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40. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY

Teignmouth, Friday [March 13, 1818]. MY DEAR BAILEY- When a poor devil is drowning, it is said he comes thrice to the surface ere he makes his final sink - if however even at the third rise he can manage to catch hold of a piece of weed or rock he stands a fair chance, as I hope I do now, of being saved. I have sunk twice in our correspondence, have risen twice, and have been too idle, or something worse, to extricate myself. I have sunk the third time, and just now risen again at this two of the Clock P. M., and saved myself from utter perdition by beginning this, all drenched as I am, and fresh from the water. And I would rather endure the present inconvenience of a wet jacket than you should keep a laced one in store for me. Why did I not stop at Oxford in my way? How can you ask such a Question? Why, did

I not promise to do so? Did I not in a letter to you make a promise to do so? Then how can you be so unreasonable as to ask me why I did not? This is the thing - (for I have been rubbing up my Invention-trying several sleights - I first polished a cold, felt it in my fingers, tried it on the table, but could not pocket it:- I tried Chillblains, Rheumatism, Gout, tight boots, nothing of that sort would do, so this is, as I was going to say, the thing) -I had a letter from Tom, saying how much better he had got, and thinking he had better stop - I went down to prevent his coming up. Will not this do? turn it which way you like—it is selvaged all round. I have used it, these three last days, to keep out the abominable Devonshire weather-by the by, you may say what you will of Devonshire: the truth is, it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy, haily, floody, muddy, slipshod county. The hills are very beautiful, when you get a sight of 'em. the primroses are out, but then you are in- the Cliffs are of a fine deep colour, but then the Clouds are continually vieing with them the Women like your London people in a sort of negative way because the native men are the poorest creatures in England - because Government never have thought it worth while to send a recruiting party among them. When I think of Wordsworth's sonnet Vanguard of Liberty! ye men of Kent!' the degenerated race about me are Pulvis ipecac. simplex- a strong dose. Were I a corsair, I'd make a descent on the south coast of Devon; if I did not run the chance of having Cowardice imputed to me. As for the men, they'd run away into the Methodist meetinghouses, and the women would be glad of it. Had England been a large Devonshire, we should not have won the Battle of Waterloo. There are knotted oaks there are lusty rivulets? there are meadows such as are not there are valleys of feminine [?] climate but there are no thews and

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not think myself more in the right than other people, and that nothing in this world is proveable. I wish I could enter into all your feelings on the subject, merely for one short 10 minutes, and give you a page or two to your liking. I am sometimes so very sceptical as to think Poetry itself a mere Jack o' Lantern to amuse whoever may chance to be struck with its brilliance. As tradesmen say everything is worth what it will fetch, so probably every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer -being in itself a Nothing. Ethereal things may at least be thus real, divided under three heads Things real - things semirealand nothings. Things real, such as existences of Sun moon and Stars may meet and passages of Shakspeare. Things semireal, such as love, the clouds etc., which require a greeting of the Spirit to make them wholly exist - and Nothings, which are made great and dignified by an ardent pursuit — which, by the by, stamp the Burgundy mark on the bottles of our minds, insomuch as they are able to consecrate whate'er they look upon.' I have written a sonnet here of a somewhat collateral nature so don't imagine it an 'apropos des bottes

osity Arms, neck, and shoulders may at
least be seen there, and the ladies read it
as some out-of-the-way Romance. Such a
quelling Power have these thoughts over
me that I fancy the very air of a deterio-
rating quality. I fancy the flowers, all
precocious, have an Acrasian spell about
them I feel able to beat off the Devon-
shire waves like soapfroth. I think it well
for the honour of Britain that Julius Cæsar
did not first land in this County. A Devon-
shirer standing on his native hills is not a
distinct object he does not show against
the light - a wolf or two would dispossess
him. I like, I love England. I like its
living men - give me a long brown plain
for my morning,' [money ?] so I
with some of Edmund Ironside's descend-
ants. Give me a barren mould, so I may
meet with some shadowing of Alfred in the
shape of a Gipsy, a huntsman or a shep-
herd. Scenery is fine but human nature
is finer the sward is richer for the tread
of a real nervous English foot—the Eagle's
nest is finer, for the Mountaineer has looked
into it. Are these facts or prejudices?
Whatever they be, for them I shall never
be able to relish entirely any Devonshire
scenery
Homer is fine, Achilles is fine,
Diomed is fine, Shakspeare is fine, Hamlet
is fine, Lear is fine, but dwindled English-
men are not fine. Where too the women
are so passable, and have such English
names, such as Ophelia, Cordelia etc. that
they should have such Paramours or rather
Imparamours As for them, I cannot in
thought help wishing, as did the cruel
Emperor, that they had but one head, and
I might cut it off to deliver them from any
horrible Courtesy they may do their un-
deserving countrymen. I wonder I meet
with no born monsters-O Devonshire, last
night I thought the moon had dwindled in
heaven

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I have never had your Sermon from Wordsworth, but Mr. Dilke lent it me. You know my ideas about Religion. I do

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[The sonnet is that entitled 'The Human Seasons,' given on p. 44.]

