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ing Italian. Ariosto I find as diffuse, in parts, as Spenser -I understand completely the difference between them. I will cross the letter with some lines from Lamia. Brown's kindest remembrances to you—and I am ever your most sincere friend

JOHN KEATS.

A haunting Music sole perhaps and lone
Supportress of the fairy roof made moan
Throughout as fearful the whole charm might fade.
Fresh Carved Cedar mimicking a glade
Of Palm and Plantain met from either side
In the high midst in honour of the Bride-
Two Palms, and then two plantains and so on
From either side their stems branch'd one to one
All down the aisled place--and beneath all
There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.
So canopied lay an untasted feast
Teeming a perfume. Lamia regal drest
Silverly paced about and as she went
Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich
The splendid finish of each nook and niche-
Between the tree stems wainscoated at first
Came jasper panels—then anon there burst
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees
And with the larger wove in small intricacies-
And so till she was sated—then came down
Soft lighting on her head a brilliant crown
Wreath'd turban-wise of tender wannish fire
And sprinkled o'er with stars like Ariadne's tiar,
Approving all-she faded at self will
And shut the Chamber up close hush'd and still ;
Complete, and ready, for the revels rude
When dreadful Guests would come to spoil her solitude.
The day came soon and all the gossip-rout-
O senseless Lycius 1

.

This is a good sample of the story. Brown is gone to Chichester a-visiting—I shall be alone here for 3 weeks, expecting accounts of

your

health. 1 Keats's quotation from his first draft of Lamia continued, says Woodhouse, for thirty lines more : but as the text varied much from that subsequently printed, and as Woodhouse's notes of these variations are lost, I can only give thus much, from an autograph first draft of the passage in the possession of Lord Houghton.

U

CXVI.

-TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS.

Winchester, September (17, 1819], Friday, My dear George-I was closely employed in reading and composition in this place, whither I had come from Shanklin for the convenience of a library, when I received your last dated 24th July. You will have seen by the short letter I wrote from Shanklin how matters stand between us and Mr. Jennings. They had not at all moved, and I knew no way of overcoming the inveterate obstinacy of our affairs. On receiving your last, I immediately took a place in the same night's coach for London. Mr. Abbey behaved extremely well to me, appointed Monday evening at seven to meet me, and observed that he should drink tea at that hour. I gave him the enclosed note and showed him the last leaf of yours to me. He really appeared anxious about it, and promised he would forward your money as quickly as possible. I think I mentioned that Walton was dead. . . . He will apply to Mr. Gliddon the partner, endeavour to get rid of Mr. Jenning's claim, and be expeditious. He has received an answer from my letter to Fry. That is something. We are certainly in a very low estate—I say we, for I am in such a situation, that were it not for the assistance of Brown and Taylor, I must be as badly off as a man can be. I could not raise any sum by the promise of any poem, no, not by the mortgage of my intellect. We must wait a little while. I really have hopes of success. I have finished a tragedy, which if it succeeds will enable me to sell what I may have in manuscript to a good advantage. I have passed my time in reading, writing, and frettingthe last I intend to give up, and stick to the other two. They are the only chances of benefit to us. Your wants will be a fresh spur to me. I assure you you shall more than share what I can get whilst I am still young. The time may come when age will make me more selfish. I have not been well treated by the world, and yet I have,

capitally well. I do not know a person to whom so many purse-strings would fly open as to me, if I could possibly take advantage of them, which I cannot do, for none of the owners of these purses are rich. Your present situation I will not suffer myself to dwell upon. When misfortunes are so real, we are glad enough to escape them and the thought of them. I cannot help thinking Mr. Audubon a dishonest man. Why did he make you believe that he was a man of property? How is it that his circumstances have altered so suddenly? In truth, I do not believe you fit to deal with the world, or at least the American world. But, good God! who can avoid these chances ? You have done your best. Take matters as coolly as you can; and confidently expecting help from England, act as if no help were nigh. (Mine, I am sure, is a tolerable tragedy; it would have been a bank to me, if just as I had finished it, I had not heard of Kean's resolution to go to America. That was the worst news I could have had. There is no actor can do the principal character besides Kean. At Covent Garden there is a great chance of its being damm’d. Were it to succeed even there it would lift me out of the mire; I mean the mire of a bad reputation which is continually rising against

