which Keats had been latterly much 
 addicted, had included Ariosto, and the humorous fairy poem on 
 which he was engaged about this time apears to me to have origi- 
 nated in that occupation. He has stated, in a previous passage, 
 that he still kept enough of his old tastes to prefer reading Chau- 
 cer to Ariosto, and the delightful vagaries of the master of Italian 
 fancy would probably not have had so much efl^ect on him but for 
 Mr. Brown's intimate acquaintance with, and intense enjoyment 
 of, those frailer charms of southern song. When, in after-times, 
 Mr. Brown himself retired to Italy, he hardly ever passed a day 
 without translating some portion of that school of Italian poetry, 
 and he has left behind him a complete and admirable version 
 of the first five cantos of Bojardo's " Orlando Innamorato.'*' 
 
 Keats had a notion to publish this fanciful poem under a 
 feigned name, and that of " Lucy Vaughan Lloyd " suggested 
 itself to him from some untraceable association. He never had 
 even made up his mind what title to give it : the '• Cap and Bells" 
 and " Jealousies '' were two he spoke of: I give here all that was 
 written, not only because it exhibits his versatility of talent, but 
 because it presents him, almost for the first time, in the light of a 
 humorous writer, just at the moment of his existence when real 
 anxieties were pressing most threateningly upon him, when the 
 
JOHN KEATS. 221 
 
 struggle between his ever-growing passion and the miserable cir- 
 cumstances of his daily life was beating down his spirit, and when 
 disease was advancing with stealthy, hut not altogether unper- 
 ceived, advances, to consummate by a cruel and lingering death 
 the hard conditions of his mortal being. There is nothing in this 
 combination which will surprise those who understand the poetic, 
 or even the literary, nature, but I know few stronger instances of 
 a moral phenomenon which the Hamlets of the world are for 
 ever exhibiting to an audience that can only resolve the problem 
 by doubting the reality of 'the one or the other feeling, of the 
 mirth or of the misery. 
 
 I am unwilling to leave this, the last of Keats's literary labors, 
 without a word of defence against the objection that might with 
 some reason be raised against the originality of his genius, from 
 the circumstance that it is easy to refer almost every poem he 
 wrote to some sugfjestion of style and manner derived from pre- 
 ceding writers. From the Spenserian '•' Endymion," to those 
 Ariosto-like stanzas, you can always see reflected in the mirror 
 of his intellect the great works he is studying at the time. This 
 is so generally the case with verse-writers, and the test has been 
 so severely and successfully applied to many of the most noted 
 authors of our time, that I should not have alluded to it had I not 
 been desirous to claim for Keats an access to that inmost penetra- 
 lium of Fame which is solely consecrated to original genius. The 
 early English chronicle-dramas supplied Shakspeare with many 
 materials and outlines for his historical plays, and the " Adamo" 
 of Andreini has indisputably a great effect on the frame-work of 
 " Paradise Lost ;'' but every one feels that these accidents rather 
 resemble the suggestions of nature which every mind, however 
 independent, receives and assimilates, than what is ordinarily 
 meant by plagiarism or imitation. In the case of Keats, his lite- 
 rary studies were apparently the sources of his productions, and 
 his variety and facility of composition certainly increases very 
 much in proportion to his reading, thus clearly sliowing how 
 much he owed to those who had preceded him. But let us not 
 omit two considerations : — first, that these resemblances of form 
 or spirit are a reproduction, not an imitation, and that while they 
 often are what those great masters might themselves have con- 
 
222 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tentedly written, they always include something which the model 
 has not — some additional intuitive vigor ; and secondly, let us 
 never forget, that wonderful as are the poems of Keats, yet, after 
 all, they are rather the records of a poetical education than the ac- 
 complished work of the mature artist. This is in truth the chief 
 interest of these pages ; this is what these letters so vividly exhi- 
 bit. Day by day, his imagination is extended, his fancy enriched, 
 his taste purified ; every fresh acquaintance with the motive 
 minds of past generations leads him a step onwards in knowledge 
 and in power ; the elements of ancient genius become his own ; 
 the skill of faculties long spent revives in him ; ever, like Nature 
 herself, he gladly receives and energetically reproduces. And 
 now we approach the consummation of his laborious work, the 
 formation of a mind of the highest order ; we hope to see the per- 
 fect fruit whose promise has been more than the perfection of 
 noted men ; we desire to sympathize with this realized idea of a 
 great poet, from which he has ever felt himself so far, but which 
 he yet knows he is ever approaching ; we yearn to witness the 
 full flow of this great spiritual river, whose source has long lain 
 in the heart of the earth, and to which the streams of a thousand 
 hills have ministered. 
 
 One night, about eleven o'clock, Keats returned home in a 
 state of strange physical excitement — it might have appeared to 
 those who did not know him, one of fierce intoxication. He told 
 his friend he had been outside the stage-coach, had received a 
 severe chill, was a little fevered, but added, " I don't feel it now." 
 He was easily persuaded to go to bed, and as he leapt into the 
 cold sheets, before his head was on the pillow, he slightly coughed 
 and said, " That is blood from my mouth ; bring me the candle ; 
 let me see this blood." He gazed steadfastly for some moments 
 at the ruddy stain, and then looking in his friend's face with an 
 expression of sudden calmness never to be forgotten, said, ' I know 
 the color of that blood — it is arterial blood — I cannot be deceived 
 in that color ; that drop is my death-warrant. I must die." 
 
 A surgeon was immediately called in, and, after being bled, 
 Keats fell into a quiet sleep. The medical man declared his 
 lungs to be uninjured, and the rupture not important, but he him- 
 self was of a different opinion, and with the frequent self-prescience 
 
JOHN KEATS. 223 
 
 of disease, added to "his scientific knowledge, he was not to be per- 
 suaded out of his forebodings. At limes, however, the love of 
 life, inherent in active natures, got the better of his gloom. " If 
 you would have me recover," he said to his devoted friend and 
 constant attendant, Mr. Brown, " flatter me with a hope of happi- 
 ness when I shall be well, for I am now so weak that I can be 
 flattered into hope." " Look at my hand," he said, another day, 
 " it is that of a man of fifty."' 
 
 The advancing year brought with it such an improvement in 
 his health and strength, as in the estimation of many almost 
 amounted to recovery. Gleams of his old cheerfulness returned, 
 as the following letters evince. His own handwriting was always 
 so clear and good as to be almost clerkly, and thus he can afford 
 to joke at the exhibitions of his friends in that unimportant parti- 
 cular. In the case of Mr. Dilke, the long and useful career of 
 that able and independent critic has been most intelligible in print 
 to a generation of his fellow-countrymen, and his cordial appre- 
 ciation and care of Keats will only add to his reputation for gene- 
 rosity and benevolence. 
 
 Wentworth Place, Feb. 16, 1820. 
 My Dear Rice, 
 
 I have not been well enough to make any tolerable re- 
 joinder to your kind letter. I will, as you advise, be very chary 
 of my health and spirits. I am sorry to hear of your relapse and 
 hypochondriac symptoms attending it. Let us hope for the best, 
 as you say. I shall follow your example in looking to the future 
 good rather than brooding upon the present ill. I have not been 
 so worn with lengthened illnesses as you have, therefore cannot 
 answer you on your own ground with respect to those haunting 
 and deformed thoughts and feelings you speak of. When I have 
 been, or supposed myself in health, I have had my share of them, 
 especially within the last year. I may say, that for six months 
 before I was taken ill I had not passed a tranquil day. Either 
 that gloom overspread me, or I was suffering under some passion- 
 ate feeling, or if I turned to versify, that acerbated the poison of 
 cither sensation. The beauties of nature had lost their power 
 over me. How astonishingly (here I must premise that illness. 
 
224 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 as far as I can iudg-e in so short a time, has relieved mv mind of 
 a load of deceptive thoughts and images, and makes me perceive 
 things in a truer light) — how astonishingly does the chance of 
 leaving the world impress a sense of its natural beauties upon us ! 
 Like poor Falstaff. though I do not " babble,'^ I think of green 
 fields ; I muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have 
 known from my infancy — their shapes and colors are as new to 
 me as if 1 had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is 
 because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the hap- 
 piest moments of our lives. I have seen foreign flowers in hot- 
 houses, of the most beautiful nature, but I do not care a straw 
 for them. The simple flowers of our Spring are what I want to 
 see again. 
 
 Brown has left the inventive and taken to the imitative art. 
 He is doing his forte, which is copying Hogarth's heads. He 
 has just made a purchase of the Methodist Meeting picture, which 
 gave me a horrid dream a few nights ago. I hope I shall sit 
 under the trees with you again in some such place as the Isle of 
 Wight. I do not mind a game of cards in a saw-pit or wagon, 
 but if ever you catch me on a stage-coach in the winter full 
 against the Vv4nd, bring me down with a brace of bullets, and I 
 promise not to 'peach. Remember me to Reynolds and say how 
 much r should like to hear from him ; that Brown returned im- 
 mediately after he went on Sunday, and tliat I was vexed at for- 
 getting to ask him to lunch ; for as he went towards the gate, I 
 saw he was fatigued and hungry. 
 
 I am, my dear Rice, 
 
 Ever most sincerely yours, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 I have broken this open to let you know I was surprised 
 at seeing it on the table this morning, thinking it had gone long 
 ago. 
 
 [Postmark, Hampstead, 3Iarch 4, 1820.] 
 My Dear Dilke, 
 
 Since I saw you I have been gradually, too gradually 
 perhaps, improving ; and, though under an interdict with respect 
 
JOHN KEATS. 225 
 
 to animal food, living upon pseudo-victuals, Brown says I have 
 picked up a little flesh lately. If 1 can keep off inflammation for 
 the next six weeks, 1 trust I shall do very well. Reynolds is 
 going to sail on the salt seas. Brown has been mightily progress- 
 ing with his Hogarth. A damn'd melancholy picture it is, and 
 during the first week of my illness it gave me a psalm-singing 
 nightmare that made me almost faint away in my sleep. I 
 know I am better, for I can bear the picture. I have experienced 
 a specimen of great politeness from Mr. Barry Cornwall. He 
 has sent me his books. Some time ago he had given his published 
 book to Hunt, for me ; Hunt forgot to give it, and Barry Corn- 
 wall, thinking I had received it, must have thought me a very 
 neglectful fellow. Notwithstanding, he sent me his second book, 
 and on my explaining that I had not received his first, he sent me 
 that also. I shall not expect Mrs. Dilke at Hampstead next week 
 unless the weather changes for the warmer. It is better to run 
 no chance of a supernumerary cold in March. As for you, you 
 must come. You must improve in your penmanship ; your 
 writing is like the speaking of a child of three years old — very 
 understandable to its father, but to no one else. The worst is, it 
 looks well — no, that is not the worst — the worst is, it is worse 
 than Bailey's. Bailey's looks illegible and may perchance 
 be read ; yours looks very legible, and may perchance not 
 be read. I would endeavor to give you a fac-simile of your 
 word " Thistlewood " if I were not minded on the instant that 
 Lord Chesterfield has done some such thing to his son. Now 
 I would not bathe in the same river with Lord C, though I had 
 the upper hand of the stream. I am grieved that in writing and 
 speaking it is necessary to make use of the same particles as he 
 did. Cobbett is expected to come in. O ! that I had two double 
 plumpers for him. The ministry is not so inimical to him, but it 
 would like to put him into Coventry. Casting my. eye on the 
 other side I see a long word written in a most vile manner, unbe- 
 coming a critic. You must recollect I have served no appren- 
 ticeship to old plays. If the only copies of the Greek and Latin 
 authors had been made by you, Bailey, and Haydon, they were 
 as good as lost. It has been said that the character of a man 
 may be known by his handwriting; if the character of the age 
 
226 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 may be known by the average goodness of ours, what a slovenly 
 age we live in. Look at Queen Elizabeth's Latin exercises and 
 blush. Look at Milton's hand : I can't say a word for Shak- 
 speare. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Towards the end of the spring Keats's outward health was so 
 much better that the physician recommended him to take another 
 tour in Scotland. Mr. Brown, however, thinking him quite unfit 
 to cope with the chance hardships of such an expedition, gener- 
 ously dissuaded him, though he was so far from anticipating any 
 rapid change in Keats's constitution that he determined to go 
 alone and return to his friend in a few weeks. On the seventh of 
 May the two friends parted at Gravesend, and never met again. 
 
 Keats went to lodge at Kentish Town to be near his friend 
 Leigh Hunt, but soon returned to Hampstead, where he remained 
 with the family of the lady to whom he was attached. In these 
 latter letters the catastrophe of mortal sickness, accompanied by 
 the dread of poverty, is seen gradually coming on, and the pub- 
 lication of his new volume hardly relieves the general gloom of 
 the picture. 
 
 Mr Dear Dilee, 
 
 As Brown is not to be a fixture at Hampstead, I 
 have at last made up my mind to send home all lent books. I 
 should have seen you before this, but my mind has been at work 
 all over the world to find out what to do. I have my choice of 
 three things, or, at least, two, — South America, or surgeon to an 
 Indiaman ; which last, I think, will be my fate. I shall resolve 
 in a few days. Remember me to Mrs. D. and Charles, and your 
 father and mother. 
 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 June 11. 
 
 Mr De.ar Taylor, 
 
 In reading over the proof of " St. Agnes' Eve" 
 since I left Fleet-street, I was struck with what appears to me an 
 
JOHN KEATS. 22: 
 
 alteration in the seventh stanza very much for the worse. The 
 passage I mean stands thus : — 
 
 " her maiden eyes incline 
 Still on the floor, while many a sweeping train 
 Pass by." 
 
 'Twas originally written — 
 
 " her maiden eyes divine 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pa?s by." 
 
 My meaning is quite destroyed in the alteration. I do not use 
 train for concourse of passers ly, but for skirts sweeping along the 
 floor. 
 
 In the first stanza my copy reads, second line — 
 
 " bitter chill it was," 
 
 to avoid the echo cold in the second line. 
 
 Ever yours sincerely. 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Mr Dear Brot^^x, 
 
 I have only been to 's once since you left, 
 
 when could not find your letters. Now this is bad of me. 
 
 I should, in this instance, conquer the great aversion to breaking 
 up my regular habits, which grows upon me more and more. 
 True, I have an excuse in the weather, which drives one from 
 shelter to shelter in any little excursion. I have not heard from 
 George. My book* is coming out with very low hopes, though 
 not spirits, on my part. This shall be my last trial ; not succeed- 
 ing, I shall try what I can do in the apothecary line. When you 
 hear from or see it is probable you will hear some com- 
 plaints against me, which this notice is not intended to forestall. 
 The fact is, I did behave badly; but it is to be attributed to my 
 health, spirits, and the disadvantageous ground I stand on in soci- 
 ety. I could go and accommodate matters if I were not too weary 
 of the world. I know that they are more happy and comfortable 
 than I am ; therefore why should I trouble myself about it ? I 
 
 * " Lamia, Isabella, and other Poems." 
 
228 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 foresee I shall know very few people in the course of a year or 
 two. Men get such different habits tiiat they become as oil and 
 vinegar to one another. Thus far I have a consciousness of hav- 
 ing been pretty dull and heavy, both in subject and phrase ; I 
 might add, enigmatical. I am in the wrong, and the world is in 
 the right, I have no doubt. Fact is, I have had so many kind- 
 nesses done me by so many people, that I am cheveaux-de-frised 
 with benefits, which I must jump over or break down. I met 
 
 in town, a few days ago, who invited me to supper to meet 
 
 Wordsworth, Southey, Lamb, Haydon, and some more; I was 
 too careful of my health to risk being out at night. Talking of 
 that, I continue to improve slowly, but, I think, surely. There 
 is a famous exhibition in Pali Mall of old English portraits by 
 Vandyck and Holbein, Sir Peter Lely, and the great Sir Godfrey. 
 Pleasant countenances predominate : so I will mention two or 
 three unpleasant ones. There is James the First, whose appear- 
 ance would disgrace a " Society for the Suppression of Women ;" 
 so very squalid and subdued to nothing he looks. Then, there is 
 old Lord Burleigh, the high-priest of economy, the political save- 
 all, who has the appearance of a Pharisee just rebuffed by a Gos- 
 pel hon-mot. Then, there is George the Second, very like an un- 
 intellectual Voltaire, troubled with the gout and a bad temper. 
 Then, tliere is young Devereux, the favorite, with every appear- 
 ance of as slang a boxer as any in the Court ; his face is cast in 
 the mould of blackguardism with jockey-plaster. I shall soon 
 begin upon "Lucy Yaughan Lloyd." I do not begin composition 
 yet, being willing, in case of a relapse, to have nothing to re- 
 proach myself with. I hope the weather will give you the slip ; 
 let it show itself and steal out of your company. When I have 
 sent off this, I shall write another to some place about fifty miles 
 in advance of 5^ou. 
 
 Good morning to you. 
 
 Yours ever sincerely, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 My Dear Brown, 
 
 You may not have heard from , or , or in any 
 
 way, that an attack of spitting of blood, and all its weakening 
 
JOKN KEATS. 229 
 
 consequences, has prevented me from writing for so long a time. 
 I have matter now for a very long letter, but not news ; so I must 
 cut every thing short. I shall make some confession, which you 
 v.-ill be the only person, for many reasons, I shall trust with. A 
 winter in England would, I have not a doubt, kill me ; so 1 have 
 resolved to go to Italy, either by sea or land. Not that I have any 
 great hopes of that, for, I think, there is a core of disease in me 
 not easy to pull out. I shall be obliged to set off in less than a 
 month. Do not, my dear Brown, tease yourself about me. You 
 must fill up your time as well as you can, and as happily. You 
 must think of my faults as lightly as you can. When I have 
 health I will bring up the long arrears of letters I owe you. ?.Iy 
 book has had good success among the literary people, and I be- 
 lieve has a m.oderate sale. I have seen very few people we know. 
 
 has visited me more than any one. I would go to and 
 
 make some inquiries after you, if 1 could with any bearable sensa- 
 tion ; but a person I am not quite used to causes an oppression on 
 my chest. Last week I received a letter from Shelley, at Pisa, 
 of a very kind nature, asking me to pass the winter with him. 
 Hunt has behaved very kindh" to me. You shall hear from me 
 again shortly. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Hampstead, 3i/s. 's, Weniicorth Place. 
 
 My Dear Haydon, 
 
 I am much better this morning than I was when I wrote 
 you the note ; that is, my hopes and spirits are better, which are 
 generally at a very low ebb, from such a protracted illness. I 
 shall be here for a little time, and at home all every day. A 
 journey to Italy is recommended me, which I have resolved upon, 
 and am beginning to prepare for. Hoping to see you shortly, 
 I remain your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Mr. Haydon has recorded in his journal the terrible impres- 
 sion of this visit ; the very coloring of the scene struck forcibly on 
 
 11 
 
230 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the painter's imagination : the white curtains, the white sheets, 
 the white shirt, and the white skin of his friend, all contrasted 
 with the bright hectic flush on his cheek and heightened the sinis- 
 ter effect : he went away hardly hoping. 
 
 Wextwokth Place, [I4th August, 1820.] 
 My Dear Taylor, 
 
 I\Iy chest is in such a nervous state, that any thing 
 extra, such as speaking to an unaccustomed person, or writing a 
 note, half suffocates me. This journey to Italy wakes me at day- 
 light every morning, and haunts me horribly. I shall endeavor 
 to go, though it oe with the sensation of marching up against a 
 battery. Tne first step towards it is to know the expense of a 
 journey and a year's residence, which if you will ascertain for 
 me, and let me know early, you will greatly serve me. I have 
 more to say, but must desist, for every line I write increases the 
 tightness of my chest, and I have many more to do. I am con- 
 vinced that this sort of thin^ does not continue for nothinor. If 
 you can come, with any of our friends, do. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 My Dear Brown, 
 
 I ought to be off at the end of this week, as the cold 
 winds begin to blow towards evening ; — but I will wait till I have 
 your answer to this. I am to be introduced, before I set out, to a 
 Dr. Clark, a physician settled at Rome, who promises to befriend 
 me in every way there. The sale of my book is \ery slow^ 
 though it has been very highly rated. One of the causes, I un- 
 derstand from different quarters, of the unpopularity of this new 
 book, is the offence the ladies take at me. On thinking that mat- 
 ter over, I am certain that I have said nothing in a spirit to dis- 
 please any woman I would care to please ; but still there is a ten- 
 dency to class women in my books with roses and sweetmeats, — 
 they never see themselves dominant. I will say no more, but, 
 waiting in anxiety for your answer, doff my hat, and make a 
 purse as long as I can. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 John Keats. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 231 
 
 The acquaintance between Keats and Mr. Severn, the artist, 
 had begun about the end of 1817, and a similarity of general 
 tastes soon led to a most agreeable interchange of their reciprocal 
 abilities. To Severn the poetical faculty of Keats was an ever- 
 flowing source of enjoyment and inspiration — to Keats the double 
 talent of Severn for painting and music imparted the principles 
 and mechanical processes of Art. Keats himself had a taste for 
 painting that might have been cultivated into skill, and he could 
 produce a pleasing musical effect, though possessing hardly any 
 voice. He would sit for hours while Severn was playing, follow- 
 ing the air with a low kind of recitative. " I delight in Haydn's 
 symphonies," he one day said, " he is like a child ; there's no 
 knowing what he will do next." " Shakspeare's Songs, such as 
 
 " Full fathom five thy father lies," 
 
 and 
 
 " The rain it raineth every clay," 
 
 set to music by Purcell, were great favorites with him. 
 
 Mr. Severn had had the gratification, from the commencement 
 of their acquaintance, of bringing Keats into communion with the 
 great masters of painting. A notable instance of the impression 
 made on that susceptible nature by those achievements is manifest 
 as early as the Hymn in the fourth book of the " Endymion," 
 which is, in fiict, the " Bacchus and Ariadne " of Titian, now in 
 our National Gallery, translated into verse. Take these images 
 as examples : 
 
 " And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
 There came a noise of revelers ; the rills 
 Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 
 
 'Twas Bacchus and his crew ! 
 The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
 From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 
 
 'Twas Bacchus and his kin ! 
 Like to a moving vintage down they came. 
 Crowned with green leaves, and faces all on flame. 
 * * * * 
 
 " Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood. 
 Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood. 
 
 With sidelong laughing ; 
 
232 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 And near him rode Siienus on his ass. 
 Pelted with flowers as he on did pass, 
 
 Tipsily quaffing. 
 * * * * 
 
 3Iounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes. 
 From rear to van they scour abont the plains ; 
 A three-days' journey in a moment done ; 
 And always, at the rising of the sun. 
 About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, 
 On spleenful unicorn/' 
 
 At the period occupied by this Darrative, the gold medal to be 
 adjudged by the Royal Academy for the best historical painting 
 had not been given for the last twelve years, no work having been 
 produced which the judges regarded as deserving so high an ac- 
 knowledgment of merit. When therefore it was given to Mr. 
 Severn for his painting of Spenser's " Cave of Despair " there 
 burst out a chorus of long-hoarded discontents, which fell severely 
 on the successful candidate. Severn had long worked at the pic- 
 ture in secret — Keats watching its progress with the greatest in- 
 terest. I have already mentioned one instance in which the poet 
 passionately defended his friend when attacked, and now the time 
 was come when that and similar proofs of attachment were to 
 receive abundant compensation. Entirely regardless of his future 
 prospects, and ready to abandon all the advantages of the position 
 he had won, Mr. Severn at once offered to accompany Keats to 
 Italy. For the change of climate now remained the only chance 
 of prolonging a life so dear both to genius and to friendship, and 
 a long and lonely voyage, and solitaiy transportation to a foreign 
 land, must, with such a sympathetic and affectionate nature, neu- 
 tralize all outward advantages, to say nothing of the miserable 
 condition in which he would be reduced in case the disease did 
 not give way to the alteration of scene and temperature. Such a 
 companionship, therefore, as this which was proposed, was every 
 thing to him, and though he reproached himself on his death-bed 
 with permitting Severn to make the saci-ifice, it no doubt afforded 
 all the alleviation of which his sad condition was capable. 
 
 During a pedestrian tour, occasional delays in the delivery of 
 letters are inevitable. Thus Mr. Brown walked on disappointed 
 
JOHN KEATS. 233 
 
 from one post-office to another, till, on the ninth of September, he 
 received at Dunkeld the above alarming intelligence. He lost no 
 time in embarking at Dundee, and arrived in London only one 
 day too late. Unknown to each, the vessels containing these two 
 anxious friends lay a whole night side by side at Gravesend, and 
 by an additional irony of fate, when Keats's ship was driven back 
 into Portsmouth by stress of weather, Mr. Brown was staying in 
 the neighborhood within ten miles, when Keats landed and spent 
 a day on shore. Nothing was left to him but to make his prepa- 
 rations for following Keats as speedily as possible, and remaining 
 with him in Italy, if it turned out that a southern climate was 
 necessary for the preservation of his life. 
 
 The voyage began under tolerably prosperous auspices. 
 " Keats," wrote Mr. Severn on the 20th of September, " looks 
 very happy ; for myself, I would not change with any one." 
 One of his companions in the vessel was a young lady afflicted 
 with the same malady as himself, and whose illness often diverted 
 his thoughts from his own. Yet there are in the followinor letter 
 deep tones of moral and ph5-sical suffering, which perhaps only 
 found utterance in communion with the friend from whom he was 
 almost conscious he was parting for ever. He landed once more 
 in England, on the Dorchester coast, after a weary fortnight spent 
 in healing about the Channel : the bright beauty of the day and 
 the scene revived for a moment the poet's drooping heart, and the 
 inspiration remained on him for some time even after his return 
 to the ship. It was then that he composed that Sonnet of solemn 
 tenderness — 
 
 " Bright star I would I were stsdfast as thou art," (Sec* 
 
 and wrote it out in a copy of Shakspeare's Poems he had given 
 to Severn a few days before. I know of nothing written after- 
 wards. 
 
 Maria Crowthek, 
 Off Yarmouth, Isle of night, Sept. 29, IS20. 
 !Mr Dear Browx, 
 
 The time has not yet come for a pleasant letter from 
 me. I have delayed writing to you from time to time, because I 
 
 * See the " Literary Remains." 
 
234 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 felt how impossible it was to enliven you with one heartening 
 hope of my recovery. This morning in bed the matter struck me 
 in a different manner ; I thought I would write " while I was in 
 some liking," or I might become too ill to write at all ; and then, 
 if the desire to have written should become strong, it would be a 
 great affliction to me. I have many more letters to write, and I 
 bless my stars that I have begun, for time seems to press. This 
 may be my best opportunity. We are in a calm, and 1 am easy 
 enough this morning. If my spirits seem too low you may in 
 some degree impute it to our having been at sea a fortnight with- 
 out making any way. I was very disappointed at Bedhampton, 
 and was much provoked at the thought of your being at Chiches- 
 ter to-day. I should have delighted in setting off for London for 
 the sensation merely, for what should I do there ? I could not 
 leave my lungs or stomach, or other worse things behind me. I 
 wish to write on subjects that will not agitate me much. There 
 is one 1 must mention and have done with it. Even if my body 
 would recover of itself, this would prevent it. The very thing 
 which I want to live most for will be a great occasion of my 
 death. I cannot help it. Who can help it ? Were I in health 
 it would make me ill, and how can I bear it in my state ? I dare 
 say you will be able to guess on what subject I am harping — you 
 know what was my greatest pain during the first part of my illness 
 at your house. I wish for death every day and night to deliver 
 me from these pains, and then I wish death away, for death would 
 destroy even those pains, which are better than nothing. Land 
 and sea, weakness and decline, are great separators, but Death is 
 the great divorcer for ever. When the pang of this thought 
 has passed through my mind, I may say the bitterness of death is 
 passed. T often wish for you, that you might flatter me with the 
 best. I think, without my mentioning it, for my sake, you would 
 
 be a friend to Miss when I am dead. You think she has 
 
 many faults, but for my sake think she has not one. If there is 
 any thing you can do for her by word or deed I know you will do 
 it. 1 am in a state at present in which woman, merely as woman, 
 can have no more power over me than stocks and stones, and yet 
 
 the difference of my sensations with respect to Miss and my 
 
 sister is amazing — the one seems to absorb the other to a degree 
 
JOHN KEATS. 235 
 
 incredible. I seldom think of my brother and sister in America ; 
 
 the thought of leaving Miss is beyond every thing horrible 
 
 — the sense of darkness coming over me — I eternally see her 
 figure eternally vanishing ; some of the phrases she was in the 
 habit of using during my last nursing at Wentworlh Place ring 
 in my ears. Is there another life ? Shall I awake and find all 
 this a dream ? There must be, we cannot be created for this sort 
 of suffering. The receiving this letter is to be one of yours — I 
 will say nothing about our friendship, or rather yours to me, more 
 than that, as you deserve to escape, you will never be so unhappy 
 as I am. I should think of you in my last moments. I shall 
 
 endeavor to write to Miss , if possible, to-day. A sudden 
 
 stop to my life in the middle of one of these letters would be no 
 bad thing, for it keeps one in a sort of fever awhile ; though 
 fatigued with a letter longer than any I have written for a long 
 while, it would be better to go on for ever than awake to a sense 
 of contrary winds. We expect to put into Portland Roads 
 to-night. The captain, the crew, and the passengers, are all ill- 
 tempered and weary. I shall write to Dilke. I feel as if I was 
 closing my last letter to you, my dear Brown. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 A violent storm in the Bay of Biscay lasted for thirty hours, 
 and exposed the voyagers to considerable danger. " What awful 
 music!" cried Severn, as the waves raged against the vessel. 
 ^' Yes,'*' said Keats, as a sudden lurch inundated the cabin, -• Wa- 
 ter parted from the sea." After the tempest had subsided, Keats 
 was reading the description of the storm in '^ Don Juan," and cast 
 the book on the floor in a transport of indignation. "How 
 horrible an example of human nature," he cried, " is this man, 
 who has no pleasure left him but to gloat over and jeer at the 
 most awful incidents of life. Oh ! this is a paltry originality, 
 which consists in making solemn things gay, and gay things so- 
 lemn, and yet it will fascinate thousands, by the very diabolical 
 outrage of their sympathies. Byron's perverted education makes 
 him assume to feel, and try to impart to others, those depraved 
 sensations which the want of any education excites in many." 
 
236 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 The invalid's sufferings increased during the latter part of the 
 voyage and a ten-days' miserable quarantine at Naples. But, 
 when once fairly landed in comfortable quarters, his spirits ap- 
 peared somewhat to revive, and the glorious scener}^ to bring back, 
 at moments, his old sense of delight. But these transitory gleams, 
 wliich the hopeful heart of Severn caught and stored up, were in 
 truth only remarkable as contrasted with the chronic gloom that 
 overcame all things, even his love. What other words can tell 
 the story like his own ? What fiction could color more deeply 
 this picture of all that is most precious in existence becoming 
 most painful and destructive ? What profounder pathos can the 
 world of tragedy exhibit than this expression of all that is good 
 and great in nature writhing impotent in the grasp of an implaca- 
 ble destiny ? 
 
