earthly, and cannot, for his life, keep in the check-reinor 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 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 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-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 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, Your sincere friend John Keats XLI. To BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. Lisson Grove North, Paddington, Middx. Wednesday [Postmarks, Teignmouth, and 10 April 1818.] My dear Haydon, I am glad you were pleased with my nonsense, and if it so happen that the humour takes me when I have set down to prose to you I will not gainsay it. I should be (God forgive me) ready to swear because I cannot make use of your assistance in going through Devon if I was not in my own Mind determined to visit it thoroughly at some more favorable time of the year. But now Tom (who is getting greatly better) is anxious to be in Town-therefore I put off my threading the (XLI) I presume this letter was written on the 9th of April, which was a Wednesday. County. I purpose within a month to put my knapsack at my back and make a pedestrian tour through the North of England, and part of Scotland—to make a sort of Prologue to the Life I intend to pursue that is to write, to study and to see all Europe at the lowest expence. I will clamber through the Clouds and exist. I will get such an accumulation of stupendous recollections that as I walk through the suburbs of London I may not see them-I will stand upon Mount Blanc and remember this coming Summer when I intend to straddle BenLomond-with my soul!-galligaskins are out of the Question. I am nearer myself to hear your Christ is being tinted into immortality. Believe me Haydon your picture is part of myself-I have ever been too sensible of the labyrinthian path to eminence in Art (judging from Poetry) ever to think I understood the emphasis of painting. The innumerable compositions and decompositions which take place between the intellect and its thousand materials before it arrives at that trembling delicate and snail-horn perception of beauty. I know not you[r] many havens of intenseness-nor ever can know them but for this I hope not you achieve is lost upon me for when a Schoolboy the abstract Idea I had of an heroic painting-was what I cannot describe. I saw it somewhat sideways, large, prominent, round, and colour'd with magnificence—somewhat like the feel I have of Anthony and Cleopatra. Or of Alcibiades leaning on his Crimson Couch in his Galley, his broad shoulders imperceptibly heaving with the Sea. That passage in Shakespeare is finer than this See how the surly Warwick mans the Wall. 1 Such is the phrase in the letter. I suppose the sense is "but for all this I hope what you achieve is not lost upon me." I like your consignment of Corneille-that's the humour of it. They shall be called your Posthumous Works. I don't understand you[r] bit of Italian.' I hope she will awake from her dream and flourish fair-my respects to her. The Hedges by this time are beginning to leaf-Cats are becoming more vociferous-young Ladies who wear Watches are always looking at them. Women about forty five think the Season very backward-Ladies' Mares have but half an allowance of food. It rains here again, has been doing so for three days-however as I told you I'll take a trial in June, July, or August next year. I am afraid Wordsworth went rather huff'd out of Town-I am sorry for it-he cannot expect his fireside Divan to be infallible-he cannot expect but that every man of worth is as proud as himself. O that he had not fit with a Warrener-that is din'd at Kingston's. I shall be in town in about a fortnight and then we will have a day or so now and then before I set out on my northern expedition-we will have no more abominable Rowsfor they leave one in a fearful silence-having settled the Methodists let us be rational-not upon compulsion-no —if it will out let it but I will not play the Bassoon any more deliberately. Remember me to Hazlitt, and Bewick Your affectionate friend John Keats The allusion to Mrs. Scott's black eyes-page 131, where also will be found the reference to Corneille. The next passage, on the season, should be compared with A Now, pages 33-9 of this volume. 2 Mr. F. W. Haydon says in the Correspondence, Volume II, page 11, that Keats "appears to allude here to the violent political and religious discussions of the set, as much as to an absurd practice they had, when they met, of amusing themselves after dinner by a XLII. To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. Teignmouth, 9 April 1818. My dear Reynolds, 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 have something in common with Hunt). Look it over again, and examine into the motives, the seeds, from which any one sentence sprung. I have not the slightest feel of humility towards the public, or to anything 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 concert, each imitating a different instrument. The fun was as boisterous by all accounts as the discussion was heated." The next trace I find of the correspondence with the painter is a letter in Haydon's journal dated the 8th of May 1817 or 1818, the final figure of the year-date being altered and uncertain; but it is inserted opposite to a letter of May 1818, and clearly points to Endymion: it is as follows: My dear Keats, I have read your delicious Poem, with exquisite enjoyment, it is the most delightful thing of the time-you have taken up the great trumpet of nature and made it sound with a voice of your own -I write in a great hurry-You will realize all I wish or expectSuccess attend you my glorious fellow-& Believe me ever & ever yours B. R. Haydon 1 The first Preface to Endymion, given at pages 115-17 of Volume I. |