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Aye, this may be carried but what am I talking of ?- it is an old maxim of mine, and of course must be well known, that every point of thought is the Centre of an intellectual world. The two uppermost thoughts in a Man's mind are the two poles of his world he revolves on them, and everything is Southward or Northward to him through their means. We take but three steps from feathers to iron. - Now, my dear fellow, I must once for all tell you I have not one idea of the truth of any of my speculations I shall never be a reasoner, because I care not to be in the right, when retired from bickering and in a proper philosophical temper. So you

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41. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS

Teignmouth, Saturday [March 14, 1818]. DEAR REYNOLDS I escaped being blown over and blown under and trees and house being toppled on me.. - I have since hearing of, Brown's accident had an aversion to a dose of parapet, and being also a lover of antiquities I would sooner have a harmless piece of Herculaneum sent me quietly as a present than ever so modern a chimney-pot tumbled on to my head Being agog to see some Devonshire, I would have taken a walk the first day, but the rain would not let me; and the second, but the rain would not let me; and the third, but the rain forbade it. Ditto 4 ditto 5ditto so I made up my Mind to stop indoors, and catch a sight flying between the showers: and, behold I saw a pretty valley -pretty cliffs, pretty Brooks, pretty Meadows, pretty trees, both standing as they were created, and blown down as they are uncreated — The green is beautiful, as they say, and pity it is that it is amphibious mais! but alas! the flowers here wait as naturally for the rain twice a day as the Mussels do for the Tide; so we look upon a brook in these parts as you look upon a splash in your Country. There must be something to support this - aye, fog, hail, snow, rain, Mist blanketing up three parts of the year. This Devonshire is like Lydia Languish, very entertaining when it smiles, but cursedly subject to sympathetic moisture. You have the sensation of walking under one great Lamplighter: and you

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can't go on the other side of the ladder to keep your frock clean, and cosset your superstition. Buy a girdle— put a pebble in your mouth loosen your braces - for I am going among scenery whence I intend to tip you the Damosel Radcliffe — I'll cavern you, and grotto you, and waterfall you, and wood you, and water you, and immense-rock you, and tremendous-sound you, and solitude you. I'll make a lodgment on your glacis by a row of Pines, and storm your covered way with bramble Bushes. I'll have at you with hip and haw small-shot, and cannonade you with Shingles-I'll be witty upon salt-fish, and impede your cavalry with clotted cream. But ah Coward! to talk at this rate to a sick man, or, I hope, to one that was sick -for I hope by this you stand on your right foot. If you are not - that's all, I intend to cut all sick people if they do not make up their minds to cut Sickness fellow to whom I have a complete aversion, and who strange to say is harboured and countenanced in several houses where I visit he is sitting now quite impudent between me and Tom — He insults me at poor Jem Rice's — and you have seated him before now between us at the Theatre, when I thought he looked with a longing eye at poor Kean. I shall say, once for all, to my friends generally and severally, cut that fellow, or I cut you.

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I went to the Theatre here the other night, which I forgot to tell George, and got insulted, which I ought to remember to forget to tell any Body; for I did not fight, and as yet have had no redress — 'Lie thou there, sweetheart!' I wrote to Bailey yesterday, obliged to speak in a high way, and a damme who's afraid - for I had owed him so long; however, he shall see I will be better in future. Is he in town yet? I have directed to Oxford as the better chance. I have copied my fourth Book, and shall write the Preface soon. wish it was all done; for I want to forget it and make my mind free for something

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new- Atkins the Coachman, Bartlett the Surgeon, Simmons the Barber, and the Girls over at the Bonnetshop, say we shall now have a month of seasonable weather warm, witty, and full of invention - Write to me and tell me that you are well or thereabouts, or by the holy Beaucœur, which I suppose is the Virgin Mary, or the repented Magdalen (beautiful name, that Magdalen), I'll take to my Wings and fly away to anywhere but old or Nova Scotia

I wish I had a little innocent bit of Metaphysic in my head, to criss-cross the letter: but you know a favourite tune is hardest to be remembered when one wants it most and you, I know, have long ere this taken it for granted that I never have any speculations without associating you in them, where they are of a pleasant nature, and you know enough of me to tell the places where I haunt most, so that if you think for five minutes after having read this, you will find it a long letter, and see written in the Air above you,

Your most affectionate friend

JOHN KEATS. Remember me to all. Tom's remembrances to you.