 Naples, Nov. 1, [1820.] 
 My Deau Browi^, 
 
 Yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during 
 Vv'hich my health suffered more from bad air and the stifled cabin 
 than it had done the whole voyage. The fresh air revived me a 
 little, and I hope I am well enough this morning to write to you a 
 short calm letter ; — if that can be called one, in which I am afraid 
 to speak of v/hat I v/ould fainest dwell upon. As I have gone 
 thus far into it, I must go on a little ; — perhaps it may relieve the 
 load of wretchedness which presses upon me. The persuasion 
 that I shall see her no more will kill me. My dear Brown, I 
 should have had her when I was in health, and I should have re- 
 mained well. I can bear to die — I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, 
 God ! God ! God ! Every thing 1 have in my trunks that reminds 
 me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put 
 in my traveling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly 
 vivid about her — I see her — I hear her. There is nothing in the 
 world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This 
 was the case when I was in England ; I cannot recollect, without 
 shuddering, the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to 
 keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a 
 good hope of seeing her again — Now ! — O that I could be buried 
 near where she lives ! I am afraid to write to her — to receive a 
 
JOHN KEATS.' 237 
 
 letter from her — to see her handwriting would break my heart — 
 even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be 
 more than I can bear. My dear Brown, what am I to do ? Where 
 can I look for consolation or ease ? If I had any chance of re- 
 covery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through the whole of 
 my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this fever 
 has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which 
 you will do immediately, write to Rome {jposle restante) — if she is 
 
 well and happy, put a mark thus + ; if 
 
 Remember me to all. I will endeavor to bear my miseries 
 patiently. A person in my state of health should not have such 
 miseries to bear. Write a short note to my sister, saying you 
 have heard from me. Severn is very well. If I were in better 
 health I would urge your coming to Rome. I fear there is no one 
 can give me any comfort. Is there any news of George ? O, 
 that something fortunate had evor happened to me or my brothers ! 
 — then I might hope, — but despair is forced upon me as a habit. 
 My dear Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. I cannot 
 say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in the 
 thousand novelties around me. I am afraid to write to her. I 
 should like her to know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown, I 
 have coals of fire in my breast. (It surprises me that the human 
 heart is capable of containing and bearing so much misery. Was 
 I born for this end ? God bless her, and her mother, and my sis- 
 ter, and George, and his wife, and you, and all ! 
 
 Your ever affectionate friend, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Thursday. — I was a day too early for the Courier. He sets 
 out now. I have been more calm to-day, though in a half dread 
 of not continuing so. I said nothing of my health ; I know nothing 
 
 of it ; you will hear Severn's account, from . I must leave 
 
 off. You bring my thoughts too near to . God bless you ! 
 
 Little things, that at other times might have been well passed 
 over, now struck his susceptible imagination with intense disgust. 
 He could not bear to go to the opera, on account of the sentinels 
 11* 
 
238 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 who stood constantly on the stage, and whom he at first took for 
 parts of the scenic effect. " We will go at once to Rome," he 
 said ; " 1 know my end approaches, and the continual visible 
 tyranny of this government prevents me from having any peace 
 of mind. I could not lie quietly here. I will not leave even my 
 bones in the midst of this despotism." 
 
 He had received at Naples a most kind letter from Mr. Shel- 
 ley, anxiously inquiring about his health, offering him advice as 
 to the adaptation of diet to the climate, and concluding with an 
 urgent invitation to Pisa, where he could insure him every com- 
 fort and attention. But for one circumstance, it is unfortunate 
 that this offer was not accepted, as it might have spared at least 
 some annoyances to the sufferer, and much painful responsibility, 
 extreme anxiety, and unrelieved distress to his friend. 
 
 On arriving at Rome, he delivered the letter of introduction 
 already mentioned, to Dr. (now Sir James) Clark, at that time 
 rising into high repute as a physician. The circumstances of the 
 young patient were such as to insure compassion from any person of 
 feeling, and perhaps sympathy and attention from superior minds. 
 But the attention he here received was that of all the skill and 
 knowledge that science could confer, and the sympathy was of 
 the kind which discharges the weight of obligation for gratuitous 
 service, and substitutes affection for benevolence and gratitude. 
 All that wise solicitude and delicate thoughtfulness could do to 
 light up the dark passages of mortal sickness and soothe the pillow 
 of the forlorn stranger was done, and, if that was little, the effort 
 was not the less. In the history of most professional men this in- 
 cident might be remarkable, but it is an ordinary sample of the 
 daily life of this distinguished physician, who seems to have felt 
 it a moral duty to make his own scientific eminence the measure 
 of his devotion to the relief and solace of all men of intellectual 
 pursuits, and to have applied his beneficence the most effectually 
 to those whose nervous susceptibility renders them the least fit to 
 endure that physical suffering to which, above all men, tliey are 
 constantly exposed. 
 
 The only other introduction Keats had with him, was from 
 Sir T. Lawrence to Canova, but the time was gone by when even 
 Art could please, and his shattered nerves refused to convey to 
 
JOHN KEATS. 239 
 
 his intelligence the impressions by which a few months before he 
 would have been rapt into ecstasy. Dr. Clark procured Keats a 
 lodging in the Piazza di Spagna, opposite to his own abode ; it 
 was in the first house on your right hand as you ascend the steps 
 of the " Trinita del Monte." Rome, at that time, was far from 
 affording the comforts to the stranger that are now so abundant, 
 and the violent Italian superstitions respecting the infection of all 
 dangerous disease, rendered the circumstances of an invalid most 
 harassing and painful. Suspicion tracked him as he grew worse, 
 and countenances darkened round as the world narrowed about 
 him : ill-will increased just when sympathy was most wanted, and 
 the essential loneliness of the death-bed was increased by the 
 alienation of all other men ; the last grasp of the swimmer for life 
 was ruthlessly cast off by his stronger comrade, and the affections 
 that are wont to survive the body were crushed down in one com- 
 mon dissolution. At least from this desolation Keats was saved 
 by the love and care of Mr. Severn and Dr. Clark. 
 
 I have now to give the last letter of Keats in my possession : 
 probably the last he wrote. One phrase in the commencement of 
 it became frequent with him ; he would continually ask Dr. 
 Clark, " When will this posthumous life of mine come to an end ?" 
 Yet when this was written, hope was evidently not extinguished 
 within him, and it does, appear not unlikely that if the soothing 
 influences of climate had been sooner brought to bear on his con- 
 stitution, and his nervous irritability from other causes been 
 diminished, his life might have been saved, or at least, considera- 
 bly prolonged. 
 
 Rome, 30th November, 1820. 
 My Dear Brown, 
 
 'Tis the most difficult thing in the world to me to write a let- 
 ter. My stomach continues so bad, that I feel it worse on opening 
 any book, — yet I am much better than I was in quarantine. 
 Then I am afraid to encounter the pro-ing and con-ing of any 
 thing interesting to me in England. I have an habitual feeling of 
 my real life having passed, and that I am leading a posthumous 
 existence. God knows how it would have been — but it appears 
 
240 LIFE A>:D letters OF 
 
 to me — however. I will not speak of that subject. I must have 
 been at Bedhampton nearly at the time you were writing to me 
 from Chichester — how unfortunate — and to pass on the river too ! 
 There was my star predominant ! I cannot answer any thing in 
 your letter, which followed me from Naples to Rome, because I 
 am afraid to look it over again. I am so weak (in mind) that I 
 cannot bear the sight of any handwriting of a friend I love so much 
 as I do 5"ou. Yet I ride the little horse, and, at my worst, even in 
 quarantine, summoned up more puns, in a sort of desperaiion, in 
 one week than in any year of my life. There is one thought 
 enough to kill me ; I have been well, healthy, alert, &c., walk- 
 ing w^th her, and now — the knowledge of contrast, feeling for 
 light and shade, all that information (primitive sense) necessary 
 for a poem, are great enemies to the recovery of the stomach. 
 There, you rogue, I put you to the torture ; but you must bring 
 your philosophy to bear, as I do mine, really, or how should I be 
 able to live ? Dr. Clark is very attentive to me : he says, there 
 is very little the matter with my lungs, but*m}^ stomach, he says, 
 is very bad. I am well disappointed in hearing good news from 
 George, for it runs in my head we shall all die young. I have 
 not written to Reynolds yet, which he must think very neglect- 
 ful ; being anxious to send him a good account of my health, I 
 have delayed it from week to week. If I recover, I will do all in 
 my power to correct the mistakes made during sickness ; and if I 
 should not, all my faults will be forgiven. Severn is very well, 
 though he leads so dull a life with me. Remember me to all 
 friends, and tell Haslam I should not have left London without 
 taking leave of him, but from being so low in body and mind. 
 Write to George as soon as you receive this, and tell him how I 
 am, as far as you can guess : and also a note to my sister — who 
 walks about my imagination like a ghost — she is so like Tom. I 
 can scarcely bid you good-bye, even in a letter. I always made 
 an awkward bow. 
 
 God bless you ! 
 John Keats. 
 
 After such words as tJiese, the comments or the description of 
 any mere biographer must indeed jar upon every mind duly im- 
 
JOHN KEATS. 241 
 
 pressed with the reality of this sad history. The voice, which 
 we have followed so long in all its varying, yet ever-true, modu- 
 lations of mirth and melancholy, of wonder and of wit, of activity 
 and anguish, and which has conferred on these volumes v»hatever 
 value they may possess, is now silent, and will not be heard on 
 earth again. The earnest utterances of the devoted friend, who 
 transmitted to other listening affections the details of those v. eary 
 hours, and who followed to the very last the ebb and flow of that 
 wave of fickle life, remain the fittest substitute for those sincere 
 revelations which can come to us no more. It is left to passages 
 from the letters of Mr. Severn to express in their energetic sim- 
 plicity the final accidents of the hard catastrophe of so much that 
 only asked for healthy life to be fruitful, useful, powerful, and 
 happy. Mr. Severn wrote from Rome : — 
 
 ''Dec. lAih. — I fear poor Keats is at his worst. A most un- 
 looked-for relapse has confined him to his bed with every chance 
 against him. It has been so sudden upon what I thought conva- 
 lescence, and without any seeming cause, that I cannot calculate 
 on the next change. 1 dread it, for his suffering is so great, so 
 continued, and his fortitude so completely gone, that any further 
 change must make him delirious. This is the fifth day, and I see 
 him get worse. 
 
 ^^ Dec. 11th, 4 A. M. — Not a moment can I be from him. I 
 sit by his bed and read all day, and at night I humor him in all 
 his wanderings. He has just fallen asleep, the first sleep for 
 eight nights, and now from mere exhaustion. I hope he will not 
 wake till I have written, for I am anxious you should know the 
 truth ; yet I dare not let him see I think his state dangerous. On 
 the morning of this attack he was going on in good spirits, quite 
 merrily, when, in an instant, a cough seized him, and he vomited 
 two cupfulls of blood. In a moment I got Dr. Clark, who took 
 eight ounces of blood from his arm — it was black and thick. 
 Keats was much alarmed and dejected. What a sorrowful day I 
 had with him ! He rushed out of bed and said, ' This day shall 
 be my last;' and but for me most certainly it would. The blood 
 broke forth in similar quantity the next morning, and he was bled 
 again. I was afterwards so fortunate as to talk him into a little 
 
242 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 calmnesS; and he soon became quite patient. Now the blood has 
 come up in coughing five times. Not a single thing will he di- 
 gest, yet he keeps on craving for food. Every day he raves he 
 will die from hunger, and Pve been obliged to give him more than 
 was allowed. His imagination and memory present every thought 
 to him in horror ; the recollection of ' his good friend Brown,' of 
 * his four happy weeks spent under her care,* of his sister and bro- 
 ther. O ! he will mourn over all to me whilst I cool his burning 
 forehead, till I tremble for his intellects. How can he be ' Keats' 
 again after all this ? Yet I may see it too gloomily, since each 
 coming night I sit up adds its dismal contents to my mind. 
 
 *' Dr. Clark will not say much ; although there are no bounds 
 to his attention, yet he can with little success • administer to a 
 mind diseased.' All that can be done he does most kindly, while 
 his lady, like himself in refined feeling, prepares all that poor 
 Keats takes, for in this wilderness of a place, for an invalid, there 
 was no alternative. Yesterday Dr. Clark went all over Rome 
 for a certain kind offish, and just as I received it carefully dress- 
 ed, Keats was taken with spitting of blood. We have the best 
 opinion of Dr. Clark's skill : he comes over four or five times 
 a-day, and he has left word for us to call him up, at any moment, 
 in case of danger. My spirits have been quite pulled down. 
 These wretched Romans have no idea of comfort. I am obliged 
 to do every thing for him. I wish you were here. 
 
 '- 1 have just looked at him. This will be a good night. 
 
 " Jan. loth, 1821, half-past Eleven — Poor Keats has just fallen 
 asleep. I have watched him and read to him to his ver\- last 
 wink ; he has been saying to me — ' Severn, I can see under 
 your quiet look immense contention — you don't know what you 
 are reading. You are enduring for me more than I would have 
 you. O ! that my last hour was come !' He is sinking daily ; 
 perhaps another three weeks may lose him to me for ever ! I 
 made sure of his recovery when we set out. I was selfish ; I 
 thought of his value to me : I made my own public success to 
 depend on his candor to me. 
 
 '• Torlonia, the banker, has refused us any more money ; the 
 bill is returned unaccepted, and to-morrow I must pay my last 
 crown for this cursed lodging-place : and what is more, if he dies 
 
JOHN KEATS. 243 
 
 all the beds and furniture will be burnt and the wa^s scraped, 
 and they will come on me for a hundred pounds or more ! But, 
 above all, this noble fellow lying on the bed and without the com- 
 mon spiritual comforts that many a rogue and fool has in his last 
 moments ! If I do break down it will be under this ; but I pray 
 that some angel of goodness may yet lead him through this dark 
 wilderness. 
 
 " If I could leave Keats every day for a time I could soon 
 raise money by my painting, but he will not let me out of his 
 .sight, he will not bear the face of a stranger. I would rather cut 
 my tongue out than tell him I must get the money — that would 
 kill him at a word. You see my hopes of being kept by the Royal 
 Academy will be cut off, unless I send a picture by the spring. 
 I have written to Sir T. Lawrence. I have got a volume of Jere- 
 my Taylor's works, which Keats has heard me read to-night. 
 This is a treasure indeed, and came when I should have thought 
 it hopeless. Why may not other good things come ? I will keep 
 myself up with such hopes. Dr. Clark is still the same, though 
 he knows about the bill : he is afraid the next change will be to 
 diarrhoea. Keats sees all this — his knowledge of anatomy makes 
 every change tenfold worse : every way he is unfortunate, yet 
 every one offers me assistance on his account. He cannot read 
 any letters, he has made me put them by him unopened. They 
 tear him to pieces — he dare not look on the outside of any more : 
 make this known. 
 
 Feb. l^th. — I have just got your letter of Jan. 15th. The 
 contrast of your quiet friendly Hampstead with this lonely place 
 and our poor suffering Keats, brings the tears into my eyes. I 
 wish, many, many times, that he had never left you. His recov- 
 ery would have been impossible in England ; but his excessive 
 grief has made it equally so here. In your care he seemed to me 
 like an infant in its mother's arms ; you would have smoothed 
 down his pain by variety of interests, and his death would have 
 been cased by the presence of many friends. Here, with one 
 solitary friend, in a place savage for an invalid, he has one more 
 pang added to his many — for I have had the hardest task in keep- 
 ing from him my painful situation. I have kept him alive week 
 after week. He has refused all food, and I have prepared his 
 
244 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 meals six times a day, till he had no excuse left. I have only 
 dared to leave him wliile he slept. It is impossible to conceive 
 what his sufferings have been : he might, in his anguish, have 
 plunged into the grave in secret, and not a syllable been known 
 about him : this reflection alone repays me for all I have done. 
 Now, he is still alive and calm. He would not hear that he was 
 better : the thought of recovery is beyond every tiling dreadful to 
 him ; we now dare not perceive any improvement, for the hope 
 of death seems his only comfort. jHe talks of the quiet ^rave as 
 the first rest he can ever have. 
 
 " In the last M'eek a great desire for books came across his 
 mind. I got him all I could, and three days this charm lasted, 
 but now it has gone. Yet he is very tranquil. He is more and 
 more reconciled to his horrible misfortunes. 
 
 "Feb. l^th. — Little or no change has taken place, excepting 
 this beautiful one, that his mind is growing to great quietness 
 and peace. I find this^ change has to do with the increasing 
 weakness of his body, but to me it seems like a delightful sleep ; 
 I have been beating about in the tempest of his mind so long. 
 To-night he has talked very much, but so easily, that he fell at 
 last into a pleasant sleep. He seems to have happy dreams. This 
 will bring on some change, — it cannot be worse — it may be bet- 
 ter. Among the many things he has requested of me to-night, 
 this is the principal — that on his grave-stone shall be this in- 
 scription : — 
 
 ' HERE LIES 02sE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT KV WATER.' 
 
 You will understand this so well that I need not say a word 
 about it. 
 
 " When he first came here he purchased a copy of Alfieri,' 
 but put it down at the second page — being much affected at the 
 lines 
 
 • Misera me ! sollievo a me non resta, 
 Aliro che ilpianto, ed il pianto d delitto ." 
 
 Now that I know so much of his grief, I do not Vv'onder at it. 
 
 " Such a letter has come ! I gave it to Keats supposing it to 
 be one of yours, but it proved sadly otherwise. The glance at 
 
JOHN KEATS. 245 
 
 that letter tore him to pieces ; the effects were on him for many- 
 days. He CI id not read it — he could not — but requested me to 
 place it in his coffin, together with a purse and a letter (unopened) 
 of his sister's :* since then he has told me not to place that let- 
 ter in his coffin, only his sister's purse and letter, and some hair. 
 I however persuaded him to think otherwise on this point. In 
 his most irritable state he sees a friendless world about him, with 
 every thing that his life presents, and especially the kindness of 
 others, tending to his melancholy death. 
 
 " I have got an English nurse to come two hours every other 
 day, so that I am quite recovering my health. Keats seems to 
 like her, but she has been taken ill to-day and cannot come. In 
 a little back-room I get chalking out a picture ; this, with swal- 
 lowing a little Italian every day, helps to keep me up. The 
 Doctor is delighted with your kindness to Keats ;"[ he thinks him 
 worse ; his lungs are in a dreadful state ; his stomach has lost all 
 its power. Keats knew from the first little drop of blood that he 
 must die ; no common chance of living was left him. 
 
 " Feb. 22nd. — O ! how anxious I am to hear from you ! [Mr. 
 Haslam.] I have nothing to break this dreadful solitude but let- 
 ters. Day after day, night after night, here I am by cur poor 
 dying friend. My spirits, my intellect, and my health are break- 
 ing down. I can get no one to change with me — no one to relieve 
 me. All run away, and even if they did not, Keats would not do 
 without me. 
 
 " Last night I thought he was going ; I could hear the phlegm 
 in his throat ; he bade me lift him up in the bed or he would die 
 with pain. I watched him all night, expecting him to be suffo- 
 cated at every cough. This morning, by the pale daylight, the 
 change in him frightened me : he has sunk in the last three days 
 to a most ghastly look. Though Dr. Clark has prepared me for 
 
 * Miss Keats shor:ly after married Seiior Llanos, a Spanish gentleman cf 
 liberal politics and much accomplishment, the author of" Don Esteban," San- 
 doval the Freemason,"' and other spirited illustrations of the modern history of 
 the Peninsula. 
 
 t Probably alluding to pecuniary assistance afforded by Mr. Brown. But 
 before this the friends were helped out of iheir immediate difficulty by the 
 generosity of Mr. Taylor. 
 
246 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the worst, I shall be ill able to bear it. I cannot bear to be set 
 free even from this my horrible situation by the loss of him. 
 
 " I am still quite precluded from painting : which may be of 
 consequence to me. Poor Keats has me ever by him, and sha- 
 dows out the form of one soli*:ary friend: he opens his eyes in 
 great doubt and horror, but when they fall upon me, they close 
 gently, open quietly and close again, till he sinks to sleep. This 
 thought alone would keep me by him till he dies : and why did I 
 say I was losing my time ? The advantages I have gained by 
 knowing John Keats are double and treble any I could have won 
 by any other occupation. Farewell. 
 
 '• Feh. 27th. — He is gone : he died with the most perfect ease 
 — he seemed to go to sleep. On the twenty-third, about four, the 
 approaches of death came on. ' Severn — I — lift me up — I am 
 dying — I shall die easy ; don't be frightened — be firm, and thank 
 God it has come.' I lifted him up in my arms. The phlegm 
 seemed boiling in his throat, and increased until eleven, when he 
 gradually sunk into death, so quiet, that I still thought he slept. 
 I cannot say more now, I am broken down by four nights' 
 watching, no sleep since, and my poor Keats gone. Three days 
 since the body was opened : the lungs were completely gone. 
 The doctors could not imagine how he had lived these two 
 months. I followed his dear body to the grave on Monday, with 
 many English. They take much care of me here — I must else 
 have gone into a fever. I am better now. but still quite dis- 
 abled. 
 
 " The police have been. The furniture, the walls, the floor, 
 must all be destroyed and changed, but this is well looked to by 
 Dr. Clark. 
 
 " The letters I placed in the coffin with my own hand. 
 
 " This goes by the first post. Some of my kind friends would 
 else have written before." 
 
 After the death of Keats. Mr. Severn received the followincr 
 letter from Mr. Leigh Hunt, in the belief that he was still alive, 
 and that it might be communicated to him. But even while 
 these warm words were beincr written in his own old home, he 
 
JOHN KEATS. 247 
 
 had already been committed to that distant grave, which has now 
 become a place of pilgrimage to those fellow-countrymen who 
 then knew not what they had lost, and who are ready, too late, to 
 lavish on his name the love and admiration that might once have 
 been very welcome. 
 
 Vale of Health, Hampstead, March 8, li?21. 
 Dear Severn, 
 
 You have concluded, of course, that I have sent no 
 letters to Rome, because I was aware of the effect they would 
 have on Keats's mind ; and this is the principal cause, — for be- 
 sides what I have been told of his emotions about letters in Italy, 
 I remember his telling me on one occasion, that, in his sick mo- 
 ments, he never wished to receive another letter, or ever to see 
 another face however friendly. But still I should have written 
 to you had I not been almost at death's-door myself. You will 
 imagine how ill I have been when you hear that I have just 
 begun writing again for the '•' Examiner " and " Indicator," after 
 an interval of several months, during which my flesh wasted from 
 me in sickness and melancholy. Judge how often I thought of 
 Keats, and with what feelings. Mr. Brown tells me he is com- 
 paratively calm now, or rather quite so. If he can bear to hear 
 of us, pray tell him — but he knows it all already, and can put it 
 in better language than any man. I hear he does not like to be 
 told that he may get better ; nor is it to be wondered at, consider- 
 ing his firm persuasion that he shall not recover. He can only 
 regard it as a puerile thing, and an insinuation that he cannot 
 bear to think he shall die. But if th^'s persuasion should happen 
 no longer to be so strong upon him, or if he can now put up with 
 Fuch attempts to console him, remind him of what I have said a 
 thousand times, and that I still (upon my honor, Severn,) think 
 always, that I have seen too many instances of recovery from ap- 
 parently desperate cases of consumption, not to indulge in hope to 
 the very last. If he cannot bear this, tell him — tell that great 
 poet and noble-hearted man — that we shall all bear his memory 
 in the most precious part of our hearts, and that the world shall 
 bow their heads to it, as our loves do. Or if this again will 
 
248 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 trouble his spirit, tell him we shall never cease to remember and 
 love him, and, that the most skeptical of us has faith enough in 
 the high things that nature puts into our heads, to think that all 
 who are of one accord in mind and heart, are journeying to one 
 and the same place, and shall unite somehow or other again, face 
 to face, mutually conscious, mutually delighted. Tell him he is 
 only before us on the road, as he was in every thing else ; or, 
 whether you tell him the latter or no, tell him the former, and 
 add that we shall never forget he was so, and that we are coming 
 after him. The tears are again in my eyes, and I must not 
 afford to shed them. The next letter I write shall be more to 
 yourself, and a little more refreshing to your spirits, which we 
 are very sensible must have been greatly taxed. But whether 
 our friend dies or not, it will not be among the least lofty of our 
 recollections by and by, that you helped to smooth the sick-bed of 
 so fine a being. 
 
 God bless you, dear Severn. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Keats was buried in the Protestant cemetery at Rome, one of 
 the most beautiful spots on which the eye and heart of man can 
 rest. It is a grassy slope, amid verdurous ruins of the Honorian 
 walls of the diminished city, and surmounted by the pyramidal 
 tomb which Petrarch attributed to Remus, but which antiquarian 
 truth has ascribed to the humbler name of Caius Cestius, a Tri- 
 bune of the people, only remembered by his sepulchre. In one 
 of those mental voyages into the past, which often precede death, 
 Keats had told Severn that " he thought the intensest pleasure he 
 had received in life was in watching the growth of flowers ;" and 
 another time, after lying a while still and peaceful, he said, '• I 
 feel the flowers growing over me." And they do grow, even all 
 the winter Ions — violets and daises minolinfj with the fresh 
 herbage, and, in the words of Shelley, " making one in love 
 with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a 
 place." 
 
 Ten weeks after the close of his holy work of friendship and 
 charitv, Mr. Severn wrote to Mr. Haslam : — "Poor Keats has 
 
JOHN KEATS. 249 
 
 now his wish — his humble wish ; he is at peace in the quiet grave. 
 I walked there a few days a^o, and found the daisies had grown 
 all over it. It is in one of the most lovely retired spots in Rome. 
 You cannot have such a place in England. I visit it with a de- 
 licious melancholy which relieves my sadness. When I recollect 
 for how long Keats had never been one day free from ferment and 
 torture of mind and body, and that now he lies at rest with the 
 flowers he so desired above him, with no sound in the air but the 
 tinkling bells of a few simple sheep and goats, I feel indeed grate- 
 ful that he is here, and remember how earnestly I prayed that his 
 sufferings might end, and tha( he might be removed from a world 
 where no one grain of comfort remained for him." 
 
 Thus too in the " Adonais," that most successful imitation of 
 the spirit of the Grecian elegy, devoted to the memory of one who 
 had restored Grecian mythology to its domain of song, this place 
 is consecrated. 
 
 " Go ihou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
 
 The grave, the city, and the wilderness : 
 
 And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, 
 
 And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dre^s 
 
 The bones of Desolation's nakedness ; 
 
 Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
 
 Thy footsteps to a slope of green access. 
 
 Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 
 Alight of laughing flowers along the grass is spread, 
 
 " And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time 
 
 Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
 
 And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime. 
 
 Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
 
 This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
 
 Like flame transformed to marble ; and beneath 
 
 A field is spread, on which a newer band 
 
 Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, 
 Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. 
 
 " Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet 
 To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned 
 Its charge to each ; and, if the seal is set 
 Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind. 
 
250 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Break it not thou I Too surely shall thou find 
 Thine own well full, if thou returaest home. 
 Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind 
 Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
 "\\Tjat Adouais is, why fear we to become V 
 
 And a few years after this was written, in the extended bury- 
 ing-ground, a little above the grave of Keats, was placed another 
 tomb-stone, recording that below rested the passionate and world- 
 worn heart of Shelley himself — " Cor Cordium.'"* 
 
 Immediately on hearing of Keats's death, Shelley expressed 
 the profoundest sympathy and a fierce indignation against those 
 whom he believed to have hastened it : in a few months he pro- 
 duced the incomparable tribute of genius to genius, which is of 
 itself the compliment of and the apology for these volumes. 
 
 The first copy of the '•' Adonais"' (printed at Pisa) was sent 
 with the following letter to Mr. Severn, then enjoying the travel- 
 ing pension of the Royal Academy, which had not been granted 
 to any student for a considerable period. He resided for many 
 years at Rome, illustrating the City and Campagna by his artistic 
 fancy, and delighting all travelers who had the pleasure of his 
 acquaintance by his talents and his worth. Nor was the self-de- 
 votion of his youth without its fi*uits in the estimation and respect 
 of those who learned the circumstances of his visit to Italy, and 
 above all, of those who loved the genius, revered the memory, and 
 mourned the destiny of Keats. 
 
 Pisa, Xot. 29th, 1821. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I send you the elegy on poor Keats — and I wish it were 
 better worth your acceptance. You will see, by the preface, 
 that it was written before I could obtain any particular account 
 of his last moments ; all that I still know, was communicated to 
 me by a friend who had derived his information from Colonel 
 Finch ; I have ventured to express, as I felt, the respect and 
 admiration which your conduct towards him demands. 
 
 * The Inscription. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 251 
 
 In spite of his transcendent genuis, Keats never was, nor 
 never will be, a popular poet ; and the total neglect and obscurity 
 in which the astonishing remnants of his mind still lie, was hardly 
 to be dissipated by a Avriter, who, however he may differ from 
 Keats in more important qualities, at least resembles him in that 
 accidental one, a want of popularity. 
 
 I have little hope, therefore, that the poem I send you will 
 excite any attention, nor do I feel assured that a critical notice of 
 his writings would find a single reader. But for these considera- 
 tions, it had been my intention to collect the remnants of his com- 
 positions, and to have published them with a Life and Criticism. 
 Has he left any poems or writings of whatsoever kind, and in 
 whose possession are they ? Perhaps you would oblige me by 
 information on this point. 
 
 Many thanks for the picture you promise me : I shall consider 
 it among the most sacred relics of the past. For my part, I little 
 expected, when I last saw Keats at my friend Leigh Hunt's, that 
 I should survive him. 
 
 Should you ever pass through Pisa, I hope to have the plea- 
 sure of seeing you, and of cultivating an acquaintance into 
 something pleasant, begun under such melancholy auspices. 
 
 Accept, my dear sir, the assurance of my highest esteem, and 
 believe me. 
 
 Your most sincere and faithful servant, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 The last few pages have attempted to awaken a personal 
 interest in the story of Keats almost apart from his literary char- 
 acter — a personal interest founded on events that might easily 
 have occurred to a man of inferior ability, and rather affecting 
 from their moral than intellectual bearing. But now 
 
 He has outsoared the shadow of our night ; 
 Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 
 And that unrest which men miscall delight. 
 Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
 From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
 
252 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 He is secure, and now can never mourn 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; 
 Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. 
 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn :" 
 
 and, ere we close altogether these memorials of his short earthly 
 being, let us revert to the great distinctive peculiarities which 
 singled him out from his fellow-men and gave him his rightful 
 place among "the inheritors of unfulfilled renown." 
 
 Let any man of literary accomplishment, though without the 
 habit of writing poetry, or even much taste for reading it, open 
 " Endymion " at random, (to say nothing of the later and more 
 perfect poems,) and examine the characteristics of the page before 
 him, and I shall be surprised if he does not feel that the whole 
 range of literature hardly supplies a parallel phenomenon. As a 
 psychological curiosity, perhaps Chatterton is more wonderful ; 
 but in him the immediate ability displayed is rather the full com- 
 prehension of and identification with the old model, than the 
 effluence of creative genius. In Keats, on the contrary, the 
 originality in the use of his scanty materials, his expansion of 
 them to the proportions of his own imagination, and above all, his 
 field of diction and expression extending so far beyond his knowledge 
 of literature, is quite inexplicable by any of the ordinary processes 
 of mental education. If his classical learning had been deeper, 
 his seizure of the full spirit of Grecian beauty would have been 
 less surprising ; if his English reading had been more extensive, 
 his inexhaustible vocabulary of picturesque and mimetic words 
 could more easily be accounted for ; but here is a surgeon's 
 apprentice, with the ordinary culture of the middle classes, rival- 
 ing in aesthetic perceptions of antique life and thought the most 
 careful scholars of his time and country, and reproducing these 
 impressions in a phraseology as complete and unconventional as 
 if he had mastered the whole history and the frequent variations 
 of the English tongue, and elaborated a mode of utterance com- 
 mensurate with his vast ideas. 
 
