Imagens das páginas
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beauty must be truth1-whether it existed before or not,-for I have the same idea of all our passions as of love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential beauty. In a word, you may know my favorite speculation by my first Book, and the little Song2 I sent in my last, which is a representation from the fancy of the probable mode of operating in these matters. The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream,-he awoke and found it truth:3-I am more zealous in this affair, because I have never yet been able to perceive how anything can be known for truth by consecutive reasoning-and yet it must 15 be. Can it be that even the greatest philosopher ever arrived at his goal without putting aside numerous objections? However it may be, O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts! It is "a vision in the 20 form of youth," a shadow of reality to come-And this consideration has further convinced me, for it has come as auxiliary to another favorite speculation of mine,that we shall enjoy ourselves hereafter by having what we called happiness on earth repeated in a finer tone-And yet such a fate can only befall those who delight in sensation, rather than hunger as you do after truth. Adam's dream will do here, and seems to be a conviction that imagination and its empyreal reflection, is the same as human life and its spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, the simple imaginative mind may have its reward in the repetition of its own silent working coming continually on the spirit with a fine suddenness-to compare great things with small, have you never by being surprised with an old melody, in a delicious place by a delicious voice, felt over again your very speculations and surmises at the time it first operated on your soul?-do you not remember forming to yourself the singer's face-more beautiful than it was possible, and yet with the elevation of the moment you did not think so? Even then you were mounted on the wings of imagination, so high that the prototype must be hereafter -that delicious face you will see. What a time! I am continually running away from the subject. Sure this cannot be exactly the case with a complex mind-one that is imaginative, and at the same time careful of its fruits,-who would exist partly on 55

1 See Keats's Ode on a Grecian Urn, 49-50 (p. 828); also his Hyperion, 2, 228-9 (p. 856). Supposed to be the poem entitled Lines (p. 765). See Paradise Lost, 8, 478-84.

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sensation, partly on thought-to whom it is necessary that years should bring the philosophic mind? Such a one I consider yours, and therefore it is necessary to your eternal happiness that you not only drink this old wine of heaven, which I shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal musings upon earth, but also increase in knowledge and know all things. I am glad to hear that you are in a fair way for Easter. You will soon get through your unpleasant reading, and then!-but the world is full of troubles, and I have not much reason to think myself pestered with many. Your affectionate friend,

· ....

JOHN KEATS.

TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS

HAMPSTEAD, [February 3, 1818].

My dear Reynolds-I thank you for your dish of filberts2-would I could get a basket of them by way of dessert every day for the sum of twopence. Would we were a sort of ethereal pigs, and turned loose to feed upon spiritual mast and acorns-which would be merely being a squirrel and feeding upon filberts, for what is a squirrel but an airy pig, or a filbert but a sort of archangelical acorn? About the nuts being worth cracking, all I can say is, that where there are a throng of delightful images ready drawn, simplicity is the only thing. The first is the best on account of the first line, and the "arrow, foil'd of its antler'd food," and moreover (and this is the only word or two I find fault with, the more because I have had so much reason to shun it as a quicksand) the last has "tender and true." We must cut this, and not be rattlesnaked into any more of the like. It may be said that we ought to read our contemporaries, that Wordsworth, etc., should have their due from us. But, for the sake of a few fine imaginative or domestic passages, are we to be bullied into a certain philosophy engendered in the whims of an egotist? Every man has his speculations, but every man does not brood and peacock over them till he makes a false coinage and deceives himself. Many a man can travel to the very bourne of heaven, and yet want confidence to put down his half-seeing. Sancho will invent a journey heavenward as well as anybody. We hate poetry that has a

