On Fame   
   
I   
   
   
FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy      
  To those who woo her with too slavish knees,      
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,      
  And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;      
She is a Gipsey,—will not speak to those           5   
  Who have not learnt to be content without her;      
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper’d close,      
  Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;      
A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,      
  Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;           10   
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;      
  Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!      
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,      
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

On Fame   
   
II   
   
   
           “You cannot eat your cake and have it too.”—Proverb.   
   
   
HOW fever’d is the man, who cannot look      
  Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,      
Who vexes all the leaves of his life’s book,      
  And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;      
It is as if the rose should pluck herself,           5   
  On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,      
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,      
  Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:      
But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,      
  For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,           10   
And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,      
  The undisturbed lake has crystal space;      
  Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,      
  Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art   
   
   
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—      
  Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,      
And watching, with eternal lids apart,      
  Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,      
The moving waters at their priestlike task           5   
  Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,      
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask      
  Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—      
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,      
  Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,           10   
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,      
  Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,      
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,      
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

 To * * * * * *   
   
   
Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs      
  Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell      
  Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well      
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:      
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;           5   
  No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;      
  I am no happy shepherd of the dell      
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes.      
Yet must I doat upon thee,—call thee sweet,      
  Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses           10   
    When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.      
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet,      
  And when the moon her pallid face discloses,      
    I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.

 To * * * *   
   
   
HADST thou liv’d in days of old,      
O what wonders had been told      
Of thy lively countenance,      
And thy humid eyes that dance      
In the midst of their own brightness;           5   
In the very fane of lightness.      
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,      
Picture out each lovely meaning:      
In a dainty bend they lie,      
Like to streaks across the sky,           10   
Or the feathers from a crow,      
Fallen on a bed of snow.      
Of thy dark hair that extends      
Into many graceful bends:      
As the leaves of Hellebore           15   
Turn to whence they sprung before.      
And behind each ample curl      
Peeps the richness of a pearl.      
Downward too flows many a tress      
With a glossy waviness;           20   
Full, and round like globes that rise      
From the censer to the skies      
Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness      
Of thy honied voice; the neatness      
Of thine ankle lightly turn’d:           25   
With those beauties, scarce discern’d,      
Kept with such sweet privacy,      
That they seldom meet the eye      
Of the little loves that fly      
Round about with eager pry.           30   
Saving when, with freshening lave,      
Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave;      
Like twin water lillies, born      
In the coolness of the morn.      
O, if thou hadst breathed then,           35   
Now the Muses had been ten.      
Couldst thou wish for lineage higher      
Than twin sister of Thalia?      
At least for ever, evermore,      
Will I call the Graces four.           40   
   
Hadst thou liv’d when chivalry      
Lifted up her lance on high,      
Tell me what thou wouldst have been?      
Ah! I see the silver sheen      
Of thy broidered, floating vest           45   
Cov’ring half thine ivory breast;      
Which, O heavens! I should see,      
But that cruel destiny      
Has placed a golden cuirass there;      
Keeping secret what is fair.           50   
Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested      
Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:      
O’er which bend four milky plumes      
Like the gentle lilly’s blooms      
Springing from a costly vase.           55   
See with what a stately pace      
Comes thine alabaster steed;      
Servant of heroic deed!      
O’er his loins, his trappings glow      
Like the northern lights on snow.           60   
Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!      
Sign of the enchanter’s death;      
Bane of every wicked spell;      
Silencer of dragon’s yell.      
Alas! thou this wilt never do:           65   
Thou art an enchantress too,      
And wilt surely never spill      
Blood of those whose eyes can kill.

Keats's Letters

To J H Reynolds, 17-18 April 1817

'I find that I cannot exist without poetry - without eternal poetry - half the day will not do - the whole of it - I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan - I had become all in a Tremble from not having written any thing of late - '

 


Recipient:  John Hamilton Reynolds (1794-1852) met Keats at Leigh Hunt's home in October 1816.  Reynolds later introduced Keats to Charles Brown, James Rice, Benjamin Bailey, Charles Wentworth Dilke (among others), as well as his future publisher, John Taylor.  Reynolds had dabbled in poetry himself but abandoned it for a career in law.  He was a passionate advocate of Keats's work and a devoted friend.  They discussed poetry and planned several works together.

