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letter tell me whether I gave it as my own, or whether I gave it as a matter Brown was employed upon at the time. He read it over to George the other day, and George said he had heard it all before. So Brown suspects I have been giving you his story as my own. I should like to set him right in it by your evidence. George has not returned from town; when he does I shall tax his memory. We had a young, long, raw, lean Scotchman with us yesterday, callid Thornton. Rice, for fun or for mistake, would persist in calling him Stevenson. I know three people of no wit at all, each distinct in his excellence - A, B, and C. A is the coolishest, B the sultriest, C is a negative. A makes you yawn, B makes you hate; as for C, you never see him, though he is six feet high. I bear the first, I forbear the second, I am not certain that the third is. The first is gruel, the second ditch-water, the third is spilt — he ought to be wip'd up. A is inspired by Jack-o'-the-clock, B has been drilled by a Russian sargeant; C, they say, is not his mother's true child, but she bought him of the man who cries, “Young lambs to sell.” Twang-dillo-dee. This, you must know, is the amen to nonsense. I know a good many places where amen should be scratched out, rubbed over with ponce made of Momus's little finger bones, and in its place Twang-dillodee written. This is the word I shall be tempted to write at the end of most modern poems. Every American book ought to have it. It would be a good distinction in society. My Lords Wellington and Castlereagh, and Canning, and many more, would do well to wear Twang-dillo-dee written on their backs, instead of wearing ribbons in their button-holes. How many people would go sideways along walls and quickset hedges to keep their “Twang-dillo-dee" out of sight, or wear large pigtails to hide it. However, there would be so many that the Twang-dillo-dees would keep one another in countenance — which Brown cannot do for me. I have fallen away lately. Thieves and murderers would gain rank in the world, for would any one of them have the poorness of spirit to condescend to be a Twang-dillo-dee? “I have robbed many a dwelling-house; I have killed many a fowl, many a goose, and many a Man (would such a gentleman say), but, thank Heaven, I was never yet a Twang-dillo-dee.” Some philosophers in the moon, who spy at our globe as we do at theirs, say that Twang-dillo-dee is written in large letters on our globe of earth; they say the beginning of the “T” is just on the spot where London stands, London being built within the flourish; “wan” reaches downward and slants as far as Timbuctoo in Africa; the tail of the “g" goes slap across the Atlantic into the Rio della Plata; the remainder of the letters wrap around New Holland, and the last "e" terminates in land we have not yet discovered. However, I must be silent; these are dangerous times to libel a man in – much more a world.

I will send you a close written sheet on the first of next month; but for fear of missing the mail, I must finish here. God bless you, my dear sister. Your affectionate brother,

JOHN KEATS.

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I

LETTERS TO HIS FRIENDS

No. 1.

TO HAYDON.
MY DEAR SIR :

Your letter has filled me with a proud pleasure,
and shall be kept by me as a stimulus to exertion.
I begin to fix my eyes on an horizon. My feelings
entirely fall in with yours with regard to the ellip-
sis, and I glory in it. The idea of your sending it
to Wordsworth* puts me out of breath-you know
with what reverence I would send my well-wishes
to him.

Yours sincerely,

John Keats. regard to tecatis opinion of Wordsworth, see tega, f. 143

No. 2.

MY DEAR REYNOLDS :

My brothers are anxious that I should go by myself into the country; they have always been extremely fond of me, and now that Haydon has

125 the Heay don scenes to have been to him a wire are a ptakeut conseller, arcan to have turrutagee hime to brace hie ponora by undictracted sturch, while he advice a hire to be resoudon for a war and lake rune care of his health. The following hole writter in March 18m chons leat Keter as he was re-norocoured

pointed out how necessary it is that I should be alone to improve myself, they give up the temporary pleasure of being with me continually for a great good which I hope will follow; so I shall soon be out of town. You must soon bring all your present troubles to a close, and so must I, but we must, like the fox, prepare for a fresh swarm' of flies. Banish money — banish sofas — banish wine — banish music; but right Jack Health, honest Jack Health, true Jack Health. Banish Health and banish all the world. Your sincere friend,

JOHN KEATS.

No. 3.

CARISBROOKE, April 17th, 1817. MY DEAR REYNOLDS :

Ever since I wrote to my brother from Southampton, I have been in a taking, and at this moment I am about to become settled, for I have unpacked my books, put them into a snug corner, pinned up Haydon, Mary Queen [of] Scots, and Milton with his daughters in a row. In the passage I found a head of Shakspeare, which I had not before seen. It is most likely the same that George spoke so well of, for I like it extremely. Well, this head I have hung over my books, just above the three in a row, having first discarded a French ambassador; now this alone is a good morning's work. Yesterday I went to Shanklin, which occasioned a great debate in my mind whether I

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