the determined conviction that he was unfit for the line of life on which he had expended so many years of his study and a consid. erable part of his property. "My dexterity," he said, "used to seem to me a miracle, and I resolved never to take up a surgical instrument again," and thus he found himself, on his first entrance into manhood, thrown on the world almost without the means of daily subsistence, but with many friends interested in his fortunes, and with the faith in the future which generally accompanies the highest genius. Mr. Haydon seems to have been to him a wise and prudent counselor, and to have encouraged him to brace his powers by undistracted study, while he advised him to leave London for awhile, and take more care of his health. The following note, written in March, shows that Keats did as he was recommended: MY DEAR REYNOLDS, My brothers are anxious that I should go by myself into the country; they have always been extremely fond of me, and now that Haydon has pointed out how necessary it is that I should be alone to improve myself, they give up the temporary pleasure of being with me continually for a great good which I hope will follow; so I shall soon be out of town. You must soon bring all your present troubles to a close, and so must I, but we must, like the Fox, prepare for a fresh swarm of flies. Banish money-Banish sofas-Banish wine-Banish music; but right Jack Health, honest Jack Health, true Jack Health. Health and banish all the world. Your sincere friend, Banish JOHN KEATS. The cor During his absence he wrote the following letters. respondence with Mr. Reynolds will form so considerable a portion of this volume, and will so distinctly enunciate the invaluable worth of his friendship to Keats, that one can only regret that both portions of it are not preserved.* *It is also to be lamented that Mr. Reynolds's own remarkable verse is not better known. Lord Byron speaks with praise of several pieces, and at MY DEAR REYNOLDS, CARISBROOKE, April 17th, 1817. Ever since I wrote to my brother from Southampton, I have been in a taking, and at this moment I am about to become settled, for I have unpacked my books, put them into a snug corner, pinned up Haydon, Mary Queen [of] Scots, and Milton with his daughters in a row. In the passage I found a head of Shakspeare, which I had not before seen. It is most likely the same that George spoke so well of, for I like it extremely. Well, this head I have hung over my bocks, just above the three in a row, having first discarded a French Ambassador; now this, alone, is a good morning's work. Yesterday I went to Shanklin, which occasioned a great debate in my mind whether I should live there or at Carisbrooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful place; sloping wood and meadow ground reach round the Chine, which is a cleft between the cliffs, of the depth of nearly 300 feet, at least. This cleft is filled with trees and bushes in the narrow part; and as it widens becomes bare, if it were not for primroses on one side, which spread to the very verge of the sea, and some fishermen's huts on the other, perched midway in the balustrades of beautiful green hedges along the steps down to the sands. But the sea, Jack, the sea, the little waterfall, then the white cliff, then St. Catherine's Hill, "the sheep in the meadows, the cows in the corn." Then why are you at Carisbrooke? say you. Because, in the first place, I should be at twice the expense, and three times the inconvenience; next, that from here I can see your continent from a little hill close by, the whole north angle of the Isle of Wight, with the water between us; in the third place, I see Carisbrooke Castle from my window, and have found several delightful wood alleys and copses, and quiet freshes; as for primroses, the island ought to be called Primrose Island, that is, if the nation of Cowslips agree thereto, of which there are divers clans just beginning to lift up their heads. Another reason of my fix tributes some to Moore. "The Fancy," published under the name of Peter Corcoran, and "The Garden of Florence," under that of John Hamilton, are full of merit, especially the former, to which is prefixed one of the liveliest specimens of fictitious biography I know. ing is, that I am more in reach of the places around me. I intend to walk over the Island, east, west, north, south. I have not seen many specimens of ruins. I don't think, however, I shall ever see one to surpass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is overgrown with the smoothest turf, and the walls with ivy. The Keep within side is one bower of ivy; a colony of jackdaws have been there for many years. I dare say I have seen many a descendant of some old cawer who peeped through the bars at Charles the First, when he was there in confinement. On the road from Cowes to Newport I saw some extensive Barracks, which disgusted me extremely