Do not they like this better than what they can read through before Mrs. Williams comes down stairs?-a morning's work at most. "Besides, a long poem is a test of invention, which I take to be the polar star of poetry, as Fancy is the sails, and Imagination the rudder. Did our great poets ever write short pieces? I mean, in the shape of Tales. This same invention seems indeed of late years to have been forgotten in a partial excellence. But enough of this-I put on no laurels till I shall have finished 'Endymion,' and I hope Apollo is not enraged at my having made mockery of him at Hunt's." The conclusion of this letter has now a more melancholy meaning than it had when written. "The little mercury I have taken has corrected the poison and improved my health-though I feel from my employment that I shall never again be secure in robustness. Would that you were as well as "Your sincere friend and brother, "JOHN KEATS." "Brothers also in destiny. they were in affection and in thought-brothers Mr. Bailey died soon after Keats. [Post-mark, 22 Nov. 1817. LEATHERHEAD.] MY DEAR BAILEY, I will get over the first part of this (unpaid) letter as soon as possible, for it relates to the affairs of poor To a man of your nature, such a letter as -'s must have been extremely cutting. What occasions the greater part of the world's quarrels? Simply this: two minds meet, and do not understand each other time enough to prevent any shock or surprise at the conduct of either party. As soon as I had known three days, I had got enough of his character not to have been surprised at such a letter as he has hurt you with. Nor, when I knew it, was it a principle with me to drop his acquaintance; although with you it would have been an imperious feeling. I wish you knew all that I think about Genius and the Heart. And yet I think that you are thoroughly acquainted with my innermost breast, in that respect, or you would not have known me even thus long, and still hold me to be worthy to be your dear friend. In passing, however, I must say of one thing that has pressed upon me lately, and increased my humility and capability of submission-and that is this truth-Men of genius are great as certain ethereal chemicals operating on the mas of neutral intellect—but they have not any individuality, any determined character. I would call the top and head of those who have a proper self, Men of Power. But I am running my head into a subject which I am certain I could not do justice to under five years' study, and three vols. octavo―and moreover [I] long to be talking about the Imagination: so, my dear Bailey, do not think of this unpleasant affair, if possible do not—I defy any harm to come of it. I shall write to this week, and request him to tell me all his goings-on, from time to time, by letter, wherever I may be. It will go on wellso don't, because you have discovered a coldness in suffer yourself to be teased. Do not, my dear fellow. O! I wish I was as certain of the end of all your troubles as that of your momentary start about the authenticity of the Imagination. I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of Imagination. What the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be Truth, whether it existed before or not ;-for I have the same idea of all our passions as of Love; they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty. In a word, you may know my favorite speculation by my first book, and the little song I sent in my last, which is a representation from the fancy of the probable mode of operating in these matters. The Imagination may be compared to Adam's dream; he awoke and found it truth. I am more zealous in this affair, because I have never yet been able to perceive how any thing can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning,—and yet [so] it must be. Can it be that even the greatest philosopher ever arrived at his goal without putting aside numerous objections? However it may be, O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts? It is "a Vision in the form of Youth," a shadow of reality to come-and this consideration has further convinced me,-for it has come as auxiliary to another favorite speculation of mine,-that we shall enjoy our selves hereafter by having what we call happiness on earth repeated in a finer tone. And yet such a fate can only befall those who delight in Sensation, rather than hunger, as you do, after Truth. Adam's dream will do here, and seems to be a conviction that Imagination and its empyreal reflection is the same as human life and its spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, the simple imaginative mind may have its rewards in the repetition of its own silent working coming continually on the spirit with a fine suddenness. To compare great things with small, have you never, by being surprised with an old melody, in a delicious place, by a delicious voice, felt over again your very speculations and surmises at the time it first operated on your soul? Do you not remember forming to yourself the singer's face-more beautiful than it was possible, and yet, with the elevation of the moment, you did not think so? Even then you were mounted on the wings of Imagination, so high that the prototype must be hereafter-that delicious face you will see. Sure this cannot be exactly the case with a complex mind-one that is imaginative, and at the same time careful of its fruits,-who would exist partly on sensation, partly on thought-to whom it is necessary that "years should bring the philosophic mind?" Such a one I consider yours, and therefore it is necessary to your eternal happiness that you not only drink this old wine of heaven, which I shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal musings upon earth, but also increase in knowledge, and know all things. I am glad to hear that you are in a fair way for Easter. You will soon get though your unpleasant reading, and then!