 Preface, of Letters of John Keats to his family and friends, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nemo. Letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. The object of the present volume is to supply the want, which many readers must have felt, of a separate and convenient addition of the letters of Keats to his family and friends. He is one of those poets whose genius makes itself felt in prose writing almost as decisively as in verse, and at their best these letters are among the most beautiful in our language. Portions of them lent in a special charm to a book charming at any rate. The biography of the poet first published more than forty years ago by Lord Houghton. But the correspondence is given by Lord Houghton is neither accurate nor complete. He had in few cases the originals before him, but made use of copies, some of them quite fragmentary, especially those supplying him from America. And, moreover, working while many of the poet's friends were still alive, he thought it right to exercise a degree of editorial freedom, for which there would now be neither occasion nor excuse. While I was engaged in preparing the life of Keats for Mr. Morley's series some year since, the following materials for an improved addition of his letters came into my hands. 1. The copies made by Richard Woodhouse, a few years after Keats's death, of the poet's correspondence with his principal friends, namely, the publishers Messers Taylor and Hesse, the transcriber, Woodhouse himself, who was a young barrister of literary taste in the confidence of those gentlemen, John Hamilton Reynolds, solicitor, poet, humorist, and critic, born 1796, died 1852. Jane and Marianne Reynolds, sisters of the last named, the former afterwards Mrs. Tom Hood, James Rice, the bosom friend of Reynolds, and like him, a young solicitor. Benjamin Bailey, undergraduate of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, afterwards Archdeacon of Colombo, 1794 to 1852, and one or two more. 2. The imperfect copies of the poet's letters to his brother and sister-in-law in America, which were made by the sister-in-law's second husband, Mr. Jeffrey of Louisville, and sent by him to Lord Houghton, who published them with further admissions and alterations of his own. 3. Somewhat later, after the publication of my book, the autograph originals of some of these same letters to America were put into my hands, including almost the entire text of Numbers 63, 73, 80, and 92 in the present edition. The three last are the long and famous journal letters, written in the autumn of 1818 and spring of 1819, and between them occupy nearly a quarter of the whole volume. I have shown elsewhere how much of their value and interest was sacrificed by Mr. Jeffrey's admissions. Besides these manuscript sources, I have drawn largely on Mr. Buxton Forman's elaborate edition of Keats's works in four volumes, 1883, and to a much less extent, on the edition published by the poet's American grand-nephew, Mr. Speed, 1884. Even thus, the correspondence is still probably not quite complete. In some of the voluminous journal letters, there may still be gaps, where a sheet of the autograph has gone astray, and since the following pages have been in print, I have heard of the existence in private collections of one or two letters which I have not been able to include, but it is not a case in which absolute completeness is of much importance. In matters of the date and sequence of the letters, I have taken pains to be more exact than previous editors, especially in tracing the daily progress in different halting places of the poet on his scotch tour, which it takes some knowledge of the ground to do, and in dating the successive parts, written in intervals sometimes during two or three months of the long journal letters to America. On these particulars, Keats himself is very vague, and his manuscript sometimes runs on without a break at points where the sense shows that he has dropped and taken it up again after a pause of days or weeks. Again, I have in all cases given in full the verse and other quotations contained in the correspondence, where other editors have only indicated them by their first lines. It is indeed from these that the letters derive a great part of their character. Writing to his nearest relatives or most intimate friends, he is always quoting for their pleasure, poems of his own, now classical, then warm from his brain, sent forth uncertain whether to live or die, or snatches of doggerel nonsense as the humor of the moment takes him. The former familiar, as we may be with them, gain a new interest and freshness from the context, the latter, are nothing apart from it, and to print them gravely as has been done, among the poetical works, is to punish the levities of genius too hard. As to the text, I have followed the autograph wherever it was possible, and in other cases the manuscript or printed versions, which I judged nearest the autograph, with this exception that I have not thought it worthwhile to preserve mere slips of the pen or tricks of spelling. The curious in such matters will find them religiously reproduced by Mr. Buxton Foreman wherever he has had the opportunity. The poet's punctuation, on the other hand, in his use of capitals, which is odd and full of character, I have preserved. As is well known, his handwriting is as a rule clear and beautiful, quite free from unsteadiness or sign of fatigue, and as mere specimens for the collector, few autographs can compare with his close written quarto, or sometimes extrafolio sheets, in which the young poet has poured out to those he loved his whole self indiscriminately, generosity and fretfulness, ardor and despondency, boyish petulance side by side, with manful good sense, the tattle of suburban parlors, with the speculations of a spirit unsurpassed for native poetic gift and insight. The editor of familiar correspondence has at all times a difficult task before him in the choice what to give and what to withhold. In the case of Keats the difficulty is greater than in most, from the ferment of opposing elements and impulses in his nature, and from the extreme unreserve with which he lays himself open alike in his weakness and his strength. The other great letter writers in English are men to some degree on their guard, men if not of the world, at least of some worldly training and experience, and of characters in some degree formed and set. The phase of unlimited youthful expansiveness of enthusiastic or fretful outcry, they have either escaped or left behind and never give themselves away completely. Gray is, of course, an extreme case in point. With a masterly breadth of mind he unites an even finicking degree of academic facitiousness and personal reserve, and his correspondence charms not by impulse or openness, but by urbanity and irony, by ripeness of judgment and knowledge, by his playful kindliness towards the few intimates he has in the sober wistfulness with which he looks out from his pisca height of universal culture, over regions of imaginative delight into which it was not given to him nor his contemporaries to enter fully. To take others differing most widely both his men and poets, Cowper, whether affectionately chatting and chirping, to his cousin Lady Hesketh, or confiding his spiritual terrors to the Reverend John Newton, that unwise monitor who would not let them sleep, Cowper is a letter writer the most unaffected and sincere, but has nevertheless the degree of reticence natural to his reading, as well as a touch of stateness and formality proper to his age. Byron offers an extreme contrast, unrestrained he is, but far indeed from being unaffected. The greatest attudeness in literature, as in life, and the most brilliant of all letter writers after his fashion, with his wit, his wistfulness, his flash, his extraordinary unscrupulousness and resource, his vulgar pride of castle, his everlasting restlessness and egotism, his occasional true irradiations of the divine fire. Shelley, again, but he, as been justly said, must have his singing robes about him to be quite truly Shelley, and in his correspondence is little more than any other amiable and enthusiastic gentleman in scholar on his travels. To the case of Keats, at any rate, none of these other distinguished letter writers affords any close parallel. That admirable genius was from the social point of view an unformed lad in the flush and rawness of youth, his passion for beauty, his instinctive insight into the vital sources of imaginative delight in nature and romance and in antiquity, went along with perceptions painfully acute in matters of daily life, and nerves high strung in the extreme. He was moreover almost incapable of artifice or disguise. Writing to his brothers and sisters, or to friends as dear, he is secret with them on one thing only, and that is his unlucky love-passion after he became a prey to it. For the rest he is open as the day and keeps back nothing of what crosses his mind, nothing that vexes or jars on him or tries his patience. His character's thus laid bare contains elements of rare nobility and attraction, modesty, humor, sweetness, courage, impulsive disinterestedness, strong and tender family affection, the gift of righteous indignation, the gift of sober and strict self-knowledge. But it is only a character in the making. A strain of hereditary disease lurking in his constitution from the first was developed by overexertion and aggravated by mischance, so that he never lived to be himself, and from about his twenty-fourth birthday his utterances are those of one struggling in vain against a hopeless distemper both of body and mind. If a selection could be made from those parts only of Keats' correspondence, which show him at his best, we should have an anthology full of intuitions of beauty, even of wisdom, and breathing the very spirit of generous youth, one unrivaled for zest, whim fancy in amy ability, and written in an English, which by its peculiar alert and varied movement sometimes recalls, perhaps more