Introduction:  This letter was written during Keats's brief holiday in Carisbrooke.  It includes a discussion of Shakespeare and several beautiful descriptions of the landscape.

Carisbrooke April 17th

My dear Reynolds,

Ever since I wrote to my Brothers 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] Scotts, 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 should live there or at Carisbrooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful place - sloping wood and meadow ground reaches round the Chine, which is a cleft between the Cliffs of the depth of nearly 300 feet at least. This cleft is filled with trees & bushes in the narrow parts; and as it widens becomes bare, if it were not for primroses on one side, which spread to the very verge of the Sea, and some fishermen's huts on the other, perched midway in the Ballustrades of beautiful green Hedges along their steps down to the sands. - But the sea, Jack, the sea - the little waterfall - then the white cliff - then St. Catherine's Hill - "the sheep in the meadows, the cows in the corn." - Then, why are you at Carisbrooke? say you-Because, in the first place, I shod be at twice the Expense, and three times the inconvenience - next that from here I can see your continent - from a little hill close by, the whole north Angle of the - Isle of Wight, with the water between us. In the 3d place, I see Carisbrooke Castle from my window, and have found several delightful wood-alleys, and copses, and quick freshes. As for Primroses-the Island ought to be called Primrose Island: that is, if the nation of Cowslips agree thereto, of which there are diverse Clans just beginning to lift up their heads and if an how the Rain holds whereby that is Birds eyes abate - Another reason of my fixing is that I am more in reach of the places around me - I intend to walk over the Island east - West-North South - I have not seen many specimens of Ruins-I dont think however I shall ever see one to surpass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is o'ergrown with the smoothest turf, and the Walls with ivy - The Keep within side is one Bower of ivy - a Colony of Jackdaws have been there many years. I dare say I have seen many a descendant of some old cawer who peeped through the Bars at Charles the first, when he was there in Confinement. On the road from Cowes to Newport I saw some extensive Barracks which disgusted me extremely with Government for placing such a Nest of Debauchery in so beautiful a place - I asked a man on the coach about this - and he said that the people had been spoiled - In the room where I slept at Newport I found this on the Window "O Isle spoilt by the Milatary!" I must in honesty however confess that I did not feel very sorry at the idea of the Women being a little profligate - The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that it would be no bad thing to be the favorite of some Fairy, who would give one the power of seeing how our Friends got on, at a Distance - I should like, of all Loves, a sketch of you and Tom and George in ink which Haydon will do if you tell him how I want them - From want of regular rest, I have been rather narvus - and the passage in Lear  - "Do you not hear the sea?"  - has haunted me intensely.

On the Sea.

It keeps eternal Whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns; till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found

That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell
When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.
O ye who have your eyeballs vext and tir'd
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea
O ye whose Ears are dinned with uproar rude
Or fed too much with cloying melody -
Sit ye near some old Cavern's Mouth and brood
Until ye start as if the Sea Nymphs quired - 

April 18th

Will you have the goodness to do this? Borrow a Botanical Dictionary - turn to the words Laurel and Prunus show the explanations to your sisters and Mrs Dilk[e] and without more ado let them send me the Cups Basket and Books they trifled and put off and off while I was in Town - ask them what they can say for themselves  - ask Mrs Dilk[e] wherefore she does so distress me - Let me know how Jane has her health - the Weather is untell you what - on the 23rd was Shakespeare born - now if I should receive a Letter from you and another from my Brothers on that day 'twould be a parlous good thing-Whenever you write say a Word or two on some Passage in Shakespeare that may have come rather new to you; which must be continually happening, notwithstanding that we read the same Play forty times - for instance, the following, from the Tempest, never struck me so forcibly as at present,

"Urchins Shall, for that vast of Night that they may work,
All exercise on thee - "

How can I help bringing to your mind the Line-In the dark backward and abysm of time.

