Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends. John Keats

to a Torturer, purposely for their accommodation. These devils are a set of women, who having taken a snack or Luncheon of Literary scraps, set themselves up for towers of Babel in languages, Sapphos in Poetry, Euclids in Geometry, and everything in nothing. Among such the name of Montague has been pre-eminent. The thing has made a very uncomfortable impression on me. I had longed for some real feminine Modesty in these things, and was therefore gladdened in the extreme on opening the other day, one of Bailey’s Books—a book of poetry written by one beautiful Mrs. Philips, a friend of Jeremy Taylor’s, and called “The Matchless Orinda—” You must have heard of her, and most likely read her Poetry—I wish you have not, that I may have the pleasure of treating you with a few stanzas—I do it at a venture—You will not regret reading them once more. The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A. at parting, you will judge of.

      1

      I have examin’d and do find,

       Of all that favour me

       There’s none I grieve to leave behind

       But only, only thee.

       To part with thee I needs must die,

       Could parting sep’rate thee and I.

       2

      But neither Chance nor Complement

       Did element our Love;

       ’Twas sacred sympathy was lent

       Us from the Quire above.

       That Friendship Fortune did create,

       Still fears a wound from Time or Fate.

       3

      Our chang’d and mingled Souls are grown

       To such acquaintance now,

       That if each would resume their own,

       Alas! we know not how.

       We have each other so engrost,

       That each is in the Union lost.

       4

      And thus we can no Absence know,

       Nor shall we be confin’d;

       Our active Souls will daily go

       To learn each others mind.

       Nay, should we never meet to Sense,

       Our Souls would hold Intelligence.

       5

      Inspired with a Flame Divine

       I scorn to court a stay;

       For from that noble Soul of thine

       I ne’re can be away.

       But I shall weep when thou dost grieve;

       Nor can I die whil’st thou dost live.

       6

      By my own temper I shall guess

       At thy felicity,

       And only like my happiness

       Because it pleaseth thee.

       Our hearts at any time will tell

       If thou, or I, be sick, or well.

       7

      All Honour sure I must pretend,

       All that is good or great;

       She that would be Rosania’s Friend, Must be at least compleat.[A] If I have any bravery, ’Tis cause I have so much of thee.

       8

      Thy Leiger Soul in me shall lie,

       And all thy thoughts reveal;

       Then back again with mine shall flie,

       And thence to me shall steal.

       Thus still to one another tend;

       Such is the sacred name of Friend.

       9

      Thus our twin-Souls in one shall grow,

       And teach the World new Love,

       Redeem the Age and Sex, and show

       A Flame Fate dares not move:

       And courting Death to be our friend,

       Our Lives together too shall end.

       10

      A Dew shall dwell upon our Tomb

       Of such a quality,

       That fighting Armies, thither come,

       Shall reconciled be.

       We’ll ask no Epitaph, but say

       Orinda and Rosania.

      In other of her poems there is a most delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind—which we will con over together. So Haydon is in Town. I had a letter from him yesterday. We will contrive as the winter comes on—but that is neither here nor there. Have you heard from Rice? Has Martin met with the Cumberland Beggar, or been wondering at the old Leech-gatherer? Has he a turn for fossils? that is, is he capable of sinking up to his Middle in a Morass? How is Hazlitt? We were reading his Table[26] last night. I know he thinks him self not estimated by ten people in the world—I wish he knew he is. I am getting on famous with my third Book—have written 800 lines thereof, and hope to finish it next Week. Bailey likes what I have done very much. Believe me, my dear Reynolds, one of my chief layings-up is the pleasure I shall have in showing it to you, I may now say, in a few days. I have heard twice from my Brothers, they are going on very well, and send their Remembrances to you. We expected to have had notices from little-Hampton this morning—we must wait till Tuesday. I am glad of their Days with the Dilkes. You are, I know, very much teased in that precious London, and want all the rest possible; so I shall be contented with as brief a scrawl—a Word or two, till there comes a pat hour.

      Send us a few of your stanzas to read in “Reynolds’s Cove.” Give my Love and respects to your Mother, and remember me kindly to all at home.

      Yours faithfully

       John Keats.

      I have left the doublings for Bailey, who is going to say that he will write to you to-morrow.

XVII.—TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.

       Table of Contents

      Oxford, September 28 [1817].

      My dear Haydon—I read your letter to the young Man, whose Name is Cripps. He seemed more than ever anxious to avail himself of your offer. I think I told you we asked him to ascertain his Means. He does not possess the Philosopher’s stone—nor Fortunatus’s purse, nor Gyges’s ring—but at Bailey’s suggestion, whom I assure you is a very capital fellow, we have stummed up a kind of contrivance whereby he will be enabled to do himself the benefits you will lay in his Path. I have a great Idea that he will be a tolerable neat brush. ’Tis perhaps the finest thing that will befal him this many a year: for he is just of an age to get grounded in bad habits from which you will pluck him. He brought a copy of Mary Queen of Scots: it appears to me that he has copied the bad style of the painting, as well as coloured the eyeballs yellow like the original. He has also the fault that you pointed out to me in Hazlitt on the constringing and diffusing of substance. However I really believe that he will take fire at the sight of your Picture—and set about things. If he can get ready in time to return to town with me, which will be in a few days—I will bring him to you. You will be glad to hear that within these last three weeks I have written 1000 lines—which are the third Book of my Poem. My Ideas with respect to it I assure you are very low—and I would write the subject thoroughly again—but I am tired of it and think the time would be better spent in writing a new Romance which I have in my eye for next summer—Rome was not built in a Day—and all the good I expect from my employment this summer is the fruit of Experience which I hope to gather in my next Poem. Bailey’s kindest wishes, and my vow of being

      Yours