 The artistic absence of moral purpose may offend many 
 readers, and the just harmony of the coloring nfiay appear to 
 others a displeasing monotony, but I think it impossible to lay the 
 
JOHN KEATS. 253 
 
 book down without feeling that almost every line of it contains 
 solid gold enough to be beaten out, by common literary manu- 
 facturers, into a poem of itself Concentration of imagery, the 
 hitting off a picture at a stroke, the clear decisive word that 
 brings the thing before you and will not let it go, are the rarest 
 distinctions of the early exercise of the faculties. So much more 
 is usually known than digested by sensitive youth, so much 
 more felt than understood, so much more perceived than method- 
 ized, that diffusion is fairly permitted in the earlier stages of 
 authorship, and it is held to be one of the advantages, amid some 
 losses, of maturer intelligence, that it learns to fix and hold the 
 beauty it apprehends, and to cr^-stalize the dew of its morning. 
 Such examples to the contrary, as the '•' Windsor Forest " of 
 Pope, are rather scholastic exercises of men who afterwards be- 
 came great, than the first-fruits of such genius, while all Keats's 
 poems are early productions, and there is nothing beyond them 
 but the thought of what he might have become. Truncated as is 
 this intellectual life, it is still a substantive whole, and the com- 
 plete statue, of which such a fragment is revealed to us, stands 
 perhaps solely in the temple of the imagination. There is indeed 
 progress, continual and visible, in the works of Keats, but it is 
 towards his own ideal of a poet, not towards any defined and 
 tangible model. All that we can do is to transfer that ideal to 
 ourselves, and to believe that if Keats had lived, that is what he 
 would have been. 
 
 Contrary to the expectation of ]\Ir. Shelley, the appreciation 
 of Keats by men of thought and sensibility gradually rose after 
 his death, until he attained the place he now holds among the 
 poets of his country. By his side too the fame of this his friend 
 and eulogist ascended, and now they rest together, associated in 
 the history of the achievements of the human imagination ; twin 
 stars, very cheering to the mental mariner tost on the rough ocean 
 of practical life and blown about by the gusts of calumny and 
 misrepresentation, but who, remembering what they have under- 
 gone, forgets not that he also is divine. 
 
 Nor has Keats been without his direct influence on the poeti- 
 cal literature that succeeded him. The most noted, and perhaps 
 the most original, of present poets, bears more analogy to him 
 
 12 
 
254 LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
 than to any other writer, and their brotherhood has been well re- 
 cognized, in the words of a critic, himself a man of redundant 
 fancy, and of the widest perception of what is true and beautiful, 
 lately cut off from life by a destiny as mysterious as that which 
 has been here recounted. Mr. Sterling writes : — " Lately, I have 
 been reading again some of Alfred Tennyson's second volume, 
 and with profound admiration of his truly lyric and idyllic genius. 
 There seems to me to have been more epic power in Keats, that 
 fiery beautiful meteor ; but they are two most true and great 
 poets. When we think of the amount of the recognition they 
 have received, one may well bless God that poetry is in itself 
 strength and joy, whether it be crowned by all mankind, or left 
 alone in its own magic hermitage." * 
 
 And this is in truth the moral of the tale. In the life which 
 here lies before us, as plainly as a child's, the action of the poetic 
 faculty is most clearly visible : it long sustains in vigor and de- 
 light a temperament naturally melancholy, and which, under 
 such adverse circumstances, might well have degenerated into 
 angry discontent : it imparts a wise temper and a courageous 
 hope to a physical constitution doomed to early decay,f and it 
 confines within manly affections and generous passion a nature so 
 impressible that sensual pleasures and sentimental tenderness 
 might easily have enervated and debased it. There is no defect 
 in the picture which the exercise of this power does not go far to 
 remedy, and no excellence which it does not elevate and extend. 
 
 One still graver lesson remains to be noted. Let no man, 
 who is in any thing above his fellows, claim, as of right, to be 
 valued or understood : the vulgar great are comprehended and 
 adored, because they are in reality in the same moral plane with 
 those who admire ; but he who deserves the higher reverence 
 must himself convert the worshiper. The pure and lofty life ; 
 the generous and tender use of the rare creative faculty ;• the 
 
 * Sterling's Essays and Tales, p. clxviii. 
 
 t Coleridge in page 89, vol. ii., of his " Table Talk," asserts that, when 
 Keats (whoni he describes as " a loose, slack, not well-dressed youth ") met 
 him in a lane near Highgate, and they shook hands, he said to Mr. Hunt, 
 " there is death in that hand." This was at the period when Keats first 
 knew Mr, Hunt, and was, apparently, Hn perfect health. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 255 
 
 brave endurance of neglect and ridicule ; the strange and cruel 
 end of so much genius and so much virtue ; these are the lessons 
 by which the sympathies of mankind must be interested, and their 
 faculties educated, up to the love of such a character and the 
 comprehension of such an intelligence. Still the lovers and scho- 
 lars will be few : still the rewards of fame will be scanty and ill- 
 proportioned : no accumulation of knowledge or series of expe- 
 riences can teach the meaning of genius to those who look for it 
 in additions and results, any more than the numbers studded 
 round a planet's orbit could approach nearer infinity than a single 
 unit. The world of thought must remain apart from the world of 
 action, for, if they once coincided, the problem of Life would be 
 solved, and the hope, which we call heaven, would be realized on 
 earth. And therefore men 
 
 " Are cradled into poetry by wrong : 
 
 They learn in suffering what they teach in song." 
 
LITERARY REMAINS 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Otho the Great, Emperor of Germany. 
 
 LuDOLPH, his Son. 
 
 Conrad, Duke of Franconm. 
 
 Albert, a Knight, favored by Otho. 
 
 SiGiFRED, an Officer, friend of Ludolph^ 
 
 Theodore, } r\4K 
 
 GONFRID, r^^'^'"*' 
 
 Ethelbert, an Abbot. 
 Gersa, Prince of Hungary. 
 An Hungarian Captain. 
 Physician. 
 Page. 
 
 Nobles, Knights, Attendants, and Sotdicrs. 
 Erminia, Niece of Otho. 
 Auranthe, Conrad's Sister. 
 Ladies and Attendants. 
 Scene. — The Castle of Friedburg, its vicinity, and the Hungarian 
 Camp. 
 
 Time. — One Day. 
 
 ACT I . 
 
 Scene I. — A71 Apartment in the Castle. 
 Enter Conrad. 
 So, I am safe emerged from these broils ! 
 Amid the wreck of thousands I am whole ; 
 For every crime I have a laurel-wreath, 
 For every lie a lordship. Nor yet has 
 
260 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 My ship of fortune furl'd her silken sails, — 
 Let her glide on ! This danger'd neck is saved, 
 By dextrous policy, from the rebel's axe ; 
 And of my ducal palace not one stone 
 Is bruised by the Hungarian petards. 
 Toil hard, ye slaves, and from the miser-earth 
 Bring forth once more my bullion, treasured deep, 
 With all my jewel'd salvers, silver and gold, 
 And precious goblets that make rich the wine. 
 But why do I stand babbling to myself ? 
 Where is Auranthe ? I have news for her 
 Shall— 
 
 Enter Auranthe. 
 
 Auranthe. Conrad ! what tidings ? Good, if I may guess 
 From your alert eyes and high-lifted brows. 
 What tidings of the battle ? Albert ? Ludolph ? Otho ? 
 
 Conrad. You guess aright. And, sister, slurring o'er 
 Our by-gone quarrels, I confess my heart 
 Is beating with a child's anxiety. 
 To make our golden fortune known to you. 
 
 Auranthe. So serious ? 
 
 Conrad. Y'es, so serious, that before 
 
 I utter even the shadow of a hint 
 Concerning what will make that sin-worn cheek 
 Blush joyous blood through every lineament, 
 You must make here a solemn vow to me. 
 
 Auranthe. I pr'ythee, Conrad, do not overact 
 The hypocrite. What vow would you impose ? 
 
 Conrad. Trust me for once. That you may be assured 
 'Tis not confiding in a broken reed, 
 A poor court-bankrupt, outwitted and lost, 
 Revolve these facts in your acutest mood. 
 In such a mood as now you listen to me : 
 A few days since, I was an open rebel, — 
 Against the Emperor had suborn'd his son, — 
 Drawn off his nobles to revolt, — and shown 
 Contented fools causes for discontent. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 261 
 
 Fresh hatch'd in my ambition's eagle-nest ; 
 So thrived I as a rebel, — and, behold ! 
 Now I am Otho's favorite, his dear friend. 
 His right hand, his brave Conrad ! 
 
 Auranthe. I confess 
 
 You have intrigued with these unsteady times 
 To admiration. But to be a favorite ! 
 
 Conrad. I saw my moment. The Hungarians, 
 Collected silently in holes and corners, 
 Appear'd, a sudden host, in the open day. 
 I should have perish'd in our empire's wreck, 
 But, calling interest loyalty, swore faith 
 To most believing Otho ; and so help'd 
 His blood-stain 'd ensigns to the victory 
 Jn yesterday's hard fight, that it has turn'd 
 The edge of his sharp wrath to eager kindness. 
 
 Auranthe. So far yourself But what is this to me 
 More than that 1 am glad ? I gratulate you. 
 
 Conrad. Yes, sister, but it does regard you greatly. 
 Nearly, momentously, — aye, painfully ! 
 Make me this vow — 
 
 Auranthe. Concerning whom or what ? 
 
 Conrad. Albert ! 
 
 Auranthe. I would inquire somewhat of him : 
 
 You had a letter from me touching him ? 
 No treason 'gainst his head in deed or word ! 
 Surely you spared him at my earnest prayer ? 
 Give me the letter — it should not exist ! 
 
 Conrad. At one pernicious charge of the enemy, 
 I, for a moment-whiles, was prisoner ta'en 
 And rifled, — stuff ! the horses' hoofs have minced it ! 
 
 Auranthe. He is alive ? 
 
 Conrad. He is ! but here make oath 
 To alienate him from your scheming brain, 
 Divorce him from your solitary thoughts. 
 And cloud him in such utter banishment. 
 That when his person meets again your eye. 
 Your vision shall quite lose its memory, 
 12* 
 
262 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 And wander past him as through vacancy. 
 
 Auranthe. I'll not be perjured. 
 
 Conrad. No, nor great, nor mighty ; 
 
 You would not wear a crown, or rule a kingdom. 
 To you it is indifferent. 
 
 Aurantlie. What means this ? 
 
 Conrad. You'll not be perjured ! Go to Albert then. 
 That camp-mushroom — dishonor of our house. 
 Go, page his dusty heels upon a march, 
 Furbish his jingling baldric while he sleeps, 
 And share his mouldy ration in a siege. 
 Yet stay, — perhaps a charm may call you back. 
 And make the widening circlets of your eyes 
 Sparkle with healthy fevers. — The Emperor 
 Hath given consent that you should marry Ludolph ! 
 
 Auranthe. Can it be, brother ? For a golden crown 
 With a queen's awful lips I doubly thank you ! 
 This is to wake in Paradise ! Farewell 
 Thou clod of yesterday — 'twas not myself! 
 Not till this moment did I ever feel 
 My spirit's faculties ! I'll flatter you 
 For this, and be you ever proud of it ; 
 Thou, Jove-like, struck'dst thy forehead. 
 And from the teeming marrow of thy brain 
 I spring complete Minerva ! but the prince — 
 His highness Ludolph — where is he ? 
 
 Conrad. I know not : 
 
 When, lackeying my counsel at a beck, 
 The rebel lords, on bended knees, received 
 The Emperor's pardon, Ludolph kept aloof. 
 Sole, in a stiff, fool-hardy, sulky pride ; 
 Yet, for all this, I never saw a father 
 In such a sickly longing for his son. 
 We shall soon see him, for the Emperor 
 He will be here this morning. 
 
 Auranthe. That I heard 
 
 Among the midnight rumors from the camp. 
 
 Conrad. You give up Albert to me ? 
 
[OTHO THE GREAT. 263 
 
 Auranihe. Harm him not ! 
 
 E'en for his highness Ludolph's sceptry hand, 
 I would not Albert suffer any wrong. 
 
 Conrad. Have I not labored, plotted — ? 
 
 Auranihe. See you spare him : 
 
 Nor be pathetic, my kind benefactor ! 
 On all the many bounties of your hand, — 
 'Twas for yourself you labored — not for me ! 
 Do you not count, when I am queen, to take 
 Advantage of your chance discoveries 
 Of my poor secrets, and so hold a rod 
 Over my life ? 
 
 Conrad. Let not this slave — this villain — 
 Re cause of feud between us. See ! he comes ! 
 Look, woman, look, your Albert is quite safe ! 
 In haste it seems. Now shall I be in the way. 
 And wish'd with silent curses in my grave. 
 Or side by side with 'whelmed mariners. 
 
 Enter Albert. 
 
 Albert. Fair on your graces fall this early morrow ! 
 So it is like to do, without my prayers. 
 For your right noble names, like favorite tunes. 
 Have fallen full frequent from our Emperor's lips, 
 High commented with smiles. 
 
 A uranthe. Noble Albert ! 
 
 Conrad (aside). Noble ! 
 
 Auranihe. Such salutation argues a glad heart 
 In our prosperity. We thank you, sir. 
 > Albert. Lady! 
 
 O, would to Heaven your poor servant 
 Could do you better service than mere words ! 
 But 1 have other greeting than mine own, 
 From no less man than Otho, who has sent 
 This ring as pledge of dearest amity ; 
 'Tis chosen I hear from Hymen's jewelry, 
 And you will prize it, lady, I doubt not. 
 Beyond all pleasures past, and all to come. 
 To you great duke — 
 
264 , LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Conrad. To me ! What of me, ha ? 
 
 Albert. What pleased your grace to say 1 
 
 Conrad. Your message, sir ! 
 
 Albert. You mean not this to me ? 
 
 Conrad. Sister, this way ; 
 
 For there shall be no " gentle Alberts " now, [Aside. 
 No " sweet Auranthes !" 
 
 [Exeunt Conrad and Aukanthe. 
 
 Albert (solus). The duke is out of temper ; if he knows 
 More than a brother of a sister ought, 
 I should not quarrel with his peevishness. 
 Auranthe — Heaven preserve her always fair ! — 
 Is in the heady, proud, ambitious vein ; 
 I bicker not with her, — bid her farewell ! 
 She has taken flight from me, then let her soar, — 
 He is a fool who stands at pining gaze ! 
 But for poor Ludolph, he is food for sorrow : 
 No leveling bluster of my licensed thoughts. 
 No military swagger of my mind. 
 Can smother from myself the wrong I've done him, — 
 Without design indeed, — yet it is so, — 
 And opiate for the conscience have I none ! [Eocit. 
 
 Scene II. — The Court-yard of the Castle. 
 
 Martial Music. Enter, from the outer gate, Otho, JVubles, Knights, 
 and Attendants. The Soldiers halt at the gate, with Banners in 
 sight. 
 
 Otho. Where is my noble Herald ? 
 
 [Enter Conrad, from the Castle, attended by two Knights and Servants. 
 Albert following. 
 
 Well, hast told 
 Auranthe our intent imperial ? 
 Lest our rent banners, too o' the sudden shown, 
 Should fright her silken casements, and dismay 
 Her household to our lack of entertainment. 
 A victory ! 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 265 
 
 Conrad. God save illustrious Otho ! 
 
 Otiw. Aye, Conrad, it will pluck out all gray hairs ; 
 It is the best physician for the spleen ; 
 The courtliest inviter to a feast ; 
 The subtlest excuser of small faults ; 
 And a nice judge in the age and smack of wine. , 
 
 {Enter from the Castle, Avrahjthe, followed hy Pages, holding up her 
 robes, and a train of Women. She kneels. 
 
 Hail my sweet hostess ! I do thank the stars, 
 
 Or my good soldiers, or their ladies' eyes. 
 
 That, after such a merry battle fought, 
 
 I can, all safe in body and in soul, 
 
 Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune's too. 
 
 My ring ! now, on my life, it doth rejoice 
 
 These lips to feel 't on this soft ivory ! 
 
 Keep it, my brightest daughter ; it may prove 
 
 The little prologue to a line of kings. 
 
 I strove against thee and my hot-blood son. 
 
 Dull blockhead that I was to be so blind, 
 
 But now my sight is clear ; forgive me, lady. 
 
 Auranthe. My lord, I was a vassal to your frown, 
 And now your favor makes me but more humble ; 
 In wintry winds the simple snow is safe, 
 But fadeth at the greeting of the sun : 
 Unto thine anger I might well have spoken. 
 Taking on me a' woman's privilege. 
 But this so sudden kindness makes me dumb. 
 
 Otho. What need of this? Enough, if you will be 
 A potent tutoress to my wayward boy. 
 And teach him, what it seems his nurse could not, 
 To say, for once, I thank you ! Sigifred ! 
 
 Albert. He has not yet returned, my gracious liege. 
 
 Otho. What then ! No tidings of my friendly Arab ? 
 
 Conrad. None, mighty Otho. 
 
 [To one of his Kriights who goes out. 
 
 Send forth instantly 
 An hundred horsemen from my honored gates, 
 
266 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 To scour the plains and search the cottages. 
 Cry a reward, to him who shall first bring 
 News of that vanished Arabian, 
 A full-heaped helmet of the purest gold. 
 
 Oiho. More thanks, good Conrad : for, except my son's. 
 There is no face I rather would behold 
 Than that same quick-eyed pagan's. By the saints, 
 This coming night of banquets must not light 
 Her dazzling torches ; nor the music breathe 
 Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of peace 
 And in-door melodies ; nor the ruddy wine 
 Ebb spouting to the lees ; if I pledge not, 
 In my first cup, that Arab ! 
 
 Albert. Mighty Monarch, 
 
 I w^onder not this stranger's victor-deeds 
 So hang upon your spirit. Twice in the fight 
 It was my chance to meet his olive brow, 
 Triumphant in the enemy's shatter'd rhomb ; 
 And, to say truth, in any Christian arm 
 I never saw such prowess. 
 
 Otho. Did you ever ? 
 
 O, 'tis a noble boy ! — tut ! — what do I say ? 
 I mean a triple Saladin, whose eyes, 
 When in the glorious scuffle they met mine, 
 Seem'd to say — " Sleep, old man, in safety sleep ; 
 I am the victory !" 
 
 Conrad. Pity he's not here. 
 
 Otho. And my son too, pity he is not here. 
 Lady Auranthe, I would not make you blush, 
 But can you give a guess where Ludolph is ? 
 , Know you not of him ? 
 
 Auranthe. Indeed, my liege, no secret — 
 
 Otho. Nay, nay, without more words, dost know of him ? 
 
 Auranthe. I would I were so over-fortunate, 
 Both for his sake and mine, and to make glad 
 A father's ears with tidings of his son. 
 
 Otho. I see 'tis like to be a tedious day. 
 Were Theodore and Gonfrid and the rest 
 Sent forth with mv commands ? 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 267 
 
 Albert. Aye, my lord. 
 
 Oiho. And no news ! No news ! 'Faith ! 'tis very strange 
 He thus avoids us. Lady, is't not strange ? 
 Will he be truant to you too ? It is a shame. 
 
 Conrad. Wilt please your highness enter, and accept 
 The unworthy welcome of your servant's house ? 
 Leaving your cares to one whose diligence 
 May in few hours make pleasures of them all. 
 
 Otiio. Not so tedious, Conrad. No, no, no, — 
 I must see Ludolph or the — What's that shout? 
 
 Voices without. Huzza ! huzza ! Long live the Emperor ! 
 
 Other voices. Fall back ! Away there ! 
 
 Otho. Say what noise is that ? 
 
 [k-LB^T.i: advancing from the hack of the Stage, whither he had hastened 
 on hearing the cheers of the soldiery. 
 
 Albert. It is young Gersa, the Hungarian prince, 
 Pick'd like a red stag from the fallow herd 
 Of prisoners. Poor prince, forlorn he steps. 
 Slow, and demure, and proud in his despair. 
 If I may judge by his so tragic bearing. 
 His eye not downcast, and his folded arm, 
 He doth this moment wish himself asleep 
 Among his fallen captains on yon plains. 
 
 Enter Gersa, in chains, and guarded. 
 
 Oiho. Well said, Sir Albert. 
 
 Gersa. Not a word of greeting, 
 
 No welcome to a princely visitor, 
 Most mighty Otho ? Will not my great host 
 Vouchsafe a syllable, before he bids 
 His gentlemen conduct me with all care 
 To some securest lodging — cold perhaps ! 
 
 Otho. What mood is this ? Hath fortune touch'd thy 
 brain ? 
 
 Gersa. O kings and princes of this fev'rous world, 
 What abject things, what mockei'ies must ye be, 
 What nerveless minions of safe palaces ! 
 When here, a monarch, whose proud foot is used 
 To fallen princes' necks, as to his stirrup, 
 
268 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Must needs exclaim that I am mad forsooth, 
 Because 1 cannot flatter with bent knees 
 My conqueror ! 
 
 Otlio. Gersa, I think you wrong me : 
 
 I think I have a better fame abroad. 
 
 Gersa. I pr'ythee mock me not with gentle speech, 
 But, as a favor, bid me from thy presence ; 
 Let me no longer be the wondering food 
 Of all these eyes ; pr'ythee command me hence ! 
 
 Otho. Do not mistake me, Gersa. That you may not, 
 Come, fair Auranthe, try if your soft hands 
 Can manage those hard rivets to set free 
 So brave a prince and soldier. 
 
 Auranthe {sets him free). Welcome task ! 
 
 Gersa. I am wound up in deep astonishment ! 
 Thank you, fair lady. Otho ! emperor ! 
 You rob me of myself; my dignity 
 Is now your infant ; I am a weak child. 
 
 Otho. Give me your hand, and let this kindly grasp 
 Live in our memories. 
 
 Gersa. In mine it will. 
 
 I blush to think of my unchasten'd tongue ; 
 But I was haunted by the monstrous ghost 
 Of all our slain battalions. Sire, reflect, 
 And pardon you will grant, that, at this hour, 
 The bruised remnants of our stricken camp 
 Are huddling undistinguished, my dear friends, 
 With common thousands, into shallow graves. 
 
 Otho. Enough, most noble Gersa. You are free 
 To cheer the brave remainder of your host 
 By your own healing presence, and that too, 
 Not as their leader merely, but their king ; 
 For, as I hear, the wily enemy. 
 Who eas'd the crownet from your infant brows. 
 Bloody Taraxa, is among the dead. 
 
 Gersa. Then I retire, so generous Otho please. 
 Bearing with me a weight of benefits 
 Too heavy to be borne. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 269 
 
 Otho. It is not so ; 
 
 Still understand me, King of Hungary, 
 Nor judge my open purposes awry. 
 Though I did hold you high in my esteem 
 For your self's sake, I do not personate 
 The stage-play emperor to entrap applause, 
 To set the silly sort o' the world agape. 
 And make the politic smile; no, I have heard 
 How in the Council you condemn'd this war. 
 Urging the perfidy of broken faith, — 
 For that I am your friend. 
 
 Gersa. If ever, sire, 
 
 You are my enemy, I dare here swear 
 'Twill not be Gersa's fault. Otho, farewell ! 
 
 Otho. Will you I'eturn, Prince, to our banqueting ? 
 
 Gersa. As to my father's board I will return. 
 
 Otho. Conrad, with all due ceremony, give 
 The prince a regal escort to his camp ; 
 Albert, go thou and bear him company. 
 Gersa, farewell ! 
 
 Gersa. All happiness attend you ! 
 
 Otho. Return with what good speed you may ; for soon 
 We must consult upon our terms of peace. 
 
 [Exeunt Gersa and Albert with others. 
 
 And thus a marble column do I build 
 
 To prop my empire's dome. Conrad, in thee 
 
 I have another steadfast one, to uphold 
 
 The portals of my state ; and, for my own 
 
 Pre-eminence and safety, I will strive 
 
 To keep thy strength upon its pedestal. 
 
 For, without thee, this day I might have been 
 
 A show-monster about the streets of Prague, 
 
 In ch ins, as just now stood that noble prince : 
 
 And then to me no mercy had been shown, 
 
 For when the conquer'd lion is once dungeoned. 
 
 Who lets him forth again ? or dares to give 
 
 An old lion sugar-cakes of mild reprieve 1 
 
270 LITERARY REMAmS. 
 
 Not to thine ear alone T make confession. 
 
 Bat to all here, as, by experience, 
 
 I know how the great basement of all power 
 
 Is frankness, and a true tongue to the world ; 
 
 And how intriguing secrecv is proof 
 
 Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state. 
 
 Conrad, I owe thee much. 
 
 Conrad. To kiss that hand. 
 
 My emperor, is ample recompense. 
 For a mere act of duty. 
 
 Otho. Thou art wrong ; 
 
 For what can any man on earth do more ? 
 We will make trial of your house's welcome. 
 My bright Auranthe ! 
 
 Conrad. How is Friedbarg honored ! 
 
 Enter Eehelbest and six M&jiks. 
 
 Efhelbert. The benison of heaven on your head, 
 Imperial Otho I 
 
 OlJio. Who stays me ? Speak! Quick! 
 
 Eihelbert. Pause but one moment, mighty conqueror ! 
 Upon the threshold of this house of joy. 
 
 ^Otho. Pray, do not prose, good Ethelbert, but speak 
 What is your purpose. 
 
 Eihelbert. The restoration of some captive maids, 
 Devoted to Heaven's pious ministries. 
 Who, driven forth from their religious cells, 
 And kept in thraldom by our enemy, 
 When late this province was a lawless spoil, 
 Still weep amid the wild Hungarian camp. 
 Though hemm'd around by thy victorious arms. 
 
 Otho. Demand the holy sisterhood in our name 
 From Gersa's tents. Farewell, old Ethelbert. 
 
 Ethelbert. The saints will bless you for this pious care. 
 
 Otho. Daughter, your hand ; Ludolph's would fit it best. 
 
 Conrad. Flo ! let the music sound ! 
 
 [Mtisic. Etbelbert raises his hands, as in benediction of Otho. 
 Exeunt severally. The scene closes on them. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 271 
 
 SCENE III. — The Country, with the Castle in the distance. 
 Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. 
 
 Litdolph. You liave my secret; let it not be breath'd. 
 
 Sigifred. Still give me leave to wonder that the prince, 
 Ludolph, and the swift Arab are the same ; 
 Still to rejoice that 'twas a German arm 
 Death doing in a turban'd masquerade. 
 
 Ludolph. The emperor must not know it, Sigifred. 
 
 Sigifred. I pr'ythee why ? What happier hour of time 
 Could thy pleased star point down upon from heaven 
 With silver index, bidding thee make peace ? 
 
 Ludolph. Still it must not be known, good Sigifred ; 
 The star may point oblique. 
 
 Sigifred. If Otho knew 
 
 His son to be that unknown Mussulman, 
 After whose spurring heels he sent me forth, 
 With one of his well-pleased Olympian oaths. 
 The charters of man's greatness, at this hour 
 He would be watching round the castle walls. 
 And, like an anxious warder, strain his sight 
 For the first glimpse of such a son return'd — 
 Ludolph, that blast of the Hungarians, 
 That Saracenic meteor of the fight. 
 That silent fury, whose fell scimitar 
 Kept danger all aloof from Otho's head, 
 And left him space for wonder. 
 
 Ludolph. Say no more. 
 
 Not as a swordsman would I pardon claim. 
 But as a son. The bronze centurion. 
 Long toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high deeds 
 Are shaded in a forest of tall spears. 
 Known only to his troop, hath greater plea 
 Of favor with my sire than I can have. 
 
 Sigfred. My lord, forgive me that I cannot see 
 How this proud temper with clear reason squares. 
 What made you then, with such an anxious love. 
 
272 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Hover around that life, whose bitter days 
 You vext with bad revolt ? Was 't opium, 
 Or the mad-fumed wine ? Nay, do not frown, 
 I rather would grieve with you than upbraid. 
 
 LudolpTi. I do believe you. No, 'twas not to make 
 A father his son's debtor, or to heal 
 His deep heart-sickness for a rebel child. 
 'Twas done in memory of my boyish days. 
 Poor cancel for his kindness to my youth, 
 For all his calming of my childish griefs, 
 And all his smiles upon my merriment. 
 No, not a thousand foughten fields could sponge 
 Those days paternal from my memory, 
 Though now upon my head he heaps disgrace. 
 
 Sigifred. My prince, you think too harshly — 
 
 Ludolph. Can I so ? 
 
 Hath he not gall'd my spirit to the quick ? 
 And with a sullen rigor obstinate 
 Pour'd out a phial of wrath upon my faults ? 
 Hunted me as the Tartar does the boar. 
 Driven me to the very edge o' the world, 
 And almost put a price upon my head ? 
 
 Sigifred. Remember how he spared the rebel lords. 
 
 Ludolph. Yes, yes, I know he hath a noble nature 
 That cannot trample on the fallen. But his 
 Is not the only proud heart in his realm. 
 He hath wrong'd me. and 1 have done him wrong ; 
 He hath loved me, and I have shown him kindness ; 
 We should be almost equal. 
 
 Sigifred. Yet for all this, 
 
 I would you had appeared among those lords, 
 And ta'en his favor. 
 
 Ludolph. Ha I till now I thought 
 
 My friend had held poor Ludolph's honor dear. 
 What ! would you have me sue before his throne 
 And kiss the courtier's missal, its silk steps ? 
 Or hug the golden housings of his steed, 
 Amid a camp, whose steeled swarms I dared 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 273 
 
 But yesterday ? And, at the trumpet sound, 
 Bow like some unknown mercenary's flag 
 And lick the soiled grass ? No, no, my friend, 
 I would not, I, be pardon'd in the heap, 
 And bless indemnity with all that scum, — 
 Those men I mean, who on my shoulders propp'd 
 Their weak rebellion, winning me with lies. 
 And pitying forsooth my many wrongs ; 
 Poor self-deceived wretches, who must think 
 Each one himself a king in embryo. 
 Because some dozen vassals cried — my lord ! 
 Cowards, who never knew their little hearts. 
 Till flurried danger held the mirror up. 
 And then they own'd themselves without a blush, 
 
 Curling, like spaniels, round my father's feet. 
 
 Such things deserted me and are forgiven, 
 
 While I, less guilty, am an outcast still, 
 
 And will be, for I love such fair disgrace. 
 
 Sigifred. I know the clear truth ; so would Otho see, 
 
 For he is just and noble. Fain would I 
 
 Be pleader for you — 
 
 Ludolph, He'll hear none of it ; 
 
 You know his temper, hot, proud, obstinate ; 
 
 Endanger not yourself so uselessly. 
 
 I will encounter his thwart spleen myself. 
 
 To-day, at the Duke Conrad's, where he keeps 
 
 His crowded state after the victory. 
 
 There will I be, a most unwelcome guest, 
 
 And parley with him, as a son should do. 
 
 Who doubly loathes a father's tyranny ; 
 
 Tell him how feeble is that tyranny ; 
 
 How the relationship of father and son 
 
 Is no more valid than a silken leash 
 
 Where lions tug adverse, if love grow not 
 
 From interchanged love through many years. 
 
 Ay, and those turreted Franconian walls, 
 
 Like to a jealous casket, hold my pearl — 
 
 My fair Auranthe ! Yes, I will be there. 
 
274 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Sigifred, Be'not so rash ; wait till his wrath shall pass, 
 Until his royal spirit softly ebbs 
 Self-influenced ; then, in his morning dreams 
 He will forgive thee, and awake in grief 
 To have not thy good morrow. 
 
 Ludolph. Yes, to-day 
 
 I must be there, while her young pulses beat 
 Among the new-plumed minions of the war. 
 Have you seen her of late ? No ? Auranthe, 
 Franconia's fair sister, 'tis I mean. 
 She should be paler for my troublous days — 
 And there it is — my father's iron lips 
 Have sworn divorcement 'twixt me and my right. 
 
 Sigifred (aside). Auranthe ! I had hoped this whim had 
 pass'd. 
 
 Ludolph. And, Sigifred, with all his love of justice. 
 When will he take that grandchild in his arms. 
 That, by my love I swear, shall soon be his ? 
 This reconcilement is impossible. 
 For see — but who are these ? 
 
 Sigifred. They are messengers 
 
 From our great emperor ; to you, I doubt not. 
 For couriers are abroad to seek you out. 
 
