about. I will tell you. Many Years ago there was a young handsome Shepherd who fed his flocks on a Mountain's Side called Latmus-he was a very contemplative sort of a Person and lived solitary among the trees and Plains little thinking that such a beautiful Creature as the Moon was growing mad in Love with him.-However so it was; and when he was asleep on the Grass she used to come down from heaven and admire him excessively for a long time; and at last could not refrain from carrying him away in her arms to the top of that high Mountain Latmus while he was a dreaming—but I dare say [you] have read this and all the other beautiful Tales which have come down from the ancient times of that beautiful Greece. If you have not let me know and I will tell you more at large of others quite as delightful. This Oxford I have no doubt is the finest City in the world-it is full of old Gothic buildings-Spires-towers -Quadrangles-Cloisters-Groves &c. and is surrounded with more clear streams than ever I saw together. I take a Walk by the Side of one of them every Evening and, thank God, we have not had a drop of rain these many days. I had a long and interesting Letter from George, cross lines by a short one from Tom yesterday dated Paris. They both send their loves to you. Like most Englishmen they feel a mighty preference for every thing English-the French Meadows, the trees, the People, the Towns, the Churches, the Books, the every thing— although they may be in themselves good: yet when put in comparison with our green Island they all vanish like Swallows in October. They have seen Cathedrals, Manuscripts, Fountains, Pictures, Tragedy, Comedy,—with other things you may by chance meet with in this Country such a[s] Washerwomen, Lamplighters, Turnpikemen, Fishkettles, Dancing Masters, Kettle drums,

Sentry Boxes, Rocking Horses &c.-and, now they have taken them over a set of boxing gloves. I have written to George and requested him, as you wish I should, to write to you. I have been writing very hard lately, even till an utter incapacity came on, and I feel it now about my head: so you must not mind a little out of the way sayings-though by the bye were my brain as clear as a bell I think I should have a little propensity thereto. I shall stop here till I have finished the 3rd Book of my Story; which I hope will be accomplish'd in at most three Weeks from to day-about which time you shall see me. How do you like Miss Taylor's essays in Rhyme-I just look'd into the Book and it appeared to me suitable to you-especially since I remember your liking for those pleasant little things the Original Poems -the essays are the more mature production of the same hand. While I was speaking about France it occurred to me to speak a few Words on their Language—it is perhaps the poorest one ever spoken since the jabbering in the Tower of Babel, and when you come to know that the real use and greatness of a Tongue is to be referred to its Literature-you will be astonished to find how very inferior it is to our native Speech.-I wish the Italian would supersede French in every school throughout the Country, for that is full of real Poetry and Romance of a kind more fitted for the Pleasure of Ladies than perhaps our own. It seems that the only end to be gained in acquiring French is the immense accomplishment of speaking it-it is none at all—a most lamentable mistake indeed. Italian indeed would sound most musically from Lips which had began to pronounce it as early as French is crammed down our Mouths, as if we were young Jackdaws at the mercy of an overfeeding Schoolboy. Now Fanny you must write soon-and write all you think

about, never mind what-only let me have a good deal of your writing-You need not do it all at once-be two or three or four day[s] about it, and let it be a diary of your little Life. You will preserve all my Letters and I will secure yours-and thus in the course of time we shall each of us have a good Bundle-which, hereafter, when things may have strangely altered and god knows what happened, we may read over together and look with pleasure on times past-that now are to come. Give my Respects to the Ladies-and so my dear Fanny I am

ever

Your most affectionate Brother

John

If you direct-Post Office, Oxford-your Letter will be brought to me.—

XV.

To BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.

My dear Haydon,

Oxford, 28 September [1817].

I read your letter to the young Man, whose Name is Crip[p]s. 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' purse, nor Gyges' ringbut at Bailey's suggestion, whom I assure you is a very

(xv) The reference with which this letter opens is explained by a letter from Haydon given in Volume II of the Correspondence, dated the 17th of September 1817, in which the painter says to the poet"I am delighted to hear that you are getting on with your poem. Success to it and to you, with all my heart and soul. Will you

1

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 eyebal[1]s 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

oblige me by going to Magdalen College and inquiring of the porter there about a young man who, when I was lately at Oxford, was copying the altar-piece at Magdalen by Morales. I am anxious to know about that young man-the copy promised something. Will you, if you can, see the young man, and ascertain what his wishes in Art are? if he has ambition and seems to possess power? all of which you can soon discover. In these cases should any friend be disposed to assist him up to London and to support him for a year, I will train him in the Art with no further remuneration than the pleasure of seeing him advance. I will put him in the right way, and do all I can to advance him. Do oblige me by exerting yourself in this case for me. Perhaps Mr. Bailey may also feel interest. Remember me to him."

1 This word is certainly stummed in the original letter; and I think stummed, in the sense of strengthened, is more probably what Keats meant to write than either strummed or stumped.

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 eternally

John Keats

XVI.

To BENJAMIN BAILEY.

8 October 1817.

I refused to visit Shelley, that I might have my own unfettered scope. As to what you say about my being a Poet, I can return no answer but by saying that the high idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering too 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 for