1 See Wordsworth's Ode: Intimations of Immor tality, 186 (p. 305). Keats was fond of this poem.

2 Two sonnets which Reynolds had written on Robin Hood and which he had sent to Keats.

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palpable design upon us, and, if we do not agree, seems to put its hand into its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle or amaze it with 5 itself-but with its subject. How beautiful are the retired flowers!-how would they lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway, crying out, "Admire me, I am a violet! Dote upon me, I am a primrose!" Modern poets differ from the Elizabethans in this: each of the moderns like an Elector of Hanover governs his petty state and knows how many straws are swept daily from the causeways in all his dominions, and has a continual itching that all the housewives should have their coppers well scoured: the ancients were emperors of vast provinces, they had only heard of the remote ones and scarcely cared to visit them. I will cut all this-I will have no more of Wordsworth or Hunt in particular-Why should we be of the tribe of Manasseh, when we can wander with Esau?1 Why should we kick against the pricks,2 when we can walk on roses? Why should we be owls, when we can be eagles? Why be teased with "nice-eyed wagtails," when we have in sight "the Cherub Contemplation" Why with Wordsworth's "Mat- 30 thew with a bough of wilding in his hand,'' when we can have Jacques "under an oak,'' etc. The secret of the bough of wilding will run through your head faster than I can write it. Old Matthew spoke to 35 him some years ago on some nothing, and because he happens in an evening walk to imagine the figure of the old man, he must stamp it down in black and white, and it is henceforth sacred. I don't mean to deny Wordsworth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I mean to say we need not be teased with grandeur and merit when we can have them uncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let us have the old poets and Robin Hood. Your letter and its sonnets gave me more pleasure than will the Fourth Book of Childe Harold and the whole of anybody's 1 That is, why should we dwell in cities when we can roam the fields? See Genesis, 25:27; 50 Numbers, 32:33 ff. Wordsworth's unfriendly attitude toward the paganism expressed in Keats's "Hymn to Pan," in Endymion, 1, 232306 (p. 770), may account for Keats's estimate of Wordsworth expressed in this letter. Keats had recited the Hymn to Wordsworth. * See Acts, 9:5.

Il Penseroso, 54.

Wordsworth's The Two April Mornings, 59-60 (p. 240).

As You Like It, II, 1, 31.

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life and opinions. In return for your dish of filberts, I have gathered a few catkins,1 I hope they'll look pretty.

Your sincere friend and co-scribbler, JOHN KEATS.

TO JOHN TAYLOR

[HAMPSTEAD, February 27, 1818.]

My dear Taylor

It is a sorry thing for me that any one should have to overcome prejudices in reading my verses-that affects me more than any hypercriticism on any particular passage-In Endymion, I have most likely but moved into the go-cart from the leading-strings-In poetry I have a few axioms, and you will see how far I am from their centre.

1st. I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity; Ite should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

2d. Its touches of beauty should never be half-way, thereby making the reader breathless, instead of content. The rise, the progress, the setting of imagery should, like the sun, come natural to him, shine over him, and set soberly, although in magnificence, leaving him in the luxury of twilight. But it is easier to think what poetry should be, than to write it-And this leads me to

Another axiom-That if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all.-However it may be with me, I cannot help looking into new countries with "O for a Muse of Fire to ascend!''2 If Endymion serves me as a pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content-I have great reason to be content, for thank God I can read, and perhaps understand Shakspeare to his depths; and I have I am sure many friends, who, if I fail, will attribute any change in my life and temper to humbleness rather than pride-to a cowering under the wings of great poets, rather than to a bitterness that I am not appreciated.

Your sincere and obliged friend,
JOHN KEATS.

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TO JAMES AUGUSTUS HESSEY

[HAMPSTEAD, October 9, 1818.]

