in him continually balanced and modified by the purest appreciation of moral excellence, how far he was from taking the sphere he loved best to dwell in for the whole or even the best of creation. Never have words more effectively expressed the conviction of the superiority of virtue above beauty than those in the following letter-never has a poet more devoutly submitted the glory of imagination to the power of conscience. MY DEAR BROTHERS, HAMPSTEAD, April 21, [1818.] I am certain, I think, of having a letter tomorrow morning; for I expected one so much this morning, having been in town two days, at the end of which my expectations began to get up a little. I found two on the table, one from Bailey and one from Haydon. I am quite perplexed in a world of doubts and fancies; there is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music. I don't mean to include Bailey in this, and so I dismiss him from this, with all the opprobrium he deserves; that is, in so many words, he is one of the noblest men alive at the present day. In a note to Haydon, about a week ago (which I wrote with a full sense of what he had done, and how he had never manifested any little mean drawback in his value of me), I said, if there were three things superior in the modern world, they were "The Excursion," "Haydon's Pictures," and Hazlitt's depth of Taste. So I believe-not thus speaking with any poor vanity-that works of genius are the first things in this world. No! for that sort of probity and disinterestedness which such men as Bailey possess does hold and grasp the tip-top of any spiritual honours that can be paid to anything in this world. And, moreover, having this feeling at this present come over me in its full force, I sat down to write to you with a grateful heart, in that I had not a brother who did not feel and credit me for a deeper feeling and devotion for his uprightness, than for any marks of genius however splendid. I have just finished the revision of my First Book, and shall take it to Taylor's toYour most affectionate brother, morrow. JOHN. TEIGNMOUTH, 27 April, 1818. MY DEAR REYNOLDS, It is an awful while since you have heard from me. 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 so seldom writing when you were so horribly confined. The most unhappy hours in our lives are those in which we recollect times past to our own blushing. If we are immortal, that must be the Hell. If I must be immortal, I hope it will be after having taken a little of "that watery labyrinth," in order to forget some of my school-boy days, and others since those. I have heard from George, at different times, how slowly you were recovering. It is a tedious thing; but all medical men will tell you how far a very gradual amendment is preferable. You will be strong after this, never fear. We are here still enveloped in clouds. I lay awake last night listening to the rain, with a sense of being drowned and rotted like a grain of wheat. There is a continual courtesy between the heavens and the earth. The heavens rain down their unwelcomeness, and the earth sends it up again, to be returned to-morrow. Tom has taken a fancy to a physician here, Dr. Turton, and, I think, is getting better; therefore I shall, perhaps, remain here some months. I have written to George for some books shall learn Greek, and very likely Italian; and, in other ways, prepare myself to ask Hazlitt, in about a year's time, the best metaphysical road I can take. For, although I take Poetry to be chief, yet there is something else wanting to one who passes his life among books and thoughts on books. I long to feast upon old Homer as we have upon Shakspeare, and as I have lately upon Milton. If you understood Greek, and would read me passages now and then, explaining their meaning, 'twould be, from its mistiness, perhaps, a greater luxury than reading the thing one's self. I shall be happy when I can do the same for you. I have written for my folio Shakspeare, in which there are the first few stanzas of my "Pot of Basil." I have the rest here, finished, and will copy the whole out fair shortly, and George will bring it you. The compliment is paid by us to Boccace, whether we publish or no: so there is content in this world. Mine [i.e., my Poem] is short; you must be deliberate about yours: you must not think of it till many months after you are quite well-then put your passion to it, and I shall be bound up with you in the shadows of mind, as we are in our matters of human life. Perhaps a stanza or two will not be too foreign to your sickness. "Were they unhappy then? It cannot be: "But for the general award of love," &c. "She wept alone for pleasures," &c. The fifth line ran thus: "What might have been, too plainly did she see." Give my love to your mother and sisters. Remember me to the Butlers-not forgetting Sarah. Your affectionate friend, JOHN KEATS. This adaptation of Boccaccio was intended to form part of a collection of Tales from the great Italian novelist, versified by Mr. Reynolds and himself. Two by Mr. Reynolds appeared in the "Garden of Florence;" "Isabella" was the only other one Keats completed. MY DEAR TAYLOR, TEIGNMOUTH, I think I did wrong to leave to you all the trouble of "Endymion." But I could not help it thenanother time I shall be more bent to all sorts of troubles and disagreeables. Young men, for some time, have an idea that such a thing as happiness is to be had, and therefore are extremely impatient under any unpleasant restraining. In time, however,- of such stuff is the world about them,— they know better, and instead of striving from uneasiness, greet it as an habitual sensation, a pannier which is to weigh | upon them through life. And in proportion to my disgust at the task is my sense of your kindness and anxiety. The book pleased me much. It is very free from faults; and, although there are one or two words I should wish replaced, I see in many places an improvement greatly to the purpose. I was proposing to travel over the North this summer. There is but one thing to prevent me. I know nothing-I have read nothing-and I mean to follow Solomon's directions, "Get learning-get understanding." I find earlier days are gone by-I find that I can have no enjoyment in the world but continual drinking of knowledge. [I find there is no worthy pursuit but the idea of doing some good to the world. Some do it with their society; some with their wit; some with their benevolence; some with a sort of power of conferring pleasure and good humour on all they meet-and in a thousand ways, all dutiful to the command of great Nature. There is but one way for me. The road lies through application, study, and thought. I will pursue it; and, for that end, purpose retiring for some years. I have been hovering for some time between an exquisite sense of the luxurious, and a love for philosophy: were I calculated for the former I should be glad. But as I am not, I shall turn all my soul to the latter. My brother Tom is getting better, and I hope I shall see both him and Reynolds better before I retire from the world. I shall see you soon, and have some talk about what books I shall take with me. Your very sincere friend, JOHN KEATS. VOL. I. I |