able in the "genus irritabile." The best answer I can give you is in a clerklike manner to make some observations on two principal points which seem to point like indices into the midst of the whole pro and con about genius, and views, and achievements, and ambition, et cætera.- -1st As to the poetical Character itself (I mean that sort, of which, if I am anything, I am a member that sort distinguished from the Wordsworthian, or egotistical Sublime; which is a thing per se, and stands alone,) it is not itself it has no self-It is everything and nothing-It has no character-it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated-It has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher delights the chameleon poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side of things, any more than from its taste for the bright one, because they both end in speculation. A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence, because he has no Identity he is continually in for and filling some other body The Sun, the Moon,-the Sea, and men and women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an unchangeable attribute; the poet has none, no identity—he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's creatures. If then he has no self, and if I am a poet, where is the wonder that I should say I would write no more? Might I not at that very instant have been cogitating on the Characters of Saturn and Ops ?1 It is a wretched thing to confess; but it is a very fact, that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my identical Nature—how can it, when I have no Nature? When I am in a room with people, if I ever am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then, not myself goes home 1 This, notes Woodhouse, is in reply to a letter of protest he had written Keats concerning "what had fallen from him, about six weeks back, when we dined together at Mr. Hessey's, respecting his continuing to write; which he seemed very doubtful of." to myself, but the identity of every one in the room begins to press upon me, so that I am in a very little time annihilated-not only among men; it would be the same in a nursery of Children. I know not whether I make myself wholly understood: I hope enough so to let you see that no dependence is to be placed on what I said that day. In the 2d place, I will speak of my views, and of the life I purpose to myself. I am ambitious of doing the world some good: if I should be spared, that may be the work of maturer years—in the interval I will assay to reach to as high a summit in poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer. The faint conceptions I have of poems to come bring the blood frequently into my forehead-All I hope is, that I may not lose all interest in human affairs-that the solitary Indifference I feel for applause, even from the finest spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of vision I may have. I do not think it will. I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labours should be burnt every Morning, and no eye ever shine upon them. But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself, but from some Character in whose soul I now live. I am sure however that this next sentence is from myself-I feel your anxiety, good opinion, and friendship, in the highest degree, and am Yours most sincerely JOHN KEATS. LXXVII. TO FANNY KEATS. [Hampstead, November 5, 1818.] My dear Fanny-I have seen Mr. Abbey three times about you, and have not been able to get his consent. He says that once more between this and the Holidays will be sufficient. What can I do? I should have been at Walthamstow several times, but I am not able to leave Tom for so long a time as that would take me. Poor Tom has been rather better these 4 last days in consequence of obtaining a little rest a nights. Write to me as often as you can, and believe that I would do anything to give you any pleasure-we must as yet wait patiently. Your affectionate Brother JOHN LXXVIII.-TO JAMES RICE. Well Walk [Hampstead,] Novr. 24, [1818]. My dear Rice-Your amende Honorable I must call "un surcroît d'Amitié," for I am not at all sensible of anything but that you were unfortunately engaged and I was unfortunately in a hurry. I completely understand your feeling in this mistake, and find in it that balance of comfort which remains after regretting your uneasiness. I have long made up my mind to take for granted the genuine-heartedness of my friends, notwithstanding any temporary ambiguousness in their behaviour or their tongues, nothing of which however I had the least scent of this morning. I say completely understand; for I am everlastingly getting my mind into such-like painful trammels—and am even at this moment suffering under them in the case of a friend of ours. I will tell you two most unfortunate and parallel slips-it seems down-right pre-intention-A friend says to me, "Keats, I shall go and see Severn this week."—"Ah! (says I) you want him to take your Portrait."-And again, "Keats," says a friend, "when will you come to town again?”—“I will," says I, "let you have the MS. next week." In both these cases I appeared to attribute an interested motive to each of my friends' questions-the first made him flush, the second made him look angry :— and yet I am innocent in both cases; my mind leapt over every interval, to what I saw was per se a pleasant subject with him. You see I have no allowances to make -you see how far I am from supposing you could show me any neglect. I very much regret the long time I have been obliged to exile from you: for I have one or two rather pleasant occasions to confer upon with you. What I have heard from George is favourable-I expect a letter from the Settlement itself. Your sincere friend I cannot give any good news of Tom. JOHN KEATS. LXXIX.-TO FANNY KEATS. [Hampstead,] Tuesday Morn [December 1, 1818]. My dear Fanny-Poor Tom has been so bad that I have delayed your visit hither-as it would be so painful to you both. I cannot say he is any better this morning very dangerous state-I have scarce any -he is in a hopes of him. Keep up your spirits for me my dear Fanny-repose entirely in Your affectionate Brother JOHN. LXXX. -TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS. [Hampstead,1 about Decr. 18, 1818.] My dear Brother and Sister-You will have been prepared before this reaches you for the worst news you could have, nay, if Haslam's letter arrives in proper time, I have a consolation in thinking that the first shock will be past before you receive this. The last days of poor Tom were of the most distressing nature; but his last moments were not so painful, and his very last was without a pang. I will not enter into any parsonic comments on death-yet the common observations of the 1 On the death of his brother Tom (which took place December 1, a few hours after the last letter was written) Brown urged Keats to leave the lodgings where the brothers had lived together, and come and live with him at Wentworth Place-a block of two semidetached houses in a large garden at the bottom of John Street, of which Dilke occupied the larger and Brown the smaller see Keats (Men of Letters Series), p. 128. Keats complied; and henceforth his letters dated Hampstead must be understood as written not from Well Walk, but from Wentworth Place. How are commonest people on death are as true as their proverbs. I have scarce a doubt of immortality of some nature or other-neither had Tom. My friends have been exceedingly kind to me every one of them-Brown detained me at his House. I suppose no one could have had their time made smoother than mine has been. During poor Tom's illness I was not able to write and since his death the task of beginning has been a hindrance to me. Within this last Week I have been everywhere—and I will tell you as nearly as possible how all go on. With Dilke and Brown I am quite thick—with Brown indeed I am going to domesticate-that is, we shall keep house together. I shall have the front parlour and he the back one, by which I shall avoid the noise of Bentley's Children -and be the better able to go on with my Studies— which have been greatly interrupted lately, so that I have not the shadow of an idea of a book in my head, and my pen seems to have grown too gouty for sense. you going on now? The goings on of the world makes me dizzy―There you are with Birkbeck-here I am with Brown-sometimes I fancy an immense separation, and sometimes as at present, a direct communication of Spirit with you. That will be one of the grandeurs of immortality-There will be no space, and consequently the only commerce between spirits will be by their intelligence of each other-when they will completely understand each other, while we in this world merely comprehend each other in different degrees the higher the degree of good so higher is our Love and friendship. I have been so little used to writing lately that I am afraid you will not smoke my meaning so I will give an example-Suppose Brown or Haslam or any one whom I understand in the next degree to what I do you, were in America, they would be so much the farther from me in proportion as their identity was less impressed upon me. Now the reason why I do not feel at the present moment so far from you is that I remember your Ways and Manners and actions; I know your manner of thinking, your |