closely, than that of any other writer, for the young cockney has Shakespeare in his blood, the prose passages of Hamlet and Much Ado About Nothing. Had the correspondence never been printed before, were it there to be dealt with for the first time, this method of selection would no doubt be the tempting one to apply to it. But such a treatment is now hardly possible, and in any case would hardly be quite fair, since the object, or at all events the effect of publishing a man's correspondence, is not merely to give literary pleasure. It is to take the man himself known, and the revelation, though it need not be wholly without reserve, is bound to be just and proportionate as far as it goes. Even as an artist, in the work which he himself published in the world, Keats was not one of those, of whom it could be said, his worst he kept, his best he gave. Rather, he gave promiscuously, in the just confidence that among the failures and half successes of his inexperienced youth would be found enough of the best to establish his place among the poets after his death. Considering all things, the nature of the man, the difficulty of separating the exquisite from the common, the healthful from the diseased, in his mind and work, considering also the use that has already been made of the materials, I have decided in this edition to give the correspondence almost unpruned, omitting a few passages of mere crudity, hardly more than two pages in all, but not attempting to suppress those which portray the weak places in the writer's nature, his flaws of taste and training, his movements of waywardness, irritability, and morbid suspicion. Only the biographer without tact, the critic without balance, will insist on these. A truer as well as more charitable judgment will recognize that what was best in Keats was also what was most real, and will be fortified by remembering that to those who knew him his faults were almost unapparent and that no man was ever held by his friends in more devoted or more unanimous affection, while he lived and afterwards. There is one thing, however, which I have not chosen to do, and that is to include in this collection the poet's love letters to Fanny Braun. As it is, the intimate nature of the correspondence must sometimes give the reader a sense of eavesdropping, of being admitted into petty private matters with which he has no concern. If this is to some extent inevitable, it is by no means inevitable that the public should be farther asked to look over the shoulder of the sick and presently dying youth while he declares the impatience and torment of his passion to the object, careless and unresponsive as she seems to have been who inspired it. These letters too have been printed. As a matter of feeling, I cannot put myself in the place of the reader who desires to possess them, while as a matter of literature they are in a different key from the rest, not lacking passage as a beauty but constrained and painful in the main and quite without the genial ease and play of mind which makes the letters to his family and friends so attractive. Therefore in this, which I hope may become the standard addition of his correspondence, they shall find no place. As to the persons other than those already mentioned, to whom the letters here are given addressed, Shelley of course needs no words, nor should any be needed for the painter Hayden, 1786 to 1846, or the poet and critic Lee Hunt, 1784 to 1859. There's with a chief inspiring influences which determine the young medical student about his 20th year at the time when this correspondence opens to give up his intended profession for poetry. Both were men of remarkable gifts and strong intellectual enthusiasm, hampered in either case by foibles of character, which the young friend and follower who has left so far more illustrious in aim was only too quick to detect. Charles Cowden-Clark, 1787 to 1877, the son of Keats's schoolmaster, Enfield, had exercised his still earlier influence on the lad's opening mind, and was himself afterwards long and justly distinguished as a Shakespearean student and lecturer and essayist on English literature. Charles Wentworth Dilke, 1789 to 1864, having begun life in the civil service, early abandoned that calling for letters, and lived to be one of the most influential of English critics and journalists. He was chiefly known from his connection with the anathema, and through the memoir published by his grandson, Charles Brown, afterwards styling himself Charles Armatich Brown, 1786 to 1842, who became known to Keats through Dilke in the summer of 1817, and was his most intimate companion during the two years, June 1818 to June 1820, had begun life as a merchant in St. Petersburg, and failing, came home and took, he also, to literature, chiefly as a contributor to the various periodicals edited by Lee Hunt. He lived mostly in Italy from 1822 to 1834, then for six years of Plymouth, and in 1841 emigrated to New Zealand, where he died the following year. Joseph Severin, 1793 to 1879, was the son of a musician, himself beginning to practice as a painter when Keats knew him. His devoted tendons of the poet, during the last sad months in Italy, was the determining event of Severin's career, earning him the permanent regard and gratitude of all lovers of genius. He established himself for good in Rome, where he continued to practice his art, and was for many years English consul, and one of the most familiar figures in the society of the city. Lastly, of the poet's own relations, George Keats, 1799 to 1842, after his brother's death, continued to live at Louisville in America, where he made and lost a fortune in business before he died. His widow, born Georgiana Augusta Wiley, so often and affectionately addressed in these letters, by and by took a second husband, a Mr. Jeffrey, already mentioned as the correspondent of Lord Houghton. Francis Mary Keats, 1803 to 1889, always called Fanny, in the delightful series of letters which her brother addressed to her as a young girl, in course of time married a Spanish gentleman, Sr. Leonos, and lived in Madrid to a great old age. Several other members of the poet's circle enjoyed unusual length of days. Mr. William Dilke, for instance, dying a few years ago at 90, and Mr. Gleeg, long chaplain general of the forces at 92. But with the death of his sister, a year and a half ago, passed away probably the last survivor of those who could bear in memory, the voice and features of Adonai. S. C. May, 1891. End of preface. To Charles Cowden Clark, London, October 31st, 1816 My dainty Davey, I will be as punctual as the bee to the clover. Very glad am I at the thoughts of seeing so soon this glorious Hayden and all his creation. I pray thee, let me know when you go to Allure's, and where he resides, this I forgot to ask you. And tell me also, when you will help me waste a sullen day. God yield ye. Footnote. The early letters of Keats are full of these Shakespearean tags and allusions. Some of the less familiar I have thought it worthwhile to mark in the footnotes and footnote. J. K. End of letter. Letter two of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Benjamin Robert Hayden, London, November 20th, 1816 My dear sir, last evening wrought me up, and I cannot forbear sending you the following. Yours, unfainedly, John Keats. Remove to 76 Cheepside. Great spirits now on earth are sojourning. He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, who on Helbellon's summit, wide awake, catches his freshness from Archangel's wing. He of the rose, the violet, the spring, the social smile, the chain for freedom's sake, and lo, whose steadfastness would never take a meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart. Upon the forehead of the age to come, these, these will give the world another heart and other pulses. Hear ye not the hum of mighty workings in the human mart? Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. Footnote. The references are of course to Wordsworth, Lee Hunt, and Hayden. In the Sonnet as printed in the poems of 1817, and all later editions, the last line but one breaks off at workings, the words in the human mart having been omitted by Hayden's advice. End footnote. End of letter. Letter three of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Benjamin Robert Hayden, London Thursday afternoon, November 20th, 1816. 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 eye upon one horizon. My feelings entirely fall in with yours in regard to the ellipsis, and I glory in it. The idea of your sending it to Wordsworth put me out of breath. You know with what reverence I would send my well wishes to him. Yours sincerely, John Keats. End of letter. Letter four of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Cowden Clark, London Tuesday, December 17th, 1816. My dear Charles, you may now look at Minerva's aegis with impunity, seeing that my awful visage did not turn you into a genre. Footnote, presumably as shown in some drawing or miniature. End footnote. You have accordingly a legitimate title to a copy. I will use my interest to procure it for you. I'll tell you what. I met Reynolds at Hayden's a few mornings since. He promised to be with me this evening, and yesterday I had the same promise from Severn, and I must put you in mind that on last all-halomest day you gave me your word that you would spend this evening with me. So no putting off. I have done little to endymion lately. I hope to finish it in one more attack. Footnote, not the long poem published under that title in 1818, but the earlier attempt beginning, I stood tiptoe upon a little hill, which was printed as a fragment in the poems of 1817. End footnote. I believe you, I went to Richards's. It was so hoarse in the night that I stopped there all the next day. His remembrances to you. Extract from the commonplace book of my mind. Memorandum, Wednesday, Hampstead. Call in Warner Street. A sketch of Mr. Hunt. I will ever consider you my sincere and affectionate friend. You will not doubt that I am yours. God bless you. John Keats. End of letter. Letter 5 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To John Hamilton Reynolds, London, Sunday evening, March 2nd, 1817. Footnote. This letter, which is marked by Woodhouse in his copy, no date, sent by hand. I take to be an answer to the commendatory sonnet addressed by Reynolds to Keats on February 27th, 1817. End of footnote. My dear Reynolds, your kindness affects me so sensibly that I can merely put down a few mono sentences. Your criticism only makes me extremely anxious that I should not deceive you. It's the finest thing by God, as Hazlet would say. However, I hope I may not deceive you. There are some acquaintances of mine who will scratch their beards. And although I have, I hope, some charity. I wish their nails may be long. I will be ready at the time you mention in all happiness. There is a report that a young lady of sixteen has written the new tragedy, God bless her. I will know her by hook or by crook in less than a week. My brothers and my remembrances to your kind sisters. Yours most sincerely, John Keats. End of letter. Letter 6 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To John Hamilton Reynolds, London, March 17th, 1817. 