 Enter Theodore and Gonfred. 
 
 Theodore. Seeing so many vigilant eyes explore 
 The province to invite your highness back 
 To your high dignities, we are too happy. 
 
 Gonfred. We have eloquence to color justly 
 The emperor's anxious wishes. 
 
 Ludolph. Go. I follow you. 
 
 [^Exeunt Theodore and Gonfred. 
 I play the prude : it is but venturing — 
 Why should he be so earnest ? Come, my friend. 
 Let us to Friedburg castle. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 275 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — An antechamber in the Castle. 
 Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. 
 
 Ludolph. No more advices, no more cautioning ; 
 I leave it all to fate — to any thing ! 
 I cannot square my conduct to time, place, 
 Or circumstance ; to me 'tis all a mist ! 
 
 Sigifred. I say no more. 
 
 Ludolph. It seems I am to wait 
 
 Here in the anteroom ; — that may be a trifle. 
 You see now how I dance attendance here, 
 Without that tyrant temper, you so blame. 
 Snapping the rein. You have medicin'd me 
 With good advices ; and I here remain, 
 In this most honorable anteroom, 
 Your patient scholar. 
 
 Sigifred. Do not wrong me, Prince. 
 
 By Heavens, I'd rather kiss Duke Conrad's slipper. 
 When in the morning he doth yawn with pride. 
 Than see you humbled but a half-degree ! 
 Truth is, the Emperor would fain dismiss 
 The Nobles ere he sees you. 
 
 Enter Gonfreb from the Council-room. 
 
 Jjudolph. Well, sir ! what ! 
 
 Gonfred. Great honor to the Prince ! The Emperor, 
 Hearing that his brave son had reappeared, 
 Instant dismiss'd the Council from his sight. 
 As Jove fans off the clouds. Even now they pass. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 [Enter the Nobles from the Council-room. They cross the Stage, 
 bowing with respect to Ludolph, he frowning on them. Conrad 
 follows. Exeunt Nobles. 
 
276 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Ludolph. Not the discolored poisons of a fen, 
 Which he, who breathes, feels warning of his death, 
 Could taste so nauseous to the bodily sense, 
 As these prodigious sycophants disgust 
 The soul's fine palate. 
 
 Conrad. Princely Ludolph, hail ! 
 
 Welcome, thou younger sceptre to the realm ! 
 Strength to thy virgin crownet's golden buds, 
 That they, against the winter of thy sire. 
 May burst, and swell, and flourish round thy brows. 
 Maturing to a weighty diadem ! 
 Yet be that hour far off; and may he live, 
 Who waits for thee, as the chapp'd earth for rain. 
 Set my life's star ! I have lived long enough. 
 Since under my glad roof, propitiously. 
 Father and son each other re-possess. 
 
 Ludolph. Fine wording, Duke ! but words could never yet 
 Forestall the fates ; have you not learnt that yet ? 
 Let mfe look well : your features are the same ; 
 Your^ait the same ; your hair of the same shade ; 
 As one I knew some passed weeks ago. 
 Who sung far different notes into mine ears. 
 I have mine own particular comments on't ; 
 You have your own perhaps. 
 
 Conrad. My gracious Prince, 
 
 All men may err. In truth I was deceived 
 In your great father's nature, as you were. 
 Had I known that of him I have since known, 
 And what you soon will learn, I would have turn'd 
 My sword to my own throat, rather than held 
 Its threatening edge against a good King's quiet : 
 Or with one word fever'd you, gentle Prince, 
 Who seem'd to me, as rugged times then went. 
 Indeed too much oppress'd. May I be bold 
 To tell the Emperor you will haste to him ? 
 
 Liidolph. Your Dukedom's privilege will grant so much. 
 
 [Exit Conrad. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 277 
 
 He's very close to Otho, a tight leech ! 
 Your hand — 1 go ! Ha ! here the thunder comes 
 Sullen against the wind ! If in two angry brows 
 My safety lies, then Sigifred, I'm safe. 
 Enter Otho and Conrad. 
 Otho. Will you make Titan play the lackey-page 
 To chattering pigmies 1 I would have you know 
 That such neglect of our high Majesty 
 Annuls all feel of kindred. What is son, — 
 Or friend — or brother — or all ties of blood, — 
 When the whole kingdom, centred in ourself, 
 Is rudely slighted ? Who am I to wait ? 
 By Peter's chair ! I have upon my tongue 
 A word to fright the proudest spirit here ! — 
 Death ! — and slow tortures to the hardy fool, 
 Who dares take such large charter from our smiles ! 
 Conrad, we would be private ! Sigifred ! 
 Off! And none pass this way on pain of death ! 
 
 [Exeunt Conrad and Sigifred. 
 Ludolph. This was but half expected, my good sire, 
 Yet I am grieved at it, to the full height, 
 As though my hopes of favor had been whole. 
 
 Otho. How you indulge yourself ! What can you hope for ? 
 Ludolph. Nothing, my liege, I have to hope for nothing. 
 I come to greet you as a loving son. 
 And then depart, if I may be so free, 
 Seeing that blood of yours in my warm veins 
 Has not yet mitigated into milk. 
 Otho. What would you, sir ? 
 
 Ludolph. A lenient banishment ; 
 
 So please you let me unmolested pass 
 This Conrad's gates, to the wide air again. 
 1 want no more. A rebel wants no more. 
 
 Otho. And shall I let a rebel loose again 
 To muster kites and eagles 'gainst my head ? 
 No, obstinate boy, you shall be caged up, 
 Served with harsh food, with scum for Sunday-drink, 
 Ludolph. Indeed ! 
 
 13 
 
278 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 OtJio. And chains too heavy for your life : 
 
 I'll choose a jailer, whose swart monstrous face 
 Shall be a hell to look upon, and she — 
 
 Ludolph. Ha ! 
 
 Otho. Shall be your fair Auranthe. 
 
 Ludolph. Amaze ! Amaze ! 
 
 Otho, To-day you marry her. 
 
 Ludolph. This is a sharp jest ! 
 
 Otho. No. None at all. When have I said a lie ? 
 
 Ludolph. If I sleep not, I am a waking wretch. 
 
 Otho. Not a word more. Let me embrace my child. 
 
 Ludolph. I dare not. 'Twould pollute so good a father ! 
 O heavy crime ! that your son's blinded eyes 
 Could not see all his parent's love aright. 
 As now I see it. Be not kind to me — 
 Punish me not with favor. 
 
 Otho. Are you sure, 
 
 Ludolph, you have no saving plea in store ? 
 
 Ludolph. My father, none ! 
 
 Otho. Then you astonish me. 
 
 Ludolph. No, I have no plea. Disobedince, 
 Rebellion, obstinacy, blasphemy, 
 Are all my counselors. If they can make 
 My crooked deeds show good and plausible, 
 Then grant me loving pardon, but not else. 
 Good Gods ! not else, in any way, my liege ! 
 
 Otho. You are a most perplexing, noble boy. 
 
 Ludolph. You not less a perplexing noble father. 
 
 Otho. Well, you shall have free passport through the gates. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Ludolph. Farewell ! and by these tears believe, 
 And still remember, I repent in pain 
 All my misdeeds ! 
 
 Otho. Ludolph, I will ! I will ! 
 
 But, Ludolph, ere you go, I would inquire 
 If you, in all your wandering, ever met 
 A certain Arab haunting in these parts. 
 
 Ludolph. No, my good lord, I cannot say I did, 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 279 
 
 Oiho. Make not your father blind before his time ; 
 Nor let these arms paternal hunger more 
 For an embrace, to dull the appetite 
 Of my great love for thee, my supreme child ! 
 Come close, and^t me breathe into thine ear. 
 I knew you through disguise. You are the Arab ! 
 You can't deny it. [Embracing him. 
 
 Ludolph. Happiest of days ! 
 
 Otho. We'll make it so. 
 
 Ludolph. 'Stead of one fatted calf 
 
 Ten hecatombs shall bellow out their last. 
 Smote 'twixt the horns by the death-stunning mace 
 Of Mars, and all the soldiery shall feast 
 Nobly «,s Nimrod's masons, when the towers 
 Of Nineveh new kiss'd the parted clouds ! 
 
 Otho. Large as a God speak out, where all is thine. 
 
 Ludolph. Ay, father, but the fire in my sad breast 
 Is quench'd with inward tears ! I must rejoice 
 For you, whose wings so shadow over me 
 In tender victory, but for myself 
 I still must mourn. The fair Auranthe mine ! 
 Too great a boon ! I pr'ythee let me ask 
 What more than I know of could so have changed 
 Your purpose touching her. 
 
 Otho. At a word, this : 
 
 In no deed did you give me more offence 
 Than your rejection of Erminia. 
 To my appalling, I saw too good proof 
 Of your keen-eyed suspicion, — she is naught ! 
 
 Ludolph. You are convinc'd ? 
 
 Oiho. Ay, spite of her sweet looks. 
 
 O, that my brother's daughter should so fall ! 
 Her fame has pass'd into the grosser lips 
 Of soldiers in their cups. 
 
 Ludolph. 'Tis very sad. 
 
 Otho. No more of her. Auranthe — Ludolph, come ! 
 This marriage be the bond of endless peace ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
280 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Scene II. — The entrance ofGERSA's Tent in the Hungarian Camp. 
 Enter Erminia. 
 
 Erminia. Where ! where ! where shall I find a messen- 
 ger ? 
 A trusty soul ? A good man in the camp ? 
 Shall I go myself? Monstrous wickedness ! 
 O cursed Conrad ! devilish Auranthe ! 
 Here is proof palpable as the bright sun ! 
 O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears ! 
 
 \^Shouts in the camp. 
 
 Enter an Hungarian Captain. 
 
 Captain. Fair prisoner, you hear those joyous shouts ? 
 The king — aye, now our king, — but still your slave, 
 Young Gersa, from a short captivity 
 Has just return'd. He bids me say, bright dame. 
 That even the homage of his ranged chiefs 
 Cures not his keen impatience to behold 
 Such beauty once again. What ails you, lady? 
 
 Erminia. Say, is not that a German, yonder ? There ! 
 
 Captain. Methinks by his stout bearing he should be — 
 Yes — it is Albert ; a brave German knight, 
 And much in the Emperor's favor. 
 
 Erminia. I would fain 
 
 Inquire of friends and kinsfolk ; how they fared 
 In these rough times. Brave soldier, as you pass 
 To royal Gersa with my humble thanks, 
 Will you send yonder knight to me ? 
 
 Captain. I will. [Exit. 
 
 Erminia. Yes, he was ever known to be a man 
 Frank, open, generous ; Albert I may trust. 
 O proof! proof! proof! Albert's an honest man; 
 Not Ethelbert the monk, if he were here. 
 Would I hold more trustworthy. Now ! 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 281 
 
 Enter Albert. 
 
 Albert. Good Gods ! 
 
 Lady Erminia ! are you prisoner 
 In this beleaguer'd camp ? Or are you here 
 Of your own will ? You pleased to send for me. 
 By Venus, 'tis a pity I knew not 
 Your plight before, and, by her Son, I swear 
 To do you every service you can ask. 
 What would the fairest — ? 
 
 Erminia. Albert, will you swear ? 
 
 Albert. I have. Well ! 
 
 Erminia. Albert, you have fame to lose. 
 
 If men, in court and camp, lie not outright, 
 You should be, from a thousand, chosen forth 
 To do an honest deed. Shall I confide — ? 
 
 Albert. Aye, any thing to me, fair creature. Do, 
 Dictate my task. Sweet woman, — 
 
 Erminia. Truce with that. 
 
 You understand me not ; and, in your speech, 
 I see how far the slander is abroad. 
 Without proof could you think me innocent ? 
 
 Albert. Lady, I should rejoice to know you so. 
 
 Erminia. If you have any pity for a maid, 
 Suffering a daily death from evil tongues ; 
 Any compassion for that Emperor's niece. 
 Who, for your bright sword and clear honesty, 
 Lifted you from the crowd of common men 
 Into the lap of honor ; — save me, knight ! 
 
 Albert. How ? Make it clear ; if it be possible, 
 I by the banner of Saint Maurice swear 
 To right you. 
 
 Erminia. Possible ! — Easy. O my heart ! 
 This letter's not so soil'd but you may read it ; — 
 Possible ! There — that letter ! Read — read it. 
 
 [^Gives him a letter. 
 
282 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Albert (reading). 
 
 *' To the Duke Conrad. — Forget the threat you made at part- 
 ing, and I will forget to send the Emperor letters and papers of 
 yours I have become possessed of. His life is no trifle to me ; 
 his death you shall find none to yourself." (Speaks to himself.) 
 'Tis me — my life that's plead for ! {Reads.) " He, for his own 
 sake, will be dumb as the grave. Erminia has my shame fix'd 
 upon her, sure as a wen. We are safe. 
 
 " AURANTHE." 
 
 A she-devil ! A dragon ! I her imp ! 
 Fire of Hell ! Auranthe — lewd demon ! 
 Where got you this ? Where ? When ? 
 
 Erminia. I found it in the tent, among some spoils 
 Which, being noble, fell to Gersa's lot. 
 Come in, and see. 
 
 [They go in and return. 
 
 Albert. Villany ! Villany ! 
 
 Conrad's sword, his corslet, and his helm. 
 And his letter. Caitiff, he shall feel — 
 
 Erminia. I see you are thunderstruck. Haste, haste away ! 
 
 Albert. O I am tortured by this villany. 
 
 Erminia. You needs must be. Carry it swift to Otho ; 
 Tell him, moreover, I am prisoner 
 Here in this camp, where all the sisterhood. 
 Forced from their quiet cells, are parcel'd out 
 For slaves among these Huns. Away ! Away ! 
 
 Albert. I am gone. 
 
 Erminia. Swift be your steed ! Within this hour 
 The Emperor will see it. 
 
 Albert. Ere I sleep : 
 
 That I can swear. [Hurries out. 
 
 Gersa (without). Brave captains ! thanks. Enough 
 Of loyal homage now ! 
 
 Enter Gersa. 
 
 Erminia. Hail, royal Hun ! 
 
 Gersa. What means this, fair one ? Why in such alarm ? 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 283 
 
 Who was it hurried by me so distract ? 
 
 It seem'd you were in deep discourse together ; 
 
 Your doctrine has not been so harsh to him 
 
 As to my poor deserts. Come, come, be plain. 
 
 I am no jealous fool to kill you both, 
 
 Or, for such trifles, rob th' adorned world 
 
 Of such a beauteous vestal. 
 
 Ermlnia. I grieve, my Lord, 
 
 To hear you condescend to ribald-phrase. 
 
 Gersa. This is too much ! Hearken, my lady pure ! 
 
 Erminia. Silence ! and hear the magic of a name — 
 Erminia ! I am she, — the Emperor's niece ! 
 Praised be the Heavens, I now dare own myself! 
 
 Gersa. Erminia ! Indeed ! I've heard of her. 
 Pr'ythee, fair lady, what chance brought you here ? 
 
 Erminia. Ask your own soldiers. 
 
 Gersa. And you dare own your name. 
 
 For loveliness you may — and for the rest 
 My vein is not censorious. 
 
 Erminia. Alas ! poor me ! 
 
 'Tis false indeed. 
 
 Gersa. Indeed you are too fair : 
 
 The swan, soft leaning on her fledgy breast, 
 When to the stream she launches, looks not back 
 With such a tender grace ; nor are her wings 
 So white as your soul is, if that but be 
 Twin picture to your face, Erminia ! 
 To-day, for the first day, I am a king. 
 Yet would I give my unworn crown away 
 To know you spotless. 
 
 Erminia. Trust me one day more, 
 
 Generously, without more certain guarantee, 
 Than this poor face you deign to praise so much ; 
 After that, say and do whate'er you please. 
 If I have any knowledge of you, sir, 
 I think, nay I am sure you will grieve much 
 To hear my story. O be gentle to me. 
 
234 [LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 For I am sick and faint with many wrongs, 
 Tired out, and weary- worn with contumelies. 
 Gersa. Poor lady ! 
 
 Enter Ethelbert. 
 
 Erminia. Gentle Prince, 'tis false indeed. 
 
 Good morrow, holy father ! I have had 
 Your prayers, though I look'd for you in vain. 
 
 Ethelhert. Blessings upon you, daughter ! Sure you look 
 Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days. 
 Young man, you heard this virgin say 'twas false, — 
 'Tis false I say. What ! can you not employ 
 Your temper elsewhere, 'mong these burly tents, 
 But you must taunt this dove, for she hath lost 
 The Eagle Otho to beat off assault. 
 Fie ! Fie ! But I will be her guard myself ; 
 F the Emperor's name. I here demand 
 Herself, and all her sisterhood. She false ! 
 
 Gersa. Peace ! peace, old man ! I cannot think she is. 
 
 Ethelbert. Whom I have known from her first infancy. 
 Baptized her in the bosom of the Church, 
 Watch'd her, as anxious husbandmen the grain, 
 From the first shoot till the unripe mid-May, 
 Then to the tender ear of her June days. 
 Which, lifting sweet abroad its timid green, 
 Is blighted by the touch of calumny ; 
 You cannot credit such a monstrous tale. 
 
 Gersa. I cannot. Take her. Fair Erminia, 
 I follow you to Friedburg, — is 't not so ? 
 
 Erminia. Ay, so we purpose. 
 
 Ethelhert. Daughter, do you so ? 
 
 How's this ? I marvel ! Yet you look not mad. 
 
 Erminia. I have good news to tell you, Ethelbert. 
 
 Gersa. Ho ! ho, there ! Guards ! 
 Your blessing, father ! Sweet Erminia, 
 Believe me, I am well nigh sure — 
 
 Erminia. Farewell ! 
 
 Short time will show. [Enter Chiefs. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 285 
 
 Yes, father Ethelbert, 
 I have news precious as we pass along. 
 
 Ethelbert. Dear daughter, you shall guide me. 
 Erminia. To no ill. 
 
 Gersa. Command an escort to the Friedburg lines. 
 
 ^ [Exeunt Chiefs. 
 
 Pray let me lead. Fair lady, forget not 
 Gtersa, how he believed you innocent. 
 I follow you to Friedburg with all speed. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — The Country. 
 
 Enter Albert. 
 
 Albert. O that the earth were empty, as when .Cain 
 Had no perplexity to hide his head ! 
 Or that the sword of some brave enemy 
 Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath, 
 And hurl'd me down the illimitable gulf 
 Of times past, unremember'd ! Better so 
 Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare, 
 The white limbs of a wanton. This the end 
 Of an aspiring life ! My boyhood past 
 In feud with wolves and bears, when no eye saw 
 The solitary warfare, fought for love 
 Of honor 'mid the growling wilderness. 
 My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword, 
 Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring 
 Of shields upon the pavement, when bright mail'd 
 Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague. 
 Was 't to this end I louted and became 
 The menial of Mars, and held a spear 
 Sway'd bv command, as corn is bv the wind ? 
 13* 
 
286 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Is it for this, I now am lifed up 
 
 By Europe's throned Emperor, to see 
 
 My honor be my executioner, — 
 
 My love of fame, my prided honesty 
 
 Put to the torture for confessional ? 
 
 Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the world 
 
 A woman's secret ! — Though a fiend she be, 
 
 Too tender of my ignominious life ; 
 
 But then to wrong the generous Emperor 
 
 In such a searching point, were to give up 
 
 My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday ! 
 
 I must confess, — and cut my throat, — to-day ? 
 
 To-morrow ? Ho ! some wine ! 
 
 Enter Sigifred. 
 
 Sigifred. A fine humor — 
 
 Albert. Who goes there ? Count Sigifred ? Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the hollow sky 
 For a throng'd tavern, — and these stubbed trees 
 For old serge hangings, — me, your humble friend. 
 For a poor waiter ? VVhy, man, how you stare ! 
 What gipsies have you been carousing with ? 
 No, no more v/ine ; methinks you 've had enough. 
 
 Albert. You well may laugh and banter. What a fool 
 An injury may make of a staid man ! 
 You shall know all anon. 
 
 Sigifred. Some tavern brawl ? 
 
 Albert. 'Twas with some people out of common reach ; 
 Revenge is difficult. 
 
 Sigifred. I am your friend ; 
 
 We meet again to-day, and can confer 
 Upon it. For the present I 'm in haste. 
 
 Albert. Whither ? 
 
 Sigifred. To fetch King Gersa to the feast. 
 
 The Emperor on this marriage is so hot, 
 Pray Heaven it end not in apoplexy ! 
 The very porters, as I pass'd the doors. 
 Heard his loud laugh, and answer'd in full choir. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 287 
 
 I marvel, Albert, you delay so long 
 
 From these bright revelries ; go, show yourself, 
 
 You may be made a duke. 
 
 Albert. Ay, very like : 
 
 Pray, what day has his Highness fix'd upon ? 
 
 Sigifred. For what 1 
 
 Albert. The marriage. What else can I mean ? 
 
 Sigifred. To-day. O, I forgof, you could not know ; 
 The news is scarce a minute old with me. 
 
 Albert. Married to-day ! To-day ! You did not say so ? 
 
 Sigifred. Now, while 1 speak to you, their comely heads 
 Are bowed before the mitre. 
 
 Albert. O ! monstrous ! 
 
 Sigifred. What is this ? 
 
 Albert. Nothing, Sigifred. Farewell ! 
 
 We'll meet upon our subject. Farewell, count ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Sigifred. To this clear-headed Albert ? He brain-turn'd ! 
 'Tis as portentous as a meteor. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — An Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 {Enter as from the Marriage, Otho, Ludolph, Auranthe, Conrad, 
 Nobles, Knights, Ladies, fife. 6{c. 6{c. Music. 
 
 Otho. Now, Ludolph ! Now, Auranthe ! Daughter fair ? 
 What can I find to grace your nuptial day 
 More than my love, and these wide realms in fee ? 
 
 Ludolph. 1 have too much. 
 
 Auranthe. And I, my liege, by far. 
 
 Ludolph. Auranthe ! I have ! O, my bride, my love ! 
 Not all the gaze upon us can restrain 
 My eyes, too long poor exiles from thy face. 
 From adoration, and my foolish tongue 
 From uttering soft responses to the love 
 I see in thy mute beauty beaming forth ! 
 Fair creature, bless me with a single word ! 
 All mine ! 
 
288 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Auranthe. Spare, spare me, my Lord ; I swoon else. 
 
 Ludolph. Soft beauty ! by to-morrow I should die, 
 Wert thou not mine. 
 
 [Tliey talk apart. 
 
 1st Lady. How deep she has bewitch'd him ! 
 
 1st Knight. Ask you for her recipe for love philtres. 
 
 2nd Lady. They hold the Emperor in admiration. 
 
 Olho. If ever king was happy, thatam I ! 
 What are the cities 'yond the Alps to me, 
 The provinces about the Danube's mouth, 
 The promise of fair sail beyond the Rhone ; 
 Or routing out of Hyperborean hordes. 
 To these fair children, stars of a new age ? 
 Unless perchance I might rejoice to win 
 This little ball of earth, and chuck it them 
 To play with ! 
 
 Auranthe. Nay, my Lord, I do not know. 
 
 Ludolph. Let me not famish. 
 
 Otho {to Conrad). Good Franconia, 
 
 You heard what oath I sware, as the sun rose, 
 That unless Heaven would send me back my son, 
 My Arab, — no soft music should enrich 
 The cool wine, kiss'd off with a soldier's smack ; 
 Now all my empire, barter'd for one feast, 
 Seems poverty. 
 
 Conrad. Upon the neighbor-plain 
 
 The heralds have prepared a royal lists ; 
 Your knights, found war-proof in the bloody field. 
 Speed to the game. 
 
 Otho. Well, Ludolph, what say you ? 
 
 Ludolph. My lord ! 
 
 Otho. A tourney ? 
 
 Conrad. Or, if't please you best — 
 
 Ludolph. I want no more ! 
 
 1st Lady. He soars ! 
 
 2nd Lady. Past all reason. 
 
 Ludolph. Though heaven's choir 
 Should in a vast circumference descend. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 289 
 
 And sing for my delight, I'd stop my ears ! 
 Though bright Apollo's car stood burning here, 
 And he put out an arm to bid me mount, 
 His touch an immortality, not I ! 
 This earth, this palace, this room, Auranthe ! 
 
 Otho. This is a little painful ; just too much. 
 Conrad, if he flames longer in this wise, 
 I shall believe in wizard-woven loves 
 And old romances ; but I'll break the spell. 
 Ludolph ! 
 
 Conrad. He'll be calm, anon. 
 
 LudoJph. You call'd ! 
 
 Yes, yes, yes, I offend. You must forgive me : 
 Not being quite recover'd from the stun 
 Of your large bounties. A tourney, is it not? 
 
 [A senet heard faintly . 
 
 Conrad. The trumpets reach us. 
 
 Elhelbert {icithout). On your peril, sirs, 
 
 Detain us ! 
 
 1st Voice (without). Let not the abbot pass. 
 
 2?id Voice (without). No, 
 
 On your lives ! 
 
 1st Voice (without). Holy father, you must not. 
 
 Ethelhert (without). Otho ! 
 
 Otho. Who calls on Otho ? 
 
 Ethelhert (without). Ethelbert ! 
 
 Otho. Let him come in. 
 
 [Enter Ethelbert leading in Er3Iinia. 
 Thou cursed abbot, why 
 Hast brought pollution to our holy rites ? 
 Hast thou no fear of hangman, or the faggot ? 
 
 Ludolph. What portent — what strange prodigy is this ? 
 
 Conrad. Away ! 
 
 Ethelhert. You, Duke ? 
 
 Erminia. Albert has surely fail'd me ! 
 
 Look at the Emperor's brow upon me bent ! 
 
 Ethelhert. A sad delay ! 
 
 Conrad. • Away, thou guilty thing ! 
 
290 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Ethelhert. You again, Duke 1 Justice, most noble Otho ! 
 You — go to your sister there and plot again, 
 A quick plot, swift as thought to save your heads ; 
 For lo ! the toils are spread around your den, 
 The world is all agape to see dragg'd forth 
 Two ugly monsters. 
 
 Ludolph. What means he, my lord ? 
 
 Conrad. I cannot guess. 
 
 Ethelhert. Best ask your lady sister, 
 
 Whether the riddle puzzles her beyond 
 The power of utterance. 
 
 Conrad. Foul barbarian, cease ; 
 
 The Princess faints ! 
 
 Ludolph. Stab him ! O, sweetest wife ! 
 
 [Attendants hear off Auranthe. 
 
 Erminia. Alas ! 
 
 Ethelhert. Your wife ! 
 
 Ludolph. Ay, Satan ! does that yerk ye ? 
 
 Ethelhert. Wife ! so soon ! 
 
 Ludolph. Ay, wife ! Oh, impudence ! 
 
 Thou bitter mischief! Venomous bad priest ! 
 How dar'stthou lift those beetle brows at me ? 
 Me — the prince Ludolph, in this presence here. 
 Upon my marriage day, and scandalize 
 My joys with such opprobrious surprise ? 
 Wife ! Why dost linger on that syllable. 
 As if it were some demon's name pronounc'd 
 To summon harmful lightning, and make yawn 
 The sleepy thunder ? Hast no sense of fear ? 
 No ounce of man in thy mortality ? 
 Tremble ! for, at my nod, the sharpen'd axe 
 Will make thy bold tongue quiver to the roots. 
 Those gray lids wink, and thou not know it, monk ! 
 
 Ethelhert. O, poor deceived Prince ! I pity thee ! 
 Great Otho ! I claim justice — 
 
 Ludolph. Thou shalt have 't ! 
 
 Thine arms from forth a pulpit of hot fire 
 Shall sprawl distracted ! O that that .dull cowl 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 291 
 
 Were some most sensitive portion of thy life. 
 That I might give it to my hounds to tear ! 
 Thy girdle some fine zealous-pained nerve 
 To girth my saddle ! And those devil's beads 
 Each one a life, that I might, every day, 
 Crush one with Vulcan's hammer ! 
 
 Otlio. Peace, my son ; 
 
 You far outstrip my spleen in this affair. 
 Let us be calm, and hear the abbot's plea 
 For this intrusion. 
 
 Ludolph. I am silent, sire. 
 
 Otho. Conrad, see all depart not wanted here. 
 
 [Exeunt, Knights, Ladies, SfC. 
 Ludolph, be calm. Ethelbert, peace awhile. 
 This mystery demands an audience 
 Of a just judge, and that will Otho be. 
 
 Ludolph. Why has he time to breathe another word ? 
 
 Otho. Ludolph, old Ethelbert, be sure, comes not 
 To beard us for no cause ; he's not the man 
 To cry himself up an ambassador 
 Without credentials. 
 
 Ludolph. I'll chain up myself. 
 
 Otho. Old abbot, stand here forth. Lady Erminia, 
 Sit. And now, abbot ! what have you to say ? 
 Our ear is open. First we here denounce 
 Hard penalties against thee, if 't be found 
 The cause for which you have disturb'd us here, 
 Making our bright hours muddy, be a thing 
 Of little moment. 
 
 Ethelbert. See this innocent ! 
 
 Otho ! thou father of the people call'd, 
 Is her life nothing ? Her fair honor nothing ? 
 Her tears from matins until even-song 
 Nothing ? Her burst heart nothing ? Emperor ! 
 Is this your gentle niece — the simplest flower 
 Of the world's herbal — this fair lily blanch'd 
 Still with the dews of piety, this meek lady 
 Here sitting like an angel newly-shent, 
 
292 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Who veils its snowy wings and grows all pale, — 
 Is she nothing ? 
 
 Oiho. What more to the purpose, abbot 1 
 
 Ludolph. Whither is he winding ? 
 
 Conrad. No clue yet ! 
 
 Ethelhert. You have heard, my Liege, and so, no doubt, 
 all here. 
 Foul, poisonous, malignant whisperings ; 
 Nay open speech, rude mockery grown common. 
 Against the spotless nature and clear fame 
 Of the princess Erminia, your niece. 
 1 have intruded here thus suddenly. 
 Because I hold those base weeds, with tight hand, 
 Which now disfigure her fair growing stem, 
 Waiting but for your sign to pull them up 
 By the dark roots, and leave her palpable. 
 To all men's sight, a lady innocent. 
 The ignominy of that whisper'd tale 
 About a midnight gallant, seen to climb 
 A window to her chamber neighbor'd near, 
 I will from her turn off, and put the load 
 On the right shoulders; on that wretch's head, 
 Who, by close stratagems, did save herself. 
 Chiefly by shifting to this lady's room 
 A rope-ladder for false witness. 
 
 Ludolph. Most atrocious ! 
 
 Oiho. Ethelbert, proceed. 
 
 Ethelhert. With sad lips I shall : 
 
 For, in the healing of one wound, I fear 
 To make a greater. His young highness here 
 To-day was married. 
 
 Ludolph. Good. 
 
 Ethelhert. Would it were good ! 
 
 Yet why do I delay to spread abroad 
 The names of those two vipers, from whose jaw 
 A deadly breath went forth to taint and blast 
 This guileless lady 1 
 
 Otho. Abbot, speak their names. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 293 
 
 Ethelbert. A minute first. It cannot be — but may 
 I ask, great judge, if you to-day have put 
 A letter by unread ? 
 
 Otho. Does 't end in this ? 
 
 Conrad. Out with their names ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Bold sinner, say you so ? 
 
 LudoJph. Out, hideous monk ! 
 
 Otho. Confess, or by the wheel — 
 
 Ethelbert. My evidence cannot be far away ; 
 And, though it never come, be on my head 
 The crime of passing an attaint upon 
 The slanderers of this virgin. 
 
 Ludolph. Speak aloud ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Auranthe ! and her brother there. 
 
 Conrad. Amaze ! 
 
 LudoJph. Throw them from the windows ! 
 