I find that I cannot exist without poetry - without eternal poetry - half the day will not do - the whole of it - I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan - I had become all in a Tremble from not having written any thing of late - the Sonnet over leaf did me some good. I slept the better last night for it - this Morning, however, I am nearly as bad again - Just now I opened Spencer, and the first Lines I saw were these. - 

"The noble Heart that harbors virtuous thought,
And is with Child of glorious great intent,
Can never rest, until it forth have brought
Th' eternal Brood of Glory excellent - "

Let me know particularly about Haydon; ask him to write to me about Hunt, if it be only ten lines - I hope all is well  - I shall forthwith begin my Endymion, which I hope I shall have got some way into by the time you come, when we will read our verses in a delightful place I have set my heart upon near the Castle - Give my Love to your Sisters severally - To George and Tom - Remember me to Rice Mr and Mrs Dilk[e] and all we know - 

Your sincere Friend
John Keats.

Direct J. Keats, Mrs Cook's new Village, Carisbrooke

Keats's Letters

To Leigh Hunt, 10 May 1817

'These last two day[s] however I have felt more confident - I have asked myself so often why I should be a Poet more than other Men, - seeing how great a thing it is, - how great things are to be gained by it  - .... When I consider that so many of these Pin points go to form a Bodkin point (God send I end not my Life with a bare Bodkin, in its modern sense) and that it requires a thousand bodkins to make a Spear bright enough to throw any light to posterity - I see that nothing but continual uphill Journeying!'


Recipient:  Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was a devoted friend and supporter of Keats.  Lending books, giving advice, engaging in 'composition contests, printing and praising Keats's poetry, Hunt also introduced Keats to Haydon, Shelley, and others.  Hunt's radical politics, however, earned him the enmity of influential critics.  And since Keats was regarded as Hunt's protégé, he suffered the same fate.  He understandably wished to distance his poetry from Hunt's influence (perceived or otherwise), but they remained friends.  Hunt later traveled to Italy where he began an ill-fated literary journal with Shelley and Byron.  In 1828, he wrote a biographical sketch of Keats.

Introduction:  This is a wonderfully rambling letter, typical of Keats, which discusses mutual friends, literary critics, and Keats's ambition. 


Margate May 10th - 

My dear Hunt,

The little Gentleman that sometimes lurks in a gossips bowl ought to have come in very likeness of a coasted crab and choaked me outright for not having answered your Letter ere this - however you must not suppose that I was in Town to receive it; no, it followed me to the isle of Wight and I got it just as I was going to pack up for Margate, for reasons which you anon shall hear. On arriving at this treeless affair I wrote to my Brother George to request C. C. C. to do the thing you wot of respecting Rimini; and George tells me he has undertaken it with great Pleasure; so I hope there has been an understanding between you for many Proofs -   - C. C. C. is well acquainted with Bensley. Now why did you not send the Key of your Cupboard which I know was full of Papers? We would have lock'd them all in a trunk together with those you told me to destroy; which indeed I did not do for fear of demolishing Receipts. There not being a more unpleasant thing in the world (saving a thousand and one others) than to pay a Bill twice. Mind you - old Wood's a very Varmant-sharded in Covetousness - And now I am upon a horrid subject - what a horrid one you were upon last sunday and well you handled it. The last Examiner was [a] Battering Ram against Christianity - Blasphemy - Tertullian - Erasmus - Sr. Philip Sidney. And then the dreadful Petzelians and their expiation by Blood - and do Christians shudder at the same thing in a Newspaper which the [?] attribute to their God in its most aggravated form? What is to be the end of this? I must mention Hazlitt's Southey -  O that he had left out the grey hairs! Or that they had been in any other Paper not concluding with such a Thunderclap - that sentence about making a Page of the feelings of a whole life appears to me like a Whale's back in the Sea of Prose. I ought to have said a word on Shakspeare's Christianity - there are two, which I have not looked over with you, touching the thing: the one for, the other against. That in favor is in Measure for Measure Act 2. S. 2 Isab. Alas! alas!

