 Letter 120 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Brown, Winchester, September 23, 1819. Do not suffer me to disturb you unpleasantly. I do not mean that you should not suffer me to occupy your thoughts, but to occupy 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 a passionate feeling. Our real ones come of themselves, and are opposed by an abstract exertion of mind. Real grievances 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. It is 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 this. I felt, however, compelled to make a rejoinder to yours. I had written to Dilk 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 periodical works, I may maintain myself decently. End of Letter 120 Letter 121 Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Wentworth Dilk Winchester, Friday, October 1st, 1819 My dear Dilk, for sundry reasons, which I will explain to you when I come to town, I have to request you will do me a great favour, as I must call it, knowing how great a bore it is, that your imagination may not have time to take too great an alarm, I state immediately, that I want you to hire me a couple of rooms, a sitting room and bedroom for myself alone, in Westminster. Quietness 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 particular, 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. End of Letter 121 Letter 122 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. Winchester, Sunday morn, October 3rd, 1819. My dear Hayden, certainly I might, but a few months pass away before we are aware. I have a great aversion to letter writing, which grows more and more upon me, and a greater to summon up circumstances before me of an unpleasant nature. I was not willing to trouble you with them. Could I have dated from my palace of Milan you would have heard from me? Not even now will I mention a word of my affairs. Only that I, Rab, am here, but shall not be here more than a week more, as I purpose to settle in town and work my way with the rest. I hope I shall never be so silly as to injure my health and industry for the future by speaking, writing, or fretting about my non-estate. I have no quarrel, I assure you, of so weighty a nature with a world on my own account, as I have on yours. I have done nothing, except for the amusement of a few people who refine upon their feelings till anything in the un-understandable way will go down with them, people predisposed for sentiment. I have no cause to complain, because I am certain anything really fine will, in these days, be felt. I have no doubt that, if I had written a fellow, I should have been cheered by as good a mob as Hunt. So would you be now, if the operation of painting was as universal as that of writing? It is not, and therefore it did behove men I could mention among whom I must place Sir George Beaumont to have lifted you above sordid cares. But this has not been done as a disgrace to the country. I know very little of painting, yet your pictures follow me into the country. When I am tired of reading, I often think them over and over, and, as often, condemn the spirit of modern connoisseurs. Upon the whole, indeed, you have no complaint to make. Being able to say what so few men can, I have succeeded. On sitting down to write a few lines to you, these are the uppermost in my mind, and however I may be beating around the Arctic while your spirit has passed the line, you may lay too a minute and consider I am earnest as far as I can see. Though at this present I have great dispositions to write, I feel every day more and more content to read. Books are becoming more interesting and valuable to me. I may say I could not live without them. If in the course of a fortnight you can procure me a ticket to the British Museum, I will make a better use of it than I did in the first instance. I shall go on with patience, in the confidence that if I ever do anything worth remembering, the reviewers will no more be able to stumble-block me than the Royal Academy could you. They have the same quarrel with you that the Scotch nobles had with Wallace. The fame they have lost through you is no joke to them. Had it not been for you, Fuseli would have been not as he is, Major, but Maximus Dolma. What reviewers can put a hindrance to must be a nothing or mediocre, which is worse. I am sorry to say that since I saw you I have been guilty of a practical joke upon Brown, which has had all the success of an innocent wildfire among people. Someday in the next week you shall hear it from me by word of mouth. I have not seen the pretentious book which was scummered at you just as I left town. It may be light enough to serve you as a cork jacket and save you for a while the trouble of swimming. I heard the man went raking and rummaging about like any Richardson. That and the memoirs of Minaj are the first I shall be at. From Sir G.B.'s, Lord Ems, and particularly St. John Leicester's, Good Lord Deliver us. I shall expect to see your picture plumped out like a ripe peach. You would not be very willing to give me a slice of it. I came to this place in the hopes of meeting with a library, but was disappointed. The high street is as quiet as a lamb. The knockers are dieted to three wraps per diem. The walks about are interesting from the many old buildings and archways. The view of the high street through the gate of the city and the beautiful September evening light has amused me frequently. The bad singing of the cathedral I do not care to smoke. Being by myself I am not very coy in my taste. At St. Cross there is an interesting picture of Albert Durres, who living in such war-like times perhaps was forced to paint in his gauntlets, so we must make all allowances. I am, my dear Hayden, yours ever, John Keats. Brown has a few words to say to you and we'll cross this. End of letter 122. Letter 123 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place, October 16th, 1819. My dear Fanny, my conscience is always reproaching me for neglecting you for so long a time. I have been returned from Winchester this fortnight, and as yet I have not seen you. I have no excuse to offer. I should have no excuse. I shall expect to see you the next time I call on Mr. A. about George's affairs, which perplexed me a great deal. I should have today gone to see you if you were in town. But as I am in an industrious humor, which is so necessary to my livelihood for the future, I am loath to break through it, though it be merely for one day. For when I am inclined I can do a great deal in a day. I am more fond of pleasure than study. Many men have preferred the latter. But I have become resolved to know something which you will credit, when I tell you that I have left off animal food that my brains may never henceforth be in a greater mist than is theirs by nature. I took lodgings in Westminster for the purpose of being in the reach of books, but am now returned to Hampstead being induced to it by the habit I have acquired in this room I am in now, and also from the pleasure of being free from paying any petty attentions to a diminutive housekeeping. Mr. Brown has been my great friend for some time. Without him I should have been in perhaps personal distress. As I know you love me, though I do not deserve it. I am sure you will take pleasure in being a friend to Mr. Brown, even before you know him. My lodgings for two or three days were close in the neighbourhood of Mrs. Dilke, who never sees me but she inquires after you. I have had letters from George lately which do not contain, as I think I told you in my last, the best news. I have hopes for the best. I trust in a good termination to his affairs, which you please God will soon hear of. It is better that you should not be teased with the particulars. The whole amount of the ill news is that his mercantile speculations have not had success, in consequence of the general depression of trade in the whole province of Kentucky and, indeed, all America. I have a couple of shells for you you will call pretty. Your affectionate brother, John Keats. End of letter 123. Letter 124. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends. Edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Joseph Severn. Wentworth Place. Wednesday October 27th, 1819. Dear Severn. Either your joke about staying at home is a very old one, or I really called. I don't remember doing so. I'm glad to hear you have finished the picture, and are more anxious to see it than I have time to spare. For I've been so very lax, unemployed, unmariddient, and objectless these two months, that even I grudge indulging. And that is no great indulgence, considering the lecture is not over till nine, and the lecture room seven miles from Wentworth Place. Myself, by going to Hazlitz Lecture. If you have hours to the amount of abrasive dozens to throw away, you may sleep nine of them here in your little crib, and chat the rest. When your picture is up, and in a good light, I shall make a point of meeting you at the academy, if you will let me know when. If you should be at the lecture tomorrow evening, I shall see you, and congratulate you heartily. Hazlam, I know, is very beadle to an amorous sigh. Your sincere friend, John Keats. End of Letter 124. Letter 125. Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. Edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To John Taylor. Wentworth Place. Hampstead. November 17th, 1819. My dear Taylor, I have come to a determination not to publish anything 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 marvellous is the most enticing, and the surest guarantee of harmonious numbers, I have been endeavouring 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 be chaucer than aryostal. 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 colouring of St. Agnes Eve throughout a poem in which character and sentiment would be the figures to such drapery. Two or three such poems, if God should spare me, written in the course of the next six years, would be a famous greatest ad penas sur multisimum. 