 Otho. Do what you will ! 
 
 Ludolph. What shall I do with them ? 
 
 Something of quick dispatch, for should she hear, 
 My soft Auranthe, her sweet mercy would 
 Prevail against my fury. Damned priest ! 
 What swift death wilt thou die ? As to the lady, 
 I touch her not. 
 
 Ethelbert. Illustrious Otho, stay ! 
 
 An ample store of misery thou hast, 
 Choke not the granary of thy noble mind 
 With more bad bitter grain, too difficult 
 A cud for the repentance of a man 
 Gray-grownig. To thee only I appeal, 
 Not to thy noble son, whose y easting youth 
 Will clear itself, and crystal turn again. 
 A young man's heart, by Heaven's blessing, is 
 A wide world, where a thousand new-born hopes 
 Empurple fresh the melancholy blood : 
 But an old man's is narrow, tenantless 
 Of hopes, and stuff 'd with many memories. 
 Which, being pleasant, ease the heavy pulse — 
 Painful, clog up and stagnate. Weigh this matter 
 
294 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Even as a miser balances his coin ; 
 
 And, in the name of mercy, give command 
 
 That your knight Albert be brought here before you. 
 
 He will expound this riddle ; he will show 
 
 A noon-day proof of bad Auranthe's guilt. 
 
 Otlio. Let Albert straight be summon'd. 
 
 [Exit one of the Nobles, 
 
 Ludolph. Impossible ! 
 
 I cannot doubt — I will not — no — to doubt 
 Is to be ashes ! — wither'd up to death ! 
 
 Otho. My gentle Ludolph, harbor not a fear ; 
 You do yourself much wrong. 
 
 Ludolph. O, wretched dolt ! 
 
 Now, when my loot is almost on thy neck, 
 Wilt thou infuriate me ? Proof! Thou fool ! 
 Why wilt thou tease impossibility 
 With such a thick-skull'd persevering suit ? 
 Fanatic obstinacy ! Prodigy ! 
 Monster of folly ! Ghost of a turn'd brain ! 
 You puzzle me, — you haunt me, — when I dream 
 Of you my brain will split ! Bold sorcerer ! 
 Juggler ! May I come near you ? On my soul 
 I know not whether to pity, curse, or laugh. 
 
 Enter Albert, and the Nohleman. 
 
 Here, Albert, this old phantom wants a proof! 
 Give him his proof! A camel's load of proofs ! 
 
 Otho. Albert, I speak to you as a man 
 Whose words once utter'd pass like current gold ; 
 And therefore fit to calmly put a close 
 To this brief tempest. Do you stand possess'd 
 Of any proof against the honorableness 
 Of Lady Auranthe, our new-spoused daughter? 
 
 Albert. You chill me with astonishment. How's this ? 
 My liege, what proof should I have 'gainst a fame 
 Impossible to slur ? 
 
 [Otho rises. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 296* 
 
 Erminia. O wickedness ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Deluded monarch, 'tis a cruel lie. 
 
 Otho. Peace, rebel-priest ! 
 
 Conrad. Insult beyond credence ! 
 
 Erminia. Almost a dream ! 
 
 Ludolph. We have awaked from ! 
 
 A foolish dream that from my brow hath wrung 
 A wrathful dew. O folly ! why did I 
 So act the lion with this silly gnat ? 
 Let them depart. Lady Erminia ! 
 I ever grieved for you, as who did not ? 
 But now you have, with such a brazen front, 
 So most maliciously, so madly striven 
 To dazzle the soft moon, when tenderest clouds 
 Should be unloop'd around to curtain her ; 
 I leave you to the desert of the world 
 Almost with pleasure. Let them be set free 
 For me ! I take no personal revenge 
 More than against a nightmare, which a man 
 Forgets in the new dawn. 
 
 [^Exit Ludolph. 
 
 Otho. Still in extremes. No, they must not be loose. 
 
 Ethelhert. Albert, I must suspect thee of a crime 
 So fiendish — 
 
 Oiho. Fear'st thou not my fury, monk ? 
 Conrad, be they in your safe custody 
 Till we determine some fit punishment. 
 It is so mad a deed, I must reflect 
 And question them in private ; for perhaps, 
 By patient scrutiny, we may discover 
 Whether they merit death, or should be placed 
 In care of the physicians. 
 
 {^Exeunt Otho and Nobles, Albert followijig. 
 
 Conrad. My guards, ho ! 
 
 Erminia. Albert, wilt thou follow there ? 
 
 Wilt thou creep dastardly behind his back, 
 And shrink away from a weak woman's eye ? 
 
296 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Turn, Ihou court-Janus ! thou forget'st thyself; 
 Here is the duke, waiting with open arms, 
 
 [Enter Guards. 
 To thank thee ; here congratulate each other ; 
 Wring hands ; embrace ; and swear how lucky 'twas 
 That I, by happy chance, hit the right man 
 Of all the world to trust in. 
 
 Albert. Trust ! to me ! 
 
 Conrad (aside). He is the sole one in this mystery. 
 
 Erminia. Well, I give up, and save my prayers for 
 Heaven ! 
 You, who could do this deed, would ne'er relent, 
 Though, at my words, the hollow prison-vaults 
 Would groan for pity. 
 
 Conrad. Manacle them both ! 
 
 Eihelhert. I know it — it must be — I see it all ! 
 Albert, thou art the minion ! 
 
 Erminia. Ah ! too plain — 
 
 Conrad. Silence ! Gag up their mouths ! I cannot bear 
 More of this brawling. That the Emperor 
 Had placed you in some other custody ! 
 Bring them away. 
 
 [Exeunt all hut Albert. 
 
 Albert. Though my name perish from the book of honor, 
 Almost before the recent ink is dry. 
 And be no more remember'd after death, 
 Than any drummer's in the muster-roll ; 
 Yet shall I season high my sudden fall 
 With triumph o'er that evil-witted duke ! 
 He shall feel what it is to have the hand 
 Of a man drowning, on his hateful throat. 
 
 Enter Gersa and Sigifred. 
 
 Gersa. What discord is at ferment in this house ? 
 
 Sigifred. We are without conjecture ; not a soul 
 We met could answer any certainty. 
 
 Gersa. Young Ludolph, like a fiery arrow, shot 
 By us. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 297 
 
 Sigifred. The Emperor, with cross'd arms, in thought. 
 
 Gersa. In one room music, in another sadness, 
 Perplexity every where ! 
 
 Albert. A trifle more ! 
 
 Follow ; your presences will much avail 
 To tune our jarred spirits. I'll explain. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Auranthe's Apartment. 
 
 AuRANTHE and Conrad discovered. 
 
 Conrad. Well, well, I know what ugly jeopardy 
 We are caged in ; you need not pester that 
 Into my ears. Pr'ythee, let me be spared 
 A foolish tongue, that I may bethink me 
 Of remedies with some deliberation. 
 You cannot doubt but 'tis in Albert's power 
 To crush or save us ? 
 
 Auranihe. No, I cannot doubt. 
 
 He has, assure yourself, by some strange means, 
 My secret ; which I ever hid from him. 
 Knowing his mawkish honesty. 
 
 Conrad. Cursed slave ! 
 
 Auranihe. Ay, I could almost curse him now myself. 
 Wretched impediment ! Evil genius ! 
 A glue upon my wings, that cannot spread. 
 When they should span the provinces ! A snake, 
 A scorpion, sprawling on the first gold step. 
 Conducting to the throne, high canopied. 
 
 Conrad. You would not hear my counsel, when his life 
 Might have been trodden out, all sure and hush'd ; 
 Mow the dull animal forsooth must be 
 Entreated, managed ! When can you contrive 
 The interview he demands ? 
 
298 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Auranthe. As speedily 
 
 It must be done as my bribed woman can 
 Unseen conduct him to me ; but I fear 
 'Twill be impossible, while the broad day 
 Comes through the panes with persecuting glare. 
 Methinks, if 't nov/ were night I could intrigue 
 With darkness, bring the stars to second me, 
 And settle all this trouble. 
 
 Conrad. Nonsense ! Child ! 
 
 See him immediately ; why not now ? 
 
 Auranthe. Do you forget that even the senseless door-posis 
 Are on the watch and gape through all the house ; 
 How many whisperers there are about, 
 Hungry for evidence to ruin me : 
 Men I have spurn'd, and women I have taunted. 
 Besides, the foolish prince sends, minute whiles, 
 His pages — so they tell me — to inquire 
 After my health, entreating, if I please, 
 To see me. 
 
 Conrad. Well, suppose this Albert here ; 
 What is your power with him ? 
 
 Auranthe. He should be 
 
 My echo, my taught parrot ! but I fear 
 He will be cur enough to bark at me ; 
 Have his own say ; read me some silly creed 
 'Bout shame and pity. 
 
 Conrad. What will you do then ? 
 
 Auranthe. What I shall do, I know not ; what I would 
 Cannot be done ; for see, this chamber-floor 
 Will not yield to the pick-axe and the spade, — 
 Here is no quiet depth of hollow ground. 
 
 Conrad. Sister, you have grown sensible and wise, 
 Seconding, ere I speak it, what is now, 
 I hope, resolved between us. 
 
 Auranthe. Say, what is 't ? 
 
 Conrad. You need not be his sexton too ; a man 
 May carry that with him shall make him die 
 Elsewhere, — give that to him ; pretend the while 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 299 
 
 You will to-morrow succumb to his wishes, 
 Be what they may, and send him from the Castle 
 On some fool's errand : let his latest groan 
 Frighten the wolves ! 
 
 Auranthe. Alas ! he must not die ! 
 
 Conrad. Would you were both hearsed up in stifling lead ! 
 Detested — 
 
 Auranthe. Conrad, hold ! I would not bear 
 The little thunder of your fretful tongue, 
 Tho' I alone were taken in these toils, 
 And you could free me ; but remember, sir, 
 You live alone in my security : 
 So keep your wits at work, for your own sake, 
 Not mine, and be more mannerly. 
 
 Conrad. Thou wasp ! 
 
 If my domains were emptied of these folk, 
 And I had thee to starve — 
 
 Auranthe. O, marvelous! 
 
 But Conrad, now be gone ; the Host is look'd for ; 
 Cringe to the Emperor, entertain the Lords, 
 And, do ye mind, above all things, proclaim 
 My sickness, with a brother's sadden'd eye, 
 Condoling with Prince Ludolph. In fit time 
 Return to me. 
 
 Conrad. I leave you to your thoughts. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Auranthe (sola). Down, down, proud temper! down, 
 Auranthe's pride ! 
 Why do I anger him when I should kneel ? 
 Conrad ! Albert ! help ! help ! What can I do ? 
 O wretched woman ! lost, wreck'd, swallow'd up, 
 Accursed, blasted ! O, thou golden Crown, 
 Orbing along the serene firmament 
 Of a wide empire, like a glowing moon ; 
 And thou, bright sceptre ! lustrous in my eyes, — 
 There — as the fabled fair Hesperian tree, 
 Bearing a fruit more precious ! graceful thing, 
 Delicate, godlike, magic ! must I leave 
 
300 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Thee to melt in the visionary air, 
 
 Ere. by one grasp, this common hand is made 
 
 Imperial ? I do not know the time 
 
 When I have wept for sorrow ; but methinks 
 
 I could now sit upon the ground, and shed 
 
 Tears, tears of misery ! O, the heavy day ! 
 
 How shall I bear my life till Albert comes ? 
 
 Ludolph! Erminia ! Proofs! O heavy day ! 
 
 Bring me some mourning weeds, that I may 'tire 
 
 Myself, as fits one wailing her own death : 
 
 Cut off these curls, and brand this lily hand, 
 
 And throw these jewels from my loathing sight, — 
 
 Fetch me a missal, and a string of beads, — 
 
 A cup of bitter'd water, and a crust, — 
 
 I will confess, O holy Abbot ! — How ! 
 
 What is this ? Auranthe ! thou fool, dolt, 
 
 Whimpering idiot ! up ! up ! and quell ! 
 
 1 am safe ! Coward ! why am I in fear ? 
 
 Albert ! he cannot stickle, chew the cud 
 
 In such a fine extreme, — impossible ! 
 
 Who knocks ? 
 
 IGoes to the door, listens, and opens it. 
 
 Enter Albert. 
 
 Albert, I have been waiting for you here 
 With such an aching heart, such swooning throbs 
 On my poor brain, such cruel — cruel sorrow, 
 That I should claim your pitj^ ! Art not well ? 
 
 Albert. Yes, lady, well. 
 
 Auranthe. You look not so, alas ! 
 
 But pale, as if you brought some heavy news. 
 
 Albert. You know full well what makes me look so pale. 
 
 Awanthe. No ! Do I ? Surely I am still to learn 
 Some horror ; all I know, this present, is 
 I am near hustled to a dangerous gulf. 
 Which you can save me from, — and therefore safe, 
 So trusting in thy love ; that should not make 
 Thee pale, my Albert. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 301 
 
 Albert. It doth make me freeze. 
 
 Auranthe. Why should it, love ? 
 Albert. You should not ask me that, 
 
 But make your own heart monitor, and save 
 Me the great pain of telling. You must know. 
 
 Auranthe. Something has vext you, Albert. There are 
 times 
 When simplest things put on a sombre cast ; 
 A melancholy mood will haunt a man. 
 Until most easy matters take the shape 
 Of unachievable tasks ; small rivulets 
 Then seem impassable. 
 
 Albert. Do not cheat yourself 
 
 With hope that gloss of words, or suppliant action, 
 Or tears, or ravings, or self-threaten"d death, 
 Can alter my resolve. 
 
 Auranthe. You make me tremble ; 
 
 Not so much at your threats, as at your voice, 
 Untuned, and harsh, and barren of all love. 
 
 Albert. You suffocate me ! Stop this devil's parley. 
 And listen to me ; know me once for all. 
 
 Auranthe. I thought I did. Alas ! I am deceived. 
 Albert. No, you are not deceived. You took me for 
 A man detesting all inhuman crime ; 
 And therefore kept from me your demon's plot 
 Against Erminia. Silent ? Be so still ; 
 For ever ! Speak no more ; but hear my words, 
 Thy fate. Your safety I have bought to-day 
 By blazoning a lie, which in the dawn 
 I'll expiate with truth. 
 
 Auranthe. O cruel traitor ! 
 
 Albert. For I would not set eyes upon thy shame ; 
 I would not see thee dragg'd to death by the hair, 
 Penanced, and taunted on a scaffolding ! 
 To-night, upon the skirts of the blind wood 
 That blackens northward of these horrid towers, 
 I wait for you with horses. Choose your fate. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 14 
 
302 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Auranthe. Albert, you jest ; I'm sure you must. 
 You, an ambitious Soldier ! I, a Queen, 
 One who could say, — here, rule these Provinces ! 
 Take tribute from those cities for thyself ! 
 Empty these armories, these treasuries, 
 Muster thy warlike thousands at a nod ! 
 Go ! Conquer Italy ! 
 
 Albert. Auranthe, you have made 
 
 The whole world chaff to me. You doom is fix'd. 
 
 Auranthe. Out, villain ! dastard ! 
 
 Albert. Look there to the door I 
 
 Who is it ? 
 
 Auranthe. Conrad, traitor ! 
 
 Albert. Let him in. 
 
 Enter Conrad. 
 
 Do not affect amazement, hypocrite, 
 At seeing me in this chamber. 
 
 Conrad. Aurantlie ? 
 
 Albert. Talk not with eyes, but speak your curses out 
 Against me, who would sooner crush and grind 
 A brace of toads, than league with them t' oppress 
 An innocent lady, gull an Emperor, 
 More generous to me than autumn-sun 
 To ripening harvests. 
 
 Auranthe. No more insult, sir. 
 
 Albert. Ay, clutch your scabbard ; but, for prudence sake, 
 Draw not the sword ; 'twould make an uproar, Duke, 
 You would not hear the end of. At nightfall 
 Your lady sister, if I guess aright, 
 Will leave this busy castle. You had best 
 Take farewell too of worldly vanities. 
 
 Conrad. Vassal ! 
 
 Albert.. To-morrow, when the Emperor sends 
 
 For loving Conrad, see you fawn on him. 
 Good even ! 
 
 Auranthe, You'll be seen ! 
 
 Albert. See the coast clear then. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 
 
 Auranihe (as he goes). Remorseless Albert ! Cruel, cruel 
 wretch ! 
 
 [She his him out. 
 Conrad. So, we must lick the dust ? 
 Auranihe. I follow him. 
 
 " Conrad. How ? Where ? The plan of your escape ? 
 Auranihe. He waits 
 
 For me with horses by the forest-side, 
 Northward. 
 
 Conrad. Good, good ; he dies. You go, say you ? 
 Auranthe. Perforce. 
 
 Conrad. Be speedy, darkness ! Till that comes, 
 Fiends keep you company ! 
 
 [ExiU 
 Auranthe. And you ! And you ! 
 
 And all men ! Vanish ! 
 
 [Retires to an inner apartment. 
 
 Scene II. — An Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Ludolph and a Page. 
 
 Page. Still very sick, my lord ; but now I went. 
 And there her women, in a mournful throng, 
 Stood in the passage whispering ; if any 
 Moved, 'twas with careful steps, and hush'd as death : 
 They bade me stop. 
 
 Ludolph. Good fellow, once again 
 
 Make soft inquiry ; pr'ythee, be not stay'd 
 By any hindrance, but with gentlest force 
 Break through her weeping servants, till thou com'st 
 E'en to her chamber door, and there, fair boy — 
 If with thy mother's milk thou hast suck'd in 
 Any divine eloquence — woo her ears 
 With plaints for me, more tender than the voice 
 Of dying Echo, echoed. 
 
 Page. Kindest master ! 
 
 To know thee sad thus, will unloose my tongue 
 
304 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 In mournful syllables. Let but my words reach 
 Her ears, and she shall take them coupled with 
 Moans from my heart, and sighs not counterfeit. 
 May I speed better ! 
 
 [Exit Page. 
 
 Ludolph (solus). Auranthe ! My life ! 
 Long have I loved thee, yet till now not loved : 
 Remembering, as I do, hard-hearted times 
 When I had heard e'en of thy death perhaps. 
 And thoughtless ! — sufFer'd thee to pass alone 
 Into Elysium ! — now I follow thee, 
 A substance or a shadow, wheresoe'er 
 Thou leadest me — whether thy white feet press, 
 With pleasant weight, the amorous-aching earth. 
 Or thro' the air thou pioneerest me, 
 A shade ! Yet sadly I predestinate ! 
 O, unbenignest Love, why wilt thou let 
 Darkness steal out upon the sleepy world 
 So wearily, as if night's chariot-wheels 
 Were clogg'd in some thick cloud ? O, changeful Love, 
 Let not her steeds with drowsy-footed pace 
 Pass the high stars, before sweet embassage 
 Comes from the pillow'd beauty of that fair 
 Completion of all delicate Nature's wit ! 
 Pout her faint lips anew with rubious health ; 
 And, with thine infant fingers, lift the fringe 
 Of her sick eyelids ; that those eyes may glow 
 With wooing light upon me, ere the morn 
 Peers with disrelish, gray, barren, and cold ! 
 
 [Enter Gersa and Courtiers. 
 Otho calls me his Lion — should I blush 
 To be so tamed ? so — 
 
 Gersa. Do me the courtesy, 
 
 Gentlemen, to pass on. 
 
 1st Knight. We are your servants. 
 
 [Exeunt Courtiers. 
 
 Ludolph. It seems then, sir, you have found out the man 
 You would confer with ; — me ? 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 305 
 
 Gersa. If I break not 
 
 Too much upon your thoughtful mood, I will 
 Claim a brief while your patience. 
 
 Ludolph. For what cause 
 
 Soe'er, J shall be honor'd. 
 
 Gersa. I not less. 
 
 Ludolph. What may it be ? No trifle can take place 
 Of such deliberate prologue, serious 'havior. 
 But, be it what it may, I cannot fail 
 To listen with no common interest ; 
 For tho' so new your presence is to me, 
 I have a soldier's friendship for your fame. 
 Please you explain. 
 
 Gersa. As thus : — for, pardon me, 
 
 1 cannot, in plain terms, grossly assault 
 A noble nature ; and would faintly sketch 
 What your quick apprehension will fill up ; 
 So finely I esteem you. 
 
 Ludolph. I attend. 
 
 Gersa. Your generous father, most illustrious Otho, 
 Sits in the banquet-room among his chiefs ; 
 His wine is bitter, for you are not there ; 
 His eyes are fix'd still on the open doors. 
 And ev'ry passer in he frowns upon. 
 Seeing no Ludolph comes. 
 
 Ludolph. I do neglect. 
 
 Gersa. And for your absence may I guess the cause ? 
 
 Ludolph. Stay there ! No — guess ? More princely you 
 must be 
 Than to make guesses at me. 'Tis enough. 
 I'm sorry I can hear no more. 
 
 Gersa. And I 
 
 As grieved to force it on you so abrupt ; 
 Yet, one day, you must know a grief, whose sting 
 Will sharpen more the longer 'tis conceal'd. 
 
 Ludolph. Say it at once, sir ! dead — dead — is she dead ? 
 
 Gersa. Mine is a cruel task : she is not dead, 
 And would, for your sake, she were innocent. 
 
306 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Ludolph. Hungarian ! Thou amazest me beyond 
 All scope of thought, convulsest my heart's blood 
 To deadly churning ! Gersa, you are young, 
 As I am ; let me observe you, face to face : 
 Not gray-brow'd like the poisonous Ethelbert, 
 No rheumed eyes, no furrowing of age. 
 No wrinkles, where all vices nestle in 
 Like crannied vermin — no ! but fresh and young, 
 And hopeful featured. Ha ! by Heaven you weep ! 
 Tears, human tears ! Do you repent you then 
 Of a curs'd torturer's office ? Why shouldst join — 
 Tell me — the league of devils ? Confess — confess — 
 The lie ! 
 
 Gersa. Lie ! — but begone all ceremonious points 
 Of honor battailous ! I could not turn 
 My wrath against thee for the orbed world. 
 
 Ludolph. Your wrath, weak boy ? Tremble at mine, unless 
 Retraction follow close upon the heels 
 Of that late stounding insult ! Why has my sword 
 Not done already a sheer judgment on thee ? 
 Despair, or eat ihy words ! Why, thou wast nigh 
 Whimpering away my reason ! Hark 'e, sir, 
 It is no secret, that Erminia, 
 Erminia, sir, was hidden in your tent, — 
 O bless'd asylum ! Comfortable home ! 
 Begone ! I pity thee ; thou art a gull, 
 Erminia's last new puppet ! 
 
 Gersa. Furious fire ! 
 
 Thou mak'st me boil as hot as thou canst flame ! 
 And in thy teeth I give thee back the lie ! 
 Thou liest ! Thou, Auranthe's fool ! A wittol ! 
 
 Ludolph. Look ! look at this bright sword : 
 There is no part of it, to the very hilt. 
 But shall indulge itself about thine heart ! 
 Draw ! but remember thou must cower thy plumes, 
 As yesterday the Arab made thee sloop. 
 
 Gersa. Patience ! Not here ; I would not spill thy blood 
 Here, underneath this roof where Otho breathes, — 
 Thy father, — almost mine. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 307 
 
 Ludolph. O faltering coward ! 
 
 [Enter Page. 
 Stay, stay ; here is one 1 have half a word with. 
 Well ? What ails thee, child ? 
 
 Page. My lord ! 
 
 Ludolph. What wouldst say ? 
 
 Page. They are fled ! 
 
 Ludolph. They! Who? 
 
 Page. When anxioysly 
 
 I hasten'd back, your grieving messenger, 
 I found the stairs all dark, the lamps extinct, 
 And not a foot or whisper to be heard. 
 I thought her dead, and on the lowest step 
 Sat listening ; when presently came by 
 Two muffled up, — one sighing heavily, 
 The other cursing low, whose voice I knew 
 For the Duke Conrad's. Close I followed them 
 Thro' the dark ways they chose to the open air ; 
 And, as I follow'd, heard my lady speak. 
 
 Ludolph. Thy life answers the truth ! 
 
 Page. The chamber's empty ! 
 
 Ludolph. As I will be of mercy ! So, at last, 
 This nail is in my temples ! 
 
 Gersa. Be calm in this. 
 
 Ludolph. I am. 
 
 Gersa. And Albert too has disappear'd ; 
 
 Ere I met you, I sought him every where ; 
 You would not hearken. 
 
 Ludolph. Which way went they, boy ? 
 
 Gersa. I'll hunt with you. 
 
 Ludolph. No, no, no. My senses are 
 
 Still whole. I have survived. My arm is strong, — 
 My appetite sharp — for revenge ! I'll no sharer 
 In my feast ; my injury is all my own, 
 And so is my revenge, my lawful chattels ! 
 Terrier, ferret them out ! Burn — burn the witch ! 
 Trace me their footsteps \ Away ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
308 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — A part of the Forest. 
 Enter Conrad and Auranthe. 
 
 Auranihe. Go no further ; not a step more. Thou art 
 A master-plague in the midst of miseries. 
 Go,— •! fear thee ! I tremble every limb, 
 Who never shook before. There's moody death 
 In thy resolved looks ! Yes, I could kneel 
 To pray thee far away ! Conrad, go ! go ! — 
 There ! yonder underneath the boughs I see 
 Our horses ! 
 
 Conrad. Ay, and the man. 
 
 Auranthe. Yes, he is there ! 
 
 Go, go, — no blood ! no blood ! — go, gentle Conrad \ 
 
 Conrad. Farewell ! 
 
 Auranthe. Farewell ! For this Heaven pardon you ! 
 
 [Exit Auranthe. 
 
 Conrad. If he survive one hour, then may I die 
 In unamagined tortures, or breathe through 
 A long life in the foulest sink o' the world ! 
 He dies ! 'Tis well she do not advertise 
 The caitiff of the cold steel at his back. 
 
 [Exit Conrad. 
 Enter Ludolph and Page. 
 
 Ludolph. Miss'd the way, boy ? Say not that on your 
 peril ! 
 
 Page. Indeed, indeed I cannot trace them further. 
 
 Ludolph. Must I stop here ? Here solitary die ? 
 Stifled beneath the thick oppressive shade 
 Of these dull boughs, — this oven of dark thickets, — 
 Silent, — without revenge ? — pshaw ! — bitter end, — 
 A bitter death, — a suffocating death, — 
 A gnawing — silent — deadly, quiet death ! 
 Escaped ? — fled ? — vanish'd ? melted into air ? 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 309 
 
 She's gone ! I cannot clutch her ! no revenge ! 
 A muffled death, ensnared in horrid silence ! 
 Suck'd to my grave amid a dreamy calm ! 
 O, where is that illustrious noise of war, 
 To smother up this sound of laboring breath. 
 This rustle of the trees ! 
 
 [AuRANTHE shrieks at a distance. 
 
 Page. My lord, a noise ! 
 
 This way — hark ! 
 
 Ludol'ph. Yes, yes ! A hope ! A music ! 
 
 A glorious clamor ! How I live again ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Another part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Albert (wounded). 
 
 Albert. Oh ! for enough life to support me on 
 To Otho's feet ! 
 
 Eiiier Ludolph. 
 
 Ludolph. Thrice villanous, stay there ! 
 
 Tell me where that detested woman is, 
 Or this is through thee ! 
 
 Albert. My good Prince, with me 
 
 The sword has done its worst ; not without worst 
 Done to another, — Conrad has it home ! 
 I see you know it all ! 
 
 Ludolph. Where is his sister ? 
 
 Enter Auranthe. 
 
 Auranthe. Albert ! 
 
 Ludolph. Ha ! There ! there ! — He is the paramour !- 
 There — hug him — dying ! O, thou innocence. 
 Shrine him and comfort him at his last gasp, 
 Kiss down his eyelids ! Was he not thy love ? 
 Wilt thou forsake him at his latest hour ? 
 14# 
 
310 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Keep fearful and aloof from his last gaze, 
 His most uneasy moments, when cold death 
 Stands with the door ajar to let him in ? 
 
 Albert. O that that door with hollow slam would close 
 Upon m.e sudden ! for 1 cannot meet, 
 In all the unknown chambers of the dead, 
 Such horrors ! 
 
 LudoJph. Auranthe ! what can he mean ? 
 
 What horrors ? Is it not a joyous time ? 
 Am I not married to a paragon 
 " Of personal beauty and untainted soul ?" 
 A blushing fair-eyed purity ? A sylph, 
 Whose snowy timid hand has never sinn'd 
 Beyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself? 
 Albert, you do insult my bride — your mistress— 
 To talk of horrors on our wedding-night ! 
 
 Albert. Alas ! poor Prince, I would you knew my heart ! 
 'Tis not so guilty — 
 
 LudoJph. Hear, he pleads not guilty ! 
 
 You are not ? or, if so, what matters it ? 
 You have escaped me, free as the dusk air, 
 Hid in the forest, safe from my revenge ; 
 I cannot catch you ! You should laugh at me, 
 Poor cheated Ludolph ! Make the forest hiss 
 With jeers at me ! You tremble — faint at once, 
 You will come to again. O cockatrice, 
 I have you ! Whither wander those fair eyes 
 To entice the devil to your help, that he 
 May change you to a spider, so to crawl 
 Into some cranny to escape my wrath ? 
 
 Albert. Sometimes the counsel of a dying man 
 Doth operate quietly when his breath is gone : 
 Disjoin those hands — part — part — do not destroy 
 Each other — forget her ! — Our miseries 
 Are equal shared, and mercy is — 
 
 Ludolph. A boon 
 
 When one can compass it. Auranthe, try 
 Your oratory ; your breath is not so hitch'd. 
 Ay, stare for help ! [Albert dies. 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 311 
 
 There goes a spotted soul 
 Howling in vain along the hoUow night ! 
 Hear him ! He calls yon — sweet Auranthe, oonie ? 
 
 Amramihe. Kill me ! 
 
 Lmdofyh. No! What? Upon oar marriage-night f 
 
 The earth would shudder at so ibol a deed ! 
 A &ir bride ! A swe^ bride ! An innoooit bride ! 
 No ! we must rcTel it, as 'tis in use 
 In times of delicate brilliant ceremony : 
 C<Hne. let me lead you to our halls again ! 
 Nay, linger not ; make no resistance, sweet ; — 
 WiU yon ? Ah, wretch, thoa canst not, fi>r I have 
 The strength of twenty lions 'gainst a lamb ! 
 Now — one adieu for Albert I — Come away ! 
 
 ScERS ni- — An inner Court if ike Castle. 
 
 Enter Sigifked, Goj^fked. and Thz:::?.z, ~:>:iUT\g. 
 
 \gt Kmgkt, Was cTer such a night ? 
 
 Sigfred. What horrors more I 
 
 Things unbelie¥ed one hoar, so strange they are. 
 The next hoar stamps with credit. 
 
 Ut KnighL Your last news ? 
 
 Crm^red. After the page's story of the death 
 Of Albert and Duke Conrad ? 
 
 Sig^red. And the return 
 
 Of Lodolph with the Princess. 
 
 Gmifred. No more, save 
 
 Prince Gersa's fireeing Abbot Etbelbert, 
 And the sweet lady, fiur Erminia, 
 From prisMi. 
 
 l«f Knigki. Where are they now ? Hast yet heard ? 
 
 Gtnfred, With the sad Emperor they are closeted ; 
 I saw the three pass slowly up the stairs. 
 The lady weeping, the old abbot cowFd. 
 
312 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Sigifred. What next ? 
 
 1^/ Knight. J ache to think on't. 
 
 Gonfred. 'Tis with fate. 
 
 1^/ Knight. One while these proud towers are hushed as 
 
 death. 
 Gonfred. The next our poor Prince fills the arched rooms 
 With ghastly ravings. 
 
 Sigifred. I do fear his brain. 
 