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 Hayden has pointed out how necessary it is that I should be alone to improve myself. They give up the temporary pleasure of living 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 write Jack Health, honest Jack Health, true Jack Health, banish health, and banish all the world. I must, if I come this evening, I shall horribly commit myself elsewhere. So I will send my excuses to them, and Mrs. Dilk, by my brothers. Your sincere friend John Keats. End of letter. Letter 7 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To George and Thomas Keats, Southampton, Tuesday Mourn, April 15th, 1817. My dear brothers, I am safe at Southampton after having ridden three stages outside, and the rest in for it began to be very cold. I did not know the names of any of the towns I passed through. All I can tell you is that sometimes I saw dusty hedges, sometimes ponds, then nothing, then a little wood with trees look you like Launce's sister, quote, as white as a lily, and as small as a wand, end quote. Then came houses which died away into a few straggling barns, then came hedge trees aforesaid again. As the lamplight crept along, the following things were discovered. Long heath-broom furs, hurdles here and there half a mile, park palings, when the windows of a house were always discovered by reflection, one nymph of fountain, notabene stone, lopped trees, cow ruminating, ditto donkey, man and woman going gingerly along, William seeing his sisters over the heath, John waiting with a lantern for his mistress, barber's pole, Dr. Shoppe. However, having had my fill of these, I popped my head out just as it began to dawn. Notabene this Tuesday morning saw the sunrise, of which I shall say nothing at present. I felt rather lonely this morning at breakfast, so I went and unboxed a Shakespeare, quote, there's my comfort, unquote, footnote, for Stefanos here's my comfort, twice in tempest, act two, scene two, and footnote. I went immediately after breakfast to Southampton water, where I inquired for the boat to the Isle of Wight as I intending that place before I settle. It will go at three, so I shall, after having taken a chop. I know nothing of this place but that it is long, tolerably broad, has by streets, two or three churches, a very respectable old gate with two lions to guard it. The men and women do not materially differ from those I have been in the habit of seeing. I forgot to say that from dawn till half past six I went through a most delightful country, some open down, but for the most part thickly wooded. What surprised me most was an immense quantity of blooming furs on each side of the road cutting a most rural dash. The Southampton water when I saw it just now was no better than a low water water, which did no more than answer my expectations. It will have mended its manners by three. From the wharf are seen the shores on each side stretching to the Isle of Wight. You, Hayden, Reynolds, etc., have been pushing each other out of my brain by turns. I have conned over every head in Hayden's picture. You must warn them not to be afraid should my ghost visit them on Wednesday. Tell Hayden to kiss his hand at Betty over the way for me, yay, and to spy at her for me. I hope one of you will be competent to take part in a trio while I am away. You need only aggravate your voices a little and mind not to speak cues and all. When you have said, RUM T.T., you must not be rum any more, or else another will take up the T.T. alone, and then he might be taken God shield us for a little better than a T.T. mouse. By the by, talking of T.T. mouse, remember me particularly to all my friends. Give my love to the Miss Reynolds's, and to Fanny, who I hope you will soon see. Write to me soon about them all, and you, George, particularly, how you get on with Wilkinson's plan. What could I have done without my plaid? I don't feel inclined to write any more at present, for I feel rather musy. You must be content with this facsimile of the rough plan of Aunt Dinah's counterpane. Your most affectionate brother, John Keats. Reynolds shall hear from me soon. End of Letter. Letter 8 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 8. To John Hamilton Reynolds, Caresbrook, April 17, 1817 My dear Reynolds, ever since I wrote to my brothers 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 in a snug corner, pinned up Hayden, Mary, Queen of Scots, and Milton with his daughters in a row. In the passage I found a head of Shakespeare 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 books, 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 Caresbrook. 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 fisherman's huts on the other perched midway in the balustrades of beautiful green hedges along their 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 and the meadows, the cows and the corn. Then why are you at Caresbrook, 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 Caresbrook Castle from my window, and have found several delightful wood alleys and copses and quick-freshes. Footnote, I'll not show him where the quick-freshes are, Caliban in Tempest, Act 3 Scene 2, End Footnote. As for primroses, the island ought to be called Primrose Island, that is, if the nation of cowslips agree there too, of which there are divers clans just beginning to lift up their heads. Another reason of my fixing is that I am more in reach of the places around me. I intend 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 Caresbrook Castle, the trenches overgrown 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 say I've seen many a descendant of some old car who peeped through the bars at Charles I, when he was there in confinement. On the road from Cares to Newport, I saw some extensive barracks, which disgusted me extremely with the government for placing such a nest of debauchery and 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, spoiled by the mill at Terry. The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel it would be no bad thing to be the favourite 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 and Inc., which Hayden will do if you tell him how I want them. From want of regular rest, I have been rather nervous, and the passage in Lear, Do you not hear the sea, has haunted me intensely? On the sea, it keeps eternal whisperings around, desolate shores, and with its mighty swell, gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell of heck it 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. O ye who have your eyeballs vexed and tired, feast them upon the wideness of the sea. O ye whose ears are dinned with uproar root, or fed too much with clawing melody. Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth and brood, until ye start as if the sea nymphs quired. April 18th. Will you have the goodness to do this? Borrow a botanical dictionary. Turn to the words Laurel and Prunus. Show the explanations to your sisters and Mrs. Dilk, and without more due, let them send me the cups, basket, and books they trifled and put off and off while I was in town. Ask them what they can say for themselves. Ask Mrs. Dilk, wherefore she does so distrust me. Let me know how Jane has her health. The weather is unfavorable for her. Tell George and Tom to write. I'll tell you what, on the 23rd was Shakespeare born. Now, if I should receive a letter from you and another from my brothers on that day, two would be a parlour's good thing. Whatever you write, say a word or two on some passage in Shakespeare that may have come rather new to you, which must be continually happening, notwithstanding that we read the same play forty times. For instance, the following from the tempest never struck me so forcibly as it present. Urchins shall, for the 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 anything of late. The sonnet overly did me good. I slept the better last night for it. This morning, however, I am nearly as bad again. Just now I opened Spencer and the first lines I saw were these. The noble heart that harbours virtuous thought, and is with child of glorious great intent, can never rest until at fourth have brought the eternal brood of glory excellent. Let me know particularly about Hayden. Ask him to write 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 by the time 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 sister severally, to George and Tom, remember me to Rice, Mr. and Mrs. Dilke, and all we know. Your sincere friend, John Keats. Direct J. Keats, Mrs. Cook's new village, Caresbrook. End of Letter. Letter nine of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Lee Hunt, Margate, May 10, 1817. My dear Hunt, the little gentleman that sometimes lurks in a gossip's bowl ought to have come, in the very likeness of a roasted crab, and choked me outright for not answering your letter air this. However, you must