MY DEAR RICE, TEIGNMOUTH, 25 March, 1818. Being in the midst of your favourite Devon, I should not, by rights, pen one word but it should contain a vast portion of wit, wisdom, and learning; for I have heard that Milton, ere he wrote his answer to Salmasius, came into these parts, and for one whole month, rolled himself for three whole hours a day, in a certain meadow hard by us, where the mark of his nose at equidistances is still shown. The exhibitor of said meadow further saith, that, after these rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all the seven acres for seven years, and that from said time a new sort of plant was made from the whitethorn, of a thornless nature, very much used by the bucks of the present day to rap their boots withal. This account made me very naturally suppose that the nettles and thorns etherealised by the scholar's rotatory motion, and garnered in his head, thence flew, after a dew of fermentation, against the luckless Salmasius, and occasioned his well-known and unhappy end. What a happy thing it would be if we could settle our thoughts and make our minds up on any matter in five minutes, and remain content, that is, build a sort of mental cottage of feelings, quiet and pleasant to have a sort of 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 here, quiet and comfortable in my theory of-nettles. You will see, however, I am obliged to run wild, being attracted by the load-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 thin air, for the brains of man to prey upon it. my drift, without any unnecessary parenthesis. is contained in the Pacific could not lie 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-pebble all bare-I mean all bucks, authors of Hengist, and Castlereaghs of the present day, who, without Milton's gormandising, might have been all wise men. Now for as much as I was very predisposed to a country I had heard forth into the You will see That which you speak so highly of, I took particular notice of everything during my journey, and have bought some nice folio asses skins for memorandums. I have seen everything but the wind-and that, they say, becomes visible by taking a dose of acorns, or sleeping one night in a hog-trough, 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. About this time he wrote the JOHN KEATS. сотрале which I could find no copy at th compare to Whis work, but which I have since see I am glad to be able to reprint additional interest it gives to t addressed to Mr. Reynolds in ar objections. Many as were the poet owed to this friend, the suj position was perhaps the greates anfidence in the Preface to Lorical PREFACE.* In a great nation, the work of an individual is of so little importance; his pleadings and excuses are so uninteresting; his “way of life" such a nothing, that a Preface seems a sort of impertinent bow to strangers who care nothing about it. * From the original in the possession of Messrs. Moxon. A Preface, however, should be down in so many words; and such a one that by an eye-glance over the type the Reader may catch an idea of an Author's modesty, and non-opinion of himself-which I sincerely hope may be seen in the few lines I have to write, notwithstanding many proverbs of many ages old which men find a great pleasure in receiving as gospel. About a twelvemonth since, I published a little book of verses; it was read by some dozen of my friends who lik'd it; and some dozen whom I was unacquainted with, who did not. Now, when a dozen human beings are at words with another dozen, it becomes a matter of anxiety to side with one's friends— more especially when excited thereto by a great love of Poetry. I fought under disadvantages. Before I began I had no inward feel of being able to finish; and as I proceeded my steps were all uncertain. So this Poem must rather be considered as an endeavour than a thing accomplished; a poor prologue to what, if I live, I humbly hope to do. In duty to the Public I should have kept it back for a year or two, knowing it to be so faulty: but I really cannot do so,by repetition my favourite passages sound vapid in my ears, and I would rather redeem myself with a new Poem should this one be found of any interest. I have to apologise to the lovers of simplicity for touching the spell of loneliness that hung about Endymion; if any of my lines plead for me with such people I shall be proud. It has been too much the fashion of late to consider men bigoted and addicted to every word that may chance to escape their lips; now I here declare that I have not any particular affection for any particular phrase, word, or letter in the whole affair. I have written to please myself, and in hopes to please others, and for a love of fame; if I neither please myself, nor others, nor get fame, of what consequence is Phraseology? I would fain escape the bickerings that all Works not exactly in chime bring upon their begetters-but this is not fair to expect, there must be conversation of some sort and to object shows a man's consequence. In case of a London drizzle or a Scotch mist, the following quotation from Marston may perhaps 'stead me as an umbrella for an hour or so: "let it be the curtesy of my peruser rather to pity my self-hindering labours than to malice me.” One word more-for we cannot help seeing our own affairs in every point of view-should any one call my dedication to Chatterton affected I answer as followeth: "Were I dead, sir, I should like a Book dedicated to me." TEIGNMOUTH, March 19th, 1818. [Title Page.] ENDYMION. A ROMANCE. BY JOHN KEATS. "The stretched metre of an antique song." Shakspeare's Sonnets. INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY FEELING OF PRIDE AND REGRET AND WITH "A BOWED MIND," TO THE MEMORY OF THE MOST ENGLISH OF POETS EXCEPT SHAKSPEARE, 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 there is anything like Hunt in it, (and if there is, it is my natural way, and I |