--but the world is full of troubles, and I have not much reason to think myself pestered with many. I think or has a better opinion of me than I deserve; for, really and truly, I do not think my brother's illness connected with mine. You know more of the real cause than they do; nor have I any chance of being rack'd as you have been. You perhaps, at one time, thought there was such a thing as worldly happiness to be arrived at, at certain periods of time marked out. You have of necessity, from your disposition, been thus led away. I scarcely remember counting upon any happiness. I look not for it if it be not in the present hour. Nothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow were before my window, I take part in its existence, and pick about the gravel. The first thing that strikes me on hearing a misfortune having befallen another is this -“Well, it cannot be helped: he will have the pleasure of trying the resources of his spirit ;" and I beg now, my dear Bailey, that hereafter, should you observe any thing cold in me, not to put it to the account of heartlessness, but abstraction; for I assure you I sometimes feel not the influence of a passion or affection during a whole week; and so long this sometimes continues, I begin to suspect myself, and the genuineness of my feelings at other times, thinking them a few barren tragedy-tears. My brother Tom is much improved; he is going to Devonshire, whither I shall follow him. At present, I am just arrived at Dorking, to change the scene, change the air, and give me a spur to wind up my poem, of which there are wanting 500 lines. I should have been here a day sooner, but the Reynoldses persuaded me to stop in town to meet your friend Christie. There were Rice and Martin. We talked about ghosts. I will have some talk with Taylor, and let you know, when, please God, I come down at Christmas. I will find the "Examiner," if possible. My best regards to Gleig, my brothers, to you, and Mrs. Bentley. Your affectionate friend, JOHN KEATS. I want to say much more to you-a few hints will set one going. MY DEAR REYNolds, LEATHERHEAD, 22nd November, 1817. There are two things which tease me here— one of them and the other that I cannot go with Tom into Devonshire. However, I hope to do my duty to myself in a week or so; and then I'll try what I can do for my neighbor-now, is not this virtuous? On returning to town I'll damn all idleness— indeed, in superabundance of employment, I must not be content to run here and there on little two-penny errands, but turn Rakehell, i. e. go a masking, or Bailey will think me just as great a promise-keeper as he thinks you; for myself I do not, and do not remember above one complaint against you for matter o' that. Bailey writes so abominable a hand, to give his letter a fair reading requires a little time, so I had not seen, when I saw you last, his invitation to Oxford at Christmas. I'll go with you. You know how poorly was. I do not think it was all corporeal, -bodily pain was not used to keep him silent. I'll tell you what; he was hurt at what your sisters said about his joking with your mother. It will all blow over. God knows, my dear Reynolds, I should not talk any sorrow to you-you must have enough vexation, so I won't say more. If I ever start a rueful subject in a letter to you-blow me! Why don't you ?—Now I was going to ask you a very silly question, [which] neither you nor any body else could answer, under a folio, or at least a pamphlet— you shall judge. Why don't you, as I do, look unconcerned at what may be called more particularly heart-vexations? They never surprise me. Lord! a man should have the fine point of his soul taken off, to become fit for this world. وو I like this place very much. There is hill and dale, and a little river. I went up Box Hill this evening after the moon— "you a' seen the moon -came down, and wrote some lines. Whenever I am separated from you, and not engaged in a continued poem, every letter shall bring you a lyric-but I am too anxious for you to enjoy the whole to send you a particle. One of the three books I have with me is " Shakspeare's Poems:" I never found so many beauties in the Sonnets; they seem to be full of fine things said unintentionally-in the intensity of working out conceits. Is this to be borne? Hark ye! "When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the head, He has left nothing to say about nothing or any thing: for look at snails-you know what he says about snails—you know when he talks about "cockled snails"-well, in one of these sonnets, he says-the chap slips into-no! I lie! this is in the "Venus and Adonis:" the simile brought it to my mind. |