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 twice talked of appears a promising one, the Earl of Leicester's history. I am this morning reading Holland Shed's Elizabeth. You had some books a while ago you promised to send me, illustrative of my subject. If you can lay hold of them, or any others which may be serviceable to me, I know you will encourage my low spirited muse by sending them. Or rather, by letting me know where our errant cart man shall call with my little box. I will endeavour to set myself selfishly at work on this poem that is to be Your Sincere Friend, John Keats, End of Letter 125 Letter 126 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wednesday Mourn, November 17, 1819 My dear Fanny, I received your letter yesterday evening and will obey it tomorrow. I would come today, but I have been to town so frequently on George's business it makes me wish to employ today at Hampstead. So I say Thursday without fail. I have no news at all entertaining, and if I had I should not have time to tell them as I wish to send this by the morning post. Your affectionate brother, John. End of Letter 126 Letter 127 of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Joseph Severn. Wentworth Place, Monday Mourn, December 6, 1819 My dear Severn, I am very sorry that on Tuesday I have an appointment in the city of an undeferable nature, and Brown on the same day has some business at Guildhall. I have not been able to figure your manner of executing the cave of despair. Footnote. Spencer's cave of despair was the subject of the picture, with which Severn won the Royal Academy Premium awarded December 10 of this year. End of Footnote. Therefore it will be at any rate a novelty and surprise to me, I trust on the right side. I shall call upon you some morning shortly, early enough to catch you before you can get out, when we will proceed to the academy. I think you must be suited with a good painting light in your bay window. I wish you to return the compliment by going with me to see a poem I have hung up for the prize in the lecture room of the Surrey Institution. I have many rivals. The most threatening are an ode to Lord Castle Ray, and a new series of hymns for the new New Jerusalem Chapel. You had best put me in your cave of despair. Ever yours sincerely, John Keats. End of Letter 127. Letter 128. Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. Edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To James Rice. Wentworth Place, December 1819. My dear Rice. As I want the coat on my back amended, I would be obliged if you would send me the one brown left at your house by the bearer. During your late contest I had regular reports of you, how that your time was completely taken up and your health improving. I shall call in the course of a few days and see whether your promotion has made any difference in your behaviour to us. I suppose Reynolds has given you an account of Brown and Elliston. As he has not rejected our tragedy, I shall not venture to call him directly a fool. But as he wishes to put it off till next season, I cannot help thinking him a little better than a nave. That it will not be acted this season is yet uncertain. Perhaps we may give it another furbish and try it at Covent Garden. To do one's heart good to see McCready at Ludoff. If you do not see me soon, it will be from the humour of writing, which I have had for three days continuing. I must say to the muses what the maid says to the man, take me while the fit is on me. Ever yours sincerely, John Keats. End of Letter 128. Letter 129 of Letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This labor box recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place, Monday morning, December 20th, 1819. My dear Fanny, when I saw you last, you asked me whether you should see me again before Christmas. You would have seen me if I had been quite well. I have not, though not unwell enough to have prevented me. Not indeed at all. But fearful lest the weather should affect my throat, which on exertion or cold continually threatens me. By the advice of my doctor I have had a warm, great coat made, and have ordered some thick shoes. So furnished I shall be with you if it holds a little fine before Christmas day. I have been very busy since I saw you, especially the last week, and shall be for some time in preparing some poems to come out in the spring, and also in brightening the interest of our tragedy. Of the tragedy I can give you but news semi-good. It is accepted at Jury Lane with the promise of coming out next season. As that will be too long a delay, we have determined to get Eliston to bring it out this season, or to transfer it to Covent Garden. This Eliston will not like, as we have every motive to believe that Keen has perceived how suitable the principal character will be for him. My hopes of success in the literary world are now better than ever. Mr. Abbey, on my calling on him lately, appeared anxious that I should apply myself to something else. He mentioned tea brokerage. I suppose he might perhaps mean to give me the brokerage of his concern, which might be executed with little trouble and a good profit. And therefore said, I should have no objection to it, especially as at the same time it occurred to me that I might make over the business to George. I questioned him about it a few days after. His mind takes odd turns. When I became a suitor, he became coy. He did not seem so much inclined to serve me. He described what I should have to do in the progress of business. It will not suit me. I have given it up. I have not heard again from George, which rather disappoints me as I wished here before I make any fresh remittance of his property. I received a note from Mrs. Dilk a few days ago inviting me to dine with her on Christmas Day, which I shall do. Mr. Brown and I go on in our old dog trot of breakfast, dinner—not tea, for we have left that off— supper, sleep, confab, stirring the fire and reading. Whilst I was in the country last summer, Mrs. Bentley tells me, a woman in mourning called on me, and talked something of an antivars. I'm so careless a fellow I did not inquire, but will particularly. On Tuesday I am going to hear some school boys speachify on Breaking Up Day. I'll lay you a pocket piece we shall have. My name is Norval. I have not yet looked for the letter you mentioned, as it is mixed up in a box full of papers. You must tell me, if you can recollect, the subject of it. This moment Bentley brought a letter from George for me to deliver to Mrs. Wiley. I shall see her and it before I see you. The direction was in his best hand, written with a good pen and sealed with a tassie's Shakespeare, such as I gave you. We judge of people's hearts by their countenances. May we not judge of letters in the same way? If so, the letter does not contain unpleasant news. Good or bad spirits have an effect on the handwriting. This direction is at least unnervous and healthy. Our sister is also well, or George would have made strange work with K's and W's. The little baby is well, or he would have formed precious vowels and consonants. He sent off the letter in a hurry, or the mailbag was rather a warm berth, or he has worn out his seal, for the Shakespeare's head is flattened a little. This is close, muggy weather, as they say at the ale houses. I am ever my dear sister, yours affectionately, John Keats. End of letter 129. Letter 130 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place, Wednesday, December 22nd, 1819. My dear Fanny, I wrote to you a letter directed Walthamstow the day before yesterday, wherein I promised to see you before Christmas Day. I am sorry to say I have been and continue rather unwell, and therefore shall not be able to promise certainly. I have not seen Mrs. Wiley's letter. Excuse, my dear Fanny, this very shabby note. Your affectionate brother, John. End of letter 130. Letter 131 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 George Anna Keats, Thursday, January 13, 1820. My dear sister, by the time you receive this, your trouble will be over. I wish you knew they were half over. I mean that George is safe in England and in good health. To write to you by him is almost like following one's own letter in the mail. That it may not be quite so, I will leave common intelligence out of the question, and write wide of him as I can. I fear I must be dull, having had no good-natured flip from Fortune's finger since I saw you, in no side-way comfort and success of my friends. I could almost promise that if I had the means I would accompany George back to America and pay you a visit of a few months. I should not think much of the time or my absence for my books, or I have no right to think, for I am very idle. But then I ought to be diligent and at least keep myself within the reach of materials for diligence. Diligence, that I do not mean to say, I should say dreaming over my books, or rather other people's books. George has promised to bring you to England when the five years have elapsed. I regret very much that I should not be able to see you before that time, and even then I must hope that your affairs will be in so prosperous a way as to induce you to stop longer. Yours is a heartish fate to be so divided among your friends and settled among a people you hate. You will find it to improve. You have a heart that will take hold of your children. Even George's absence will make things better. His return will banish what must be your greatest sorrow, and at the same time minor ones with it. Robinson Crusoe, when he saw himself in danger of perishing on the waters, looked back to his island as to the haven of his happiness, and on gaining it once more, was more content with his solitude. We smoke George about his little girl. He runs the common beaten road of every father, as I dare say you do of every mother. There is no child like his child so original, original forsooth. However, I take you at your words. I have a lively faith that yours is the very gem of all children. Ain't I its uncle? On