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horn; but then the horrid propensity he has to put it up again has discouraged many very valiant knights.

He

is such a never-ending, still-beginning, sort of a body, like my landlady of the Bell, I think I could make a nice little allegorical poem, called "The Dun," where we would have the Castle of Carelessness, the Drawbridge of Credit, Sir Novelty Fashion's expedition against the City of Tailors, &c., &c. I went day by day at my poem for a month; at the end of which time, the other day, I found my brain so over-wrought, that I had neither rhyme nor reason in it, so was obliged to give up for a few days. I hope soon to be able to resume my work. I have endeavoured to do so once or twice; but to no purpose. Instead of poetry, I have a swimming in my head, and feel all the effects of a mental debauch, lowness of spirits, anxiety to go on, without the power to do so, which does not at all tend to my ultimate progression. However, to-morrow I will begin my next month. This evening I go to Canterbury, having got tired of Margate; I was not right in my head when I came. At Canterbury I hope the remembrance of Chaucer will set me forward like a billiard ball. I have some idea of seeing the Continent some time this summer.

In repeating how sensible I am of your kindness, I remain, your obedient servant and friend,

John Keats.

I shall be happy to hear any little intelligence in the literary or friendly way when you have time to scribble.

My Dear Sir,

XI.

To JOHN TAYLOR.

10 July 1817.

A couple of Duns that I thought would be silent till the beginning, at least, of next month, (when I am certain to be on my legs, for certain sure,) have opened upon me with a cry most "untunable;" never did you hear such "ungallant chiding." Now, you must know, I am not desolate, but have, thank God, twenty-five good notes in my fob. But then, you know, I laid them by to write with, and would stand at bay a fortnight ere they should quit me. In a month's time I must pay, but it would relieve my mind if I owed you, instead of these pelican duns.

I am afraid you will say I have "wound about with circumstance," when I should have asked plainly. However, as I said, I am a little maidenish or so, and I feel my virginity come strong upon me, the while I request the loan of a 20/. and a 10/., which, if you would enclose to me, I would acknowledge and save myself a hot forehead. I am sure you are confident of my responsibility, and in the sense of squareness that is always in me.

Your obliged friend,

John Keats.

XII.

To JANE REYNOLDS,

Afterwards MRS. THOMAS HOOD.

[Oxford, September 1817.]

Believe me, my dear Jane, it is a great happiness to see that you are, in this finest part of the year, winning a little enjoyment from the hard world. In truth, the great Elements we know of, are no mean comforters: the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown; the air is our robe of state; the earth is our throne; and the sea a mighty minstrel playing before it -able, like David's harp, to make such a one as you forget almost the tempest cares of life. I have found in the ocean's music,-varying (tho' self-same) more than the passion of Timotheus, an enjoyment not to be put into words; and, "though inland far I be," I now hear the voice most audibly while pleasing myself in the idea of your sensations.

1is getting well apace, and if you have a few trees, and a little harvesting about you, I'll snap my fingers in Lucifer's eye. I hope you bathe too; if you

This letter appears in the Life, Letters &c. without the names of the correspondent and her sister; but these were clearly the Misses Reynolds; and as Mr. Dilke leans to the opinion that the letter was to Jane-a view to which I also lean very strongly, I have ventured to fill the blanks accordingly. Mr. Dilke records that Jane and Marianne Reynolds were “staying at Little Hampton" at the time. Lord Houghton, who assigns the letter to September 1817, while Keats was staying with Bailey, reads, near the beginning, the ocean's music,-varying (the self-same); but surely the should be tho.

1 I have no clue to the person whose name is omitted.

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do not, I earnestly recommend it. Bathe thrice a week, and let us have no more sitting up next winter. Which is the best of Shakespeare's plays? I mean in what mood and with what accompaniment do you like the sea best? It is very fine in the morning, when the sun, Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt sea streams;

and superb when

The sun from meridian height
Illumines the depth of the sea,

And the fishes, beginning to sweat,

Cry dit! how hot we shall be ;

and gorgeous, when the fair planet hastens

To his home

Within the Western foam.

But don't you think there is something extremely fine after sunset, when there are a few white clouds about and a few stars blinking; when the waters are ebbing, and the horizon a mystery? This state of things has been so fulfilling to me that I am anxious to hear whether it is a favourite with you. So when you and Marianne club your letter to me put in a word or two about it. Tell Dilke that it would be perhaps as well if he left a pheasant or partridge alive here and there to keep up a supply of game for next season; tell him to rein in, if possible, all the Nimrod of his disposition, he being a mighty hunter before the Lord of the manor. Tell him to shoot fair, and not to have at the poor devils in a furrow when they are flying, he may fire, and nobody will be the wiser.

Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, saying that I have not forgiven myself for not having got her the little box of medicine I promised, and that, had I re

mained at Hampstead, I would have made precious havoc with her house and furniture-drawn a great harrow over her garden-poisoned Boxer-eaten her clothes-pegs— fried her cabbages-fricaseed (how is it spelt?) her radishes-ragouted her onions-belaboured her beatroot-outstripped her scarlet-runners-parlez-vous'd with her french-beans-devoured her mignon or mignionette -metamorphosed her bell-handles-splintered her looking-glasses-bullocked at her cups and saucers-agonized her decanters-put old Phillips to pickle in the brinetub-disorganized her piano-dislocated her candlesticks -emptied her wine-bins in a fit of despair-turned out her maid to grass-and astonished B[rown]; whose letter to her on these events I would rather see than the original copy of the Book of Genesis.

1

Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone to bed, pleased that I am writing to you. To your brother John (whom henceforth I shall consider as mine) and to you, my dear friends, I shall ever feel grateful for having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey. He delights me in the selfish and (please God) the disinterested part of my disposition. If the old Poets have any pleasure in looking down at the enjoyers of their works, their eyes must bend with a double satisfaction upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is over them, and pray that if, after my death, any of my labours should be worth saving, they may have so "honest a chronicler" as

1 Mr. Dilke notes "the gardener," and suggests Brown as the person referred to lower down.

2 Lord Houghton says Keats "had made a valuable acquaintance in Mr. Bailey, who was at this time at Oxford, reading for the Church, and who, after many changes of clerical life, became Archdeacon of Colombo, in Ceylon, where he won much affection and esteem."

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