with the Government for placing such a nest of debauchery in so beautiful a place. I asked a man on the coach about this, and he said that the people had been spoiled. In the room where I slept at Newport, I found this on the window ;-"O Isle spoilt by the milatary!" The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that it would be no bad thing to be the favorite of some fairy, who would give one the power of seeing how our friends got on at a distance. I should like, of all loves, a sketch of you, and Tom, and George, in ink : which Haydon will do if you tell him how I want them. From want of regular rest I have been rather narvus, and the passage in Lear, "Do you not hear the sea!" has haunted me intensely. "It keeps eternal whisperings around," &c. * April 18th. I'll tell you what-on the 23d was Shakspeare born. Now if I should receive a letter from you, and another from my brother on that day, 'twould be a parlous good thing. Whenever you write, say a word or two on some passage in Shakspeare that may have come rather new to you, which must be continually happening, notwithstanding that we read the same play forty times—for instance, the following from the Tempest never struck me so forcibly as at present :— * See the "Literary Remains." "Urchins Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, All exercise on thee." How can I help bringing to your mind the line— "In the dark backward and abysm of time." I find I cannot exist without Poetry-without eternal Poetry; half the day will not do the whole of it. I began with a little, but habit has made me a leviathan. I had become all in a tremble from not having written any thing of late: the Sonnet over-leaf (i. e. on the preceding page) did me good; I slept the better last night for it; this morning, however, I am nearly as bad again. Just now I opened Spenser, and the first lines I saw were these "The noble heart that harbors virtuous thought Let me know particularly about Haydon, ask him to write to me about Hunt, if it be only ten lines. I hope all is well. I shall forthwith begin my "Endymion," which I hope I shall have got some way with before you come, when we will read our verses in a delightful place, I have set my heart upon, near the Castle. Give my love to your sisters severally. Your sincere friend, JOHN KEATS. (Without date, but written early in May, 1817.) MY DEAR HAYDON, MARGATE. "Let Fame, that all pant after in their lives, Live registered upon our brazen tombs, And so grace us in the disguise of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, The endeavor of this present breath may bring That honor which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, To think that I have no right to couple myself with you in this speech would be death to me, so I have e'en written it, and I pray God that our "brazen tombs" be nigh neighbors.* It cannot be long first; the "endeavor of this present breath" will soon be over, and yet it is as well to breathe freely during our sojourn it is as well if you have not been teased with that money affair, that bill-pestilence. However, I must think that difficulties nerve the spirit of a man; they make our prime objects a refuge as well as a passion; the trumpet of Fame is as a tower of strength, the ambitious bloweth it, and is safe. I suppose, by your telling me not to give way to forebodings, George has been telling you what I have lately said in my letters to him; truth is, I have been in such a state of mind as to read over my lines and to hate them. I am one that "gathereth samphire, dreadful trade" the cliff of Poetry towers above me; yet when my brother reads some of Pope's Homer, or Plutarch's Lives, they seem like music to mine. I read and write about eight hours a-day. There is an old saying, "Well begun is half done;" 'tis a bad one; I would use instead, "Not begun at all till half done;" so, according to that, I have not begun my Poem, and consequently, à priori, can say nothing about it; thank God, I do begin ardently, when I leave off, notwithstanding my occasional depressions, and I hope for the support of a high power while I climb this little eminence, and especially in my years of momentous labor. I remember your saying that you had notions of a good Genius presiding over you. I have lately had the same thought, for things which, done half at random, are afterwards confirmed by my judgment in a dozen features of propriety. Is it too daring to fancy Shakspeare this presider? When in the Isle of Wight I met with a Shakspeare in the passage of the house at which I lodged. It comes nearer to my idea of him than any I have seen; I was but there a week, yet the old woman made me take it with me, though I went off in a hurry. Do you not think this omin *To the copy of this letter, given me by Mr. Haydon on the 14th of May, 1846, a note was affixed at this place, in the words " Perhaps they may be." -Alas! no. |