not suppose that I was in town to receive it. No, it followed me to the Isle of White, and I got it just as I was going to pack up for Margate, for reasons which you annon shall hear. On arriving at this treeless affair, I wrote to my brother George to request CCC to do the thing you want of, respecting Rimini, Footnote, Charles Cowden Clark, and Footnote. And George tells me he has undertaken it with great pleasure, so I hope there has been an understanding between you for many proofs. CCC is well acquainted with Bensley. Now, why did you not send the key of your cupboard, which I know was full of papers? We would have locked them all in a trunk, together with those you told me to destroy, which indeed I did not do, for fear of demolishing receipts. They're not being a more unpleasant thing in the world, saving a thousand and one others, than to pay a bill twice. Mind you, Old Woods, a very varment, shrouded in covetousness. And now I am upon a horrid subject, what a horrid one you were upon last Sunday, and well you handled it. The last examiner was a battering ram against Christianity, blasphemy, tertulion, Erasmus, Sir Philip Sidney, and then the dreadful Petzellians and their expiation by blood. And do Christians shudder at the same thing in a newspaper, which they attribute to their God in its most aggravated form? What is to be the end of this? I must mention Hazlet Suthie, Footnote, the first part published in the same number of the examiner, of a ferocious review by Hazlet of Suthie's letter to William Smith Esquire MP, End Footnote. Oh, that he had left out the gray hairs, or that they had been in any other paper not concluding with such a thunderclap. That sentence about making a page of the feeling of a whole life appears to me like a whale's back in the sea of prose. I ought to have said a word on Shakespeare's Christianity. There are two which I have not looked over with you, touching the thing, the one for, the other against. That, in favor, is in measure for measure. Act two, scene two. Isabella. Alas, alas, why all the souls that were were forth at once, and he that might the vantage best of took, found out the remedy. That against is in twelfth night. Act three, scene two. Maria. For there is no Christian that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. Before I come to the nymphs, Footnote, the poem so entitled on which Hunt was now at work, and which was published in the volume called Foliage 1818, End Footnote. I must get through all disagreeables. 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 moreover, I knew not how it was, I could not get wholesome food. By this means, in a week or so, I became not overcapable in my upper stories, and set off pale mel for Margate. At least a hundred and fifty miles, because, forsooth, I fancied that I should like my old lodging here, and could contrive to do without trees. Another thing, I was too much in solitude, and consequently was obliged to be in continual burning of thought as an only resource. However, 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? In Judea, Cappadocia, or the parts of Libya, about Sirene? Stranger from heaven, hues, and prototypes, I wager you have given several new turns to the old saying. Now the maid was fair and pleasant to look on, as well as made a little variation in once upon a time. Perhaps, too, you have rather varied here and dith the first lesson. Thus I hope you have made a horseshoe business of unsuperfluous life, faint bowers, and fibrous roots. I vow that I have been down in the mouth lately at this work. These last two days, however, I have felt more confident. 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 seeming power of attainment, that the other day I nearly consented with myself to drop into a phaethon. Yet, is a disgrace to fail, even in the huge attempt, and at this moment I drive the thought from me. I began my poem about a fortnight sense, and have done some every day, except travelling 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 and not my life for the bear 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 uphill journeying. Now, is there anything more unpleasant, it may come among the thousand in one, than to be so journeying and to miss the goal at last? But I intend to whistle all these cogitations into the sea, where I hope they will breathe storms of violent enough to block up all exit from Russia. Does Shelley go on telling strange stories of the deaths of kings? Footnote, alluding to the well-known story of Shelley dismaying an old lady in a stagecoach, by suddenly, a propo of nothing, crying out to Lee Hunt in the words of Richard II, for God's sake let us sit upon the ground, etc. End footnote. Tell him there are strange stories of the deaths of poets. Some have died before they were conceived. How do you make that out, Master Vellum? Does Mrs. S cut bread and butter as neatly as ever? Tell her to procure some fatal scissors and cut the thread of life of all to be disappointed poets? Does Mrs. Hunt tear linen as straight as ever? Tell her to tear from the book of life all blank leaves. Remember me to them all, to Miss Kent and the little ones all. Your sincere friend, John Keats, alias Junkets. You shall hear where we move. End of Letter 9. Letter 10 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Benjamin Robert Hayden, Margate, Saturday Eve, May 10, 1817. My dear Hayden, let fame that all pant after in their lives live registered upon our brazen tombs, and so grace us in the disgrace of death. When spite of cormorant devouring time, the endeavour of this present breath may buy that honour which shall bait his size keen edge, and make us heirs of all eternity. Footnote. Opening speech of the King in love's labour's lost, end footnote. To think that I have no right to couple myself with you in this speech would be death to me. So I have eaten written it, and I pray God that our brazen tombs be my neighbours. It cannot be long first, the endeavour of this present breath will soon be over, and yet it is as well to breathe freely during our sojourn. It is as well as if you have not been teased without money affair, that bill pestilence. However, I must think that difficulties 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 mentioned to 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 hate them. I am one that gathers soundfire, dreadful trade, the cliff of poise towers above me. Yet, when Tom, who meets with some of Pope's Homer and Plutarch's lives, reads some of those to me, they seem like mice to mine. I read and write about eight hours a day. There is an old saying, well begun is half done, to the bad one. I 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 arduously where I leave off, notwithstanding occasional depressions, and I hope for the support of a high power while I climb this little eminence, and especially in my years of more momentous labour. I remember your saying that you had notions of a good genius presiding over you. I have, of late, had the same thought, for things which I do half at random, are afterwards confirmed by my judgment in a dozen features of propriety. Is it too daring to fancy Shakespeare this presider? When in the Isle of Wight I met with Shakespeare 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 there but a week, yet the old woman made me take it with me, though I went off in a hurry. Do you not think this is ominous of good? I am glad you say every man of great views is at times tormented, as I am. Sunday after May 11, this morning I received a letter from George by which it appears that many troubles are to follow us up for some time to come. Perhaps for always. These vexations are a great hindrance to one. They are not like envy and detraction, stimulants to further exertion, as being immediately relative and reflected on at the same time with the prime object, but rather like a nettle leaf or two in your bed. So now I revoke my promise of finishing my poem by the autumn, which I 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 I 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 today, 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 everything will leave not a rack behind. You tell me never to despair. I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying. Truth is, I have a horrid morbidity of temperament, which has shown itself in intervals. It is, I have no doubt, the greatest enemy on stumbling block I have to fear. I may even say that it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment. However, every ill has its share of good. This very bane would at any time enable me to look with an obstinant eye on the devil himself. Eye to be as proud of being the lowest of the human race as Alfred could be in being of the highest. I feel confident I should have been a rebel angel had the opportunity been mine. I am very sure that you do love me as your very brother. I have seen it in your continual 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 sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what 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 upon 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 man-man, greater things than our creator himself made. I wrote to Hunt yesterday, scarcely know what I said in it. I could not talk about poetry in the way I should have liked, for I was not in humor with either his or mine. His self-delusions are very lamentable. They have enticed him into a situation which I should be less eager after than that of a galley-slave. What you observe thereon is very true must be in time. Perhaps it is a self-delusion to say so, but I think I could not be deceived in the manner that Hunt is. May I die tomorrow if I am to be. There is no greater sin after the seven deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great poet, or one of those beings who are privileged to wear out their lives in the pursuit of honour. How comfortable a feel 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, till now soon be done. I long to see words worths as well as to have mine in, footnote, that is their likenesses, as introduced by Hayden, into his picture of Christ's entry into Jerusalem, and footnote. But I would rather not show my face in town till the end of the year, if that will be time enough. If not, I shall be disappointed if you do not write for me even when you think best. I never quite despair, and I read Shakespeare. Indeed, I shall, I think, never read any other book much. Now, this might lead me into a long confab, but I desist. I am very near agreeing with Hazlet that Shakespeare is enough for us. By the by what a tremendous, sully an article his last was. I wish he had left out gray hairs. It was very gratifying to meet your remarks on the manuscript. I was reading Anthony Incleopatra when I got the paper, and there are several passages applicable to the events you commentate. 