Why all the Souls that were, were forfeit once
And he that might the vantage best have took,
Found out the Remedy - 

That against is in Twelfth Night. Act 3. S. 2. Maria - for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible Passages of grossness! Before I come to the Nymphs I must get through all disagreeables - I went to the Isle of Wight - thought so much about Poetry so long together that I could not get to sleep at night - and moreover, I know not how it was, I could not get wholesome food - By this means in a Week or so I became not over capable in my upper Stories, and set off pell mell for Margate, at least 150 Miles - because forsooth I fancied that I should like my old Lodging here, and could contrive to do without Trees. Another thing I was too much in Solitude, and consequently was obliged to be in continual burning of thought as an only resource.

However Tom is with me at present and we are very comfortable. We intend though to get among some Trees. How have you got on among them? How are the Nymphs? I suppose they have led you a fine dance-Where are you now. In Judea, Cappadocia, or the Parts of Lybia about Cyrene, Strangers from "Heaven, Hues and Prototypes. I wager you have given given several new turns to the old saying "Now the Maid was fair and pleasant to look on" as well as mad[e] a little variation in "once upon a time" perhaps too you have rather varied "thus endeth the first Lesson" I hope you have made a Horseshoe business of - "unsuperfluous lift" "faint Bowers" and fibrous roots. I vow that I have been down in the Mouth lately at this Work. These last two day[s] however I have felt more confident - I have asked myself so often why I should be a Poet more than other Men, - seeing how great a thing it is, - how great things are to be gained by it  - What a thing to be in the Mouth of Fame - that at last the Idea has grown so monstrously beyond my seeming Power of attainment that the other day I nearly consented with myself to drop into a Phaeton - yet 'tis a disgrace to fail even in a huge attempt, and at this moment I drive the thought from me. I began my Poem about a Fortnight since and have done some every day except travelling ones  - Perhaps I may have done a good deal for the time but it appears such a Pin's Point to me that I will not coppy any out. When I consider that so many of these Pin points go to form a Bodkin point (God send I end not my Life with a bare Bodkin, in its modern sense) and that it requires a thousand bodkins to make a Spear bright enough to throw any light to posterity - I see that nothing but continual uphill Journeying! Now is there any thing more unpleasant (it may come among the thousand and one) than to be so journeying and miss the Goal at last. But I intend to whistle all these cogitations into the Sea where I hope they will breed Storms violent enough to block up all exit from Russia. Does Shelley go on telling strange Stories of the Death of Kings? Tell him there are strange Stories of the death of Poets - some have died before they were conceived "how do you make that out Master Vellum". Does Mrs. S. cut Bread and Butter as neatly as ever? Tell her to procure some fatal Scissors and cut the thread of Life of all to be disappointed Poets. Does Mrs Hunt tear linen in half as straight as ever? Tell her to tear from the book of Life all blank Leaves. Remember me to them all - to Miss Kent and the little ones all.

Your sincere friend
John Keats alias Junkets - 



You shall know where we move -

Keats's Letters

To Benjamin Robert Haydon, 10-11 May 1817

'Is it too daring to Fancy Shakspeare this Presidor?'

'You tell me never to despair--I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying--truth is I have a horrid Morbidity of Temperament which has shown itself at intervals--it is I have no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling block I have to fear--I may even say that it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment.'

'I know no one but you who can be fully sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what is called comfort the readiness to Measure time by what is done and to die in 6 hours could plans be brought to conclusions--the looking upon the Sun the Moon the Stars, the Earth and its contents as materials to form greater things--that is to say ethereal things--but here I am talking like a Madman greater things that our Creator himself made!!'