Henry's marriage there was a piece of bright cake sent to me. It missed its way. I suppose the carrier coachman was a conjurer and wanted it for his own private use. Last Sunday George and I dined at Milar's. There were your mother and Charles with Fool Lacon Esquire, who sent the sly, disinterested Shaw to Miss Milar, with his own heathen name engraved in the middle. Charles had a silk handkerchief belonging to Miss Grover, with whom he pretended to be smitten, and for her sake kept exhibiting and adoring the handkerchief all the evening. Fool Lacon Esquire treated it with a little venturesome, trembling catumaly. Whereupon Charles set him quietly down on the floor from where he has quietly got up. This process was repeated at supper time when your mother said, If I were you, Mr. Lacon, I would not let him do so. Fool Lacon Esquire did not offer any remark. He will undoubtedly die in his bed. Your mother did not look quite so well on Sunday. Mrs. Henry Wiley is excessively quiet before people. I hope she is always so. Yesterday we dined to Taylor's and Fleet Street. George left early after dinner to go to Depford. He will make all Square there for me. I could not go with him. I did not like the amusement. Haslam is a very good fellow indeed. He has been excessively anxious and kind to us. But is this fair? He has an Inna Morata at Depford, and he has been wanting me for some time past to see her. This is a thing which it is impossible not to shirk. A man is like a magnet. He must have repelling end. So how am I to see Haslam's lady and family if I even went? For by the time I got to Greenwich I should have repelled them to Blackheath. By the time I got to Depford they would be on Shooter's Hill. When I came to Shooter Hill they would alight at Chatham and so on till I drove them into the sea, which I think might be inviolable. The evening before yesterday we had a Pianta Forte hop at Dilks. There was very little amusement in the room, but a Scotchman to hate. Some people, you must have observed, have a most unpleasant effect upon you when you see them speaking in profile. The Scotchman 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, not quite so bad, for he was as clean as he could get himself. Not having succeeded in juror relaying with our tragedy, we have been making some alterations and are about to try Convict Garden. Brown has just done patching up the copy, as it is altered. The reliance I had on it was in Keen's acting. I'm not afraid it will be damned in the garden. You said in one of your letters that there was nothing but hadening company in mind. There can be nothing of him in this, for I never see him or company. George has introduced us to an American of the name of Hart. I like him in a moderate way. He was at Mrs. Dilks' party and sitting by me. We began talking about English and American ladies. The Miss Blank and some of their friends made a not very enticing row opposite us. I bade him mark them and formed his judgment of them. I told him I hated Englishmen because they were the only men I knew. He does not understand this. Who would be Braga Dochio to Johnny Bull? Johnny's house is his castle and a precious doll castle it is. What a many bull castles there are in so and so crescent. I never wish myself an unversed writer and newsmonger but one I write to you. I should like for a day or two to have somebody's knowledge, Mr. Lay Kahn's for instance, of all the different folks of a wide acquaintance to tell you about. Only let me have his knowledge of family minutia and I would set them in a proper light. But bless me, I never go anywhere. My pen is no more guirless than my tongue. Any third person would think I was addressing myself to a lover of scandal. But we know we do not love scandal, but fun. And if scandal happens to be fun, that is no fault of ours. There are very good pickings for me in George's letters about the prairie settlement. If I had any taste to turn them to account in England, I knew a friend of Miss Andrews, yet I never mentioned her to him. For after I had read the letter I really did not recollect her story. Now I have been sitting here half an hour with my invention at work to say something about your mother or Charles or Henry, but it is in vain. I know not what to say. Three nights since George went with your mother to the play. I hope she will soon see mine acted. I do not remember ever to have thanked you for your tassels to my Shakespeare. There he hangs, so ably supported opposite me. I thank you now. It is a continual momentum of you. If you should have a boy, do not christen him, John, and persuade George not to let his partiality for me come across. Tis a bad name, and goes against a man. If my name had been Edmund, I should have been more fortunate. I was surprised to hear of the state of society at Louisville. It seems to me you are just as ridiculous there as we are here. Three penny parties, half penny dances. The best thing I have heard of is your shooting, for it seems you follow the gun. Give my compliments to Mrs. Audubon, and tell her I cannot think her either good-looking or honest. Tell Mr. Audubon he is a fool, and brigs that tis well I was not, Mr. A. Saturday, January 15. It is strange that George, having to stop so short a time in England, I should not have seen him for nearly two days. He has been to Haslam's, and does not encourage me to follow his example. He had given promise to Dine with the same party tomorrow, but he has sent an excuse which I am glad of, as we shall have a pleasant party with us tomorrow. We expect Charles here today. This is a beautiful day. This is a beautiful day. I hope you will not quarrel with it, if I call it an American one. The sun comes upon the snow, and makes a prettier candy than we have on twelfth-night cakes. George is busy this morning and making copies of my verses. He is making one now of an ode to the Nightingale, which is like reading an account of the black hole at Calcutta on an iceberg. You will say this is a matter of course. I am glad it is. I mean that I should like your brothers more the more I know them. I should spend much more time with them if our lives are more run in parallel. But we can talk, but on one subject, that is you. The more I know of men, the more I know how to value entire liberality in any of them. Thank God, there are great many who will sacrifice their worldly interests for a friend. I wish there were more who would sacrifice their passions. The worst of men are those whose self-interest are their passion. The next, those whose passions are their self-interest. Upon the hole I dislike mankind. Whatever people on the other side of the question may advance, they cannot deny that they are always surprised at a hearing of a good action, and never of a bad one. I am glad you have something to like in America. Doves. Gertrude of Wyoming in Birkbeck's book should be bound up together like a brace of decoy ducks. One is almost as poetical as the other. Precious, miserable people at the prairie. I have been sitting in the sun whilst I wrote this til it has become quite oppressive. This is very odd for January. The Vulcan fire is the true natural heat for winter. The sun has nothing to do in winter but to give a little blooming light much like a shade. Our Irish servant has peaked me this morning by saying that her father in Ireland was very much like my Shakespeare, only he had more color than the engraving. You will find in George's return that I have not been neglecting your affairs. The delay was unfortunate, not faulty. Perhaps by this time you have received my last three letters, not one of which had reached before George's sale, I would give two pence to have been over the world as much as he has. I wish I had money enough to do nothing but travel about for years. Were you now in England, I dare say you would be able, setting aside the pleasure you would have in seeing your mother, to suck out more amusement for society than I am able to do. To me it is all as dull here as Louisville could be. I am tired of the theatres. Almost all the parties I may chance to fall into, I know by heart. I know the different styles of talk in different places. What subjects will be started? How will proceed like an acted play from the first to the last act? If I go to Hans, I run my head into many tunes heard before, old puns and old music. To Haydn's, worn out discourses of poetry and painting. The miss, blank, I am afraid to speak to, for fear of some sickly reiteration of phrase or sentiment. When they were at the dance the other night, I tried manfully to sit near and talk to them, but to no purpose, and if I had, it would have been to no purpose still. My question or observation must have been an old one, and they rejoined her very antique indeed. At Delix, I fall foul of politics. It is best to remain aloof from people, and like their good parts, without being eternally troubled, with the dull process of their everyday lives. When once a person has smoked the vapidness of the routine of society, he must either have self-interest or the love of some sort of distinction to keep him in good humor with it. All I can say is that, standing at Charon Cross, and looking east, west, north, and south, I can see nothing but dullness. I hope while I am young to live retired in the country. When I grow in years and have a right to be idle, I shall enjoy cities more. If the American ladies are worse than the English, they must be very bad. You say you should like your Emily brought up here. You would better bring her up yourself. You know a good number of English ladies. What econium could you give a half dozen of them? The greater part seemed to me downright American. I have known more than one, Mrs. Audubon. Her affectation of fashion and politeness cannot transcend ours. Look at our cheap side tradesmen, sons, and daughters. Only fit to be taken off by a plague. I hope now soon to come to the time when I shall never be forced to walk through the city and hate as I walk. Monday, January 17. George had