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 particulars as other men's. Shakespeare makes Inabarb say, Where's Anthony? Eras, he's walking in the garden and spurns the rush that lies before him, cries fool, lepidus. In the same scene we find, let determined things to destiny hold unbewailed their way. Dolabela says of Anthony's messenger, an argument that he has plucked when hither he sends so poor opinion of his wing. Then again, Inabarbus, I see men's judgments are a parcel of their fortunes, and things outward do draw the inward quality after them to suffer all alike. The following applies well to Bertrand, yet he that can endure to follow with allegiance of fallen lord, disconquer him that did his master conquer and earns a place in the story. But how differently does Bonaparte bear his fate from Anthony? It is good, too, that the Duke of Wellington has a good word or so in the examiner. A man ought to have the fame he deserves, and I begin to think that detracting from him, as well as from Wordsworth, is the same thing. I wish he 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 she told me you were going to write, I delayed till I had heard from you. Give my respects the next time you write to the North, and also to John Hunt. Remember me to Reynolds, and tell him to write. I, and when you send Westward, tell your sister that I mentioned her in this. So now, in the name of Shakespeare, Raphael, and all our saints, I commend you to the care of heaven. Your everlasting friend, John Keats. End of letter 10. Letter 11 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Messiers Taylor and Hessey. Margate, May 16th, 1817. My dear sirs, I am extremely indebted to you for your liberality in the shape of manufactured rag, value twenty pounds, and shall immediately proceed to destroy some of the minor heads of that hydra that done. To conquer which, the knight need have no sword, shield, crores, queases, herbigen, spear, cask, grieves, pauldrons, spurs, chevron, or any other scaly commodity. But he need only take the bank note of faith and cash of salvation, and set out against the monster, invoking the aid of no Archimago or Urganda, but finger me the paper, light as the sable's leaves in Virgil, where at 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 should conjecture that the very sprite that the green sour ringlets makes whereof the you not bites, had manufactured it of the dew fallen on said sour ringlets. I think I could make a nice little allegorical poem called The Done, where we would have the Castle of Carelessness, the Jarrah Bridge of Credit, Sir Novelty Fashions, Expedition Against the City of Tailors, etc., etc. 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 debauch, lowness of spirits, anxiety to go on without the power to do so, which does not at all tend to my ultimate progression. However, tomorrow I will begin my next month. This evening I go to Canterbury, having got tired of a margate. I was not right in my head when I came. At Canterbury, I hope the remembrance of Chaucer will set me forward like a billiard ball. I am glad to hear of Mr. T's health, and of the welfare of the in-town stairs, and think Reynolds will like his trip. 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. Letter 12 Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Edited by Sydney Colvin This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Neema To Mrs. Taylor and Hesse London Tuesday morning, July 8, 1817 My dear sirs, I must endeavor to lose my maiden head with respect to money matters as soon as possible. And I will too. So here goes. 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 a certain sure, have opened upon me with a cry most untunable. Never did you hear such un-gallant chiding. Now you must know I am not 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 grab 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 circumstance, when I should have asked plainly. However, as I said, I am a little maidenish or so, and I feel my virginity come strong upon me. The while I request the loan of twenty pound and ten pound. Which, if you would enclose to me, I would acknowledge and save myself a hot forehead. I am sure you are confident of my responsibility, and in the sense of squirreness, that is always in me. You are a blighed friend, John Keats. End of LETTER XII LETTER XIII My dear friends, you are, I am glad to hear, comfortable at Hampton, where I hope you will receive the biscuits we ate the other night at Little Britain. I hope you found them good. There you are among sands, stones, pebbles, beaches, cliffs, rocks, deep shallows, weeds, ships, boats, at a distance. Carrots, turnips, sun, moon, and stars, and all those sort of things. Here am I, among colleges, halls, stalls, plenty of trees, thank God. Plenty of water, thank heaven. Plenty of books, thank the muses. Plenty of snuff, thanks Sir Walter Raleigh. Plenty of sea cars, ditto. Plenty of flat country, thank Tellis's rolling pin. I'm on the sofa. Bonaparte is on the snuff box. But you are by the seaside. Argel, you bathe, you walk, you say how beautiful. Find out resemblances between waves and camels, rocks and dancing masters, fire shovels and telescopes, dolphins and medanas. Which word, by the way, I must acquaint you, was derived from the Syriac, and came down in a way which neither of you, I am sorry to say, are at all capable of comprehending. But as the time may come, when by your occasional converse with me you may arrive at something like prophetic strain, I will unbar the gates of my pride, and let my condescension stalk forth like a ghost at the circus. The word Madonna, my dear ladies, or the word mad ama, so I say, I am not mad. How some ever when that aged tamer Cuthon sold a certain camel called Peter to the overseer of the Babel Skyworks. He thus spake, adjusting his cravat round the tip of his chin. My dear, turn story up in the air. This here beast, though I say it, as shouldn't say it, not only has the power of subsisting forty days and forty nights without fire and candle, but he can sing. Here I have in my pocket a certificate from Sr. Nicolini of the King's Theatre, a certificate to this effect. I have had dinner since I left that effect upon you, and feel too heavy and meant to boost to display all the profundity of the polygon. So you had better each of you take a glass of cherry brandy and drink to the health of Archimedes, who was of so benign a disposition that he never would leave Syracuse in his life, so kept himself out of all night errantry. This I know to be a fact. For it is written in the forty-fifth book of Winkine's treatise on garden rollers, that he trod on a fisherwoman's toe in Liverpool, and never begged her pardon. Now, though long and short is this, that is by comparison, for a long day may be a short year, a long pole may be a very stupid fellow as a man. But let us refresh ourselves from this depth of thinking, and turn to some innocent jocularity. The bow cannot always be bent, nor the gun always loaded, if you ever let it off. And the life of man is like a great mountain, his breath is like a Shrewsbury cake, he comes into the world like a shoe-black, and goes out of it like a cobbler. He eats like a chimney sweeper, drinks like a gingerbread baker, and breathes like Achilles. So, it being that we are such sublunary creatures, let us endeavour to correct all our bad spelling, all our most delightful abominations, and let us wish health to Marianne and Jane, whoever they be, and wherever. Yours truly, John Keats. END OF LETTER XIII Letter XIV Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Edited by Sidney Colvin This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Nima To Fanny Keats, Oxford, September 10, 1817 My dear Fanny, let us now begin a regular question and answer, a little prone con, letting it interfere as a pleasant method of my coming at your favourite little wants and enjoyments, that I may meet them in a way befitting a brother. We have been so little together since you have been able to reflect on things, that I know not whether you prefer the history of King Pepin to Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress or Cinderella and her Glass Slipper to Moor's Almanac. However, in a few letters I hope I shall be able to come at that and adapt my scribblings to your pleasure. You must tell me about all you read if it be only six pages in a week, and this, transmitted to me every now and then, will procure you full sheets of writing from me pretty frequently. This I feel as a necessity, for we ought to become intimately acquainted, in order that I may not only as you grow up love you as my only sister, but confide in you as my dearest friend. When I saw you last, I told you of my intention of going to Oxford, until now a week since I disembarked from his whipships coach, the defiance in this place. I am living in Magdalen Hall, on a visit to a young man, with whom I have not been long acquainted, but whom I like very much. We lead very industrious lives. He in general studies, and I, in proceeding at a pretty good rate with a poem, which I hope you will see early in the next year. Perhaps you might like to know what I am writing about. I