 



Recipient:  The painter Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786-1846) met Keats at Leigh Hunt's home in October 1816.  They were close and devoted friends for the next three years.  Haydon included Keats's face in his historical painting Christ's Triumphant Entry into Jerusalem, along with Hazlitt's, Wordsworth's, and Lamb's.  Their friendship ended in June 1819 when Haydon quarreled with their mutual friends Hunt and John Hamilton Reynolds and reneged on a loan Keats had made him.  Haydon's work never achieved popular or critical success and he committed suicide in 1846.  He remains the source of most well-known anecdotes about Keats; he also held the famous 'Immortal Dinner' of 1817, which Keats attended with Wordsworth and Lamb.

Introduction:  This letter is typical of the many Keats sent to Haydon while beginning his poetic career.  He writes to Haydon as a fellow artist and discusses their mutual ambition.

Margate Saturday Eve

My dear Haydon,

Let Fame, which all hunt after in their Lives,
Live register'd upon our brazen tombs,
And so grace us in the disgrace of death:
When spite of cormorant devouring time
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That Honor which shall bate his Scythe's keen edge
And make us heirs of all eternity.

To think that I have no right to couple myself with you in this speech would be death to me me so I have e'en written it--and I pray God that our brazen Tombs be nigh neighbors. It cannot be long first the endeavor of this present breath will soon be over--and yet it is as well to breathe freely during our sojourn--it is as well if you have not been teased with that Money affair--that bill-pestilence. However I must think that difficulties nerve the Spirit of a Man--they make our Prime Objects a Refuge as well as a Passion. The Trumpet of Fame is as a tower of Strength the ambitious bloweth it and is safe. I suppose by your telling me not to give way to forebodings George has mentioned to you what I have lately said in my Letters to him--truth is I have been in such a state of Mind as to read over my Lines and hate them. I am "one that gathers Samphire dreadful trade" the Cliff of Poesy Towers above me--yet when, Tom who meets with some of Pope's Homer in Plutarch's Lives reads some of those to me they seem like Mice to mine. I read and write about eight hours a day. There is an old saying "well begun is half done" --'tis a bad one. I would use instead--"Not begun at all till half done" so according to that I have not begun my Poem and consequently (a priori) can say nothing about it. Thank God! I do begin arduously where I leave off, notwithstanding occasional depressions: and I hope for the support of a High Power while I clime this little eminences and especially in my Years of more momentous Labor. I remember your saying that you had notions of a good Genius presiding over you. I have of late had the same thought--for things which [I] do half at Random are afterwards confirmed by my judgment in a dozen features of Propriety. Is it too daring to Fancy Shakspeare this Presidor? When in the Isle of Whight I met with a Shakspeare in the Passage of the House at which I lodged--it comes nearer to my idea of him than any I have seen--I was but there a Week yet the old Woman made me take it with me though I went off in a hurry--Do you not think this is ominous of good? I am glad you say every Man of great Views is at times tormented as I am--

Sunday Aft. This Morning I received a letter from George by which it appears that Money Troubles are to follow us up for some time to come perhaps for always--these vexations are a great hindrance to one--they are not like Envy and detraction stimulants to further exertion as being immediately relative and reflected on at the same time with the prime object--but rather like a nettle leaf or two in your bed. So now I revoke my Promise of finishing my Poem by the Autumn which I should have done had I gone on as I have done--but I cannot write while my spirit is fevered in a contrary direction and I am now sure of having plenty of it this Summer. At this moment I am in no enviable Situation--I feel that I am not in a Mood to write any to day; and it appears that the loss of it is the beginning of all sorts of irregularities. I am extremely glad that a time must come when every thing will leave not a wrack behind. You tell me never to despair--I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying--truth is I have a horrid Morbidity of Temperament which has shown itself at intervals--it is I have no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling block I have to fear--I may even say that it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment. However every ill has its share of good--this very bane would at any time enable me to look with an obstinate eye on the Devil Himself--ay to be as proud of being the lowest of the human race as Alfred could be in being of the highest. I feel confident I should have been a rebel Angel had the opportunity been mine. I am very sure that you do love me as your own Brother--I have seen it in your continual anxiety for me--and I assure you that your wellfare and fame is and will be a chief pleasure to me all my Life. I know no one but you who can be fully sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what is called comfort the readiness to Measure time by what is done and to die in 6 hours could plans be brought to conclusions--the looking upon the Sun the Moon the Stars, the Earth and its contents as materials to form greater things--that is to say ethereal things--but here I am talking like a Madman greater things that our Creator himself made!! I wrote to Hunt yesterday--scarcly know what I said in it. I could not talk about Poetry in the way I should have liked for I was not in humor with either his or mine. His self delusions are very lamentable they have inticed him into a Situation which I should be less eager after than that of a galley Slave--what you observe thereon is very true must be in time.

