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second reading,-which may be food for a week's stroll in the summer?' 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 as a poetical excellence. But enough of this-I put on no laurels till I shall have finished 'Endymion,' and I hope Apollo is not angered 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 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."

The following are from Leatherhead, in the November following:

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seem vapid and uninspired to those who cannot drink of their fountains at the rocky source. But the Florentine has this advantage over the bard of Weimar : that time, which alone forms the enduring crystal, has tested by upwards of half a thousand ages the hardness of his reputation, and ́proved that it is not glass. The opinion of what we call the world—the contemporary world—is fallacious; but the judgment of the real world, the world of generations, must be accepted; the one is the seeming horizon, that extends a little way only; the other is the true one, which embraces the hemisphere. In this universal verdict, how few are the names, from the great flood, which may justly be catalogued with Dante? And even of these how few are not indebted to that which no genius can compass-the luck of precedency of date? He has not, indeed, left one of those universal works which exact tribute from all sympathies. There is an individuality in his imagination which makes those whose fancies run wholly in another vein, sensible only of his difficulty or his dullness. He is less to be commended than loved, and they who truly feel his charm will need no argument for their passionate fondness. With them he has attained that highest favour of an author-exemptions from those canons to which the little herd must bow. whether he has been glorified by the Germans, or derided by the French, it matters little. Consider too, how far his fame has travelled. It is true, mere wideness of reputation is nothing now-a-days, except as it is concomitant with durability. But as Horace, amid the groves of Tibur already pinfeathered in imagination, could plume himself on the prospect of being one day read beside the Rhone; let it also be remembered

Dante,

what a stretch it is from Arno to the Thames. My brother Tom is much improved - he is going to Devonshire. Remember me kindly to all.

Yours affectionately,

JOHN KEATS.

MY DEAR BAILEY,

[Post-mark, 22 Nov. 1817.]

I will get over the first part of this (unpaid) letter as soon as possible, for it relates to the affairs of poor Cripps. To a man of your nature such a letter as Haydon'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 Haydon 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 could not have known me even thus long, and still hold me 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 mass of neutral intellect—but they have not any individuality, any deter

mined 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 Cripps 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 well-so don't, because you have suddenly discovered a coldness in Haydon, suffer yourself to be

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sentation 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 anything 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

ness.

form of Youth," a shadow of reality to come-and this consideration has further convinced me,-for it has come as auxiliary to another favourite speculation of mine,—that we shall enjoy ourselves hereafter by having what we called 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 suddenTo 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 facemore 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

Mr. Bailey well remembered the exceeding delight that Keats took in Wordsworth's "Ode to Immortality." He was never weary of repeating it.

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