will tell you. Many years ago, there was a young, handsome shepherd, who fed his flocks on a mountain side, called Latmas. He was a very contemplative sort of a person, and lived solitary among the trees and plains, little thinking that such a beautiful creature as the moon was growing mad in love with him. However so it was, and when he was asleep on the grass, she used to come down from her heaven and admire him excessively for a long time, and at last could not refrain from carrying him away in her arms to the top of that high mountain Latmas while he was dreaming. But I dare say you have read this in all the other beautiful tales which have come down from the ancient times of that beautiful grease. If you have not, let me know, and I will tell you more at large of others, quite as delightful. This Oxford, I have no doubt, is the finest city in the world. It is full of old Gothic buildings, spires, towers, quadrangles, cloisters, groves, etc., and is surrounded with more clear streams than ever I saw together. I take a walk by the side of one of them every evening, and thank God we have not had a drop of rain these many days. I had a long and interesting letter from George, crossed lines by a short one from Tom yesterday dated Paris. They both send their loves to you. Like most Englishmen they feel a mighty preference for everything English, the French meadows, the trees, the people, the towns, the churches, the books, the everything. Although they may be in themselves good, yet when put in comparison with our Green Island they all vanish like swallows in October. They have seen cathedrals, manuscripts, fountains, pictures, tragedy, comedy, with other things you may by chance meet within this country, such as washer-woman, lamp-lighters, turnpike-men, fish-kettles, dancing-masters, kettle-drums, sentry-boxes, rocking-horses, etc. And now they have taken them over a set of boxing gloves. I have written to George and requested him, as you wish I should, to write to you. I have been writing very hard lately, even till an utter incapacity came on. And I feel it now about my head, so you must not mind a little out of the way sayings. Though by the by, where my brain is clear as a bell, I think I should have a little propensity there too. I shall stop here till I have finished the third book of my story, which I hope will be accomplished in at most three weeks from today. About which time you shall see me. How do you like Miss Taylor's essays in rhyme? I just looked into the book, and it appeared to me suitable to you, especially since I remember your liking for those pleasant little things the original poems. The essays are the more mature productions of the same hand. While I was speaking about France, it occurred to me to speak a few words on their language. It is perhaps the poorest one ever spoken since the jabbering in the Tower of Babel. And when you come to know that the real use and greatness of a tongue is to be referred to its literature, you will be astonished to find how very inferior it is to our native speech. I wish the Italian would supersede French in every school throughout the country, for that is full of real poetry and romance, of a kind more fitted for the pleasure of ladies than perhaps our own. It seems that the only end to be gained in acquiring French is the immense accomplishment of speaking it. It is none at all. A most lamentable mistake, indeed. Italian, indeed, would sound most musically from lips, which begun to pronounce it as early as French's crammed down our mouths, as if we were young jackdaws at the mercy of an overfeeding schoolboy. Now, Fanny, you must write soon, and write to all you think about. Never mind what. Only let me have a good deal of your writing. You need not do it all at once. Be two or three or four days about it, and let it be a diary of your little life. You will preserve all my letters, and I will secure yours. And thus, in the course of time, we shall each of us have a good bundle, which thereafter, when things may have strangely altered and God knows what happened, we may read over together and look with pleasure on times past, that now are to come. Give my respects to the ladies, and so, my dear Fanny, I am ever your most affectionate brother, John. If you direct Post Office, Oxford, your letter will be brought to me. End of Letter 14 To Jane Reynolds, Oxford Sunday Evening, September 14, 1817 My dear Jane, you are such a literal translator that I shall someday amuse myself with looking over some foreign sentences, and imagining how you would render them into English. This is an age for typical curiosities, and I would advise you, as a good speculation, to study Hebrew, and astonish the world with a figurative version in our native tongue. The mountains, skipping like rams and the little hills like lambs, you will leave as far behind as the hare did the tortoise. It must be so, or you would have never have thought that I really meant you would like to pro and con about those honeycombs. No, I had no such idea, or if I had, to be only to tease you a little for love. So now, let me put down in black and white briefly my sentiments thereon. In primus, I sincerely believe that Imogen is the finest creature, and that I should have been disappointed at hearing you prefer Juliet. Item, yet I feel such a yearning towards Juliet that I would rather follow her into pandemonium than Imogen into paradise, heartily wishing myself a Romeo to be worthy of her, and to hear the devils quote the old proverb, birds of a feather flock together. Amen. Now let us turn to the seashore. Believe me, my dear Jane, it is a great happiness to see that you are in this finest part of the year winning a little enjoyment from the hard world. In truth, the great elements we know of are no mean comforters. The open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown. The air is our robe of state. The earth is our throne, and the sea a mighty minstrel playing before it. Able, like David's harp, to make such a one as you forget almost the tempest cares of life. I have found in the ocean's music, varying, though self-same, more than the passion of Timothious, an enjoyment not to be put into words, and, though inland far I be, now I hear the voice most audibly while pleasing myself in the idea of your sensations. Blank 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 Shakespeare'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 salty streams, and superb when the sun from Meridian height illumines the depth of the sea, and the fishes, beginning to sweat, cry, Damn it, how hot we shall be! And gorgeous when the fair planet hastens to his home within the western foam. But don't you think there is something extremely fine after sunset, when there are a few white clouds about and a few stars blinking, when the waters are ebbing and the horizon a mystery? The 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 Marianne club your letter to me, put in a word or two about it. Tell Dilke that it would be perhaps as well if he left a pheasant or partridge alive here and there to keep up a supply of game for next season. Tell him to rein in, if possible, all the nimrod of his disposition, he being a mighty hunter before the lord of the manor. Tell him to shoot fair, and not to habit the poor devils in a furrow, when they are flying he may fire, and nobody will be the wiser. Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, saying that I have not forgiven myself for not having got her the little box of medicine I promised, and that had I remained at Hampstead I would have made precious havoc with her house and furniture, drawn a great hero over her garden, poisoned boxer, eaten her clothes pegs, fried her cabbages, fricasseed, how is it spelled, her radishes, ragout her onions, belabored her beet root, outstripped her scarlet runners, parley vood with her french beans, devoured her mignon or mignonette, minimorphosed her bell handles, splintered her looking glasses, bullocked at her cups and saucers, agonized her decanters, put old Phillips 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 Brown, whose letter to her on these events I would rather see than the original copy of the Book of Genesis. Should you see Mr. W.D., remember me to him, and to Little Robin Sincruzo, and to Mr. Snook. Poor Bailey, who scarcely ever well, has gone to bed, please, that I am writing to you. To your brother John, whom henceforth I shall consider as mine, and to you, my dear friends Marianne and Jane, I shall ever feel grateful for having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey. He delights me in the selfish and, please, God, the disinterested part of my disposition. If the old poets have any pleasure in looking down at the enjoyers of their works, their eyes must bend with a double satisfaction upon him. I sit as out of feast when he is over them, and pray that, if after my death, if any of my labour should be worth saving, they may have so honest a chronicler as Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm in his own pursuit and for all good things is of an exalted kind. Worthy a more healthful frame and an untorn spirit. He must have happy years to come. He shall not die by God. A letter from John the other day was a chief happiness to me. I made a little mistake when, just now, I talked of being far inland. How can that be, when Endymion and I are at the bottom of the sea? Once I hope to bring him in safety before you leave the seaside. And if I can so contrive it, you shall be greeted by him upon the seasands, and he shall tell you all his adventures, which, having finished, he shall thus proceed. My dear ladies, favourites of my gentle mistress, however my friend Keith's may have teased and vexed you, believe me, he loves you not the less. For instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet he has been hauling me through the earth and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I know for all this that he has mighty fond of me by his contriving me all sorts of pleasures. Nor is this the least, fair ladies, this one of meeting you on the desert shore and greeting you in his name. He sends you more over 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. End of Letter 15. Letter 16. The letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To John Hamilton Reynolds, Oxford, Sunday morn, September 21st, 1817. My dear Reynolds, so you are determined to be my mortal foe. The 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 done, send me bills. As I say to my tailor, send me bills, and I'll never employ you more. However, needs must win 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 a rodent. 