Perhaps it is a self delusion to say so--but I think I could not be be deceived in the Manner that Hunt is--may I die tomorrow if I am to be. There is no greater Sin after the 7 deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great Poet--or one of those beings who are privileged to wear out their Lives in the pursuit of Honor--how comfortable a feel it is that such a Crime must bring its heavy Penalty? That if one be a Selfdeluder accounts will be balanced? I am glad you are hard at Work--t will now soon be done--I long to see Wordsworth's as well as to have mine in: but I would rather not show my face in Town till the end of the Year--if that will be time enough--if not I shall be disappointed if you do not write for me even when you think best. I never quite despair and I read Shakspeare--indeed I shall I think never read any other Book much--Now this might lead me into a long Confab but I desist. I am very near Agreeing with Hazlit that Shakspeare is enough for us--By the by what a tremendous Southean Article his last was--I wish he had left out "grey hairs" It was very gratifying to meet your remarks of the Manuscript --I was reading Anthony and Cleopatra when I got the Paper and there are several Passages applicable to the events you commentate. You say that he arrived by degrees and not by any single struggle to the height of his ambition--and that his Life had been as common in particulars as other Mens. Shakspeare makes Enobarb say-Where's Antony Eros--He's walking in the garden--thus: and spurns the rush that lies before him; cries fool, Lepidus! In the same scene we find: "let determined things to destiny hold unbewailed their way." Dolabella says of Antony's Messenger

"An argument that he is pluck'd when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing"--Then again, Eno--"I see Men's Judgments are A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike"--The following applies well to Bertram

"Yet he that can endure To follow with allegience a fallen Lord, Does conquer him that did his Master conquer, And earns a place i' the story"

But how differently does Buonap bear his fate from Antony!

'Tis good too that the Duke of Wellington has a good Word or so in the Examiner. A Man ought to have the Fame he deserves--and I begin to think that detracting from him as well as from Wordsworth is the same thing. I wish he had a little more taste--and did not in that respect "deal in Lieutenantry". You should have heard from me before this--but in the first place I did not like to do so before I had got a little way in the 1st Book and in the next as G. told me you were going to write I delayed till I had hea[r]d from you. Give my Respects the next time you write to the North and also to John Hunt--

Remember me to Reynolds and tell him to write--Ay, and when you sent Westward tell your Sister that I mentioned her in this--So now in the Name of Shakespeare Raphael and all our Saints I commend you to the care of heaven!

Your everlasting friend
John Keats--

Keats's Letters

To Benjamin Bailey, 8 October 1817

'Do not the Lovers of Poetry like to have a little Region to wander in where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and found new in a second Reading: which may be food for a Week's stroll in the Summer?'

'Haydon says to me Keats dont show your Lines to Hunt on any account or he will have done half for you - so it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought.'

 



Recipient:  Benjamin Bailey (1791-1853) was a student at Oxford when he and Keats became friends.  The friendship ended when Bailey, after passionately courting Marianne Reynolds, married Hamilton Gleig instead.  The marriage may have been determined by his career; Gleig was the daughter of the bishop of Brechin and Bailey was a country parson.  Keats's last letter to Bailey was an achingly polite congratulations on his wedding.