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My dear Hessey-You are very good in sending me the letters from The Chronicle1 -and I am very bad in not acknowledging such a kindness sooner-pray forgive me. It has so chanced that I have had that paper every day-I have seen today's. I cannot but feel indebted to those gentlemen who have taken my part-As for the rest, I begin to get a little acquainted with my own strength and weakness. - Praise or 10 blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works. My own domestic criticism has given me pain without comparison beyond what Blackwood or The Quarterly could possibly inflict-and also when I feel I am right, no external praise can give me such a glow as my own solitary reperception and ratification of what is fine. J. S.3 is per- 20 fectly right in regard to the slip-shod Endymion. That it is so is no fault of mine. No!-though it may sound a little paradoxical. It is as good as I had power to make it-by myself-Had I been nervous about its being a perfect piece, and with that view asked advice, and trembled over every page, it would not have been written; for it is not in my nature to fumble-I will write independently.-I have written inde- 30 pendently without judgment. I may write independently, and with judgment, hereafter. The genius of poetry must work out its own salvation in a man. It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in itself-That which is creative must create itself-In Endymion, I leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby have become better acquainted with the soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice. I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest-But I am nigh getting into a rant. So, with remembrances to Taylor and Woodhouse, etc., I am

Yours very sincerely, JOHN KEATS.

1 Two letters to the editor of The Morning Chronicle, a London daily, printed Oct. 3 and 8,

1818.

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TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS [HAMPSTEAD, October 25, 1818.]

My dear George

I shall in a short time write you as far as I know how I intend to pass my life-I cannot think of those things now Tom' is so unwell and weak. Notwithstanding your happiness and your recommendation I hope I shall never marry. Though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though the carpet were of silk, the curtains of the morning clouds; the chairs and sofa stuffed with cygnet's2 down; the food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winander mere, I should not feel-or rather my happiness would not be so fine, as my solitude is sublime. Then instead of what I have described, there is a sublimity to welcome me home-The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness-an amiable wife and sweet children I contemplate as a part of that beauty, but I must have a thousand of those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. I feel more and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone but in a thousand worlds-No sooner am I alone than shapes of epic greatness are stationed around me, and serve my spirit the office which is equivalent to a king's bodyguardthen "Tragedy with sceptred pall comes sweeping by.' 8 According to my state of mind I am with Achilles shouting in the trenches, or with Theocritus in the vales of Sicily. Or I throw my whole being into Troilus, and repeating those lines, "I wander like a lost soul upon the stygian banks staying for waftage,' 15 I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so delicate that I am content to be alone. These things, combined with the opinion I have of the gener ality of women-who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, form a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.

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I have written this that you might see I have my share of the highest pleasures, and that though I may choose to pass my days alone I shall be no solitary. You see there is nothing spleenical in all this. The only

1 Keats's brother. He died Dec. 1, 1818.
2 young swan's 3 Il Penseroso, 98.
See the Iliad, 18, 217 ff.
Troilus and Cressida, III, 2, 10.

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thing that can ever affect me personally for
more than one short passing day, is any
doubt about my powers for poetry-I sel-
dom have any, and I look with hope to the
nighing time when I shall have none. I am
as happy as a man can be-that is, in my-
self I should be happy if Tom was well,
and I knew you were passing pleasant
days. Then I should be most enviable-
with the yearning passion I have for the
beautiful, connected and made one with the
ambition of my intellect. Think of my
pleasure in solitude in comparison of my
commerce with the world--there I am a
child-there they do not know me, not even
my most intimate acquaintance-I give in to
their feelings as though I were refraining
from irritating a little child. Some think
me middling, others silly, others foolish-
every one thinks he sees my weak side 20
against my will, when in truth it is with
my will-I am content to be thought all this
because I have in my own breast so great a
resource. This is one great reason why
they like me so; because they can all show 25
to advantage in a room and eclipse from a
Icertain tact one who is reckoned to be a
good poet. I hope I am not here playing
tricks "to make the angels weep":1 I think
not: for I have not the least contempt for
my species, and though it may sound para-
doxical, my greatest elevations of soul leave
me every time more humbled-Enough of
this-though in your love for me you will
not think it enough.

Believe me, my dear brother and sister,
Your anxious and affectionate Brother,

TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS

JOHN.