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 a 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 Reynolds Cove, in which we have read Wordsworth, and talked as may be. I think I see you and Hunt meeting in the pit. What a very pleasant fellow he is, if he would give up the sovereignty of a room pro bono. What evenings we might pass with him, could we have him from Mrs. H. Failings I am always rather rejoiced to find in a man than sorry for. They bring us to a level. He has them, but then his make-ups are very good. He agrees with a northern poet in this. He is not one of those who much delight to season their fireside with personal talk. I must confess, however, having a little itch that way, and at this present moment, I have a few neighborly remarks to make. The world, and especially our little England, has, within the last thirty years, been vexed and teased by a set of devils, whom I detest so much that I almost hunger, after an achorontic promotion to a torturer, purposely for their accommodation. These devils are a set of women, who having taken a snack or luncheon of literary scraps, set themselves up for towers of babble in languages, saffos in poetry, euclids in geometry, and the everything in nothing. Among such, the name of Montague has been preeminent. The thing has made a very uncomfortable impression on me. I had longed for some real feminine modesty in these things, and was therefore gladdened in the extreme, on opening the other day one of Bailey's books, a book of poetry written by one beautiful Mrs. Phillips, a friend of Jeremy Taylor's, and called The Matchless Orinda. You must have heard of her, and most likely read her poetry. I wish you have not, that I may have the pleasure of treating you with a few stanzas. I do it at a venture. You will not regret reading them once more. The following to her friend Mrs. M. A. at parting, you will judge of. I have examined, and do find, of all that favour me. There's none I grieve to leave behind, but only, only thee. To part with thee I needs must die, could parting separate thee and I. But neither chance nor compliment did element our love. To a sacred sympathy was lent us from the choir 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 their own, alas we know not how. We have each other so engrossed that each is in the union lost. And thus we can no absence know, nor shall you be confined. Our active souls will daily go to learn each other's mind. May, should we never meet to sense, our souls would hold intelligence. Inspired with a flame divine, I scorned to core to 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 pleases thee. Our hearts at any time will tell if thou or I be sick or well. All honors sure I must pretend, all that is good or great. She that would be Rosania's friend must be at least complete. If I have any bravery, it is because I have so much of thee. Thy leisure soul in me shall lie, and all thy thoughts reveal. And back again with mine shall fly, and then 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 of flame, fate dares not move. And quarreling 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 reconcile be, will ask no epitaph but say, A rinda and Rosania. In other of her poems, there is a most delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind, which we will con over together. So Hayden 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 and a morass? How is Haslett? We were reading his 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 eight hundred 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 leggings up is the pleasure I shall have in showing it to you. I may now say in a few days, I have heard twice from my brothers. They're 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 delks. You are, I know, very much teased and 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 dubblings for Bailey, who is going to say that he will write you tomorrow. End of Letter 16. Letter 17 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. Edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Neema. To Benjamin Robert Hayden, Oxford, September 28, 1817 My dear Hayden, I read your letter to the young man whose name is Cripps. He seemed more than ever anxious to avail himself of your offer. I think I told you we asked him to ascertain his means. He does not possess the philosopher's stone, nor Fortunatis' purse, nor Gigi's ring. But at Bailey's suggestion, whom I assure you is a very capital fellow, we have stumped up a kind of contrivance, whereby he will be enabled to do himself the benefits you will lay in his path. I have a great idea that he will be a tolerable neat brush. Tis perhaps the finest thing that will befall him this many a year, for he is just of an age to get grounded in bad habits from which you will pluck him. He brought a copy of Mary Queen of Scots. It appears to me that he has copied the bad style of the painting, as well as colored the eyeballs yellow like the original. He has also the fault that you pointed out to me in Hazlet, on the constringing and diffusing of substance. However, I really believe that he will take fire at the sight of your picture, and set about things. If he can get ready in time to return to town with me, which will be in a few days, I will bring him to you. You will be glad to hear that within these last three weeks I have written a thousand lines, which are the third book of my poem. My ideas, with respect to it, I assure you are very low. And I would write the subject thoroughly again, but I am tired of it, and think the time would be better spent in writing a new romance, which I have in my eye for next summer. Rome was not built in a day, and all the good I expect from my employment this summer is the fruit of experience which I hope to gather in my next poem. Bailey's kindest wishes and my vow of being yours eternally, John Keats. End of Letter 17. Letter 18. The letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Benjamin Bailey, Hampstead, Wednesday, October 8th, 1817. My dear Bailey. After a tolerable journey, I went from coach to coach, as far as Hampstead, where I found my brothers. The next morning, finding myself tolerably well, I went to Lamb's Conduit Street and delivered your parcel. Jane and Marianne were greatly improved. Marianne especially, she has no unhealthy plumpness in the face, but she comes me healthy and angular to the chin. I did not see John. I was extremely sorry to hear that poor rice, after having had capital health during his tour, was very ill. I dare say you have heard from them. From number 19, I went to Hunt's and Haydn's, who live now neighbors. Shelley was there. I know nothing about anything in this part of the world. Everybody seems at loggerheads. There's Hunt infatuated. There's Haydn's picture and statue quo. There's Hunt walks up and down his painting room, criticizing every head most unmercifully. There's Horace Smith, tired of Hunt. The web of our life is of mingled yarn. Haydn, having removed entirely from Marlboro Street, Cripps must direct his letter to Lyssen Grove, North Paddington. Yesterday morning, while I was at Brown's, in came Reynolds. He was pretty bobbish. We had a pleasant day. He would walk home at night that cursed, cold distance. Mrs. Bentley's children are making a horrid row, whereby I regret I cannot be transported to your room to write to you. I am quite disgusted with literary men, and will never know another, except Wordsworth. No, not even Byron. Here is an instance of the friendship of such. Haydn and Hunt have known each other many years. Now they live poor, all-see-dear, jealous neighbors. Haydn says to me, Keats, don't show your lines to Hunt on any account, or he will have done half for you. So it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought. When he met Reynolds in the theater, John told him that I was getting onto the completion of four thousand lines. Ah, says Hunt. Had it not been for me, they would have been seven thousand. If he will say this to Reynolds, what would he to other people? Haydn received a letter a little while back on the subject from some lady, which contains a caution to me through him on the subject. Now is not all this a most paltry thing to think about? You may see the whole of the case by the following extract from a letter I wrote to George in the spring. As to what you say about my being a poet, I can return no answer, but by saying the high idea I have of political fame makes me think I see a 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 four thousand lines of one bear 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 toward 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 endeavor 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 weak stroll in the summer. Do they not like this better than what they can read through before Mrs. Williams comes downstairs, a morning work at most. Besides, a long poem is a test of invention, which I take to be the polar star of poetry, as fancy as the sails and imagination the rudder. Did our great poets ever write short pieces? I mean in the shape of tales. The same invention seems indeed of late years to have been forgotten as a poetical excellence, but enough of this. I put on no laurels till I shall have finished in Dimian and I hope Apollo is not angered at my having made a mockery at him at Hunt's. You see, Bailey, how independent my writing has been. Hunt's dissuasion was of