He has left nothing to say about nothing or anything: for look at snails-you know what he says about Snails -you know when he talks about "cockled Snails"—well, in one of these sonnets, he says-the chap slips intono! I lie! this is in the " Venus and Adonis:" the simile brought it to my Mind.

As the snail, whose tender horns being hit,

Shrinks back into his shelly cave with pain,
And there all smothered up in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to put forth again;
So at his bloody view her eyes are fled,
Into the deep dark Cabins of her head.

He overwhelms a genuine Lover of poesy with all manner of abuse, talking about—

"a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song.'

Which, by the bye, will be a capital motto for my poem, won't it? He speaks too of "Time's antique pen "—and "April's first-born flowers "-and "Death's eternal cold." -By the Whim-King! I'll give you a stanza, because it is not material in connexion, and when I wrote it I wanted you to give your vote, pro or con.—

Crystalline Brother of the belt of Heaven,
Aquarius! to whom King Jove hath given

Two liquid pulse-streams, 'stead of feather'd wings-
Two fan-like fountains-thine illuminings

For Dian play:

Dissolve the frozen purity of air;

Let thy white shoulders, silvery and bare,

Show cold through wat'ry pinions: make more bright The Star-Queen's Crescent on her marriage-night : Haste, haste away!

Now I hope I shall not fall off in the winding up, as the woman said to the round [?]-I mean up and down. I see there is an advertisement in the "Chronicle" to Poets he is so over-loaded with poems on the “late Princess." I suppose you do not lack-send me a fewlend me thy hand to laugh a little-send me a little pullet-sperm, a few finch-eggs-and remember me to each of our card-playing Club. When you die you will all be turned into Dice, and be put in pawn with the devil: for cards, they crumple up like any thing king-I mean John in the stage play what pertains Prince Arthur.

I rest

Your affectionate friend

John Keats

Give my love to both houses-hinc atque illinc.

XXIV.

To BENJAMIN BAILEY.

[Postmark, Leatherhead, 22 November 1817.]

My dear Bailey,

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 be en surprised at such a Letter as he has hurt you with. N Or, 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 one thing that has pressed upon me lately, and increased my Humility and capability of submission-and that is this truthMen of Genius are great as certain ethereal Chemicals operating on the Mass of neutral intellect—but they have not any individuality, any determined 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 3 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 defy. 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 teased-Do not, my dear fellow-O! I wish I was as certain of the end of all your troubles as that of your momentary start about the authenticity of the Imagination. I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections, and the truth of Imagination. What the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be Truth-whether it existed before or not, for I have the same idea of all our passions as of Love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty. In a Word, you may know my favourite speculation by my first Book, and the little Song I sent in my last, which is a representation 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 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 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 reflexion, 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 Suddenness. To 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 face-more 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. What a time! I am continually running away from the subject. 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 not only drink this old Wine of Heaven, which I shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal Musings upon Earth, but also increase in knowledge, and know all things. I am glad to hear that you are in a fair way for Easter. You will soon get through your unpleasant reading, and then!-but the world is full of troubles, and I have not much reason to think myself pestered with many.

I think Jane or Marianne has a better opinion of me than I deserve; for, really and truly, I do not think my Brother's illness connected with mine-you know more of the real Cause than they do; nor have I any chance of being rack'd as you have been. You perhaps at one time thought there was such a thing as worldly happiness to be arrived at, at certain periods of time marked out,— you have of necessity from your disposition been thus led away-I scarcely remember counting upon any happiness-I look not for it if it be not in the present hour, —nothing startles me beyond the moment. The Setting Sun will always set me to rights, or if a Sparrow come before my Window, I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel. The first thing that strikes me on hearing a misfortune having befallen another in this"Well, it cannot be helped: he will have the pleasure of trying the resources of his Spirit "—and I beg now, my dear Bailey, that hereafter should you observe anything cold in me not to put it to the account of heartlessness, but abstraction-for I assure you I sometimes feel not the influence of a passion or affection during a whole Week-and so long this sometimes continues, I begin to suspect myself, and the genuineness of my feelings