 Gonfred. I will see more. Bear you so stout a heart ? 
 
 [Exeunt into the Castle. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Cahinet, opening towards a terrace- 
 Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, and a Physician, discovered. 
 
 Oiho. O, my poor boy ! My son ! My son ! My Ludolph ! 
 Have ye no comfort for me, ye physicians 
 Of the weak body and soul ? 
 
 Ethelhert. 'Tis not in medicine, 
 
 Either of heaven or earth, to cure, unless 
 Fit time be chosen to administer. 
 
 Otho. A kind forbearance, holy abbot. Come, 
 Erminia ; here, sit by me, gentle girl ; 
 Give me thy hand ; hast thou forgiven me ? 
 
 Erminia. Would I were with the saints to pray for you ! 
 
 Otho. Why will ye keep me from my darling child ? 
 
 Physician. Forgive me, but he must not see thy face. 
 
 Otho. Is then a father's countenance a Gorgon ? 
 Hath it not comfort in it ? Would it not 
 Console my poor boy, cheer him, help his spirits ? 
 Let me embrace him ; let me speak to him ; 
 I will ! Who hinders me ? Who's Emperor ? 
 
 Physician. You may not. Sire ; 'twould overwhelm him 
 quite, 
 He is so full of grief and passionate wrath; 
 Too heavy a sigh would kill him, or do worse. 
 He must be saved by fine contrivances ; 
 And, most especially, we must keep clear 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 313 
 
 Out of his sight a father whom he loves ; 
 His heart is full, it can contain no more, 
 And do its ruddy office. 
 
 Eihelhert. Sage advice ; 
 
 We must endeavor how to ease and slacken 
 The tight-wound energies of his despair. 
 Not make them tenser. 
 
 Otho. Enough ! I hear, I hear. 
 
 Yet you were about to advise more, — I listen. 
 
 Ethelhert. This learned doctor will agree with me, 
 That not in the smallest point should he be thwarted, 
 Or gainsaid by one word ; his very motionsj 
 Nods, becks, and hints, should be obeyed with care. 
 Even on the moment ; so his troubled mind 
 May cure itself. 
 
 Physician. There are no other means. 
 
 Oiho. Open the door ; let's hear if all is quiet. 
 
 Physician. Beseech you, Sire, forbear. 
 
 Erminia. Do, do. 
 
 Otho. I command ! 
 
 Open it straight ; — hush ! — quiet ! — my lost boy ! 
 My miserable child ! 
 
 LudoJph (indistinctly without). Fill, fill my goblet, — here's 
 a health ! 
 
 Erminia. O, close the door ! 
 
 Otho. Let, let me hear his voice ; this cannot last : 
 And fain would I catch up his dying words. 
 Though my own knell they be ! This cannot last ! 
 O let me catch his voice — for lo ! I hear 
 A whisper in this silence that he's dead ! 
 It is so ! Gersa ? 
 
 Enter Gersa. 
 
 Physician. Say, how fares the prince ? 
 
 Gersa. More calm ] his features are less wild and flush'd ; 
 Once he complain'd of weariness. 
 
 Physician. Indeed ! 
 
 'Tis good, — 'tis good ; let him but fall asleep, 
 That saves him. 
 
314 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Otho. Gersa, watch him like a child ; 
 
 Ward him from harm, — and bring me better news ! 
 
 Physician. Humor him to the height. I fear to go ; 
 For should he catch a glimpse of my dull garb, 
 It might affright him, fill him with suspicion 
 That we believe him sick, which must not be. 
 
 Gersa. I will invent what soothing means I can. 
 
 [Exit Gersa. 
 
 Physician. This should cheer up your Highness ; weari- 
 ness 
 Is a good symptom, and most favorable ; 
 It gives me pleasant hopes. Please you, walk forth 
 Upon the terrace ; the refreshing air 
 Will blow one half of your sad doubts away. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — A Banqueting Hall, hrilliantly illuminated, and set 
 forth with all costly magnificence, with Supper-tahles, laden 
 with services of Gold and Silver. A door in the hack scene, 
 guarded hy two Soldiers. Lords, Ladies, Knights, Gentle- 
 men, SfC, whispering sadly, and ranging themselves ; -part en- 
 tering and part discovered. 
 
 1st Knight. Grievously are we tantalized, one and all ; 
 Sway'd here and there, commanded to and fro, 
 As though we were the shadows of a sleep, 
 And link'd to a dreaming fancy. What do we here ? 
 
 Gonfred. I am no seer ; you know we must obey 
 The prince from A to Z, though it should be 
 To set the place in flames. I pray, hast heard 
 Where the most wicked Princess is ? 
 
 1st Knight. There, sir, 
 
 In the next room ; have you remark'd those two 
 Stout soldiers posted at the door ? 
 
 Gonfred. For what ? 
 
 [ They whisper. 
 
 1st Lady. How ghast a train ! 
 
 2nd Lady. Sure this should be some splendid burial. 
 1st Lady. What fearful whispering ! See, see, — Gersa 
 there ! 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 315 
 
 Enter Gersa. 
 Gersa. Put on your brightest looks ; smile if you can ; 
 Behave as all were happy ; keep your eyes 
 From the least watch upon him ; if he speaks 
 To any one, answer, collectedly, 
 Without surprise, his questions, howe'er strange. 
 Do this to the utmost — though, alas ! with me 
 The remedy grows hopeless ! Here he comes, — 
 Observe what I have said — show no surprise. 
 
 Enter L-ubolth, followed hy Sigifred and Page. 
 
 Ludolph. A splendid company ! rare beauties here ! 
 I should have Orphean lips, and Plato's fancy, 
 Amphion's utterance, toned with his lyre, 
 Or the deep key of Jove's sonorous mouth, 
 To give fit salutation. Methought I heard. 
 As I came in, some whispers — what of that ? 
 'Tis natural men should whisper ; at the kiss 
 Of Psyche given by Love, there was a buzz 
 Among the gods ! — and silence is as natural. 
 These draperies are fine, and, being a mortal, 
 I should desire no better . yet, in truth. 
 There must be some superior costliness. 
 Some wider-domed high magnificence ! 
 I would have, as a mortal I may not, 
 Hangings of heaven's clouds, purple and gold. 
 Slung from the spheres ; gauzes of silver mist, 
 Loop'd up with cords of twisted wreathed light. 
 And tassel'd round with weeping meteors ! 
 These pendent lamps and chandeliers are bright 
 As earthly fires from dull dross can be cleansed ; 
 Yet could my eyes drink up intenser beams 
 Undazzled — this is darkness — when I close 
 These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances, — 
 Skies full of splendid moons, and shooting stars, 
 And spouting exhalations, diamond fires. 
 And panting fountains quivering with deep glows ! 
 Yes — this is dark — is it not dark ? 
 
316 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Sigifred. My Lord, 
 
 'Tis late ; the lights of festival are ever 
 Quench'd in the morn. 
 
 Ludolph. 'Tis not to-morrow then ? 
 
 Sigifred, 'Tis early dawn. 
 
 Gersa. Indeed full time we slept ; 
 
 Say you so, Prince ? 
 
 Ludolph. I say I quarrel'd with you ; 
 
 We did not tilt each other — that's a blessing, — 
 Good gods ! no innocent blood upon my head ! 
 
 Sigifred. Retire, Gersa ! 
 
 Ludolph. There should be three more here 
 
 For two of them, they stay away perhaps, 
 Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair revels, — 
 They know their own thoughts best. 
 
 As for the third, 
 Deep blue eyes, semi-shaded in white lids, 
 Finish'd with lashes fine for more soft shade, 
 Completed by her twin-arch'd ebon-brows ; 
 White temples, of exactest elegance. 
 Of even mould, felicitous and smooth; 
 Cheeks fashion'd tenderly on either side. 
 So perfect, so divine, that our poor eyes 
 Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning. 
 And wonder that 'tis so — the magic chance ! 
 Her nostrils, small, fragrant, fairy-delicate ; 
 Her lips — I swear no human bones e'er wore 
 So taking a disguise ; — you shall behold her ! 
 We'll have her presently ; ay, you shall see her, 
 And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair ; 
 She is the world's chief jewel, and, by heaven. 
 She's mine by right of marriage ! — she is mine! 
 Patience, good people, in fit time I send 
 A summoner, — she will obey my call, 
 Being a wife most mild and dutiful. 
 First I would hear what music is prepared 
 To herald and receive her ; let me hear ! 
 
 Sigifred. Bid the musicians soothe him tenderly. 
 
 [A soft strain of Music, 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 317 
 
 Ludolph. Ye have none better? No, I am content; 
 'Tis a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs 
 Full and majestic ; it is well enough, 
 And will be sweeter, when you see her pace 
 Sweeping into this presence, glistened o'er 
 With emptied caskets, and her train upheld 
 By ladies, habited in robes of lawn. 
 Sprinkled with golden crescents, others bright 
 In silks, with spangles shower'd, and bow'd to 
 Bv Duchesses and pearled Margravines ! 
 Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth — 
 I pray you mind me not — 'tis sad, I say, 
 That the extremest beauty of the world 
 Should so entrench herself away from me, 
 Behind a barrier of engender'd guilt ! 
 
 2nd Lady. Ah ! what a moan ! 
 
 1st Knight. Most piteous indeed I 
 
 LudoJph. She shall be brought before this company, 
 And then — then — 
 
 1st Lady. He muses. 
 
 Gersa. O, Fortune, where will this end ? 
 
 Sigifred. I guess his purpose ! Indeed he must not have 
 That pestilence brought in. — that cannot be, 
 There we must stop him. 
 
 Gersa. I am lost ! Hush, hush ! 
 
 He is about to rave again. 
 
 Ludolph, A barrier of guilt ! I was the fool, 
 She was the cheater ! Who's the cheater now, 
 And who the fool ? The entrapp'd, the caged fool, 
 The bird-limed raven ? She shall croak to death 
 Secure ! Methinks I have her in my fist. 
 To crush her with my heel ! Wait, wait ! I marvel 
 My father keeps away. Good friend — ah I Sigifred ? 
 Do bring him to me. — and Erminia. 
 I fain would see before I sleep — and Ethelbert, 
 That he may bless me, as I know h? will. 
 Though I have cursed him. 
 
 Sigifred. Rather suffer me 
 
 To lead you to them* 
 
318 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Ludolph. No, excuse me, — ^no ! 
 
 The day is not quite done. Go, bring them hither. 
 
 [^Exit SiGIFRED. 
 
 Certes, a father's smile should, like sun light, 
 
 Slant on my sheaved harvest of ripe bliss. 
 
 Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely bride 
 
 In a deep goblet : let me see — what wine ? 
 
 The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek ? 
 
 Or pale Calabrian ? Or the Tuscan grape ? 
 
 Or of old Etna's pulpy wine-presses. 
 
 Black stain'd with the fat vintage, as it were 
 
 The purple slaughter-house, where Bacchus' self 
 
 Prick'd his own swollen veins ! Where is my page ? 
 
 Page. Here, here ! 
 
 Ludolph. Be ready to obey me ; anon thou shalt 
 Bear a soft message for me ; for the hour 
 Draws near when I must make a winding up 
 Of bridal mysteries — a fine-spun vengeance ! 
 Carve it on my tomb, that, when I rest beneath, 
 Men shall confess this Prince was gull'd and cheated, 
 But from the ashes of disgrace he rose 
 More than a fiery dragon, and did burn 
 His ignominy up in purging fires ! 
 Did I not send, sir, but a moment past, 
 For my father ? 
 
 Gersa. You did. 
 
 Ludolph. Perhaps 'twould be 
 
 Much better he came not. 
 
 Gersa. He enters now ! 
 
 Enter Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, Sigifred, and Physician. 
 
 Ludolph. Oh ! thou good man, against whose sacred head 
 I was a mad conspirator, chiefly, too. 
 For the sake of my fair newly wedded wife, 
 Now to be punished ! — do not look so sad ! 
 Those charitable eyes will thaw my heart, 
 Those tears will wash away a just resolve, 
 A verdict ten times sworn ! Awake — awake — 
 
OTHO THE GREAT. 319 
 
 Put on a judge's brow, and use a tongue 
 Made iron-stern by habit ! Thou shalt see 
 A deed to be applauded, 'scribed in gold ! 
 Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce 
 What I alone will execute ! 
 
 Otho. Dear son. 
 
 What is it ? By your father's love, I sue 
 That it be nothing merciless ! 
 
 Ludolph. To that demon ? 
 
 Not so ! No ! She is in temple-stall 
 Being garnish'd for the sacrifice, and I, 
 The Priest of Justice, will immolate her 
 Upon the altar of wrath ! She stings me through ! — 
 Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut. 
 So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain ! 
 I feel her gnawing here ! Let her but vanish. 
 Then, father, I will lead your legions forth. 
 Compact in steeled squares, and speared files, 
 And bid our trumpets speak a fell rebuke 
 To nations drowsed in peace ! 
 
 Otho. To-morrow, son. 
 
 Be your word law ; forget to day — 
 
 Ludolph. I will 
 
 When I have finish'd it ! Now, — now, I'm pight. 
 Tight-footed for the deed ! 
 
 Erminia. Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 Ludolph. What angel's voice is that ? Erminia ! 
 Ah ! gentlest creature, whose sweet innocence 
 Was almost murder'd ; I am penitent. 
 Wilt thou forgive me ? And thou, holy man, 
 Good Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with you ? 
 
 Erminia. Die, my lord ! 
 
 Ludolph. I feel it possible. 
 
 Otho. Physician ? 
 
 Physician. I fear me he is past my skill. 
 
 Otho. Not so ! 
 
 Ludolph. I see it — I see it — I have been wandering ! 
 Half mad — not right here — I forget my purpose. 
 
329 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Bestir — bestir — Aaranthe ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Youngster ! Page ! go bid them drag her to me ! 
 Obey ! This shall finish it ! 
 
 [Draws a dagger. 
 
 Otho. Oh, my son ! my son ! 
 
 Sigifred. This must not be — stop there ! 
 
 Ludolph. Am I obey'd ? 
 
 A little talk with her — no harm — haste ! haste ! 
 
 [Exit Page. 
 Set her before me — never fear I can strike. 
 
 Several Voices. My Lord ! My Lord ! 
 
 Gersa. Good Prince ! 
 
 Ludolph. Why do ye trouble me ? out — out — away ! 
 There she is ! take that ! and that ! no no, 
 That's not well done. — Where is she ? 
 
 [TAe doors open. Enter Page. Several women are seen grouped about 
 Auranthe in the inner-room. 
 
 Page. Alas ! My Lord, my Lord ! they cannot move 
 her ! 
 Her arms are stiff, — her fingers clench'd and cold ! 
 Ludolph. She's dead ! 
 
 [Staggers and falls into their arms, 
 Ethelbert. Take away the dagger.' 
 Gersa. Softly ; so ! 
 
 Otho. Thank God for that ! 
 
 Sigifred. It could not harm him now. 
 
 Gersa, No ! — brief be his anguish ! 
 
 Ludolph. She's gone ! I am content — Nobles, good night ! 
 We are all weary — faint — set ope the doors — 
 I will to bed ! — To-morrow — 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS. 
 
KING STEPHEN 
 
 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Field of Battle. 
 Alarum. Enter King Stephen, Knights, and Soldiers. 
 
 Stephen. If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll'n front 
 Spread deeper crimson than the battle's toil, 
 Blush in your casing helmets ! for see, see ! 
 Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war, 
 Wrench'd with an iron hand from firm array, 
 Are routed loose about the plashy meads, 
 Of honor forfeit. O, that my known voice 
 Could reach your dastard ears, and fright you more ! 
 Fly, cowards, fly ! Glocester is at your backs ! 
 Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried manes. 
 Ply well the rowel with faint trembling heels. 
 Scampering to death at last ! 
 
 1st Knight. The enemy 
 
 Bears his flaunt standard close upon their rear. 
 
 '2nd Knight. Sure of a bloody prey, seeing the fens 
 Will swamp them girth-deep. 
 
 Stephen. Over head and ears, 
 
 No matter ! 'Tis a gallant enemy ; 
 How like a comet he goes streaming on. 
 
322 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 But we must plague him in the flank, — hey, friends ? 
 We are well breath'd, — follow ! 
 
 Enter Earl Baldwin and Soldiers, as defeated. 
 
 Stephen. De Redvers ! 
 
 What is the monstrous bugbear that can fright 
 Baldwin ? 
 
 Baldwin. No scare-crow, but the fortunate star 
 Of boisterous Chester, whose fell truncheon now 
 Points level to the goal of victory. 
 ■ This way he comes, and if you would maintain 
 Your person unafFronted by vile odds. 
 Take horse, my Lord. 
 
 Stephen. And which way spur for life ? 
 
 Now I thank Heaven I am in the toils. 
 That soldiers may bear witness how my arm 
 Can burst the meshes. Not the eagle more 
 Loves to beat up against a tyrannous blast, 
 Than I to meet the torrent of my foes. 
 This is a brag, — be't so, — but if I fall, 
 Carve it upon my 'scutcheon'd sepulchre. 
 On, fellow soldiers ! Earl of Redvers, back ! 
 Not twenty Earls of Chester shall brow-beat 
 The diadem. 
 
 [Exeunt. Alarum. 
 
 Scene IL — Another part of the Field. 
 
 Trumpets sounding a Victory. Enter Glocester, Knights, and 
 
 Forces. 
 
 Glocester. Now may we lift our bruised visors up, 
 And take the flattering freshness of the air, 
 While the wide din of battle dies away 
 Into times past, yet to be echoed sure 
 In the silent pages of our chroniclers. 
 
KING STEPHEN. 323 
 
 1st Knight. Will Stephen's death be mark'd there, my 
 good Lord, 
 Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers ? 
 
 Glocester. Fain would I know the great usurper's fate. 
 
 Enter two Captains severally. 
 
 1st Captain. My Lord ! 
 
 2nd Captain. Most noble Earl ! 
 
 1^^ Captain. The King — 
 
 2nd Captain. The Empress greets — 
 
 Glocester. What of the King ? 
 
 1st Captain. He sole and lone maintains 
 
 A hopeless bustle 'mid our swarming arms, 
 And with a nimble savageness attacks. 
 Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew 
 Eludes death, giving death to most that dare 
 Trespass within the circuit of his sword ! 
 He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is taken ; 
 And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag 
 He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt down. 
 God save the Empress ! 
 
 Glocester. Now our dreaded Queen : 
 
 What message from her Highness ? 
 
 "Znd Captain. Royal Maud 
 
 From the throng'd towers of Lincoln hath look'd down, 
 Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion, 
 And seen her enemies havock'd at her feet. 
 She greets most noble Glocester from her heart. 
 Entreating him, his captains, and brave knights. 
 To grace a banquet. The high city gates 
 Are envious which shall see your triumph pass ; 
 The streets are full of music. 
 
 Enter 2nd Knight. 
 
 Glocester, Whence come you ? 
 
 2nd Knight. From Stephen, my good Prince, — Stephen ! 
 Stephen ! 
 
324 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Glocester. Why do you make such echoing of his name ? 
 
 2nd Knight. Because I think, my lord, he is no man, 
 But a fierce demon, 'nointed safe from wounds. 
 And misbaptized with a Christian name. 
 
 Glocester. A mighty soldier ? — Does he still hold out ? 
 
 2nd Knight. He shames our victory. His valor still 
 Keeps elbow-room amid our eager swords. 
 And holds our bladed falchions all aloof — 
 His gleaming battle-axe being slaughter-sick. 
 Smote on the morion of a Flemish knight, 
 Broke short in his hand ; upon the which he flung 
 The heft away with such a vengeful force. 
 It paunch'd the Earl of Chester's horse, who then 
 Spleen-hearted came in full career at him. 
 
 Glocester. Did no one take him at a vantage then ? 
 
 2nd Knight. Three then with tiger leap upon him flew, 
 Whom, with his sword swift-drawn and nimbly held, 
 He stung away again, and stood to breathe. 
 Smiling. Anon upon him rush'd once more 
 A throng of foes, and in this renew'd strife, 
 JVly sword met his and snapp'd ofi* at the hilt. 
 
 Glocester. Come, lead me to this man — and let us move 
 In silence, not insulting his sad doom 
 With clamorous trumpets. To the Empress bear 
 My salutation as befits the time. 
 
 [Exeunt Glocester and Forces. 
 
 Scene III. — The Field of Battle. Enter Stevken unarmed. 
 
 Stephen. Another sword ! And what if I could seize 
 One from Bellona's gleaming armory. 
 Or choose the fairest of her sheaved spears 1 
 Where are my enemies ? Here, close at hand. 
 Here come the testy brood. O, for a sword ! 
 I'm faint — a biting sword ! A noble sword ! 
 A hedge-stake — or a ponderous stone to hurl 
 With brawny vengeance, like the laborer Cain. 
 
KING STEPHEN. 32> 
 
 Come on ! Farewell my kingdom, and all hail 
 Thou superb, plumed, and helmeted renown, 
 All hail — I would not truck this brilliant day 
 To rule in Pylos with a Nestor's beard — 
 Come on ! 
 
 Enter De Kaims and Knights, ^c. 
 
 De Kaims. Is 't madness or a hunger after death 
 That makes thee thus unarm'd throw taunts at us ? — 
 Yield, Stephen, or my sword's point dips in 
 The gloomy current of a traitor's heart. 
 
 Stephen. Do it, De Kaims, I will not budge an inch. 
 
 De Kaims. Yes, of thy madness thou shalt take the meed. 
 
 Stephen. Darest thou ? 
 
 De Kaims. How dare, against a man disarmed ? 
 
 Stephen. What weapons has the lion but himself! 
 Come not near me, De Kaims, for by the price 
 Of all the glory I have won this day, 
 Being a king, I will not yield alive 
 To any but the second man of the realm, 
 Robert of Glocester. 
 ^De Kaims.- Thou shalt vail to me. 
 
 Stephen. Shall I, when I have sworn against it, sir ? 
 Thou think'st it brave to take a breathing king, 
 That, on a court-day bow'd to haughty Maud, 
 The awed presence-chamber may be bold 
 To whisper, there's the man who took alive 
 Stephen — me — prisoner. Certes, De Kaims, 
 The ambition is a noble one. 
 
 De Kaims. 'Tis true, 
 
 And, Stephen, I must compass it. 
 
 Stephen. No, no, 
 
 Do not tempt me to throttle you on the gorge. 
 Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow breast. 
 Just when your knighthood is grown ripe and full 
 For lordship. 
 
 A Soldier. Is an honest yeoman's spear 
 Of no use at a need ? Take that. 
 15 
 
326 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Stephen. Ah, dastard ! 
 
 De Kaims. What, you are vuhierable ! my prisoner ! 
 
 Stephen. No, not yet. I disclaim it, and demand 
 Death as a sovereign right unto a king 
 Who 'sdains to yield to any but his peer, 
 If not in title, yet in noble deeds. 
 The Earl of Glocester. Stab to the hilt, De Kaims, 
 For I will never by mean hands be led 
 From this so famous field. Do you hear ! Be quick ! 
 
 Trumpets. Enter the Earl of Chester and Knights. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Presence Chamber. Queen Maud in a Chair of 
 State, the Earls of Glocester and Chester, Lords, Attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Maud. Glocester, no more : I will behold that Boulogne : 
 Set him before me. Not for the poor sake 
 Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour. 
 As thou with wary speech, yet near enough, 
 Hast hinted. 
 
 Glocester. Faithful counsel have I given ; 
 If wary, for your Highness' benefit. 
 
 Maud. The Heavens forbid that I should not think so. 
 For by thy valor have I won this realm. 
 Which by thy wisdom I will ever keep* 
 To sage advisers let me ever bend 
 A meek attentive ear, so that they treat 
 Of the wide kingdom's rule and government, 
 Not trenching on our actions personal. 
 Advised, not school'd, I would be ; and henceforth 
 Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms. 
 Not side-ways sermon'd at. 
 
 Glocester. Then in plain terms. 
 
 Once more for the fallen king— 
 
 Maud. Your pardon, Brother, 
 
 I would no more of that ; for, as I said, 
 
KING STEPHEN. 327 
 
 'Tis not for worldly pomp^I wish to see 
 The rebel, but as dooming judge to give 
 A sentence something worthy of his guilt. 
 
 Glocester. If 't must be so, I '11 bring him to your presence. 
 
 [Exit Glocester. 
 
 Maud. A meaner summoner might do as well — 
 My Lord of Chester, is 't true what I hear 
 Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner, 
 That he, as a fit penance for his crimes, 
 Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food 
 Off Glocester's golden dishes — drinks pure wine, 
 Lodges soft ? 
 
 Chester. More than that, my gracious Queen, 
 Has anger'd me. The noble Earl, melhinks. 
 Full soldier as he is, and without peer 
 In counsel, dreams too much among his books. 
 It may read well, but sure 'tis out of date 
 To play the Alexander with Darius. 
 
 Maud. Truth ! I think so. By Heavens it shall not last ! 
 
 Chester. It would amaze your Highness now to mark 
 How Glocester overstrains his courtesy 
 To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne — 
 
 Maud. That ingrate ! 
 
 Chester. For whose vast ingratitude 
 
 To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire, 
 The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps. 
 And with a sort of lackeying friendliness, 
 Talks off the mighty frowning from his brow, 
 Woos him to hold a duet in a smile. 
 Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess — 
 
 Maud. A perjured slave ! 
 
 Chester. And for his perjury, 
 
 Glocester has fit rewards — nay, I believe. 
 He sets his bustling household's wits at work 
 For flatteries to ease this Stephen's hours. 
 And make a heaven of his purgatory ; 
 Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss 
 Of feasts and music, and all idle shows 
 
328 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Of indoor pageantry ; while syren whispers, 
 Predestined for his ear, 'scape as half.check'd 
 From lips the courtliest and the rubiest. 
 Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds. 
 
 Maud, A frost upon his summer ! 
 
 Chester, A queen's nod 
 
 Can make his June December. Here he comes. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS;* 
 
 OR, THE JEALOUSIES. 
 
 A FAERY TALE. UNFINISHED. 
 
 In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, 
 There stood, or hover 'd, tremulous in the air, 
 A faery city, 'neath the potent rule 
 Of Emperor Elfinan ; famed ev'rywhere 
 For love of mortal women, maidens fair, 
 Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made 
 Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare. 
 To pamper his slight wooing, warm, yet staid : 
 He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade. 
 
 This was a crime forbidden by the law ; 
 And all the priesthood of his city wept, 
 For ruin and dismay they well foresaw. 
 If impious prince no bound or limit kept. 
 And faeiy Zendervester overstept ; 
 They wept, he sinn'd, and still he would sin on. 
 They dreamt of sin, and he sinn'd while they slept ; 
 In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne, 
 Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon. 
 
 * This Poem was written subject to future amendments and omissions : it 
 was begun without a plan, and without any prescribed laws for the supernatu- 
 ral machinery. — Charles Brown. 
 
330 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Which seeing, his high court of parliament 
 Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet, 
 Praying his royal senses to content 
 Themselves with what in faery lajad was sweet, 
 Befitting best that shade with shade should meet 
 Whereat, to calm their fears, he promised soon 
 From mortal tempters all to make retreat — 
 Aye, even on the first of the new moon, 
 An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy 
 To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign, 
 To half beg, and half demand, respectfully, 
 The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine ; 
 An audience had, and speeching done, they gain 
 Their point, and bring the weeping bride away ; 
 Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain 
 Upon their wings, they bore in bright array, 
 While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric fay. 
 
 As in old pictures tender cherubim 
 A child's soul thro' the sapphired canvas bear, 
 So, through a real heaven, on they swim 
 With the sweet princess on her plumaged lair, 
 Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair ; 
 And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake, 
 Save when, for healthful exercise and air, 
 She chose to " promener a I'aile," or take 
 A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 331 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Dear princess, do not whisper me so loud," 
 Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant, 
 
 *'Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud, 
 Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant ? 
 He hears a whisper plainer than a rant : 
 Dry up your tears," and do not look so blue ; 
 He's Elfinan's great state-spy militant, 
 He's running, lying, flying footman, too — 
 
 Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Show him a mouse's tail, and he will guess, 
 With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse ; 
 Show him a garden, and with speed no less, 
 He'll surmise sagely of a dwelling-house, 
 And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse 
 The owner out of it ; show him a — " *' Peace ! 
 Peace ! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to rouse ;" 
 ReturnM the princess, " my tongue shall not cease 
 
 Till from this hated match I get a free release. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 *' Ah, beauteous mortal!" "Hush!" quoth Coralline, 
 ^' Really you must not talk of him indeed." 
 " You hush !" replied the mistress, with a shine 
 Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed 
 In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread : 
 'Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch. 
 But of its threat she took the utmost heed ; 
 Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch. 
 Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch. 
 
332 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 So she was silenced, and fair Belianaine, 
 Writhing her little body with ennui, 
 Continued to lament and to complain, 
 That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be 
 Ravish'd away far from her dear countree ; 
 That all her feelings should be set at nought, 
 In trumping up this match so hastily, 
 With lowland blood ; and lowland blood she thought 
 Poison, as every stanch true-born Imaian ought. 
 
 X. 
 
 Sorely she grieved, and wetted three or four 
 White Provence rose-leaves with her faery tears. 
 But not for this cause ; — alas ! she had more 
 Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears 
 In the famed memoirs of a thousand years, 
 Written by Crafticant, and published 
 By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly compeers 
 Who raked up ev'ry fact against the dead,) 
 In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Where, after a long hypercritic howl 
 Against the vicious manners of the age, 
 He goes on to expose, with heart and soul, 
 What vice in this or that year was the rage, 
 Backbiting all the world in ev'ry page ; 
 With special strictures on the horrid crime, 
 (Sectioned and subsection'd with learning sage,) 
 Of faeries stooping on their wings sublime 
 To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in their prime. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 333 
 
 XII. 
 
 Turn to the copious index, you will find 
 Somewhere in the column, headed letter B, 
 The name of Bellanaine, if you're not blind ; 
 Then pray refer to the text, and you will see 
 An article made up of calumny 
 Against this highland princess, rating her 
 For giving way, so over fashionably, 
 To this new-fangled vice, which seems a burr 
 Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er could stir. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 There he says plainly that she loved a man ! 
 That she around him flutter'd, flirted, toy'd, 
 Before her marriage with great Elfinan ; 
 That after marriage too, she never joy'd 
 In husband's company, but still employ'd 
 Hei wits to 'scape away to Angel-land ; 
 Where livM the youth, who worried and annoy'd 
 Her tender heart, and its warm ardors fann'd 
 To such a dreadful blaze, her side would scorch her hand. 
 
 xiv. 
 
 But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle 
 To waiting-maids, and bed-room coteries. 
 Nor till fit time against her fame wage battle. 
 Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease, 
 Let us resume his subject if you please : 
 For it may comfort and console him much. 
 To rhyme and syllable his miseries ; 
 Poor Elfinan ! whose cruel fate was such, 
 He sat and cursed a bride he knew he could not touch. 
 
 15* 
 
334 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Soon as (according to his promises) 
 The bridal embassy had taken wing, 
 And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb trees, 
 The emperor, empierced with the sharp sting 
 Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring 
 Like any drone shut from the fair bee-queen, 
 Into his cabinet, and there did fling 
 His limbs upon the sofa, full of spleen. 
 And damn'd his House of Commons, in complete chagrin. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "I '11 trounce some of the members," cried the prince, 
 I '11 put a mark against some rebel names, 
 I '11 make the opposition-benches wince, 
 I '11 show them very soon, to all their shames, 
 What 'tis to smother up a prince's flames ; 
 That ministers should join in it, I own, 
 Surprises me ! — they too at these high games ! 
 Am I an Emperor ? Do I wear a crown ? 
 
 Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " I '11 trounce 'em ! — there's the square-cut chancelor, 
 
 His son shall never touch that bishopric ; 
 
 And for the nephew of old Palfior, 
 
 I'll show him that his speeches made me sick, 
 
 And give the colonelcy to Phalaric ; 
 
 The tiptoe marquis, moral and gallant. 
 
 Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick ; 
 
 And for the Speaker's second cousin's aunt, 
 She sha'n't be maid of honor, — by heaven that she sha'n't ! 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 335 
 
 xviir. 
 
 « I '11 shirk the Duke of A. ; Fll cut his brother ; 
 I '11 give no garter to his eldest son ; 
 I won't speak to his sister or his mother ! 
 The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and-run ; 
 But how in the world can I contrive to stun 
 That fellow's voice, which plagues me worse than any, 
 That stubborn fool, that impudent state-dun, 
 Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a zany, — 
 
 That vulgar commoner. Esquire Biancopany ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ^' Monstrous affair ! Pshaw ! pah ! what ugly minx 
 Will they fetch from Imaus for my bride ? 
 Alas ! my wearied heart within me sinks, 
 To think that I must be so near allied 
 To a cold dullard fay, — ah, woe betide ! 
 Ah, fairest of all human loveliness ! 
 Sweet Bertha ! what crime can it be to glide 
 About the fragrant plaitings of thy dress, 
 
 Or kiss thine eye, or count thy locks, tress after tress ?" 
 
 XX. 
 
 So said, one minute's while his eyes remain'd 
 Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent ; 
 But, in a wink, their splendor they regain'd, 
 Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent- 
 Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent : 
 He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell, 
 And order'd some death-warrants to be sent 
 For signature : — somewhere the tempest fell, 
 As many a poor fellow does not live to tell- 
 
}f 
 
 336 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " At the same time, Eban," — (this was his page^ 
 A fay of color, slave from top to toe, 
 Sent as a present, while yet under age, 
 From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, — wise, slow, 
 His speech, his only words were "yes" and "no, 
 But swift of look, and foot, and wing was he,) — 
 
 " At the same time, Eban, this instant go 
 
 To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I see 
 Among the fresh arrivals in our empery. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Bring Hum to me ! But stay — here take my ring, 
 The pledge of favor, that he not suspect 
 Any foul play, or awkward murdering, 
 Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect ; 
 Throw in a hint, that if he should neglect 
 One hour, the next shall see him in my grasp, 
 And the next after that shall see him neck'd, 
 Or swallow'd by my hunger-starved asp, — 
 And mention ('tis as well) the torture of the wasp." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 These orders given, the Prince, in half a pet. 
 Let o'er the silk his propping elbow slide, 
 Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret, 
 Fell on the sofa on his royal side. 
 The slave retreated backwards, humble-eyed, 
 And with a slave-like silence closed the door, 
 And to old Hum thro' street and alley hied ; 
 He " knew the city," as we say, of yore. 
 And for short cuts and turns, was nobody knew more. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 337 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 It was the time when wholesale dealers close 
 Their shutters with a moody sense of wealth, 
 But retail dealers, diligent, let loose 
 The gas (objected to on score of health), 
 Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by stealth, 
 And make it flare in many a brilliant form, 
 That all the powers of darkness it repell'th. 
 Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith and harm, 
 And supersedeth quite the use of the glow-worm. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, 
 (Of pastry he got store within the palace,) 
 With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks, 
 Incognito upon his errand sallies, 
 His smelling-bottle ready for the allies ; 
 He pass'd the hurdy-gurdies with disdain. 
 Vowing he 'd have them sent on board the gallies ; 
 Just as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain, 
 Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " I '11 pull the string," said he, and further said, 
 •' Polluted jarvey ! Ah, thou filthy hack ! 
 Whose springs of life are all dried up and dead, 
 Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all slack, 
 Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a orack ; 
 And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter ; 
 Whose glass once up can never be got back. 
 Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter, 
 That 'tis of modern use to travel in a litter. 
 
338 LITERAEY REMAIXS. 
 
 xnrn. 
 
 " Thou inconvenience ! thou hungry crop 
 For all com ! thou snail-creeper to and fro, 
 Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop. 
 And fiddle-faddle standest while vou go ; 
 I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe, 
 Unto some lazar-house thou joumeyest. 
 And in the evening tak'st a double row 
 Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest. 
 
 Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west. 
 
 XXVlil. 
 
 " By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien, 
 An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge : 
 Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign. 
 Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge, 
 SchoolM in a beckon, learned in a nudge, 
 A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare ; 
 Quiet and plodding thou dost bear no grudge 
 To whisking tilburies, or phaetons rare, 
 
 Curricles, or mail-coaches,, swift beyond compare." 
 
 TTTT . 
 
 Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check. 
 And bade the coachman wheel to such a street. 
 Who turning much his body, more his neck, 
 Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet : 
 
 " Certes, Monsieur were best take to his feet. 
 Seeing his servant can no farther drive 
 For press of coaches, that to-night here meet. 
 Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive, 
 
 When first for April honey into faint flowers they dive."' 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 339 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went 
 To Hum's hotel ; and, as he on did pass 
 With head inclin'd, each dusky lineament 
 Show'd in the pearl-paved street as in a glass ; 
 His purple vest, that ever peeping was 
 Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak, 
 His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash 
 Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance took 
 Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he might look. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 He smiled at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth, 
 And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the more ; 
 Lifted his eyebrows, spurn'd the path beneath, 
 Show'd teeth again, and smiled as heretofore, 
 Until he knock'd at the magician's door ; 
 Where, till the porter answer'd, might be seen, 
 In the clear panel more he could adore, — 
 His turban wreath'd of gold, and white, and green, 
 Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Does not your master give a rout to-night ?" 
 Quoth the dark page ; " Oh, no !" return 'd the Swiss, 
 
 " Next door but one to us, upon the right. 
 The Magazin des Modes now open is 
 Against the Emperor's wedding ; — and sir, this 
 My master finds a monstrous horrid bore ; 
 As he retir'd, an hour ago I wis. 
 With his best beard and brimstone, to explore 
 
 And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. 
 
340 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 " Gad ! he 's obliged to stick to business ! 
 For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price ; 
 And as for aqua vitse — there 's a mess ! 
 The denies sapienticR of mice 
 Our barber tells me too are on the rise, — 
 Tinder 's a lighter article, — nitre pure 
 Goes off like lightning, — grains of Paradise 
 At an enormous figure ! — stars not sure ! — 
 
 Zodiac will not move without a slight douceur ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 '' Venus won't stir a peg without a fee, 
 
 And master is too partial entre nous 
 
 To — " " Hush — hush !" cried Eban, " sure that is he 
 
 Coming down stairs, — by St. Bartholomew ! 
 
 As backwards as he can, — is 't something new ? 
 
 Or is 't his custom, in the name of fun ?" 
 " He always comes down backward, with one shoe " — 
 
 Return'd the porter — '' off, and one shoe on. 
 Like, saving, shoe for sock or stocking, my man John !" 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 It was indeed the great Magician, 
 
 Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair, 
 
 And retrograding careful as he can. 
 
 Backwards and downwards from his own two pair : 
 " Salpietro !" exclaimed Hum, " is the dog there ? 
 
 He 's always in my way upon the mat !" 
 " He 's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows where,'* — 
 
 Replied the Swiss, — ^" the nasty, whelping brat !" 
 Don't beat him !" return'd Hum, and on the floor came pat, 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 341 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Then facing right about, he saw the Page, 
 And said : " Don't tell me what you want, Eban ; 
 The Emperor is now in a huge rage, — 
 'Tis nine to one he '11 give you the rattan ! 
 Let us away !" Away together ran 
 The plain-dress'd sage and spangled blackamoor, 
 Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan. 
 And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's chamber door, 
 When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore. 
 
 xxxvii. 
 
 " I thought you guess'd, foretold, or prophesied, 
 That 's Majesty was in a raving fit." 
 
 " He dreams," said Hum, " or I have ever lied, 
 That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit." 
 
 " He 's not asleep, and you have little wit," 
 Replied the Page, " that little buzzing noise, 
 Whate'er your palmistry may make of it. 
 Comes from a plaything of the Emperor's choice, 
 
 From a Man-Tiger-Organ J prettiest of his toys." 
 
 xxxviii. 
 
 Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer : 
 Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'ertheless. 
 Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear. 
 Crept silently, and waited in distress. 
 Knowing the Emperor's moody bitterness ; 
 Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan 
 Tremble and quake to death, — he feared less 
 A dose of senna-tea, or nightmare Gorgon, 
 Than the Emperor when he play'don his Man-Tiger- Organ. 
 
342 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet face 
 Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green, 
 Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace 
 A silver tissue, scantly to be seen. 
 As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in green ; 
 Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand 
 Of majesty, by dint of passion keen. 
 Doubled into a common fist, went grand. 
 And knock'd down three cut glasses, and his best ink-stand. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Then turning round, he saw those trembling two : 
 " Eban," said he, " as slaves should taste the fruits 
 Of diligence, I shall remember you 
 To-morrow, or next day, as time suits, 
 In a finger conversation with my mutes, — 
 Begone ! — for you, Chaldean ! here remain ; 
 Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits 
 A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you drain ? 
 Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd champagne ?" 
 
 XLT. 
 
 " Commander of the faithful !" answer'd Hum, 
 " In preference to these, I'll merely taste 
 
 A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum." 
 " A simple boon !" said Elfinan, " thou may'st 
 
 Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee's laced."* 
 " I'll have a glass of Nantz, then," — said the Seer, — 
 " Made racy — (sure my boldness is misplaced !) — 
 
 With the third part — (yet that is drinking dear !) — 
 Of the least drop of creme de citron crystal clear." 
 
 * " Mr. Nisby is of opinion that laced coflfee is bad for the head." — Spectator. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 343 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " I pledge you, Hum ! and pledge my dearest love, 
 My Bertha !" " Bertha ! Bertha !'"' cried the sage, 
 
 " I know a many Berthas !" " Mine 's above 
 All Berthas !" sighed the Emperor. " I engage," 
 Said Hum, '-in duty, and in vassalage. 
 To mention all the Berthas in the earth ; — 
 There 's Bertha Watson, — and Miss Bertha Page, — 
 This famed for languid eyes, and that for mirth, — 
 
 There 's Bertha Blount of York,— and Bertha Knox of Perth." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " You seem to know " — '-'I do know," answer'd Hum, 
 " Your Majesty 's in love with some fine girl 
 Named Bertha ; but her surname will not come. 
 Without a little conjuring." '•' 'Tis Pearl, 
 'Tis Bertha Pearl ! What makes my brains so whirl ? 
 And she is softer, fairer than her name !" 
 " Where does she live ?" ask'd Hum. " Her fair locks curl 
 
 So brightly, they put all our fays to shame ! — 
 Live — O ! at Canterbury, with her old granddame. " 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " Good ! good I" cried Hum, '' I've known her from a child ! 
 
 She is a changeling of my management ; 
 
 She was born at midnight in an Indian wild ; 
 
 Her mother's screams with the striped tiger's blent. 
 
 While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent 
 
 Into the jungles ; and her palanquin. 
 
 Rested amid the desert's dreariment, 
 
 Shook with her agony, till fair were seen 
 The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars serene." 
 
344 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " I can't say," said the monarch, " that may be 
 Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam ! 
 Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me, 
 Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love 1 am ; 
 And if your science is not all a sham, 
 Tell me some means to get the lady here." 
 " Upon my honor !" said the son of Cham,* 
 " She is my dainty changeling, near and dear, 
 Although her story sounds at first a little queer." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown, 
 My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe, 
 I'll knock you — " " Does your majesty mean — down ? 
 No, no, you never could my feelings probe 
 To such a depth !" The Emperor took his robe, 
 And wept upon its purple palatine, 
 While Hum continued, shamming half a sob, — 
 
 " In Canterbury doth your lady shine ? 
 But let me cool your brandy with a little wine." 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took. 
 
 That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt, 
 
 Admired it with connoisseuring look, 
 
 And with the ripest claret crowned it. 
 
 And, ere the lively head could burst and flit. 
 
 He turn'd it quickl}^, nimbly upside down. 
 
 His mouth being held conveniently fit 
 
 To catch the treasure : '•' Best in all the town !" 
 
 He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown. 
 
 * Cham is said to have been the inventor of magic. Lucy learnt this 
 from Bayle's Dictionary, and had copied a long Latin note from that work. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 345 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 " Ah ! good my Prince, weep not !" And then again 
 
 He fiU'd a bumper. " Great sire, do not weep ! 
 
 Your pulse is shocking, but I'll ease your pain." 
 " Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep 
 
 Your voice low," said the Emperor, " and steep 
 
 Some lady's fingers nice in Candy wine ; 
 
 And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do peep 
 
 For the rose-water vase, magician mine ! 
 And sponge my forehead — so my love doth make me pine." 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " Ah, cursed Bellanaine !" " Don't think of her," 
 Rejoin'd the Mago, " but on Bertha muse ; 
 For, by my choicest best barometer, 
 You shall not throttled be in marriage noose ; 
 I've said it, sire ; you only have to choose 
 Bertha or Bellanaine." So saying, he drew 
 From the left pocket of his threadbare hose, 
 A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new. 
 
 Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view. 
 
 " Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy-work. 
 Her name, see here. Midsummer, ninety-one.*^ 
 Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk. 
 And wept as if he never would have done. 
 Honoring with royal tears the poor homespun ; 
 Whereon were broider'd tigers with black eyes, 
 And long-tailed pheasants, and a rising sun, 
 Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies 
 
 Bigger than stags — a moon — with other mysteries. 
 
346 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The monarch handled o'er and o'er again 
 These day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh ; 
 Somewhat in sadness, but pleas'd in the main, 
 Till this oracular couplet met his eye 
 Astounded — Cupid, I do thee defy / 
 It was too much. He shrunk back in his chair, 
 Grew pale as death, and fainted — very nigh ! 
 Pho ! nonsense !" exclaim'd Hum, " now don't despair 
 She does not mean it really. Cheer up, hearty — there ! 
 
 LII. 
 
 " And listen to my words. You say you won't, 
 On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine ; 
 It goes against your conscience — good ! Well, don't. 
 You say, you love a mortal. I would fain 
 Persuade your honor's highness to refrain 
 From peccadilloes. But, sire, as I say, 
 What good would that do ? And, to be more plain, 
 You would do me a mischief some odd day. 
 
 Cut off my ears and hands, or head too, by my fay ! 
 
 LIII. 
 
 " Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any 
 Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince 
 Who should indulge his genius, if he has any, 
 Not, like a subject, foolish matters mince. 
 Now I think on't, perhaps I could convince 
 Your majesty there is no crime at all 
 In loving pretty little Bertha, since 
 She 's very delicate — not over tall, — 
 
 A fairy's hand, and in the waist why — very small.'" 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 347 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " Ring the repeater, gentle Hum !" " 'Tis five," 
 Said gentle Hum ; " the nights draw in apace ; 
 The little birds I hear are all alive ; 
 I see the dawning touch'd upon your face ; 
 Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace ?" 
 " Do put them out, and, without more ado, 
 Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace, — 
 How you can bring her to me." " That's for you, 
 
 Great Emperor ! to adventure, like a lover true." 
 
 LV. 
 
 1 fetch her !" — " Yes, an't like your majesty ; 
 
 And as she would be frighten'd wide awake, 
 
 To travel such a distance through the sky. 
 
 Use of some soft manoeuvre you must make, 
 
 For your convenience, and her dear nerves' sake ; 
 
 Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon. 
 
 Anon, I'll tell what course were best to take ; 
 
 You must away this morning." " Hum ! so soon ?" 
 
 Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o'clock at noon.' 
 
 LVI. 
 
 At this great Caesar started on his feet, 
 Lifted his wings, and stood attentive- wise. 
 " Those wings to Canterbury you must beat, 
 If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize, 
 Look in the Almanack — Moore never lies — 
 April the twenty-fourth — this coming day. 
 Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies, 
 Will end in St. Mark's eve ; — you must away, 
 For on that eve alone can you the maid convey." 
 
348 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Then the magician solemnly 'gan to frown, 
 So that his frost-white eyebrows, beetling low, 
 Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown 
 Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow : 
 Forth from his hood that hung his neck below, 
 He lifted a bright casket of pure gold, 
 Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow, 
 Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old 
 And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " Take this same book — it will not bite you, sire ; 
 There, put it underneath your royal arm ; 
 Though it 's a pretty weight, it will not tire, 
 But rather on your journey keep you warm : 
 This is the magic, this the potent charm. 
 That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit ! 
 When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm, 
 But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit 
 
 Back to your palace. * * * 
 
 LIX.' 
 
 *' What shall I do with that same book ?" " Why merely 
 Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside 
 Her work-box, and 'twill help your purpose dearly ; 
 I say no more." " Or good or ill betide, 
 Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide !" 
 Exclaimed the Emperor, '•' When I return. 
 Ask what you will, — I'll give you my new bride ! 
 And take some more wine. Hum ; — O, Heavens ! I burn 
 
 To be upon the wing ! Now, now, that minx f spurn !" 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 349 
 
 LX. 
 
 " Leave her to me." rejoin'd the magian : 
 *• But how shall I account, illustrious fay ! 
 For thiDs imperial absence ? Pho ! I can 
 Say you are veiy- sick, and bar the way 
 To your so loving courtiers for one day ; 
 If either of their two Archbishops' graces 
 Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say 
 You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases, 
 Which never should be used but in alarming 
 
 LXI. 
 
 ** Open the window, Hum ; I'm ready now !" 
 
 '* Zooks !" exclaimed Hum, as up the sash he drew, 
 
 " Behold, j'our majesty, upon the brow 
 Of yonder hill, what crowds of people !" " Where ? 
 The monster 's always after something new," 
 Retum'd his highness, *•' they are piping hot 
 To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum ! do 
 Tighten my belt a little, — so, so, — not 
 
 Too tight, — ^the book ! — my wand ! — so, nothing is forgot." 
 
 " Wounds ! how they shout !*' said Hum, '•' and there, — see, 
 see, 
 
 Th' ambassador 's return'd from Pigmio ! 
 
 The morning *s ver}- fine, — uncommonly ! 
 
 See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go. 
 
 Tinging it with soft crimsons ! Xow below 
 
 The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines 
 
 They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow 
 
 Along the forest side ! Now amber lines 
 Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines." 
 
 16 
 
350 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 " Why, Hum, you 're getting quite poetical ! 
 
 Those nows you managed in a special style." 
 " If ever you have leisure, sire, you shall 
 See scraps of mine will make it worth your while. 
 Tit-bits for Phoebus ! — yes, you well may smile. 
 Hark ! hark ! the bells !" " A little further yet. 
 Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil." 
 Then the great Emperor full graceful set 
 His elbow for a prop, and snufi'd his mignionette. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The morn is full of holiday : loud bells 
 With rival clamors ring from every spire ; 
 Cunningly-stationed music dies and swells 
 In echoing places ; when the winds respire. 
 Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire ; 
 A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm. 
 Comes from the northern suburbs ; rich attire 
 Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm ; 
 While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 And now the fairy escort was seen clear, 
 Like the old pageant of Aurora's train. 
 Above a pearl-built minster, hovering near ; 
 First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain. 
 Balanced upon his gray-grown pinions twain. 
 His slender wand officially reveal'd ; 
 Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain ; 
 Then pages three and three ; and next, slave-held. 
 The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, — one mouse in argent field, 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 351 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Gentlemen pensioners next ; and after them, 
 A troop of winged Janizaries flew ; 
 Then slaves, as presents bearing many a gem ; 
 Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two ; 
 And next a chaplain in a cassock new ; 
 Then Lords in waiting ; then (what head not reels 
 For pleasure ?) — the fair Princess in full view, 
 Borne upon wings, — and very pleased she feels 
 To have such splendor dance attendance at her heels. 
 
 For there was more magnificence behind : 
 
 She waved her handkerchief. " Ah, very grand !" 
 
 Cried Elfinan, and closed the window-blind : 
 
 " And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally stand, — 
 Adieu ! adieu ! I'm off" for Angle-land ! 
 I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing 
 About you, — feel your pockets, I command, — 
 I want, this instant, an invisible ring, — 
 
 Thank you, old mummy ! — now securely I take wing." 
 
 Lxvm. 
 
 Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor. 
 And lighted graceful on the window-sill ; 
 Under one arm the magic book he bore. 
 The other he could wave about at will ; 
 Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill : 
 He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said — " Poor Bell ! 
 Farewell ! farewell ! and if for ever ! still 
 For ever fare thee well !" — and then he fell 
 A laughing ! — snapp'd his fingers ! — shame it is to tell !^ 
 
352 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 " By 'r Lady ! he is gone !" cries Hum, " and I,- 
 
 (I own it,) — have made too free with his wine ; 
 
 Old Crafiicant will smoke me, by-lhe-bye ! 
 
 This room is full of jewels as a mine, — 
 
 Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine ! 
 
 Some time to-day I must contrive a minute, 
 
 If Mercury, propitiously incline, 
 
 To examine his scrutoire, and see what 's in it, 
 For of superfluous diamonds I as well may thin it. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " The Emperor's horrid bad ; yes, that 's my cue !" 
 Some histories say that this was Hum's last speech ; 
 That, being fuddled, he went reeling through 
 The corridor, and scarce upright could reach 
 The stair-head ; that being glutted as a leach, 
 And used, as we ourselves have just now said, 
 To manage stairs reversely, like a peach 
 Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his head 
 
 With liquor and the staircase : werdict—^f ound stone dead. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 This, as a falsehood, Crafticanto treats ; 
 And as his style is of strange elegance, 
 Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits, 
 (Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a glance 
 At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance 
 His woven periods into careless rhyme ; 
 O, little faery Pegasus ! rear — prance — - 
 Trot round the quarto — ordinary time ! 
 March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime ! 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 353 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Well, let us see, — tenili hook and chapter nine) — 
 Thus Crafticant pursues his diary : — 
 'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the weather fine, 
 Latitude thirty-six ; our scouts descry 
 A flight of starlings making rapidly 
 Tow'rds Thibet. Mem. : — birds fly in the night ; 
 From twelve to half-past — wings not fit to fly 
 For a thick fog — the Princess sulky quite : 
 Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Five minutes before one — brought down a moth 
 With my new double-barrel — stew'd the thighs, 
 And made a very tolerable broth — 
 Princess turn'd dainty, to our great surprise, 
 Alter'd her mind, and thought it very nice : 
 Seeing her pleasant, tried her with a pun, 
 She frown'd ; a monstrous owl across us flies 
 About this time, — a sad old figure of fun ; 
 Bad omen — this new match can't be a happy one. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 From two to half-past, dusky way we made, 
 Above the plains of Gobi, — desert, bleak ; 
 Beheld afar off*, in the hooded shade 
 Of darkness, a great mountain (strange to speak), 
 Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken peak, 
 A fan-shaped burst of blood-red, arrowy fire, 
 Turban'd with smoke, which still away did reek. 
 Solid and black from that eternal pyre. 
 Upon the laden winds that scantly could respire. 
 
354 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Just upon three o'clock, a falling star 
 Created an alarm among our troop, 
 Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a jar, 
 A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop. 
 Then passing by the Princess, singed her hoop : 
 Could not conceive what Coralline was at. 
 She clapp'd her hands three times, and cried out "Whoop!" 
 Some strange Imaian custom. A large bat 
 Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd against my hat. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Five minutes thirteen seconds after three, 
 Far in the west a mighty fire broke out, 
 Conjectured, on the instant, it might be 
 The city of Balk — 'twas Balk beyond all doubt : 
 A griffin, wheeling here and there about. 
 Kept reconnoitering us — doubled our guard — 
 Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout. 
 Till he sheer'd off — the Princess very scared — 
 And many on their marrow-bones for death prepared. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 At half-past three arose the cheerful moon — 
 Bivouac'd for four minutes on a cloud — 
 Where from the earth we heard a lively tune 
 Of tamborines and pipes, serene and loud. 
 While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd 
 Cinque-parted danced, some half asleep reposed 
 Beneath the green-fan'd cedars, some did shroud 
 In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance dozed. 
 Or on the open turf their soothed eyelids closed. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 355 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettle-drum- 
 It went for apoplexy — foolish folks ! — 
 Left it to pay the piper — a good sum — 
 (Fve got a conscience, maugre people's jokes,) 
 To scrape a little favor ; 'gan to coax 
 Her Highness' pug-dog — got a sharp rebuff — 
 She wish'd a game at whist — made three revokes- 
 Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff; 
 His Majesty will know her temper time enough. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 She cried for chess — I play'd a game with her- 
 Castled her king with such a vixen look, 
 It bodes ill to his Majesty — (refer 
 To the second chapter of my fortieth book. 
 And see what hoity-toity airs she took :) 
 At half past four the morn essay'd to beam — 
 Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook — 
 The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream, 
 Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 About this time — making delightful way — 
 Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing — 
 Wish'd, trusted, hoped 'twas no sign of decay — 
 Thank Heaven, I'm hearty yet ! — 'twas no such thing 
 At five the golden light began to spring, 
 With fiery shudder through the bloomed east ; 
 At six we heard Panthea's churches ring — 
 The city all his unhived swarms had cast. 
 To watch our grand approach, *and hail us as we pass'd. 
 
356 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 As flowers turn their faces to the sun, 
 So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze, 
 And, as we shap'd our course, this, that way run. 
 With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze : 
 Sweet iti the air a mild-toned music plays. 
 And progresses through its own labyrinth ; 
 Buds gather 'd from the green spring's middle-days. 
 They scatter'd — daisy, primrose, hyacinth — ■ 
 Or round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Onward we floated o'er the panting streets, 
 That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved ; 
 Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets 
 Legions of holiday ; bright standards waved. 
 And fluttering ensigns emulously craved 
 Our minute's glance ; a busy thunderous roar. 
 From square to square, among the buildings raved> 
 As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more 
 The craggy hollowness of a wild-reefed shore. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 And " Bellanaine for ever !" shouted they I 
 While that fair Princess, from her winged chair, 
 Bow'd low with high demeanor, and, to pay 
 Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair, 
 Still emptied, at meet distance, here and there, 
 A plenty horn of jewels. And here I 
 (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare 
 Against that ugly piece of calumny, 
 Which calls them Highlgtnd pebble-stones not worth a fly. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS. 357 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Still " Bellanaine !" they shouted, while we glide 
 'Slant to a light Ionic portico, 
 The city's delicacy, and the pride 
 Of our Imperial Basilic ; a row 
 Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show 
 Submissive of knee-bent obeisance. 
 All down the steps ; and, as we enter'd, lo ! 
 The strangest sight. — the most unlook'd-for chance- 
 All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court 
 At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,. 
 Congees and scrape-graces of every sort. 
 And all the smooth routine of gallantries. 
 Was seen, to our immoderate surprise, 
 A motley crowd thick gathered in the hall. 
 Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries 
 Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, 
 Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor 
 Of moth's down, to make soft the royal beds, 
 The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor 
 Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads ; 
 Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads 
 Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other ; 
 Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting breeds, 
 Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, 
 And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother. 
 
 16* 
 
358 - LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back. 
 
 Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, 
 
 And close into her face, with rhyming clack. 
 
 Began a Prothalamion ; — she reels. 
 
 She falls, she faints ! — while laughter peals 
 
 Over her woman's weakness. " Where !" cried I, 
 
 " Where is his Majesty ?" No person feels 
 Inclined to answer ; wherefore instantly 
 
 I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran 
 To the first landing, where, incredible ! 
 I met, far gone in liquor, that old man, 
 
 That vile impostor Hum, 
 
 So far so well, 
 For we have proved the Mago never fell 
 Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence ; 
 And therefore duly shall proceed to tell. 
 Plain in our own original mood and tense. 
 The sequel of this day, though labor 'tis immense 
 
 (No more was written.) 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 ODE TO APOLLO. 
 
 In thy western halls of gold 
 
 When thou sittest in thy state, 
 Bards that erst sublimely told 
 
 Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, 
 With fervor seize their adamantine lyres, 
 Whose chords are solid rays, and twmkle radiant fires. 
 
 Here Homer with his nervous arms 
 Strikes the twanging harp of war. 
 
 And even the western splendor warms, 
 While the trumpets sound afar : 
 
 But, what creates the most intense surprise, 
 
 His soul looks out through renovated eyes, 
 
 III. 
 
 Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells 
 The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre : 
 
 The soul delighted on each accent dwells, — 
 Enraptured dwells, — not daring to respire, 
 The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre. 
 
360 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis awful silence then again ; 
 Expectant stand the spheres ; 
 Breathless the laurel'd peers. 
 Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, 
 Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, 
 And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace. 
 
 V. W 
 
 Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand. 
 
 And quickly forward spring 
 The Passions — a terrific band — 
 
 And each vibrates the string 
 That with its tyrant temper best accords, 
 While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring Words, 
 
 VI. 
 
 A silver trumpet Spenser blows, 
 
 And, as its martial notes to silence flee. 
 From a virgin chorus flows 
 
 A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 
 'Tis still ! Wild warblings from the jEolian lyre 
 Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers 
 
 Float along the pleased air, 
 Calling youth from idle slumbers. 
 
 Rousing them from pleasure's lair : — 
 Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, 
 And melt the soul to pity and to love. 
 
MISCELLANLOUS POEMS. 361 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But when Thou joinest with the Nine, 
 And all the powers of song combine, 
 
 We listen here on earth : 
 The dying tones that fill the air, 
 And charm the ear of evening fair. 
 From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth. 
 
 Feb. 1815. 
 
 HYMN TO APOLLO. 
 
 God of the golden bow, 
 
 And of the golden lyre, 
 And of the golden hair, 
 And of the golden fire. 
 Charioteer 
 Of the patient year, 
 Where — where slept thine ire. 
 When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath. 
 Thy laurel, thy glory. 
 The light of thy story. 
 Or was I a worm — too low crawling, for death ? 
 O Delphic Apollo ! 
 
 The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd. 
 
 The Thunderer frown'd and frowned ; 
 The eagle's feathery mane 
 
 For wrath became stifFen'd — the sound 
 Of breeding thunder 
 Went drowsily under, 
 Muttering to be unbound. 
 
362 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 O why didst thou pity, and for a worm 
 
 Why touch thy soft lute 
 
 Till the thunder was mute, 
 Why was not I crush 'd — such a pitiful germ ? 
 
 O Delphic Apollo ! 
 
 The Pleiades were up, 
 
 Watching the silent air ; 
 The seeds and roots in the Earth 
 Were swelling for summer fare ; 
 The Ocean, its neighbor. 
 Was at its old labor. 
 When, who — who did dare 
 To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow, 
 And grin and look proudly. 
 And blaspheme so loudly. 
 And live for that honor, to stoop to thee now ? 
 O Delphic Apollo ! 
 
 ON ... . 
 
 Think not of it, sweet one, so ; — 
 
 Give it not a tear ; 
 Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go 
 
 Any — any where. 
 
 Do not look so sad, sweet one, — 
 
 Sad and fadingly ; 
 Shed one drop (and only one), 
 
 Oh ! 'twas born to die ! 
 
 Still so pale ? then dearest weep ; 
 
 Weep, I '11 count the tears, 
 For each will I invent a bliss 
 
 For thee in after years. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 363 
 
 Brighter has it left thine eyes 
 
 Than a sunny rill ; 
 And thy whispering melodies 
 
 Are more tender still. 
 
 Yet — as all things mourn awhile 
 
 At fleeting blisses ; 
 Let us too ; but be our dirge 
 
 A dirge of kisses. 
 
 1817. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Unfelt, unheard, unseen, 
 
 I 've left my little queen, 
 Her languid arms in silver slumber lying : 
 
 Ah ! through their nestling touch. 
 
 Who — who could tell how much 
 There is for madness — cruel, or complying ? 
 
 Those faery lids how sleek ! 
 