a quick rejoinder to his letter of excuse to Haslund. So we had not his company yesterday, which I was sorry for, as there was our old set. I know three witty people all distinct in their excellence, Rice, Reynolds, and Richards. Rice is the wisest, Reynolds the playfulness, 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, I stare at the third. The first is Claret, the second ginger beer, the third creme d'bi barrapeum drag. The first is inspired by Minerva. The second by Mercury. The third by Harlequin Epigram Esquire. The first is neat in his dress. The second slovenly. The third uncomfortable. The first speaks Adagio. The second, Alegretto. The third, both together. The first is Swiftian. The second, Tom Kribian. The third, Shandian. And yet, these three eons are not three eons but one eon. Charles came on Saturday, but went early. He seems to have schemes and plans and wants to get off. He's quite right. I'm glad to see him employed at business. You remember I wrote you a story about a woman named Alice, being made young again, or some such stuff. In your next letter, tell me whether I gave it as my own, or whether I gave it as a matter Brown was employed upon at the time. He read it over to George the other day, and George said he had heard it all before. So, Brown suspects I have been giving you his story as my own. I should like to set him right in it by your evidence. George is not returned from town. When he does, I shall tax his memory. We had a young, long, raw, lean Scotchman with us yesterday called Thornton. Rice, for fun or for mistake, would persist in calling him Stevenson. I know three people of no width at all, each distinct in his excellence, A, B, and C. A is the foolishest. B is the sulkiest. C is a negative. A makes you young. B makes you hate. As for C, you never see him at all, though he was six feet high. I bear the first. I forebear the second. I'm not certain that the third is. First is Gruel, the second bitch-water. The third is Spilt. He ought to be wiped up. A is inspired by Jack of the Clock. B has been drilled by a Russian sergeant. C, they say, is not his mother's true child, but she bought him of the man who cries young lambs to sell. Twang-dillo-dee, this, you must know, is the amen to nonsense. I know of good many places where amen should be scratched out, rubbed over with a pounce made of mamo's little finger bones, and, in its place, twang-dillo-dee written. This is the word I shall be tempted to write at the end of most modern poems. Every American book ought to have it. It would be a good distinction in society. My lords Wellington and Castle Ray and Canning, and many more, would do well to wear twang-dillo-dee on their backs instead of ribbons at their buttonholes. How many people would go sideways along walls and quick-set hedges to keep their twang-dillo-dee out of sight, or wear large pigtails to hide it? However, there would be so many that the twang-dillo-dees would keep one another in countenance, which Brown cannot do for me. I have fallen away lately. These murderers would gain rank in the world, for would any of them have the porousest spirit to condense in to be a twang-dillo-dee. I have robbed many a dwelling-house. I have killed many a fowl, many a goose, and many a man, would such a gentleman say. But, thank heaven, I was never yet a twang-dillo-dee. Some philosophers in the Moon, who spied our globe as we do it theirs, say that twang-dillo-dee is written in large letters on our globe of Earth. They say the beginning of the T is just on the spot where London stands. London being built within the flourish, Juan reaches downward, and slants as far as Timbuktu in Africa. The tail of the G goes slap across the Atlantic and to the Ria della Plata. The remainder of the letters wrap around New Holland, and the last E terminates in land we have not yet discovered. However, I must be silent. These are dangerous times to libel a man in. Much more world. Friday, 27th, for 28th January, 1820. I wish you would call me names. I deserve them so much. I have only written two sheets for you to carry by George, and those I forgot to bring to town, and have therefore to forward them to Liverpool. George went this morning at six o'clock by the Liverpool coach. His being on his journey to you prevents my regretting his short stay. I have no news of any sort to tell you. Henry is wifebound in Camden Town. There is no getting him out. I am sorry, he is not a prettier wife, indeed, is a shame. She is not half a wife. I think I could find some of her relations in Buffon, or Captain Cook's voyages, or the hieroglyphics in Moore's Almanac, or upon a Chinese clock door, the shepherdesses on her own mantelpiece, or in a cruel sampler in which she may find herself worsted, or in a Dutch toy shop window, or one of the daughters in the Ark, or any picture shop window. As I intend to retire into the country, where there will be no sort of news, I shall not be able to write you very long letters. Besides, I am afraid the postage comes to too much, which till now I have not been aware of. People in military bands are generally seriously occupied. None may or can laugh at their work, but the kettle drum, long drum, do triangle in symbols. Thinking you might want a rat catcher, I put your mother's old Quaker-colored cat into the top of your bonnet. She's with Kitten, so you may expect to find a whole family. I hope the family will not grow too large for its lodging. I shall send you a close written sheet on the first of next month, but for fear of missing the Liverpool Post, I must finish here. God bless you and your little girl. Your affectionate brother, John Keats. End of letter 131. Letter 132 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place Sunday morning, February 6th, 1820. My dear sister, I should not have sent those letters without some notice if Mr. Brown had not persuaded me against it, on account of an illness with which I was attacked on Thursday. Footnote. Hemorrhage from the lungs, in which Keats recognized his death warrant, and after which the remainder of his life was but that of a doomed invalid. End footnote. After that, I was resolved not to write till I should be on the mending hand. Thank God, I am now so. From imprudently leaving off my great coat in the thaw, I caught a cold which flew to my lungs. Every remedy that has been applied has taken the desired effect and I have nothing now to do but to stay with indoors for some time. If I should be confined long, I shall write to Mr. Abbey to ask permission for you to visit me. George has been running great chance of a similar attack, but I hope the seer will be his physician in case of illness. The air out at sea is always more temperate than on land. George mentioned in his letters to us something of Mr. Abbey's regret, concerning the silence kept up in his house. It is entirely the fault of his manner. You must be careful always to wear warm clothing, not only in frost but in thaw. I have no news to tell you. The half-built houses opposite us stand just as they were and seem dying of old age before they are brought up. The grass looks very dingy, the celery is all gone, and there is nothing to enliven one but a few cabbage stalks that seem fixed on the superannuated list. Mrs. Dilk has been ill, but is better. Several of my friends have been to see me. Mrs. Reynolds was here this morning, and the two Mr. Wiley's. Brown has been very alert about me, though a little wheezy himself, this weather. Everybody is ill. Yesterday evening Mr. Davenport, a gentleman of Hampstead, sent me an invitation to supper, instead of his coming to see us, having so bad a cold he cannot stir out. So, you see, it is the weather, and I am among a thousand. Whenever you have an inflammatory fever, never mind about eating. The day on which I was getting ill, I felt this fever to a great height, and therefore almost entirely abstained from food the whole day. I have no doubt experienced a benefit from so doing. The papers I see are full of anecdotes of the late king, how he nodded to a cold heaver and laughed with a Quaker, and liked to boil a leg of mutton. Old Peter Pindar is just dead. What will the old king and he say to each other? Perhaps the king may confess that Peter was in the right, and Peter maintained himself to have been wrong. You shall hear from me again on Tuesday. Your affectionate brother, John. Wentworth Place, Tuesday morn, February 8th, 1820. My dear Fanny. I had a slight return of fever last night, which terminated favorably, and I am now tolerably well, though weak from the small quantity of food to which I am obliged to confine myself. I am sure a mouse would starve upon it. Mrs. Wiley came yesterday. I have a very pleasant room for a sick person. A sofa-bed is made up for me in the front parlor, which looks onto the grass-plot, as you remember Mrs. Dilks does. How much more comfortable than a dull room upstairs, where one gets tired of the pattern of the bed curtains. Besides, I see all that passes. For instance, now this morning, if I had been in my own room, I should not have seen the coals brought in. On Sunday, between the hours of twelve and one, I described a pot boy. I conjectured it might be the one o'clock beer. Old women with bobbins and red cloaks and unpresuming bonnets, I see creeping about the heath. Chipsies after hair-skins and silver spoons. Then goes by a fellow with a wooden clock under his arm that strikes a hundred and more. Then comes the old French emigrant, who has been very well-to-do in France, with his hands joined behind on his hips, and his face full of political schemes. Then passes Mr. David Lewis, a very good-natured, good-looking old gentleman, who has been very kind to Tom and George and me. As for those fellows, the brick-makers, they're always passing to and fro. I mustn't forget the two old maiden ladies in Wellwalk, who have a lap-dog between them, that they are very anxious about. It is a corpulent little beast, whom it is necessary to coax along with an ivory-tipped