Introduction:  In this letter, Keats discusses the politics of literary London and his growing disenchantment with Leigh Hunt.  He also mentions his fellow poets Wordsworth, Shelley, and Byron.  Note his signature - 'your sincere friend & brother' - which shows his deep affection for Bailey, severed upon Bailey's ambitious marriage.

The end of this letter is often quoted in biographies of Keats:  "The little Mercury I have taken has corrected the Poison and improved my Health - "  This has been used to suggest Keats was treating venereal disease with mercury.  True?  No one knows, but the mystery is discussed in Robert Gittings' excellent biography.

Hamps[t]ead Octr Wednesday

My dear Bailey,

After a tolerable journey I went from Coach to Coach to as far as Hampstead where I found my Brothers - the next Morning finding myself tolerably well I went to Lambs Conduit Street and delivered your Parcel - Jane and Marianne were greatly improved Marianne especially she has no unhealthy plumpness in the face - but she comes me healthy and angular to the Chin - I did not see John I was extrem(e)ly sorry to hear that poor Rice after having had capital Health During his tour, was very ill. I dare say you have heard from him. From No. 19  I went to Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neighbours. Shelley was there - I know nothing about any thing in this part of the world - every Body seems at Loggerheads. There's Hunt infatuated - theres Haydon's Picture in statu quo. There's Hunt walks up and down his painting room criticising every head most unmercifully - There's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. The web of our Life is of mingled Yarn" Haydon having removed  entirely from Marlborough street Crips must direct his Letter to Lisson Grove North Paddington. Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown's in came Reynolds - he was pretty bobbish we had a pleasant day - but he would walk home at night that cursed cold distance. Mrs Bentley's children are making a horrid row - whereby I regret I cannot be transported to your Room to write to you. I am quite disgusted with literary Men and will never know another except Wordsworth - no not even Byron - Here is an instance of the friendships of such - Haydon and Hunt have known each other many years - now they live pour ainsi dire jealous Neighbours. Haydon says to me Keats dont show your Lines to Hunt on any account or he will have done half for you - so it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought. When he met Reynolds in the Theatre John told him that I was getting on to the completion of 4000 Lines. Ah I says Hunt, had it not been for me they would have been 7000 ! If he will say this to Reynolds what would he to other People? Haydon received a Letter a little while back on this subject from some Lady - which contains a caution to me through him on this subject - Now is not all this a most paultry thing to think about? You may see the whole of the case by the following extract from a Letter I wrote to George in the spring "As to what you say about my being a poet, I can retu[r]n no answer but by saying that the high Idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering to high above me. At any rate I have no right to talk until Endymion is finished - it will be a test, a trial of my Powers of Imagination and chiefly of my invention which is a rare thing indeed - by which I must make 4000 Lines of one bare circumstance and fill them with Poetry; and when I consider that this is a great task, and that when done it will take me but a dozen paces towards the Temple of Fame - it makes me say - God forbid that I should be without such a task  I have heard Hunt say and may be asked - why endeavour after a long Poem? To which I should answer - Do not the Lovers of Poetry like to have a little Region to wander in where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and found new in a 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 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 i[n]deed 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 a Mockery at him at Hunts" You see Bailey how independant my writing has been - Hunts dissuasion was of no avail - I refused to visit Shelley, that I might have my own unfetterd scope - and after all I shall have the Reputation of Hunt's elevé - His corrections and amputations will by the knowing ones be trased in the Poem - This is to be sure the vexation of a day - nor would I say so many Words about it to any but those whom I know to have my wellfare and Reputation at Heart - Haydon promised to give directions for those Casts and you may expect to see them soon - with as many Letters You will soon hear the dinning of Bells - never mind you and Gleg will defy the foul fiend - But do not sacrifice your heal[t]h to Books do take it kindly and not so voraciously. I am certain if you are your own Physician your stomach will resume its proper strength and then what great Benefits will follow. My Sister wrote a Letter to me which I think must be at (....) post office Ax Will to see. My Brothers kindest remembrances to you - we are going to dine at Brown's where I have some hopes of meeting Reynolds. The little Mercury I have taken has corrected the Poison and improved my Health - though I feel from my employment that I  shall never be again secure in Robustness - would that you were as well as