My name with the literary fashionables is vulgar. I am a weaver-boy to them. A tragedy would lift me out of this mess, and mess it is as far as regards our pockets. But be not cast down any more than I am ; I feel that I can bear real ills better than imaginary ones. Whenever I find myself growing vapourish, I rouse myself, wash, and put on a clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes, tie my shoestrings neatly, and in fact adonise as I were going out. Then, all clean and comfortable, I sit down to write. This I find the greatest relief.

Besides I am becoming accustomed to the privations of the pleasures of

In the midst of the world I live like a hermit. I have forgot how to lay plans for the enjoyment of any pleasure. I feel I can bear anything, -any misery, even imprisonment, so long as I have neither wife nor child,

a

me.

sense.

Perhaps you

will

say yours are your only comfort; they must be. I returned to Winchester the day before yesterday, and am now here alone, for Brown, some days before I left, went to Bedhampton, and there he will be for the next fortnight. The term of his house will be up in the middle of next month when we shall return to Hampstead. On Sunday, I dined with your mother and Hen and Charles in Henrietta Street. Mrs. and Miss Millar were in the country.

Charles had been but a few days returned from Paris. I daresay you will have letters expressing the motives of his journey. Mrs. Wylie and Miss Waldegrave seem as quiet as two mice there alone. I did not show your last. I thought it better not, for better times will certainly come, and why should they be unhappy in the meantime? On Monday morning I

? went to Walthamstow. Fanny looked better than I had seen her for some time. She complains of not hearing from you, appealing to me as if it were half my fault. I had been so long in retirement that London appeared a very odd place. I could not make out I had so many acquaintances, and it was a whole day before I could feel among men. I had another strange sensation. There was not one house I felt any pleasure to call at. Reynolds was in the country, and, saving himself, I am prejudiced against all that family. Dilke and his wife and child were in the country. Taylor was at Nottingham. I was out, and everybody was out. I walked about the streets as in a strange land. Rice was the only one at home. I passed some time with him. I know him better since we have lived a month together in the Isle of Wight. He is the most sensible and even wise man I know. He has a few John Bull prejudices, but they improve him. His illness is at times alarming. We are great friends, and there is no one I like to pass a day with better. Martin called in to bid him good-bye before he set out for Dublin. If you would like to hear one of his jokes, here is one which, at the time, we laughed at a good deal: A Miss with three young ladies, one

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of them Martin's sister, had come a-gadding in the Isle of Wight and took for a few days a cottage opposite ours. We dined with them one day, and as I was saying they had fish. Miss said she thought they tasted of the boat. “No” says Martin, very seriously, “they haven't been kept long enough.” I saw Haslam. He is very much occupied with love and business, being one of Mr. Saunders' executors and lover to a young woman. He showed me her picture by Severn. I think she is, though not very cunning, too cunning for him. Nothing strikes me so forcibly with a sense of the ridiculous as love. A man in love I do think cuts the sorriest figure in the world ; queer, when I know a poor fool to be really in pain about it, I could burst out laughing in his face. His pathetic visage becomes irresistible. Not that I take Haslam as a pattern for lovers; he is a very worthy man and a good friend. His love is very amusing. Somewhere in the Spectator is related an account of a man inviting a party of stutterers and squinters to his table. It would please me more to scrape together a party of lovers—not to dinner, but to tea. There would be no fighting as among knights of old.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast and cool their tea with sighs ;
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea, forget their appetite.
See, with cross'd arms they sit-Ah ! hapless crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot. Must he die
Circled by a humane society ?
No, no ; there, Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo ! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the tea-board draws a long wet mark.
Romeo ! Arise take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding sheet-ah, me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well ;
Where may your Taylor live ?

may not tell.

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