I suppose you will have heard that Hazlitt has on foot a prosecution against Blackwood. I dined with him a few days since at Hessey's-there was not a word said about it, though I understand he is excessively vexed. Reynolds, by what I hear, is almost over-happy,' and Rice is in town. I have not seen him, nor shall I for some time, as my throat has become worse after getting well, and I am determined to stop at home till I am quite well. I was going to Town to-morrow with Mrs. D. but I thought it best to ask her excuse this morning. I wish I could say Tom was any better. His identity presses upon me so all day that I am obliged to go out and although I intended to have given some time to study alone, I am obliged to write and plunge into abstract images to ease myself of his countenance, his voice, and feebleness-so that I live now in a continual fever. It must be poisonous to life, although I feel well. Imagine "the hateful siege of contraries if I think of fame, of poetry, it seems a crime to me, and yet I must do so or suffer. I am sorry to give you pain -I am almost resolved to burn this-but I really have not self-possession and magnanimity enough to manage the thing otherwise-after all it may be a nervousness proceeding from the Mercury. I Bailey I hear is gaining his spirits, and he will yet be what I once thought impossible, a cheerful Man-I think he is not quite so much spoken of in Little Britain. forgot to ask Mrs. Dilke if she had any thing she wanted to say immediately to you. This morning look'd so unpromising that I did not think she would have gonebut I find she has, on sending for some volumes of Gibbon. I was in a little funk yesterday, for I sent in 1 Presumably concerning his marriage. 2 Paradise Lost, Book IX, lines 118-22. an unseal'd note of sham abuse, until I recollected, from what I heard Charles say, that the servant could neither read nor write-not even to her Mother as Charles observed. I have just had a Letter from Reynolds—he is going on gloriously. The following is a translation of a line of Ronsard Love poured her beauty into my warm veins. You have passed your Romance, and I never gave in to it, or else I think this line a feast for one of your Lovers. How goes it with Brown? Your sincere friend John Keats LXXIII. To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. My dear Reynolds, [Hampstead, 21 or 22 September 1818.] Believe me I have rather rejoiced at your happiness than fretted at your silence. Indeed I am grieved on your account that I am not at the same time happy. But I conjure you to think at present of nothing but pleasure "Gather the rose, &c."-gorge the honey of life. I pity you as much that it cannot last for ever, as I do myself now drinking bitters. Give yourself up to ityou cannot help it—and I have a consolation in thinking so. I never was in love-yet the voice and shape of a Woman has haunted me these two days-at such a time, when the relief, the feverous relief of Poetry seems 1 Jane Cox, a cousin of the Reynoldses. a much less crime. This morning Poetry has conquered -I have relapsed into those abstractions which are my only life-I feel escaped from a new strange and threatening sorrow-and I am thankful for it. There an awful warmth about my heart like a load of Immortality. Poor Tom-that woman-and Poetry were ringing changes in my senses. Now I am in comparison happy -I am sensible this will distress you-you must forgive me. Had I known you would have set out so soon I could have sent you the "Pot of Basil" for I had copied it out ready. Here is a free translation of a Sonnet of Ronsard, which I think will please you-I have the loan of his works-they have great Beauties. Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, For more adornment, a full thousand years She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dyes, And shap'd and tinted her above all Peers: Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings, And underneath their shadow fill'd her eyes With such a richness that the cloudy Kings Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs. When from the Heavens I saw her first descend, I had not the original by me when I wrote it, and did not recollect the purport of the last lines. I should have seen Rice ere this but I am confined by Sawrey's mandate in the house now, and have as yet only gone out in fear of the damp night.-You know what an undangerous matter it is. I shall soon be quite recovered. Your offer I shall remember as though 1 it had even now taken place in fact.—I think it cannot be. Tom is not up yet-I cannot say he is better. I have not heard from George. Poor Tom is about the same as when you saw him last; perhaps weaker-were it not for that I should have been over to pay you a visit these fine days. I got to the stage half an hour before it set out and counted the buns and tarts in a Pastry-cook's window and was just beginning with the Jellies. There was no one in the Coach who had a Mind to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be punctual in enquiring about next Thursday— Your affectionate Brother John LXXV. To JAMES AUGUSTUS HESSEY. My dear Hessey, 9 October 1818. You are very good in sending me the letters from the Chronicle-and I am very bad in not acknowledging such a kindness sooner-pray forgive me. It has so chanced that I have had that paper every day—I have seen to-day's. I cannot but feel indebted to those gentlemen who have taken my part. As for the rest, I begin to get a little acquainted with my own strength and weakness.-Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own Works. My own domestic criticism has given me pain without comparison beyond what Blackwood or the Quarterly could possibly inflict and also when I feel I am right, no external praise can give me such a glow as my own solitary reperception and ratification of what is fine. J. S. is perfectly right in regard to the slip-shod Endymion. That it is so is no fault of mine. No!-though it may sound a little paradoxical. It is as good as I had power to make it by myself. Had I been nervous about its being a perfect piece, and with that view asked advice, and trembled over every page, it would not have been written; for it is not in my nature to fumble-I will write independently. I have written independently without Judgment. I may write independently, and with ( Judgment, hereafter. The Genius of Poetry must work out its own salvation in a man: It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in itself. That which is creative must create itself. In "Endymion," I leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby have become better acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice. I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest. I am nigh getting into a rant. So, with remembrances to Taylor and Woodhouse &c. I am Yours very sincerely |