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WINCHESTER, August 25, [1819]. My dear Reynolds-By this post I write. to Rice, who will tell you why we have left Shanklin; and how we like this place. I have indeed scarcely anything else to say, 45 leading so monotonous a life, except I was to give you a history of sensations, and daynightmares. You would not find me at all unhappy in it, as all my thoughts and feelings which are of the selfish nature, home 50 speculations, every day continue to make me more iron-I am convinced more and more, every day, that fine writing is, next to fine doing, the top thing in the world; the Paradise Lost becomes a greater wonder. The more I know what my diligence may in time probably effect, the more does 1 Measure for Measure, II, 2, 117.

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my heart distend with pride and obstinacy-
I feel it in my power to become a popular
writer-I feel it in my power to refuse the
poisonous suffrage of a public. My own
being which I know to be becomes of more
consequence to me than the crowds of
shadows in the shape of men and women
that inhabit a kingdom. The soul is a world
of itself, and has enough to do in its own
home. Those whom I know already, and
who have grown as it were a part of my-
self, I could not do without: but for the
rest of mankind, they are as much a dream
to me as Milton's Hierarchies.1 I think if I
had a free and healthy and lasting organiza-
tion of heart, and lungs as strong as an ox's
so as to be able to bear unhurt the shock
of extreme thought and sensation without
weariness, I could pass my life very nearly
alone though it should last eighty years.
But I feel my body too weak to support
me to the height, I am obliged continually
to check myself, and be nothing. It would
be vain for me to endeavor after a more
reasonable manner of writing to you. I
have nothing to speak of but myself, and
what can I say but what I feel? If you
should have any reason to regret this state
of excitement in me, I will turn the tide of
your feelings in the right channel, by men-
tioning that it is the only state for the best
sort of poetry-that is all I care for, all I
live for. Forgive me for not filling up the
whole sheet; letters become so irksome to
me, that the next time I leave London I
shall petition them all to be spared me. To
give me credit for constancy, and at the
same time waive letter writing will be the
highest indulgence I can think of.

Ever your affectionate friend,
JOHN KEATS.

TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

[HAMPSTEAD, August, 1820.] My dear Shelley-I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to prophesy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I must either voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery. My nerves at present are the worst part of me, 1 The three divisions into which the nine orders of angels were divided. See Paradise Lost, 1, 737.

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yet they feel soothed that, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, 245 which I would willingly take the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so much as I have done about reputation. I received a copy of The Cenci, as from yourself, from 10 Hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of the poetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays is considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose, which may be 15 the God. An artist must serve Mammon; he must have "self-concentration"-selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an 20 artist, and load every rift of your subject 255 with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together. And is not this 25 extraordinary talk for the writer of Endymion, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, 260 and I am its monk. I am in expectation of 30 Prometheus2 every day. Could I have my own wish effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be but now putting an end to the second act. I remember you advising me not to publish my first blights, on 85 Hampstead Heath. I am returning advice upon your hands. Most of the poems in 265 the volume I send you have been written above two years, and would never have been published but for hope of gain; so you see 40 I am inclined enough to take your advice now. I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my sincere 270 thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley.

In the hope of soon seeing you, I remain 45 most sincerely yours,

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Of pines:-all wood and garden was the rest,

Lawn, and green lane, and covert:-and it had

A winding stream about it, clear and glad, With here and there a swan, the creature born

To be the only graceful shape of scorn.1 The flower-beds all were liberal of delight: Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,

Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms

Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,

All the sweet cups to which the bees resort, With plots of grass, and leafier walks be

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Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet.
At last you enter'd shades indeed, the
wood,

Broken with glens and pits, and glades
far-view 'd,

Through which the distant palace now and then

275 Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd

ken;

A land of trees,-which reaching round about

In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out;

With spots of sunny openings, and with

nooks

1 Born to express scorn and grace at the same time.

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