cane. Carlo, our neighbor Mrs. Brown's dog, and it, meet sometimes. Lappy thinks Carlo a devil of a fellow, and so do his mistresses. Well, they may, he would sweep them all down at a run. All for the joke of it. I shall desire him to peruse the fable of the boys and the frogs, though he prefers the tongues and the bones. You shall hear from me again the day after tomorrow. Your affectionate brother, John Keats. End of letter 133, letter 134, of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place, February 11th, 1820. My dear Fanny, I am much the same as when I last wrote. I hope a little more verging towards improvement. Yesterday morning being very fine, I took a walk for a quarter of an hour in the garden and was very much refreshed by it. You must consider no news, good news, if you do not hear from me the day after tomorrow. Your affectionate brother, John. End of letter 134, letter 135, of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place, Monday morning, February 14th, 1820. My dear Fanny, I am improving, but very gradually, and suspect it will be a long while before I shall be able to walk six miles. The sun appears half inclined to shine. If he obliges us, I shall take a turn in the garden this morning. No one from town has visited me since my last. I have had so many presents of jam and jellies that they would reach side by side the length of the sideboard. I hope I shall be well before it is all consumed. I am vexed that Mr. Abbey will not allow you pocket money sufficient. He has not behaved well. But detaining money from me and George, when we most wanted it, he has increased our expenses. In consequence of such delay, George was obliged to take his voyage to England, which will be a hundred and fifty pounds out of his pocket. I enclose you a note. You shall hear from me again the day after tomorrow. Your affectionate brother, John. End of letter 135, letter 136 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To James Rice. Wentworth Place, February 16th, 1820. My dear Rice, I have not been well enough to make any tolerable rejoinder to your kind letter. I will, as you advise, be very cherry 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 passionate feeling, or if I turned diversify, that acervated the poison of either sensation, the beauties of nature had lost their power over me. How astonishingly, here I must premise that illness, as far as I can judge in so short a time, has relieved my 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 false staff, 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 I had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the happiest moments of our lives. I have seen foreign flowers in the 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 and a saw-pit or wagon, but if you ever catch me on a stagecoach in the winter full against the wind, bring me down with a brace of bullets, and I promise not to peach. Remember me to Reynolds, and say how much I should like to hear from him, that Brown returned immediately after he went on Sunday, and that I was vexed at forgetting 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. End of letter 136. Letter 137 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. February 19th, 1820. My dear Fanny, being confined almost entirely to vegetable food and the weather being at the same time so much against me, I cannot say I have much improved since I wrote last. The doctor tells me there are no dangerous symptoms about me, and quietness of mind and fine weather will restore me. Mind my advice to be very careful to wear warm clothing in a thaw. I will write again on Tuesday when I hope to send you good news. Your affectionate brother, John. End of letter 137. Letter 138 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. February 23rd or 25th, 1820. My dear Reynolds, I have been improving since you saw me. My nights are better, which I think is a very encouraging thing. You mention you're cold and rather too sliding a manner. If you travel outside, have some flannel against the wind, which I hope will not keep on at this rate when you are in a packet boat. Should it rain, do not stop upon deck, though the passengers should vomit themselves inside out, keep under hatches from all sorts of wet. I am pretty well provided with books at present. When you return, I may give you a commission or two. Mr. B. C. has sent me, not only his Sicilian story, but yesterday his dramatic scenes. This is very polite, and I shall do what I can to make him sensible, I think so. I confess, they tease me. They are composed of Amy Ability, the seasons, the leaves, the moons, etc., upon which he rings, according to Hunt's expression, triple Bob Majors. However, that is nothing. I think he likes poetry for its own sake, not his. I hope I shall soon be well enough to proceed with my fairies and set you about the notes on Sundays and stray days. If I had been well enough, I should have liked to cross the water with you. Brown wishes you a pleasant voyage, have fish for dinner at the seaports, and don't forget a bottle of claret. You will not meet with so much to hate at Brussels, as at Paris. Remember me to all my friends? If I were well enough, I would paraphrase an ode of horses for you, on your embarking in the seventy years ago style. The packet will bear a comparison with a Roman galley at any rate. Ever yours affectionately, Jay Keats. End of letter 138. Letter 139 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats, Wentworth Place, Thursday, February 24th, 1820. My dear Fanny, I am sorry to hear you have been so unwell. Now you are better. Keep so. Remember to be very careful of your clothing. This climate requires the utmost care. There has been very little alteration in me lately. I am much the same as when I wrote last. When I am well enough to return to my old diet, I shall get stronger. If my recovery should be delayed long, I will ask Mr. Abbey to let you visit me. Keep up your spirits as well as you can. You shall hear soon again from me, your affectionate brother, John. End of letter 139. Letter 140 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Wentworth Dilk, Hamsted, March 4th, 1820. My dear Dilk, since I saw you, I have been gradually, too gradually, perhaps, improving. And though under an interdict with respect to animal food, living upon pseudo-victuals, Brown says I have picked up a little flesh lately. If I can keep off inflammation for the next six weeks, I trust I shall do very well. You certainly should have been at Martin's dinner, for making an index as surely as dull work as engraving. Have you heard that the bookseller is going to tie himself to the manger, eat or not, as he pleases? He says Rice shall have his foot on the fender, notwithstanding. Reynolds is going to sail on the salt seas. Brown has been mightily progressing with his Hogarth. A damned and 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 first published book to Hunt for me. Hunt forgot to give it, and Barry Cornwall, 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 the first, he sent me that also. I am sorry to see by Mrs. D's note that she has been so unwell with his spasms. Does she continue the medicines that benefited her so much? I am afraid not. Remember me to her, and say I shall not expect her at Hampstead next week, unless the weather changes for the warmer. It is better to run no chance of a supernumeric 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 of it looks well. No, that is not the worst. The worst is it is worse than Bailey. Bailey's looks illegible, and may perchance be read. Yours looks very legible, and may perchance not be read. I would endeavour to give you a facsimile of your word thistle would, if I were not minded on the instant that Lord Chesterfield had done some such thing to his son. Now I would not bathe in the same river with Lord See, 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. Oh, that I had two double plumpers for him. The ministry are not so inimical to him, but it would like to put him out of coventry. Casting my eye on the other side, I see a long word written in a most vile manner unbecoming our critic. You must recollect, I have served no apprenticeship to old plays, if the only copies of the Greek and Latin authors had been made by you, Bailey and Hayden 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 may be known by the average goodness of said, 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 Shakespeare's. Your sincere friend, John Keith's, End of Letter One Hundred and Forty Letter One Hundred and Forty One of Letters of John Keith's to His Family and Friends edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keith's, March 20, 1820. My dear Fanny, according to your desire, I write today. It must be but a few lines, for I have been attacked several times with a palpitation at the heart, and the doctor says I must not make the slightest exertion. I am much the same today as I have been for a week past. They say it is nothing but debility, and will entirely cease on my recovery of my strength, which is the object of my present diet. As the doctor will not suffer me to write, I shall ask Mr. Brown to let you hear news of me for the future, if I should not get stronger soon. I hope I shall be well enough to come and see your flowers in bloom. Ever your most affectionate brother, John. End of Letter One Hundred and Forty One Letter One Hundred and Forty Two of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keith's, Wentworth Place, April 1, 1820. My dear Fanny, I am getting better every day, and should think myself quite well, where I not reminded every now and then by faintness and a tightness in the chest. Send your spaniel over to Hampstead, for I think I know where to find a master or mistress for him. You may depend upon it. If you were even to turn it loose in the common road, it would soon find an owner. If I keep improving as I have done, I shall be able to come over to you in a course of a few weeks. I should take the advantage of your being in town, but I cannot bear the city, although I have already ventured as far as the west end for the purpose of seeing Mr. Hayden's picture, which is just finished and has made its appearance. I have not heard from George yet since he left Liverpool. Mr. Brown wrote to him, as from me the other day. Mr. B wrote two letters to Mr. Abbey concerning me. Mr. A took no notice, and of course Mr. B must give up such a correspondence when, as the man said, all the letters are on one side. I write with greater ease than I thought, therefore you shall soon hear from me again. Your affectionate brother, John, end of letter 142. Letter 143. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. April 1820. My dear Fanny, Mr. Brown is waiting for me to take a walk. Mrs. Dilk is on a visit next door, and desires her love to you. The dog shall be taken care of, and for his name I shall go and look in the parish register where he was born. I still continue on the mending hand. Your affectionate brother, John, end of letter 143. Letter 144. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place, April 12, 1820. My dear Fanny, excuse these shabby scraps of paper I send you, and also from endeavoring to give you any consolation, just at present. For though my health is tolerably well, I am too nervous to enter into any discussion, in which my heart is concerned. Wait patiently and take care of your health, being especially careful to keep yourself from low spirits, which are great enemies to health. You are young, and have only need of a little patience. I am not yet able to bear the fatigue of coming to Walthamstow, though I have been to town once or twice. I have thought of taking a change of air. You shall hear from me immediately on my moving anywhere. I will ask Mrs. Dilk to pay you a visit, if the weather holds fine, the first time I see her. The dog is being attended to like a prince. Your affectionate brother, John. End of Letter 144. Letter 145. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Hampstead, April 21st, 1820. My dear Fanny, I have been slowly improving since I wrote last. The doctor assures me that there is nothing the matter with me, except nervous irritability and the general weakness of the whole system, which has proceeded from my anxiety of mind of late years, and the too great excitement of poetry. Mr. Brown is going to Scotland by the smack, and I am advised for change of exercise and air to accompany him and give myself the chance of benefit from a voyage. Mr. H. Wiley called on me yesterday with a letter from George to his mother. George is safe at the other side of the water, perhaps by this time arrived at his home. I wish you were coming to town that I might see you, if you should be coming right to me, as it is quite a trouble to get by the coaches to Walthamstow. Should you not come to town, I must see you before I sail at Walthamstow. They tell me I must study lines and tangents and squares and angles to put a little ballast into my mind. We shall be going in a fortnight, and therefore you will see me within that space. I expected sooner, but I have not been able to venture to walk across the country. Now the fine weather has come, you will not find your time so irksome. You must be sensible, how much I regret not being able to alleviate the unpleasantness of your situation, but trust, my dear Fanny, that better times are in wait for you. Your affectionate brother, John. Thursday, May 4th, 1820. My dear Fanny, I went for the first time into the city the day before yesterday. For before I was very disinclined to encounter the scuffle, more from nervousness than real illness, which notwithstanding I should not have suffered to conquer me, if I had not made up my mind not to go to Scotland, but to remove to Kentish town till Mr. Brown returns. Kentish town is a mile nearer to you than Hampstead, I have been getting gradually better, but I'm not so well as to trust myself to the casualties of rain and sleeping out which I am liable to in visiting you. Mr. Brown goes on Saturday, and by that time I shall have settled into my new lodging, when I will certainly venture to you. You will forgive me, I hope, when I confess that I endeavour to think of you as little as possible, and to let George dwell upon my mind, but slightly, the reason being, that I am afraid to ruminate on anything which has the shade of difficulty or melancholy in it, as that sort of cogitation is so pernicious to health, and it is only by health that I can be unable to alleviate your situation in future. For some time you must do what you can of yourself, for relief, and bear your mind up with the consciousness that your situation cannot last forever, and that for the present you may console yourself against the reproaches of Mrs. Abbey. Whatever obligations you may have had to her, you have none now as she has reproached you. I do not know what property you have, but I will inquire into it. Be sure, however, that beyond the obligation that a lodger may have to a landlord, you have none to Mrs. Abbey. Let the surety of this make you laugh at Mrs. A's foolish tattle. Mrs. Stilk's brother has got your dog. She is now very well, still liable to illness. I will get her to come and see you if I can make up my mind on the propriety of introducing a stranger into Abbey's house. Be careful to let no fretting injure your health as I have suffered it. Health is the greatest of blessings. With health and hope we should be content to live, and so you will find as you grow older. I am, my dear Fanny, your affectionate brother. John. End of Letter 146. Letter 147. Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. Edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Wentworth Dilk. Hampstead, May 1820. My dear Dilk. As brown as 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 Indian Man—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. End of Letter 147. Letter 148. Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. Edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To John Taylor. Wesley in Place, Kentishtown, June 11, 1820. My dear Taylor. In reading over the proof of St. Agnes' Eve since I left Fleet Street, I was struck with what appears to be an 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. To as originally written, her maiden eyes divine fixed on the floor, some many a sweeping train pass by. My meaning is quite destroyed in the alteration. I do not use train for concourse of passersby, but for skirts sweeping along the floor. In the first stanza my copy reads, second line, bit or chill it was, to avoid the echo cold in the second line. Ever yours sincerely, John Keats. End of Letter 148. Letter 149. Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. Edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Brown. Wesley in Place, Kentishtown, June 1820. My dear Brown. I have only been to Blanks once since you left. When Blank 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 succeeding, I shall try what I can do in the apothecary line. When you hear from me or see, Blank, it is probable you will hear some complaints 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 society. I could go and accommodate matters if I were not too weary of the world. I know they are more happy and comfortable than I am. Therefore why should I trouble myself about it? I foresee I shall know very few people in the course of a year or two. Men get such different habits, that they become as oil and vinegar to one another. Thus far I have a consciousness of having been pretty dull and heavy, both in subject and phrase. I might add, enigmatic. I am in the wrong, and the world is in the right. I have no doubt. Fact is, I have had so many kindnesses done me by so many people, that I am chavauds-freezed with benefits, which I must jump over or break down. I met Blank in town a few days ago, who invited me to supper to meet Wordsworth, Suthi, Lam, Hayden, 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 Palma of the old English portraits by Van Dyke and Holbin, Sir Peter Leely, and the great Sir Godfrey. Pleasant countenances predominate, so I will mention two or three unpleasant ones. There is James I, whose appearance would disgrace a society for the suppression of women, so very squalid and subdued to nothing he looks. Then there is Old Lord Burley, the high priest of economy, the political save-all, who has the appearance of a Pharisee just rebuffed by a gospel bommel. Then there is George II, very like an unintellectual Voltaire, troubled with a gout and a bad temper. Then there is Young Devereux, the favorite, with every appearance of a slang a boxer as any in the court. His face is cast in the mold of blagodism with jockey plaster. I shall soon begin upon Lucy von Lloyd. Footnote. The cap and bells was to have appeared under the pseudonym. End footnote. I do not begin composition yet, being willing, in case of a relapse, to have nothing to reproach 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 you. Good morning to you, yours ever sincerely, John Keats. End of Letter 149. Letter 150. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Friday morning, Wesleyan Place, Kentish Town, June 26, 1820. My dear Fanny, I had intended to delay seeing you till a book which I am now publishing was out. Footnote. The volume containing Lamia Isabella, the eve of St. Agnes, Hyperion and the Odes. End footnote. Expecting that to be the end of this week when I would have brought it to Alpomstow. On receiving your letter, of course, I set myself to come to town, but was not able. For just as I was setting out yesterday morning, a slight spitting of blood came on which returned rather more copiously at night. I have slept well, and they tell me there is nothing material to fear. I will send my book soon with a letter, which I have had from George, who is with his family quite well. Your affectionate brother, John. End of letter 150. Letter 151. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends. Edited by Sydney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Mortimer Terrace. Footnote. After the attack last mentioned, Keats went to be taken care of in Hunt's house, and stayed there till August 12th. End footnote. Wednesday, July 5th, 1820. My dear Fanny. I have had no return of the spitting of blood, and for two or three days have been getting a little stronger. I have no hopes of an entire re-establishment of my health under some months of patience. My physician tells me I must contrive to pass the winter in Italy. This is all very unfortunate for us. We have no recourse but patience. Which I am now practicing better than ever I thought it possible for me. I have this moment received a letter from Mr. Brown, dated Dunviggan Castle, Isle of Skye. He is very well in health and spirits. My new publication has been out for some days, and I have directed a copy to be bound for you, which you will receive shortly. No one can regret Mr. Hodgkinson's ill fortune. I must own. Illness has not made such a saint of me as to prevent my rejoicing at his reverse. Keep yourself in as good hopes as possible. In case my illness should continue in unreasonable time, many of my friends would I trust for my sake to do all in their power to console and amuse you at the least word for me. You may depend upon it, that in case my strength returns I will do all in my power to extricate you from the abbeys. Be above all things careful of your health, which is the cornerstone of all pleasure, your affectionate brother, John. End of Letter 151. Letter 152. 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, Mortimer Terrace, July 1820. My dear Hayden, I am sorry to be obliged to try your patience a few more days when you will have the book, footnote, Chapman's Homer, and footnote, sent from town. I am glad to hear you are in progress with another picture. Go on, I am afraid I shall pop off just when my mind is able to run alone. Your sincere friend, John Keats. End of Letter 152. Letter 153. Of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Mortimer Terrace, July 22nd, 1820. My dear Fanny, I have been gaining strength for some days. It would be well if I could at the same time say I am gaining hopes of a speedy recovery. My constitution has suffered very much for two or three years past, so as to be scarcely able to make head against illness, which the natural activity and impatience of my mind renders more dangerous. It will at all events be a very tedious affair, and you must expect to hear very little alteration of any sort in me for some time. You ought to have received a copy of my book ten days ago. I shall send another message to the booksellers. One of Mr. Wiley's will be here today or tomorrow when I will ask him to send you George's letter. Writing the smallest note is so annoying to me that I have waited till I shall see him. Mr. Hunt does everything in his power to make the time passes agreeably with me as possible. I read the greatest part of the day, and generally take two half-hour walks a day up and down the terrace, which is very much pestured with cries, ballad singers, and street music. We have been so unfortunate for so long a time. Every event has been of so depressing a nature that I must persuade myself to think some change will take place in the aspect of our affairs. I shall be upon the lookout for a trump card. Your affectionate brother, John, end of letter 153, letter 154, of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats, Wentworth Place, August 14, 1820. My dear Fanny, tis a long time since I received your last. An accident of an unpleasant nature occurred at Mr. Hunt's and prevented me from answering you. That is to say, made me nervous. That you may not suppose it worse, I will mention that someone of Mr. Hunt's household opened a letter of mine, upon which I immediately left Mortimer Terrace, with the intention of taking to Mrs. Bentley's again. Fortunately, I am not in so low in a situation, but I'm staying a short time with Mrs. Braun, who lives in the house which was Mrs. Dilks. I am excessively nervous. A person I am not quite used to entering the room half-chokes me. Tis not yet consumption, I believe. But it would be were I to remain in this climate all the winter, so I am thinking of either voyaging or traveling to Italy. Yesterday I received an invitation from Mr. Shelley, a gentleman residing at Pisa, to spend the winter with him. If I go, I must be away in a month or even less. I'm glad you like the poems. You must hope with me that time and health will produce you some more. This is the first morning that I have been able to sit to the paper and have many letters to write, if I can manage them. God bless you, my dear sister. Your affectionate brother, John. End of letter 154. Letter 155. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends. Edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Percy Bish Shelley. Wentworth Place, Hampstead, August 1820. My dear Shelley, I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country and with a mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to prophecy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore I must either voyage or journey to Italy. As a soldier marches up to a battery. My nerves at present are the worst part of me. Yet they feel soothed that, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, which I would willingly take the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care as much as I have done about reputation. I received a copy of the centsci. As from yourself, from hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of, the poetry and dramatic effect, which, by many spirits nowadays, is considered the mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose, which may be the God. An artist must serve mammon. He must have self-concentration, selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity and be more of an artist and load every rift of your subject with awe. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together. And it's not this extraordinary talk for the writer of Endymion, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards. I am picked up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk. I am an expectation of Prometheus every day. Could I have my own wish affected? You would have it still in manuscript, or be but now putting an end to the second act. I remember you advising me not to publish my first blights on Hempstead Heath. I am returning advice upon your hands. Most of the poems in the volume I send you have been written above two years and would never have been published but for hope of gain. So, you see, I am inclined enough to take your advice now. I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley. In the hope of soon seeing you, I remain most sincerely yours, John Keats. End of letter 155. Letter 156. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To John Taylor. Wentworth Place. August 14, 1820. My dear Taylor. My chest is in such a nervous state that anything extra, such as speaking to an unaccustomed person or writing a note, half suffocates me. This journey to Italy wakes me at daylight every morning and haunts me horribly. I shall endeavor to go, though I be with the sensation of marching up against a battery. The first step towards it is to know the expense of a journey and a year's residence, which, if you will ascertain from 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 convinced that this sort of thing does not continue for nothing. If you can come, with any of our friends, do, your sincere friend, John Keats. End of letter 156. Letter 157. 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, Mrs. Brown's next door to Brown's, Wentworth Place, Hampstead, August 1820. My dear Hayden, I am much better this morning than I was when I wrote 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 and every day. A journey to Italy has 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. End of letter 157. Letter 158. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Brown, Wentworth Place, August 1820. My dear Brown, you may not have heard from blank or blank or in any way that an attack of spitting of blood and all its weakening 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 everything short. I shall make some confession, which you will be the only person for many reasons I shall trust with. A winter in England would I have not a doubt kill me, so I 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 arrear of letters I owe you. My book has had good success among the literary people, and I believe has a moderate sale. I have seen very few people we know. Blank has visited me more than anyone. I would go to Blank and make some inquiries after you if I could with any bearable sensation, but a person I am not quite used to causes an impression 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 kindly to me. You shall hear from me again shortly. Your affectionate friend, John Keats. End of letter 158. Letter 159. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Fanny Keats. Wentworth Place, Wednesday morning, August 23, 1820. My dear Fanny, it will give me great pleasure to see you here, if you can contrive it. Though I confess I should have written instead of calling upon you before I set out on my journey. From the wish of avoiding unpleasant partings. Meantime I will just notice some parts of your letter. The seal-breaking business is overblown. I think no more of it. A few days ago I wrote to Mr. Brown asking him to befriend me with his company to Rome. His answer is not your come, and I do not know when it will. Not being certain how far he may be from the post-office to which my communication is addressed. Let us hope you will go with me. George certainly ought to have written to you. His troubles, anxieties, and fatigues are not quite a sufficient excuse. In the course of time you will be sure to find that this neglect is not forgetfulness. I am sorry to hear you have been so ill and in such low spirits. Now you are better. Keep so. Do not suffer your mind to dwell on unpleasant reflections. That sort of thing has been the destruction of my health. Nothing is so bad as want of health that makes one envy scavengers and cindersifters. There are enough real distresses and evils in wait for everyone to try the most vigorous health. Not that I would say yours are not real, but they are such as to tempt you to employ your imagination on them, rather than endeavor to dismiss them entirely. Do not die at your mind with grief. It destroys the constitution. But let your chief care be of your health, and with that you will meet your share of pleasure in the world. Do not doubt it. If I return well from Italy, I will turn over a new leaf for you. I have been improving lately, and have very good hopes of turning a nuke and cheating the consumption. I am not well enough to write to George myself. Mr. Haslam will do it for me. To whom I shall write today, desiring him to mention as gently as possible your complaint. I am, my dear Fanny, your affectionate brother, John. End of Letter 159. Letter 160. Of letters of John Keats to his family and friends. Edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Brown. Wentworth Place. August 1820. 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 very slow, though it has been very highly rated. One of the causes I understand from different quarters of the unpopularity of this new book is the offense the ladies take at me. I'm thinking that matter over. I am certain that I have said nothing in spirit to displease any woman I would care to please. But still, there is a tendency to class women in my books with roses and sweet meats. 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. End of letter 160. Letter 161 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Brown. Saturday, September 28, 1820. Maria Crowther. Off Yarmouth, Isle of White. My dear Brown, the time is not your come for a pleasant letter from me. I have delayed writing you from time to time because I 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 I am easy enough this morning. If my spirits seem too low, you may in some degree impute it to our having been a sea of Fortnite without making any way. I was very disappointed at not meeting you at Bedhamton, and am very provoked at the thought of you being a chitester today. 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 I 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 past. I 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 Braun when I am dead. You think she has many faults, but for my sake think she has not one. If there is anything you can do for her by word or deed I know you will do it. I 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 Braun and my sister is amazing. The one seems to absorb the other to a degree incredible. I seldom think of my brother and sister in America. The thought of leaving Miss Braun is beyond everything 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 Wentworth 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 Braun if possible today. 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 a while. Though fatigued with a letter longer than any I have written for a long while, it would be better to go on forever than to awake to a sense of contrary winds. We expect to put into Portland roads tonight. 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 Braun, your affectionate friend, John Keats. End of letter 161. Letter 162 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Mrs. Braun, October 4th, 1820, Naples Harbor. My dear Mrs. Braun. A few words will tell you what sort of a passage we had, and what situation we are in, and few they must be on account of the quarantine, our letters being liable to be opened for the purpose of fumigation at the health office. We have to remain in the vessel ten days, and are at present shut in a tier of ships. The sea air has been beneficial to me, about as great an extent as squally weather and bad accommodations and provisions has done harm, so I am about as I was. Give my love to Fanny and tell her, if I were well, there is enough in this port of Naples to fill a choir of paper, but it looks like a dream. Every man who can row his boat and walk and talk seems a different being from myself. It has been unfortunate for me that one of the passengers is a young lady in a consumption, for imprudence has vexed me very much, the knowledge of her complaints, the flushings in her face, all her bad symptoms have preyed upon me. They would have done so had I been in good health. Sever now is a very good fellow, but his nerves are too strong to be hurt by other people's illnesses. I remember poor Rice wore me in the same way to the Isle of Wight. I shall feel a load off me when the lady vanishes out of my sight. It is impossible to describe exactly in what state of health I am, at this moment I am suffering from indigestion very much, which makes such stuff of this letter. I would always wish you to thank me a little worse than I really am, of not being a sanguine disposition I am likely to succeed. If I do not recover your regret will be softened. If I do your pleasure will be doubled. I dare not fix my mind upon Fanny. I have not dared to think of her. The only comfort I have had that way has been in thinking for hours together of having the knife she gave me put in a silver case, the hair and the locket, and the pocketbook in a golden net. Show her this, I dare say no more. Yet you must not believe I am so ill as this letter may look, for if ever there was a person born without the faculty of hoping I am he. Severn is writing to Haslam, and I have just asked him to request Haslam to send you his account of my health. Oh, what an account I could give you of the Bay of Naples, if I could once more feel myself a citizen of this world. I feel a spirit in my brain would lay at forth pleasantly. Oh, what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints. My love again to Fanny. Tell toots I wish I could picture a basket of grapes, and tell Sam the fellows catch here with the line a little fish much like an anchovy, pull them up fast. Remember me to Mr. and Mrs. Dilk? Mention to Brown that I wrote him a letter at Portsmouth, which I did not send, and am in doubt if you will ever see it. My dear Mrs. Braun, you're sincerely and affectionate John Keats. Goodbye, Fanny. God bless you. End of letter 162. Letter 163 of letters of John Keats to his family and friends edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Brown, Naples, November 1st, 1820. My dear Brown, yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during which 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 you a short, calm letter. If that can be called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I would feignest 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 remained well. I can bear to die. I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God, God, God. Everything I 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 for a moment. This was the case when I was in England. I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the time that I was a prisoner at Hunts, and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her again, now. Oh, that I could be buried near where she lives. I am afraid to write to her, to receive a 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 recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through the whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentishtown, this fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which you will do immediately, write to Rome, poste restante, if she is well and happy, put a mark thus, plus 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? Oh, that something fortunate had ever 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 forever. 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 sister, and George, and his wife, and you, and all. Your ever-affectionate friend, John Keats. Thursday, November 2nd. I was a day too early for the courier, he sets out now. I have been more calm today, though in a half dread of not continuing so. I said nothing of my health, but I know nothing of it. You will hear Seven's account from Haslam. I must leave off. You bring my thoughts too near to fanny. God bless you. End of Letter 163. Letter 164. Of Letters of John Keats to his family and friends, edited by Sidney Colvin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To Charles Brown. Rome, November 30th, 1820. My dear Brown, it is the most difficult thing in the world to me to write a letter. 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 anything 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 to me. However, I will not speak of that subject. I must have been at Bedhamton nearly the time you were writing to me from Chai Tester, how unfortunate. And to pass on the river too, there was my star predominant. I cannot answer anything 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 you. Yet I ride the little horse, and at my worst even in quarantine, summoned up more puns in a sort of desperation in one week than in any year of my life. There is one thought enough to kill me. I have been well, healthy, alert, etc., walking with 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 my 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 you must think very neglectful. 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 of 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 goodbye, even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow. God bless you, John Keats. Footnote. On the 10th of December following, Kimmer renewal of fever and hemorrhage, extinguishing the last hope of recovery, and after eleven more weeks of suffering, only alleviated by the devoted care of Severn, the poet died in his friend's arms on the 23rd of February, 1821. End footnote. End of Letter 164. End of Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, edited by Sidney Colvin.