philosophical back-garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping front one. But, alas! this never can be; for as the material cottager knows there are such places as France and Italy, and the Andes, and burning mountains, so the spiritual cottager has knowledge of the terra semi-incognita of things unearthly, and cannot, for his life, keep in the check-rein—or I should stop herë, quiet and comfortable in my theory of-nettles. You will see, however, I am obliged to run wild, being attracted by the lode-stone concatenation. No sooner had I settled the knotty point of Salmasius, than the devil put this whim into my head in the likeness of one of Pythagoras's questionings-Did Milton do more good or harm in the world? He wrote, let me inform you, (for I have it from a friend who had it of -,) he wrote " Lycidas," "Comus," "Paradise Lost," and other Poems, with much delectable prose; he was moreover an active friend to man all his life, and has been since his death. Very good. But, my dear fellow, I must let you know that, as there is ever the same quantity of matter constituting this habitable globe, as the ocean, notwithstanding the enormous changes and revolutions taking place in some or other of its demesnes, notwithstanding waterspouts, whirlpools, and mighty rivers emptying themselves into it, it still is made up of the same bulk, nor ever varies the number of its atoms; and, as a certain bulk of water was instituted at the creation, so, very likely, a certain portion of intellect was spun forth into the thin air, for the brains of man to prey upon it. You will see my drift, without any unnecessary parenthesis. That which is contained in the Pacific could not be in the hollow of the Caspian; that which was in Milton's head could not find room in Charles the Second's. He, like a moon, attracted intellect to its flow-it has not ebbed yet, but has left the shore-pebbles all bare-I mean all bucks, authors of Hengist, and Castlereaghs of the present day, who, without Milton's gormandizing, might have been all wise men. Now for as much as I was very predisposed to a country I had heard you speak so highly of, I took particular notice of every thing during my journey, and have bought some nice folio asses' skins for memorandums. I have seen every thing but the wind-and that, they say, becomes visible by taking a dose of acorns, or sleeping one night in a hogtrough, with your tail to the sow-sow-west.

I went yesterday to Dawlish fair.

"Over the Hill and over the Dale,

And over the Bourne to Dawlish,

Where ginger-bread wives have a scanty sale,
And ginger-bread nuts are smallish," &c. &c.

Your sincere friend,

JOHN KEATS.

Mr. Reynolds seems to have objected to a Preface written for Endymion," and Keats thus manfully and eloquently remon

strates:

MY DEAR REYNOLDS,

TEIGNMOUTH, April 9th, 1818.

Since you all agree that the thing is bad, it must be so-though I am not aware that there is any thing like Hunt in it, (and if there is, it is my natural way, and I have something in common with Hunt.) Look over it again, and examine into the motives, the seeds, from which every one sentence sprang.

I have not the slightest feeling of humility towards the public, or to any thing in existence but the Eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the Memory of Great Men. When I am writing for myself, for the mere sake of the moment's enjoyment, perhaps nature has its course with me; but a Preface is written to the public a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility. If I write a Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will not be with me as a public speaker.

in character

I would be subdued before my friends, and thank them for subduing me; but among multitudes of men I have no feel of stooping; I hate the idea of humility to them.

I never wrote one single line of poetry with the least shadow of public thought.

Forgive me for vexing you, and making a Trojan horse of such a trifle, both with respect to the matter in question, and myself; but it eases me to tell you: I could not live without the love of my friends; I would jump down Ætna for any great public good but I hate a mawkish popularity. I cannot be subdued

before them. My glory would be to daunt and dazzle the thousand jabberers about pictures and books. I see swarms of porcupines with their quills erect "like lime-twigs set to catch my winged book," and I would fright them away with a touch. You will say my Preface is not much of a touch. It would have been too insulting" to begin from Jove," and I could not [set] a golden head upon a thing of clay. If there is any fault in the Preface it is not affectation, but an undersong of disrespect to the public. If I write another Preface it must be done without a thought of those people. I will think about it. If it should not reach you in four or five days, tell Taylor to publish it without a Preface, and let the Dedication simply stand-"Inscribed to the Memory of Thomas Chatterton."

I had resolved last night to write to you this morning-I wish it had been about something else-something to greet you towards the close of your long illness. I have had one or two intimations of your going to Hampstead for a space; and I regret to see your confounded rheumatism keeps you in Little Britain, where I am sure the air is too confined.

Devonshire continues rainy. As the drops beat against my window, they give me the same sensation as a quart of cold water offered to revive a half-drowned devil-no feel of the clouds dropping fatness; but as if the roots of the earth were rotten, cold, and drenched. I have not been able to go to Kent's ca[ve ?] at Babbicomb; however, on one very beautiful day I had a fine clamber over the rocks all along as far as that place.

I shall be in town in about ten days. We go by way of Bath on purpose to call on Bailey. I hope soon to be writing to you about the things of the north, purposing to way fare all over those parts. I have settled my accoutrements in my own mind, and will go to gorge wonders. However, we'll have some days together before I set out.

I have many reasons for going wonder-ways; to make my winter chair free from spleen; to enlarge my vision; to escape disquisitions on poetry, and Kingston-criticism; to promote digestion and economize shoe-leather. I'll have leather buttons and belt; and, if Brown holds his mind, "over the hills we go." If my books will keep me to it, then will I take all Europe in turn,

and see the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. Tom is getting better: he hopes you may meet him at the top of the hill. My love to your nurse.

I am ever your affectionate friend,

JOHN KEATS.

TEIGNMOUTH, April 10, 1818.

MY DEAR REYNOLDS,

I am anxious you should find this Preface tolerable. If there is an affectation in it 'tis natural to me. Do let the printer's devil cook it, and let me be as "the casing air."

You are too good in this matter; were I in your state, I am certain I should have no thought but of discontent and illness. I might, though, be taught patience. I had an idea of giving no Preface: however, don't you think this had better go ? O! let it-one should not be too timid of committing faults.

The climate here weighs us [down] completely; Tom is quite low-spirited. It is impossible to live in a country which is continually under hatches. Who would live in a region of mists, game laws, indemnity bills, &c., when there is such a place as Italy? It is said this England from it clime produces a spleen, able to engender the finest sentiments, and covers the whole face of the isle with green. So it ought, I'm sure.

I should still like the Dedication simply, as I said in my last. I wanted to send you a few songs, written in your favorite Devon. It cannot be! Rain, rain, rain! I am going this morning to take a facsimile of a letter of Nelson's, very much to his honor; you will be greatly pleased when you see it, in about a week.

What a spite it is one cannot get out! The little way I went yesterday, I found a lane banked on each side with a store of primroses, while the earlier bushes are beginning to leaf.

I shall hear a good account of you soon.

Your affectionate friend,

JOHN KEATS.

I cannot lay hands on the first Preface, but here is the second, which no one will regret to read again, both from its intrinsic

66

truth and its representation, in the aptest terms, of the state of Keats's mind at this time, and of his honest judgment of himself. Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public.

“What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good; it will not; the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting and fitting myself for verses fit to live.

"This may be speaking too presumptuously and may deserve a punishment; but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it; he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms, of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye to the honor of English literature. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted; thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages. I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece and dulled its brightness; for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell."

MY DEAR REYNOLDS,

TEIGNMOUTH, 27 April, 1818.

It is an awful while since you have heard from I hope I may not be punished, when I see you well, and so anxious as you always are for me, with the remembrance of my

me.