your sincere friend & brother
John Keats

The Dilks are expected to day -

Keats's Letters

To J H Reynolds, 22 November 1817

'One of the three Books I have with me is Shakespear's Poems: I neer found so many beauties in the Sonnets--they seem to be full of fine things said unintentionally--in the intensity of working out conceits. Is this to be borne?'

 


Recipient:  John Hamilton Reynolds (1794-1852) met Keats at Leigh Hunt's home in October 1816.  Reynolds later introduced Keats to Charles Brown, James Rice, Benjamin Bailey, Charles Wentworth Dilke (among others), as well as his future publisher, John Taylor.  Reynolds had dabbled in poetry himself but abandoned it for a career in law.  He was a passionate advocate of Keats's work and a devoted friend.  They discussed poetry and planned several works together.

Introduction:  This letter to Reynolds includes a discussion of Shakespeare and many quotations from his works.  Keats also sends Reynolds a selection from his own Endymion.

Saturday

My Dear Reynolds

There are two things which tease me here--one of them Crips, and the other that I cannot go with Tom into Devonshire--however I hope to do my duty to myself in a week or so; and then I'll try what I can do for my neighbour--now is not this virtuous? on returning to Town--I'll damn all Idleness--indeed, in superabundance of employment, I must not be content to run here and there on little two-penny errands--but turn Rakehell, ie go a masking or Bailey will think me just as great a Promise Keeper as he thinks you--for myself I do not,-and do not remember above one Complaint against you for matter o' that--Bailey writes so abominable a hand, to give his Letter a fair reading requires a little time: so I had not seen, when I saw you last, his invitation to Oxford at Christmas--I'll go with you. You know how poorly Rice was--I do not think it was all corporeal--bodily pain was not used to keep him silent. I'll tell you what; he was hurt at what your Sisters said about his joking with your Mother, he was, soothly to sain--It will all blow over. God knows, my Dear Reynolds, I should not talk any sorrow to you-you must have enough vexations--so I won't any more--If I ever start a rueful subject in a Letter to you--blow me! Why don't you--Now I was agoing to ask a very silly Question neither you nor any body else could answer, under a folio, or at least a Pamphlet--you shall judge--Why don't you, as I do, look unconcerned at what may be called more particularly Heart-vexations? They never surprize me-lord! a man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world--I like this place very much. There is Hill & Dale and a little River--I went up Box hill this Evening after the Moon--you a' seen the Moon--came down--and wrote some lines. Whenever I am separated from you, and not engaged in a continued Poem--every Letter shall bring you a lyric--but I am too anxious for you to enjoy the whole, to send you a particle. One of the three Books I have with me is Shakespear's Poems: I neer found so many beauties in the Sonnets--they seem to be full of fine things said unintentionally--in the intensity of working out conceits. Is this to be borne? Hark ye!

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard.

He has left nothing to say about nothing or anything: for
look at Snails, you know what he says about Snails, you know
where he talks about "cockled Snails"--well, in one of these
sonnets, he says--the chap slips into--no! I lie! this is in the
Venus and Adonis:1 the Simile brought it to my Mind.

Audi--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 by 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 "deaths eternal cold".--

By the Whim King! I'll give you a Stanza, because it is not material in connection 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 watery 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 [illegible word]--I mean up and down. I see there is an advertizement in the Chronicle to Poets--he is so overloaded with poems on the late Princess. --I Suppose you do not lack--send me a few--lend 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 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.