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. Among such the name of Montague has been pre-eminent. 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 I have examin'd and do find, Of all that favour me There's none I grieve to leave behind But only, only thee. To part with thee I needs must die, Could parting sep'rate thee and I. 2 But neither Chance nor Complement "Twas sacred sympathy was lent Us from the Quire above. That Friendship Fortune did create, Still fears a wound from Time or Fate. 3 Our chang'd and mingled Souls are grown To such acquaintance now, That if each would resume their own, Alas! we know not how. We have each other so engrost, That each is in the Union lost. 10 A Dew shall dwell upon our Tomb That fighting Armies, thither come, We'll ask no Epitaph, but say In other of her poems there is a most delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind-which we will con over together. So Haydon is in Town. I had a letter from him yesterday. 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 Table1 last night. I know he thinks him self 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 layingsup 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 teased in that precious London, and want all the rest possible; so I shall be contented with as brief a scrawl-a Word or two, till there comes a pat hour. Send us a few of your stanzas to read in "Reynolds's Cove." Give my Love and respects to your Mother, and remember me kindly to all at home. say Yours faithfully JOHN KEATS. I have left the doublings for Bailey, who is going to that he will write to you to-morrow. 1 The Round Table: republished from the Examiner of the two preceding years. XVII. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. Oxford, September 28 [1817]. My dear Haydon-I read your letter to the young Man, whose Name is Cripps. 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's purse, nor Gyges's ring-but at Bailey's suggestion, whom I assure you is a very 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 eyeballs 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. time to return to town with me, days-I will bring him to you. 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 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 If he can get ready in which will be in a few You will be glad to JOHN KEATS. XVIII. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY. Hampstead, Wednesday [October 8, 1817]. My dear Bailey-After a tolerable journey, I went from Coach to Coach as far as Hampstead where I found my Brothers-the next Morning finding myself tolerably well I went to Lamb's Conduit Street and delivered your parcel. Jane and Marianne were greatly improved. Marianne especially, she has no unhealthy plumpness in the face, but she comes me healthy and angular to the chin-I did not see John-I was extremely sorry to hear that poor Rice, after having had capital health during his tour, was very ill. I daresay you have heard from him. From No. 19 I went to Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neighbours.-Shelley was thereI know nothing about anything in this part of the world -every Body seems at Loggerheads. There's Hunt infatuated—there's Haydon's picture in statu quo-There's Hunt walks up and down his painting room criticising every head most unmercifully. There's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. "The web of our life is of mingled Haydon having removed entirely from Marlborough Street, Cripps must direct his letter to Lisson Grove, North Paddington. Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown's, in came Reynolds, he was pretty bobbish, we had a pleasant day-he would walk home at night that cursed cold distance. Mrs. Bentley's children are making a horrid row 2-whereby I regret I cannot be transported to your Room to write to you. I am quite disgusted with literary men and will never know another except Wordsworth-no not even Byron. Here is an instance of the friendship of such. Haydon and Hunt yarn."1 1 First Lord in All's Well that Ends Well, IV. iii. 2 Bentley, the Hampstead postman, was Keats's landlord at the house in Well Walk where he and his brothers had taken up their quarters the previous June. D |