Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm in his own pursuit and for all good things is of an exalted kind-worthy a more healthful frame and an untorn spirit. He must have happy years to come-"he shall not die, by God."1

A letter from John the other day was a chief happiness to me. I made a little mistake when, just now, I talked of being far inland. How can that be when Endymion and I are at the bottom of the sea? whence I hope to bring him in safety before you leave the seaside; and, if I can so contrive it, you shall be greeted by him upon the sea-sands, and he shall tell you all his adventures, which having finished, he shall thus proceed— "My dear Ladies, favourites of my gentle mistress, however my friend Keats may have teazed and vexed you, believe me he loves you not the less-for instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet he has been hauling me through the earth and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I know for all this that he is mighty fond of me, by his contriving me all sorts of pleasures. Nor is this the least, fair ladies, this one of meeting you on the desert shore, and greeting you in his name. He sends you

1 Lord Houghton inserts beneath this paragraph the following account by Bailey of Keats's habits at Oxford :-" He wrote and I read-sometimes at the same table, sometimes at separate desksfrom breakfast till two or three o'clock. He sat down to his task, which was about fifty lines a day, with his paper before him, and wrote with as much regularity and apparently with as much ease as he wrote his letters. Indeed, he quite acted up to the principle he lays down, 'that if Poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves of a tree, it had better not come at all.' Sometimes he fell short of his allotted task, but not often, and he would make it up another day. But he never forced himself. When he had finished his writing for the day, he usually read it over to me, and then read or wrote letters till we went out for a walk."

moreover this little scroll." My dear girls, I send you, per favour of Endymion, the assurance of my esteem for you, and my utmost wishes for your health and pleasure, being ever,

So you are determined to be my mortal foe-draw a sword at me, and I will forgive-put a bullet in my brain, and I will shake it out as a dew-drop from the lion's mane-put me on a gridiron and I will fry with great complacency-but-oh, horror! to come upon me in the shape of a dun!—send me bills! As I say to my tailor, send me bills and I'll never employ you more. However, needs must, when the devil drives and for fear of " before and behind Mr. Honeycomb," I'll proceed. I have not time to elucidate the forms and shapes of the grass and trees; for, rot it! I forgot to bring my mathematical case with me, which unfortunately contained my triangular prisms; so that the hues of the grass cannot be dissected for you.

For these last five or six days we have had regularly a boat on the Isis, and explored all the streams about, which are more in number than your eye-lashes. We sometimes skim into a bed of rushes, and there become naturalized river-folks. There is one particularly nice. nest, which we have christened "Reynolds' Cove," in

which we have read Wordsworth, and talked as may be.

2.

failings I am always rather rejoiced to find in a man than sorry for; they bring us to a level. has them, but then his makes-up are very good. agrees with the Northern Poet in this, "He is not one of those who much delight to season their fireside with personal talk." I must confess, however, having a little itch that way, and at this present moment I have a few neighbourly remarks to make. The world, and especially our England, has, within the last thirty years, been vexed and teazed by a set of devils, whom I detest so much that I almost hunger after an Acherontic promotion 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. 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

In other of her poems there is a most delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind-which we will con over together.

'For the poem see Appendix.

So Haydon is in town. I had a letter from him yester day. 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 (Round Table) last night. I know he thinks himself 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 teazed in that precious London, and want all the rest possible; so [I] shall be contented with as brief a scrawla word or two, till there comes a pat hour.

Send us a few of your stanzas to read in "Reynolds' 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.

1 Mr. Dilke notes "From Jane and Marianne Reynolds... They came over and stayed a few days with us at my sister's [Mrs. Snook's] at Bedhampton."

My dear Fanny,

XIV.

To FANNY KEATS.

Oxford, Sept. 10th [1817].

Let us now begin a regular question and answer— a little pro and con; letting it interfere as a pleasant method of my coming at your favorite little wants and enjoyments, that I may meet them in a way befitting a brother.

We have been so little together since you have been able to reflect on things that I know not whether you prefer the History of King Pepin to Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress-or Cinderella and her glass slipper to Moor's Almanack. However in a few Letters I hope I shall be able to come at that and adapt my scribblings to your Pleasure. You must tell me about all you read if it be only six Pages in a Week and this transmitted to me every now and then will procure you full sheets of Writing from me pretty frequently.—This I feel as a necessity for we ought to become intimately acquainted, in order that I may not only, as you grow up love you as my only Sister, but confide in you as my dearest friend. When I saw you last I told you of my intention of going to Oxford and 'tis now a Week since I disembark'd from his Whipship's Coach the Defiance in this place. I am living in Magdalen Hall on a visit to a young Man with whom I have not been long acquainted, but whom I like very much—we lead very industrious lives-he in general Studies and I in proceeding at a pretty good rate with a Poem which I hope you will see early in the next year. -Perhaps you might like to know what I am writing