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42. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON Teignmouth, Saturday Morn [March 21, 1818]. MY DEAR HAYDON — In sooth, I hope you are not too sanguine about that seal 33 -in sooth I hope it is not Brumidgeum in double sooth I hope it is his — and in triple sooth I hope I shall have an impression. Such a piece of intelligence came doubly welcome to me while in your own County and in your own hand - not but I have blown up the said County for its urinal qualifications the six first days I was here it did nothing but rain; and at that time having to write to a friend I gave Devonshire a good blowing up—it has been fine for almost three days, and I was coming round a bit; but to-day it rains again with me the County is yet upon its

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I know not if this rhyming fit has done anything it will be safe with you if worthy to put among my Lyrics. Here's some doggrel for you - Perhaps you would like a bit of b- -hrell

['The Devon Maid,' see above, p. 243.]

How does the work go on? I should like to bring out my Dentatus' at the time your Epic makes its appearance. I expect to have my Mind soon clear for something new. Tom has been much worse: but is now getting better- his remembrances to you. I think of seeing the Dart and Plymouth—but I don't know. It has as yet been a Mystery to me how and where Wordsworth went. I can't help thinking he has returned to his Shell with his beautiful Wife and his enchanting Sister. It is a great Pity that People should by associating themselves with the finest things, spoil them. Hunt has damned Hampstead and masks and sonnets and Italian tales. Wordsworth has damned the lakes Milman has damned the old drama - West has damned wholesale. Peacock has damned satire - Ollier has damn'd Music Hazlitt has damned the bigoted and the blue-stockinged; how durst the Man? he is your only good damner, and if ever I am damn'd—danın me if I should n't like him to damn me. It will not be long ere I see you, but I thought I would just give you a line out of Devon.

Yours affectionately JOHN KEATS.
Remember me to all we know.

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44. TO JAMES RICE

Teignmouth, Tuesday [March 24, 1818]. MY DEAR RICE - Being in the midst of your favourite Devon, I should not, by rights, pen one word but it should contain a vast portion of Wit, Wisdom and learning for I have heard that Milton ere he wrote his answer to Salmasius came into these parts, and for one whole month, rolled himself for three whole hours (per day ?), in a certain meadow hard by us where the mark of his nose at equidistances is still shown. The exhibitor of the said meadow further saith, that, after these rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all the seven acres for seven years, and that from the said time, a new sort of plant was made from the whitethorn, of a thornless nature, very much used by the bucks of the present day to rap their boots withal. This account made me very naturally suppose that the nettles and thorns etherealised by the scholar's rotatory motion, and garnered in his head, thence flew after a process of fermentation against the luckless Salmasius and occasioned his well-known and unhappy end. What a happy thing it would be if

we could settle our thoughts and make our minds up on any matter in five minutes, and remain content - that is, build a sort of mental cottage of feelings, quiet and pleasant to have a sort of philosophical back-garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping front one but alas! this never can be: for as the material cottager knows there are such places as France and Italy, and the Andes and burning mountains, so the spiritual Cottager has knowledge of the terra semi-incognita of things unearthly, and cannot for his life keep in the check-rein · or I should stop here quiet and comfortable in my theory of nettles. You will see, however, I am obliged to run wild being attracted by the load-stone concatenation. No sooner had I settled the knotty point of Salmasius, than the Devil put this whim into my head in the likeness of one of Pythagoras's questionings-Did Milton do more good or harm in the world? He wrote, let me inform you (for I have it from a friend, who had it of ,) he wrote Lycidas, Comus, Paradise Lost and other Poems, with much delectable proseHe was moreover an active friend to man all his life, and has been since his death. Very good but, my dear Fellow, I must let you know that, as there is ever the same quantity of matter constituting this habitable globe as the ocean notwithstanding the enormous changes and revolutions taking place in some or other of its demesnes -notwithstanding Waterspouts whirlpools and mighty rivers emptying themselves into it still is made up of the same bulk, nor ever varies the number of its atoms and as a certain bulk of water was instituted at the creation so very likely a certain portion of intellect was spun forth into the thin air, for the brains of man to prey upon it. You will see my drift without any unnecessary parenthesis. That which is contained in the Pacific could not lie in the hollow of

the Caspian that which was in Milton's

head could not find room in Charles the Second's He like a moon attracted intel

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