no avail. I refuse to visit Shelley that I might have my own unfettered scope. And after all, I shall have the reputation of Hunt's alive. His corrections and amputations will by the knowing ones be traced in the poem. This is to be sure the vexation of a day, nor would I say so many words about it to any but those whom I know to have my welfare and reputation at heart. Hayden promised to give directions for those casts, and you may expect to see them soon with as many letters. You will soon hear the dimming of bells. Never mind. You and Glig will defy the foul fiend. But do not sacrifice your health to books. Do take it kindly and not so voraciously. I am certain if you are your own physician, your stomach will resume its proper strength and then what great benefits will follow. My sister wrote a letter to me, which I think must be at the post office. Acts will to see. My brother's kindest remembrances to you. We are going to dine at Brown's, where I have some hope of meeting Reynolds. The little mercury I have taken has corrected the poison and improved my health, though I feel from my employment that I shall never be again secure in a robustness. Would that you were as well as your sincere friend and brother, John Keats. End of letter 18. Letter 19 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Benjamin Bailey. Hampstead, about November 1st, 1817. My dear Bailey, so you have got a curacy. Good. But I suppose you will be obliged to stop among your Oxford favorites during term time. Never mind. When do you preach your first sermon? Tell me, for I shall propose to the two Rs to hear it. So don't look into any of the old corner oak and pews, for fear of being put out by us. Poor Johnny Moultrie can't be there. He is ill, I expect. But that's neither here nor there. All I can say, I wish him as well through it as I am like to be. For this fortnight I have been confined at Hampstead. Saturday evening was my first day in town when I went to Rises, as we intend to do every Saturday till we know not when. We had upon an old gent we had known some years ago, and had a very pleasant day. In this world there is no quiet, nothing but teasing and snubbing and vexation. My brother Tom looked very unwell yesterday, and I am foreshipping him off to Lisbon. Perhaps I ship there with him. I have not seen Mrs. Reynolds since I left you, wherefore my conscience smites me. I think of seeing her to-morrow. Have you any message? I hope Glyde came soon after I left. I don't suppose I've written as many lines as you have read volumes, or at least chapters, since I saw you. However, I am in a fair way now to come to a conclusion in at least three weeks. When I assure you I shall be glad to dismount for a month or two. Although I'll keep as tight a reign as possible till then, nor suffer myself to sleep. I will copy for you the opening of the fourth book, in which you will see from the manner I had not an opportunity of mentioning any poets, for fear of spoiling the effect of the passage by particularizing them. Thus far I had written when I received your last, which made me at the sight of the direction caper for a despair. But for one thing I am glad that I have been neglectful, and that is, therefrom I have received proof of your utmost kindness, which at this present I feel very much. And I wish I had a heart always open to such sensations, but there is no altering a man's nature. And mine must be radically wrong, for it will lie dormant a whole month. This leads me to suppose that there are no men thoroughly wicked, so as never to be self-spiritualized into a kind of sublime misery. But alas, to but for an hour. He is the only man who has kept watch on man's mortality, who has philanthropy enough to overcome the disposition to an indolent enjoyment of intellect, who is brave enough to volunteer for uncomfortable hours. You remember in Hazlet's essay, Uncommon Place People, he says, They read the Edinburgh and Quarterly, and think as they do. Now, with respect to Wordsworth's gypsy, I think he is right, and yet I think Hazlet is right, and yet I think Wordsworth is rightest. If Wordsworth had not been idle, he had not been without his task, nor had the gypsies. They in the visible world had been as picturesque an object as he in the invisible. The smoke of their fire, their attitudes, their voices, were all in harmony with the evenings. It is a bold thing to say, and I would not say it in print, but it seems to me that if Wordsworth had thought a little deeper at that moment, he would not have written the poem at all. I should judge it to have been written in one of the most comfortable moods of his life. It is a kind of sketchy intellectual landscape, not a search after truth, nor is it fair to attack him on such a subject, for it is with the critic as with the poet. Had Hazlet thought a little deeper and been in a good temper, he would never have spied out imaginary faults there. The Sunday before last I asked Hayden to dine with me, when I thought of settling all matters with him in regard to Cripps, and let you know about it. Now, although I engaged him a fortnight before, he sent illness as an excuse. He never will come. I have not been well enough to stand the chance of a wet night, and so have not seen him, nor been able to expurgaturize more masks for you, but I will not speak. Your speakers are never doers. Then, Reynolds, every time I see him and mention you, he puts his hand to his head and looks like a son of Naiobes, but he'll write soon. Rome, you know, was not built in a day. I shall be able, by a little perseverance, to read your letters off-hand. I am afraid your health will suffer from over-study before your examination. I think you might regulate the thing according to your own pleasure, and I would, too. They were talking of your being up at Christmas. Will it be before you have passed? There is nothing, my dear Bailey, I should rejoice at more than to see you comfortable with the little Piona wife. An affectionate wife, I have a sort of confidence, would do you a great happiness. May that be one of the many blessings I wish you. Let me be but the one-tenth of one to you, and I shall think it great. My brother George is kindest wishes to you. My dear Bailey, I am your affectionate friend, John Keats. I should not like to be pages in your way. When in a tolerable, hungry mood you have no mercy, your teeth are like the rock tarpian down which you capsize epic poems like mad. I would not for four tea shillings be Coleridge's lays in your way. I hope you will soon get through this abominable writing in the schools, and be able to keep the terms with more comfort in the hope of retiring to a comfortable and quiet home out of the way of all Hopkins's and Black Beatles. When you are settled, I will come and take a peep at your church, your house, try whether I have grown too lusty for my chair by the fireside, and take a peep at my earliest power. A question is the best beacon towards a little speculation. Then, ask me, after my health and spirits, this question ratifies in my mind what I have said above. Health and spirits can only belong unalloyed to the selfish man, the man who thinks much of his fellows can never be in spirits. You must forgive, though I have only written three hundred lines, they would have been five, but I have been obliged to go to town. Yesterday I called at Lambs. St. Jane looked very flesh when I first looked in, but was much better before I left. End of Letter 19 Letter 20 Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org To Benjamin Bailey Fragment from an outside cheat Postmark London November 5th, 1817 I will speak of something else or my spleen will get higher and higher, and I am a bearer of the two-edged sword. I hope you will receive an answer from Hayden soon. If not, pride, pride, pride. I have received no more subscription, but will soon have a full health, liberty, and leisure to give a good part of my time to him. I will certainly be in time for him. We have promised him one year. Let that have elapsed, then do as we think proper. If I did not know how impossible it is, I should say, do not at this time of disappointments disturb yourself about others. There has been a flaming attack upon Hunt in the Endenborough Magazine. I never read anything so virulent, accusing him of the greatest crimes, depreciating his wife, his poetry, his habits, his company, his conversation. These Philippics are to come out in numbers called the Cockney School of Poetry. There has been but one number published that on Hunt, to which they have prefixed a motto from one Cornelius Webb Poetaster, who, unfortunately, was of our party occasionally at Hampstead, and took it into his head to write the following, something about— We'll talk on Wordsworth, Byron, a theme we never tire on, and so forth, till he comes to Hunt and Keats. In the motto, they have put Hunt and Keats in large letters. I have no doubt that the second number was intended for me. But, half hopes of its non-appearance, from the following advertisement in last Sunday's examiner, to Zee, the writer of the article signed Zee and Blackwood's Endenborough Magazine for October 1817, is invited to send his address to the printer of the examiner in order that justice may be executed on the proper person. I don't mind the thing much, but if he should go to such lengths with me as he has done with Hunt, I must infallibly call him to an account if he be a human being, and appears in squares and theatres where we might possibly meet. I don't relish his abuse. End of Letter 20 Letter 21 Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Edited by Sidney Colvin This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Neema To Charles Wentworth-Dilk Hampstead November 1817 My dear Dilk, Mrs. Dilk or Mr. William Dilk, whoever of you shall receive this present, have the kindness to send per bear, civil-line leaves, and your petitioner shall ever pray as in duty bound. Given under my hand, this Wednesday morning of November 1817 John Keats Vivaal Rexet Regina Amen End of Letter 21