 Those lips how moist ! — they speak, 
 In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds : 
 
 Into my fancy's ear 
 
 Melting a burden dear, 
 How "Love doth know no fullness, and no bounds." 
 
 True ! — tender monitors ! 
 
 I bend unto your laws : 
 This sweetest day for dalliance was born ! 
 
 So, without more ado, 
 
 I '11 feel my heaven anew, 
 For all the blushing of the hasty mom. 
 
 1817. 
 
364 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my dear ! 
 All the house is asleep, but we know very well 
 That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, 
 Tho' you 've padded his night-cap — O sweet Isabel ! 
 Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet, 
 Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet, — 
 Hush, hush ! soft tiptoe ! hush, hush, my dear ! 
 For less than a nothing the jealous can hear. 
 
 II. 
 
 No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there 
 
 On the river, — all 's still, and the night's sleepy eye 
 Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care, 
 
 Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly ; 
 And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant. 
 Has fled to.her bower, well knowing I want 
 No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom. 
 But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom. 
 
 III. 
 
 Lift the latch ! ah gently ! ah tenderly — sweet ! 
 
 We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink ! 
 Well done — now those lips, and a flowery seat — 
 The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink ; 
 The shut rose shall dream of our loves and awake 
 Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take, 
 The stock-dove shall hatch his soft twin-eggs and coo, 
 While I kiss to the melody, aching all through ! 
 
 1818. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 365 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died ; 
 
 And I have thought it died of grieving : 
 O, what could it grieve for ? Its feet were tied, 
 
 With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving ; 
 Sweet little red feet ! why should you die — 
 Why would you leave me, sweet bird ! why ? 
 You lived alone in the forest-tree. 
 Why, pretty thing ! would you not live with me ? 
 I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas ; 
 Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees ? 
 
 1818. 
 
 FAERY SONG. 
 
 Shed no tear ! O, shed no tear ! 
 The flower will bloom another year. 
 Weep no more ! O ! weep no more ! 
 Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
 Dry your eyes ! Oh ! dry your eyes ! 
 For I was taught in Paradise 
 To ease my breast of melodies — 
 Shed no tear. 
 
 Overhead ! look overhead ! 
 'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
 Look up, look up. I flutter now 
 On this fresh pomegranate bough. 
 See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
 Ever cures the good man's ill. 
 Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
 The flower will bloom another year. 
 Adieu, Adieu — I fly, adieu, 
 I vanish in the heaven's blue — 
 
 Adieu, Adieu! 
 
366 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Spirit here that reignest ! 
 Spirit here that painest ! 
 Spirit here that burnest ! 
 Spirit here that mournest ! 
 
 Spirit ! I bow 
 
 My forehead low, 
 Enshaded with thy pinions ! 
 
 Spirit ! I look, 
 
 All passion-struck. 
 Into thy pale dominions ! 
 
 Spirit here that laughest ! 
 Spirit here that quafFest ! 
 Spirit here that dancest ! 
 Noble soul that prancest ! 
 
 Spirit ! with thee 
 
 I join in the glee. 
 While nudging the elbow of Momus I 
 
 Spirit ! I flush 
 
 With a Bacchanal blush. 
 Just fresh from the banquet of Comus ! 
 
 FAERY SONG. 
 
 Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing I 
 
 That T must chant thy lady's dirge. 
 And death to this fair haunt of spring, 
 
 Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,- 
 Poor silver-wing ! ah ! woe is me ! 
 That I must see 
 These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 367 
 
 Go, pretty page ! and in her ear 
 
 Whisper that the hour is near ! 
 
 Softly tell her not to fear 
 Such calm favonian burial ! 
 
 Go, pretty page ! and soothly tell, — 
 
 The blossoms hang by a melting spell, 
 And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice 
 
 Upon her closed eyes. 
 That now in vain are weeping their last tears. 
 
 At sweet life leaving, and those arbors green, — 
 Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres, — 
 Alas ! poor Queen ! 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA. 
 
 O ! WERE I one of the Olympian twelve, 
 
 Their godships should pass this into a law, — 
 
 That when a man doth set himself in toil 
 
 After some beauty veiled far away, 
 
 Each step he took should make his lady's hand 
 
 More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair ; 
 
 And for each brier-berry he might eat, 
 
 A kiss should bud upon the tree of love, 
 
 And pulp and ripen richer every hour, 
 
 To melt away upon the traveler's lips. 
 
 DAISY'S SONG. 
 
 The sun, with his great eye. 
 Sees not so much as I ; 
 And the moon, all silver, proud, 
 Might as well be in a cloud. 
 
368 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 II. 
 
 And O the spring — the spring ! 
 I lead the life of a king ! 
 Couch 'd in the teeming grass, 
 I spy each pretty lass. 
 
 III. 
 
 I look where no one dares, 
 And I stare where no one stares, 
 And when the night is nigh, 
 Lambs bleat my lullaby. 
 
 FOLLY'S SONG. 
 
 When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 
 
 Huzza for folly O ! 
 And when maidens go a-Maying, 
 
 Huzza, &LC. 
 When a milk-pail is upset. 
 
 Huzza, &c. 
 And the clothes left in the wet. 
 
 Huzza, &c. 
 When the barrel's set abroach. 
 
 Huzza, &c. 
 When Kate Eyebrow keeps a coach, 
 
 Huzza, &c. 
 When the pig is over-roasted. 
 
 Huzza, &c. 
 And the cheese is over-toasted. 
 
 Huzza, &c. 
 When Sir Snap is with his lawyer. 
 
 Huzza, &c. 
 
 And Miss Chip has kiss'd the sawyer ; 
 
 Huzza, &;c. 
 ***** 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 369 
 
 O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts ! 
 Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's, 
 Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl ; 
 Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know, 
 Not longer than the May-fly's small fan-horns ; 
 There may not be one dimple on her hand ; 
 And freckles many ; ah ! a careless nurse, 
 In haste to teach the little thing to walk. 
 May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs, 
 And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck. 
 
 SONG. 
 I. 
 
 The stranger lighted from his steed. 
 And ere he spake a word. 
 
 He seized my lady's lily hand. 
 And kiss'd it all unheard. 
 
 The stranger walk'd into the hall. 
 
 And ere he spake a word, 
 He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips, 
 
 And kiss'd 'em all unheard. 
 
 III. 
 
 The stranger walk'd into the bower, — 
 
 But my lady first did go, — 
 Aye hand in hand into the bower, 
 
 Where my lord's roses blow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My lady's maid had a silken scarf. 
 
 And a golden ring had she. 
 And a kiss from the stranger, as oflT he went 
 
 Again on his fair palfrey. 
 
370 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl ! 
 And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, 
 And let me call heaven's blessing on thine eyes. 
 And let me breathe into the happy air. 
 That doth enfold and touch thee all about. 
 Vows of my slavery, my giving up, 
 My sudden adoration, my great love ! 
 
 1818. 
 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms. 
 Alone and palely loitering ? 
 
 The sedge has wither'd from the lake. 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 II. 
 
 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 
 So haggard and so woe-begone ? 
 
 The squirrel's granary is full, 
 And the harvest's done. 
 
 III. 
 
 1 see a lily on thy brow 
 
 With anguish moist and fever dew, 
 And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
 Fast withereth too. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I met a lady in the meads. 
 
 Full beautiful — a faery's child. 
 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 371 
 
 V. 
 
 I made a garland for her head, 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 
 
 She look'd at me as she did love, 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I set her on my pacing steed, 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long. 
 
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She found me roots of relish sweet, 
 And honey wild, and manna dew. 
 
 And sure in language strange she said — 
 " I love thee true." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, 
 And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
 
 With kisses four. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And there she lulled me asleep. 
 And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 
 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 I saw pale kings and princes too. 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 
 
 They cried — " La Belle Dame sans Merci 
 Hath thee in thrall !" 
 
372 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
 With horrid warning gaped wide, 
 
 And I awoke and found me here, 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And this is why I sojourn here, 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, 
 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 1819. 
 
 SONG OF FOUR FAIRIES. 
 
 FIRE, AIR, EARTH, AND WATER, 
 SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, AND BREAM A. 
 
 Sal. Happy, happy glowing fire ! 
 
 Zep. Fragrant air ! delicious light ! 
 
 Dus. Let me to my glooms retire ! . 
 
 Bre. I to green-weed rivers bright ! 
 
 Sal. Happy, happy glowing fire ! 
 
 Dazzling bowers of soft retire, 
 
 Ever let my nourished wing, 
 
 Like a bat's, still wandering. 
 
 Faintly fan your fiery spaces, 
 
 Spirit sole in deadly places. 
 
 In unhaunted roar and blaze, 
 
 Open eyes that never daze, 
 
 Let me see the myriad shapes 
 
 Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes, 
 
 Portray'd in many a fiery den. 
 
 And wrought by spumy bitumen. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 373 
 
 On the deep intenser roof, 
 
 Arched every way, aloof, 
 
 Let me breathe upon their skies, 
 
 And anger their live tapestries ; 
 
 Free from cold, and every care, 
 
 Of chilly rain, and shivering air. 
 Zep. Spirit of Fire ! away ! away ! 
 
 Or your very roundelay 
 
 Will sear my plumage newly budded 
 
 From its quilled sheath, all studded 
 
 With the self-same dews that fell 
 
 On the ]\Iay-grown Asphodel. 
 
 Spirit of Fire — away ! away ! 
 Bre. Spirit of Fire — away! away! 
 
 Zephyr, blue-eyed fairy, turn, 
 
 And see my cool sedge-buried urn, 
 
 Where it rests its mossy brim 
 
 ^Mid water-mint and cresses dim ; 
 
 And the flowers, in sweet troubles, 
 
 Lift their eyes above the bubbles, 
 
 Like our Queen, when she would please 
 
 To sleep, and Oberon will tease. 
 
 Love me, blue-eyed Fairy ! true, 
 
 Soothly I am sick for you. 
 Zep. Gentle Breama ! by the first 
 
 Violet young nature nurst, 
 
 I will bathe myself with thee, 
 
 So you sometimes follow me 
 
 To my home, far, far, in west, 
 
 Beyond the nimble-wheeled quest 
 
 Of the golden-browed sun : 
 
 Come with me, o'er tops of trees. 
 
 To my fragrant palaces. 
 
 Where they ever floating are 
 
 Beneath the cherish of a star 
 
 Call'd Vesper, who with silver veil 
 
 Ever hides his brilliance pale, 
 17 
 
374 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Ever gently-drows'd doth keep 
 Twilight for the Fayes to sleep. 
 Fear not that your watery hair 
 Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there ; 
 Clouds of stored summer rains 
 Thou shalt taste, before the stains 
 Of the mountain soil they take, 
 And too unlucent for thee make. 
 I love thee, crystal Fairy, true ! 
 Sooth I am as sick for you ! 
 Sal. Out, ye aguish Fairies, out ! 
 Chilly lovers, what a rout 
 Keep ye with your frozen breath, 
 Colder than the mortal death. 
 Adder-eyed Dusketha, speak. 
 Shall we leave these, and go seek 
 In the earth's wide entrails old 
 Couches warm as theirs are cold ? 
 
 for a fiery gloom and thee, 
 Dusketha, so enchantingly 
 Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided \ 
 
 Dus. By thee. Sprite, will I be guided ! 
 
 1 care not for cold or heat ; 
 
 Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet, 
 To my essence are the same ; — 
 But I honor more the flame. 
 Sprite of fire, I follow thee 
 Wheresoever it may be. 
 To the torrid spouts and fountains, 
 Underneath earth-quaked mountains ; 
 Or, at thy supreme desire. 
 Touch the very pulse of fire 
 With my bare unlidded eyes. 
 
 Sal. Sweet Dusketha ! paradise ! 
 Ofi*, ye icy Spirits, fly ! 
 
 Dus. Breathe upon them, fiery sprite ! 
 
 ■n^' > Away ! away to our delight ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 375 
 
 Sal. Go, feed on icicles, while we 
 
 Bedded in tongue-flames will be. 
 Dus. Lead me to these feverous glooms, 
 
 Sprite of Fire ! 
 Bre. Me to the blooms. 
 
 Blue-eyed Zephyr, of those flowers 
 
 Far in the west where the May-cloud lowers : 
 
 And the beams of still Vesper, when winds are all 
 wist. 
 
 Are shed thro' the rain and the milder mist, 
 
 And twilight your floating bowers. 
 1819. 
 
 ODE ON INDOLENCE. 
 
 ' They toil not, neither do they spin." 
 
 One morn before me were three figures seen. 
 
 With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced ; 
 And one behind the other stepp'd serene. 
 
 In placid sandals, and in white robes graced ; 
 They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn, 
 
 When shifted round to see the other side ; 
 They came again ; 'as when the urn once more 
 Is shifted round, the first seen shades return ; 
 
 And they were strange to me, as may betide 
 With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. 
 
 II. 
 
 How is it, Shadows ! that I knew ye not ? 
 How came ye muffled in so hush a mask ? 
 Was it a silent deep-disguised plot 
 , To steal away, and leave without a task 
 My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy hour ; 
 
376 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 The blissful cloud of summer-indolence 
 Benumb'd my eyes ; my pulse grew less and less ; 
 
 Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower 
 
 O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense 
 Unhaunted quite of all but — nothingness ? 
 
 III. 
 
 A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd 
 
 Each one the face a moment whiles to me ; 
 Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd 
 
 And ached for wings, because I knew the three ; 
 The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name ; 
 
 The second was Ambition, pale of cheek. 
 And ever watchful with fatigued eye ; 
 
 The last, whom I love more, the more of blame 
 
 Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek, — 
 I knew to be my demon Poesy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They faded, and, forsooth ! I wanted wings : 
 
 O folly ! What is Love ? and where is it ? 
 And for that poor Ambition ! it springs 
 
 From a man's little heart's short fever-fit ; 
 For Poesy ! — no, — she has not a joy, — 
 
 At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy noons, 
 And evenings steep'd in honied indolence ; 
 O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy. 
 
 That I may never know how change the moons, 
 Or hear the voice of busy common-sense ! 
 
 And once more came they by ; — alas ! wherefore ? 
 
 My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams ; 
 My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er 
 
 With flowers, and stirring shades, and baflled beams : 
 The morn was clouded, but no shower fell. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 377 
 
 Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May ; 
 The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine, 
 
 Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay ; 
 O Shadows ! 'twas a time to bid farewell ! 
 Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. 
 
 VI. 
 
 So, ye three Ghosts, adieu ! Ye cannot raise 
 
 My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass ; 
 For I would not be dieted with praise, 
 
 A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! 
 
 Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more 
 
 In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn ; 
 Farewell ! I yet have visions for the night. 
 
 And for the day faint visions there is store ; 
 
 Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle spright, 
 Into the clouds, and never more return ! 
 
 1819. 
 
 THE EVE OF SAINT MARK. 
 
 (UNFINISHED.) 
 
 Upon a Sabbath-day it fell ; 
 Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, 
 That call'd the folk to evening prayer ; 
 The city streets were clean and fair 
 From wholesome drench of April rains , 
 And, on the western window panes, 
 The chilly sunset faintly told 
 Of unmatured green, valleys cold. 
 Of the green thorny bloomless hedge. 
 Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, 
 Of primroses by shelter'd rills. 
 And dasies on the aguish hills. 
 
378 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell : 
 The silent streets were crowded well 
 With staid and pious companies, 
 Warm from their fireside orat'ries ; 
 And moving, with demurest air. 
 To even-song, and vesper prayer. 
 Each arched porch, and entry low, 
 Was fill'd with patient folk and slow, 
 With whispers hush, and shuffling feet. 
 While play'd the organ loud and sweet. 
 
 The bells had ceased, the prayers begun, 
 And Bertha had not yet half done 
 A curious volume, patch'd and torn. 
 That all day long, from earliest morn, 
 Had taken captive her two eyes. 
 Among its golden broideries ; 
 Perplex'd her with a thousand things, — 
 The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, 
 Martyrs in a fiery blaze. 
 Azure saints and silver rays, 
 Moses' breastplate, and the seven 
 Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, 
 The winged Lion of Saint Mark, 
 And the Covenantal Ark, 
 With its many mysteries, 
 Cherubim and golden mice. 
 
 Bertha was a maiden fair. 
 Dwelling in th' old Minster-square ; 
 From her fireside she could see. 
 Sidelong, its rich antiquity. 
 Far as the Bishop's garden- wall ; 
 Where sycamores and elm-trees tall, 
 Full-leaved, the forest had outstript. 
 By no sharp north- wind ever nipt. 
 So shelter'd by the mighty pile. 
 Bertha arose, and read awhile, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 379 
 
 With forehead 'gainst the window-pane. 
 Again she tried, and then again, 
 Until the dusk eve left her dark 
 Upon the legend of St. Mark. 
 From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin, 
 She lifted up her soft warm chin. 
 With aching neck and swimming eyes 
 And dazed with saintly imag'ries. 
 
 All was gloom, and silent all. 
 Save now and then the still foot-fall 
 Of one returning homewards late. 
 Past the echoing minster-gate. 
 The clamorous daws, that all the day 
 Above tree-tops and towers play, 
 Pair by pair had gone to rest, 
 Each in its ancient belfry-nest, 
 Where asleep they fall betimes, 
 To music and the drowsy chimes. 
 
 All was silent, all was gloom. 
 
 Abroad and in the homely room : 
 
 Down she sat, poor cheated soul I 
 
 And struck a lamp from the dismal coal ; 
 
 Leaned forward, with bright drooping hair 
 
 And slant book, full against the glare. 
 
 Her shadow, in uneasy guise. 
 
 Hover'd about, a giant size. 
 
 On ceiling-beam and old oak chair. 
 
 The parrot's cage, and panel square ; 
 
 And the warm angled winter-screen. 
 
 On which were many monsters seen, 
 
 Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice, 
 
 And legless birds of Paradise, 
 
 Macaw, and tender Av'davat, 
 
 And silken-furr'd Angora cat. 
 
 Untired she read, her shadow still 
 
 Glower'd about, as it would fill 
 
380 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 The room with wildest forms and shades, 
 
 As though some ghostly queen of spades 
 
 Had come to mock behind her back, 
 
 And dance, and ruffle her garments black. 
 
 Untired she read the legend page, 
 
 Of holy Mark, from youth to age, 
 
 On land, on sea, in pagan chains, 
 
 Rejoicing for his many pains. 
 
 Sometimes the learned eremite. 
 
 With golden star, or dagger bright, 
 
 Referr'd to pious poesies 
 
 Written in smallest crow-quill size 
 
 Beneath the text ; and thus the rhyme 
 
 Was parcel'd out from time to time : 
 
 " Als writith he of swevenis, 
 
 Men han beforne they wake in bliss, 
 
 Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound 
 
 In crimped shroude farre under grounds ; 
 
 And how a litling child mote be 
 
 A saint er its nativitie, 
 
 Gif that the modre (God her blesse !) 
 
 Kepen in solitarinesse, 
 
 And kissen devoute the holy croce. 
 
 Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force, — 
 
 He writith ; and thinges many mo 
 
 Of swiche thinges I may not shew. 
 
 Bot I must tellen verilie 
 
 Somdel of Sainte Cicilie, 
 
 And chieflie what he auctorethe 
 
 Of Sainte Markis life and dethe :'* 
 
 At length her constant eyelids come 
 Upon the fervent martyrdom ; 
 Then lastly to his holy shrine. 
 Exalt amid the tapers' shine 
 At Venice, — 
 
 1819. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 381 
 
 TO FANNY. 
 
 Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! 
 
 ease my heart of verse and let me rest ; 
 Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood 
 
 Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. 
 A theme ! a theme ! great nature ! give a theme ; 
 Let me begin my dream. 
 
 1 come — I see thee, as thou standest there, 
 Beckon me not into the wintry air. 
 
 Ah ! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears. 
 And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, — 
 To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears 
 
 A smile of such delight. 
 
 As brilliant and as bright. 
 As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes. 
 
 Lost in soft amaze, 
 
 I gaze, I gaze ! 
 
 Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast ? 
 What stare outfaces now my silver moon ! 
 Ah ! keep that hand unravished at the least; 
 
 Let, let, the amorous burn — 
 
 But, pr'ythee, do not turn 
 The current of your heart from me so soon. 
 
 O ! save, in charity, 
 
 The quickest pulse for me. 
 
 Save it for me, sweet love ! though music breathe 
 Voluptuous visions into the warm air. 
 Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath ; 
 Be like an April day. 
 Smiling and cold and gay, 
 A temperate lily, temperate as fair ; 
 Then, Heaven ! there will be 
 A warmer June for me. 
 17* 
 
382 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 Why, this— you'll say, my Fanny ! is not true : 
 
 Put your soft hand upon your snowy side. 
 
 Where the heart beats : confess— 'tis nothing new 
 
 3Iust not a woman be 
 
 A feather on the sea, 
 Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ? 
 
 Of as uncertain speed 
 
 As blow-ball from the mead ? 
 
 I know it — and to know it is despair 
 
 To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny ! 
 
 Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where, 
 
 Nor, when away you roam. 
 
 Dare keep its wretched home, 
 Love, love alone, his pains severe and many : 
 
 Then, loveliest ! keep me free, 
 
 From torturing jealousy. 
 
 Ah ! if you prize my subdued soul above 
 The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour ; 
 Let none profane my Holy See of love, 
 
 Or with a rude hand break 
 
 The sacramental cake : 
 Let none else touch the just new-budded flower ; 
 
 If not — may my eyes close. 
 
 Love ! on their lost repose. 
 
SONNET S 
 
 Oh ! how I love, on a fair summers eve. 
 
 When streams of light pour down the golden west. 
 And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest 
 
 The silver clouds, far — &r away to leave 
 
 All njeaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve 
 From little cares ; to find, with easy quest, 
 A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest. 
 
 And there into delight my soul deceive. 
 
 There warm my breast with patriotic lore. 
 Musing oa Milton's fete— on Sydney's bier — 
 Till their stem forms before my mind arise : 
 
 Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar. 
 Full often dropping a delicious tear, 
 When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. 
 
 1816. 
 
384 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 II. 
 TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN. 
 
 Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear 
 
 From my glad bosom — now from gloominess 
 
 I mount for ever — not an atom less 
 Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. 
 No ! by the eternal stars ! or why sit here 
 
 In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press 
 
 Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless 
 By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. 
 Lo ! who dares say, " Do this ?" Who dares call down 
 
 My will from its high purpose ? Who say, " Stand," 
 Or " Go ?" This mighty moment I would frown 
 
 On abject Caesars — not the stoutest band 
 Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown : 
 
 Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand ! 
 
 III. 
 
 After dark vapors have oppress'd our plains 
 For a long dreary season, comes a day 
 Born of the gentle south, and clears away 
 
 From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. 
 
 The anxious mouth, relieved from its pains. 
 Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May, 
 The eyelids with the passing coolness play. 
 
 Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. 
 
 And calmest thoughts come round us — as, of leaves 
 Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — autumn suns 
 
 Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — 
 
 Sweet Sappho's cheek. — a sleeping infant's breath, — 
 The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs,— 
 
 A woodland rivulet, — a Poet's death. 
 
 Jan. 1817, 
 
SONNETS. 385 
 
 IV. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHATJCER'S TALE 
 OF " THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE." 
 
 This pleasant tale is like a little copse : 
 
 The honied lines so freshly interlace, 
 
 To keep the reader in so sweet a place, 
 So that he here and there full-hearted stops ; 
 And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops 
 
 Come cool and suddenly against his face. 
 
 And, by the wandering melody, may trace 
 Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. 
 Oh ! what a power has white simplicity ! 
 
 What mighty power has this gentle story ! 
 
 I, that do ever feel athirst for glory. 
 Could at this moment be content to lie 
 
 Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings 
 
 Were heard of none beside the mournful robins. 
 
 Feh. 1817. 
 
 ON THE SEA. 
 
 It keeps eternal whisperings around 
 
 Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell 
 Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell 
 
 Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. 
 
 Often 'tis in such gentle temper found. 
 That scarcely will the very smallest shell 
 Be moved for days from where it sometime fell, 
 
 When last the winds of heaven were unbound. 
 
 Oh ye ! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired, 
 Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea ; 
 
 Oh ye ! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude, 
 Or fed too much with cloying melody, — 
 
 Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood 
 
 Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired ! 
 
 Avg. 1817. 
 
386 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 VI. 
 ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, THE " STORY OF RIMINI. 
 
 Who loves to peer up at the morning sun, 
 With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek, 
 Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek 
 
 For meadows where the little rivers run ; 
 
 Who loves to linger with that brightest one 
 Of Heaven — Hesperus — let him lowly speak 
 These numbers to the night, and starlight meek, 
 
 Or moon, if that her hunting be begun. 
 
 He who knows these delights, and too is prone 
 To moralize upon a smile or tear. 
 
 Will find at once a region of his own, 
 A bower for his spirit, and will steer 
 
 To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone, 
 Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear. 
 
 1817. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 
 
 Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain. 
 Before high piled books, in charact'ry. 
 
 Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain ; 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 
 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high ronsance, 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance ; 
 j^nd when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! 
 
 That I shall never look upon thee more, 
 Never have relish in the faery power 
 
 Of unreflecting love ! — then on the shore 
 Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 
 
 1817. 
 
SONNETS. 387 
 
 VIII. 
 TO HOMER. 
 
 Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 
 
 Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, 
 As one who sits ashore and longs perchance 
 
 To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. 
 So thou wast blind ! — but then the veil was rent, 
 
 For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live, 
 And Neptune made for thee a spermy tent, 
 
 And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive ; 
 Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light. 
 
 And precipices show untrodden green ! 
 There is a budding morrow in midnight ; 
 
 There is a triple sight in blindness keen ; 
 Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell, 
 To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell. 
 1818. 
 
 ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS :— 
 
 " Dark eyes are dearer far 
 Than those that made the hyacinthine bell ;" 
 
 By J. H. Reynolds. 
 
 Blue ! 'Tis the life of heaven, — the domain 
 
 Of Cynthia, — the wide palace of the sun, — 
 The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, — 
 
 The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray and dun. 
 Blue ! 'Tis the life of waters — ocean 
 
 And all its vassal streams : pools numberless 
 May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can 
 
 Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness. 
 Blue ! Gentle cousin of the forest-green. 
 
 Married to green in all the sweetest flowers — 
 Forget-me-not, — the blue bell, — and, that queen 
 
 Of secrecy, the violet : what strange powers 
 Hast thou, as a mere shadow ! But how great, 
 When in an Eye thou art alive with fate ! 
 
 Feb. 1818. 
 
388 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 X. 
 TO J. H. REYNOLDS. 
 
 O THAT a week could be an age, and we 
 
 Felt parting and warm meeting every week, 
 Then one poor year a thousand years would be, 
 
 The flush of welcome ever on the cheek : 
 So could we live long life in little space, 
 
 So time itself would be annihilate. 
 So a day's journey in oblivious haze 
 
 To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. 
 O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind ! 
 
 To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant ! 
 In little time a host of joys to bind, 
 
 And keep our souls in one eternal pant ! 
 This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught 
 Me how to harbor such a happy thought. 
 
 XI. 
 
 TO .* 
 
 Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb ; 
 
 Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand ; 
 Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web, 
 
 And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. 
 And yet I never look on midnight sky. 
 
 But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light ; 
 I cannot look upon the rose's dye. 
 
 But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight ; 
 I cannot look on any budding flower, 
 
 But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips, 
 And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour 
 
 Its sweets in the wrong sense : — Thou dost eclipse 
 Every delight with sweet remembering, 
 And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. 
 
 * A lady whom he saw for some moments at Vauxhall. 
 
SONNETS. 389 
 
 XII. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight ! 
 
 Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, 
 Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, 
 
 Enshaded in forgetfulness divine ; 
 O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, close. 
 
 In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, 
 Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 
 
 Around my bed its lulling charities ; 
 Then save me, or the passed day will shine 
 Upon my pillow, breeding many woes ; 
 
 Save me from curious conscience, that still lords 
 Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole ; 
 
 Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, 
 And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 
 
 1819. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ON FAME 
 
 Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy 
 
 To those who woo her with too slavish knees, 
 But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy. 
 
 And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
 She is a Gipsey, — will not speak to those 
 
 Who have not learnt to be content without her ; 
 A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, 
 
 Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her ; 
 A" very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born, 
 
 Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar ; 
 Ye love-sick Bards ! repay her scorn for scorn ; 
 
 Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye are ! 
 Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, 
 
 Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 
 1819. 
 
390 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ON FAME. 
 
 " You cannot eat your cake and have it too." — Proverb. 
 
 How fever'd is the man, who cannot look 
 
 Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, m 
 
 Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, ■ 
 
 And robs his fair name of its maidenhood ; 
 It is as if the rose should pluck herself, 
 
 Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, 
 As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, 
 
 Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom : 
 But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, 
 
 For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed. 
 And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire. 
 
 The undisturbed lake has crystal space ; 
 
 Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, 
 
 Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed ? 
 1819. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell : 
 
 No God, no Demon of severe response, 
 Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell. 
 
 Then to my human heart I turn at once 
 Heart ! Thou and I are here sad and alone ; 
 
 I say, why did I laugh ? O mortal pain ! 
 O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan, 
 
 To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. 
 Why did I laugh ? I know this Being's lease, 
 
 My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads ; 
 Yet would I on this very midnight cease. 
 
 And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds ; 
 Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, 
 But Death intenser — Death is Life's high meed. 
 1819. 
 
SONNETS. 391 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ON A DREAM * 
 
 As Hermes once took to his feathers light, 
 
 When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, 
 So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright, 
 
 So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft 
 The dragon- world of all its hundred eyes, 
 
 And seeing it asleep, so fled away. 
 Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, 
 
 Nor unto Tempe. where Jove grieved a day. 
 But to that second circle of sad Hell, 
 
 Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw 
 Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell 
 
 Their sorrows, — pale were the sweet lips I saw, 
 Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form 
 I floated with, about that melancholy storm. 
 
 1819. 
 
 xvu. 
 
 If by dull rhymes our English must be chained, 
 And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet 
 
 Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness ; 
 
 Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd, 
 Sandals more interwoven and complete 
 
 To fit the naked foot of poesy ; 
 
 Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress 
 
 Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd 
 By ear industrious, and attention meet : 
 
 Misers of sound and syllable, no less 
 Than Midas of his coinage, let us be 
 Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown ; 
 
 So, if we may not let the Muse be free, 
 
 She will be bound with garlands of her own. 
 1819. 
 
 » (See page 179.) 
 
392 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone ! 
 
 Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, 
 Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, 
 
 Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist ! 
 Faded the flower and all its budded charms. 
 
 Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, 
 Faded the shape of beauty from my arms. 
 
 Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise — 
 Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve. 
 
 When the dusk holiday — or holinight 
 Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave 
 
 The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight ; 
 But, as Fve read love's missal through to-day, 
 He' 11 let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray. 
 
 1819 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I CRY your mercy — pity — love — aye, love ! 
 
 Mei'ciful love that tantalizes not, 
 One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love, 
 
 Unmask'd, and being seen — without a blot ! 
 O ! let me have thee whole, — all — all — be mine ! 
 
 That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest 
 Of love, your kiss, — those hands, those eyes divine. 
 
 That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,- 
 Yourself — your soul — in pity give me all. 
 
 Withhold no atom's atom, or I die. 
 Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall, 
 
 Forget, in the mist of idle misery. 
 Life's purposes — the palate of my mind 
 Losing its gusi, and my ambition blind ! 
 
 1819. 
 
SONNETS. 393 
 
 XX. 
 
 KEATS'S LAST SONNET. 
 
 Bright star ! would I were steadfast as thou art- 
 
 Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
 
 Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
 The moving waters at their priestlike task 
 
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores. 
 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
 
 Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, 
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell. 
 
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. 
 And so live ever — or else swoon to death.* 
 
 * Another reading : — 
 
 Half- passionless, and so swoon on to death. 
 
/ 
 
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