the curtains of the morning clouds, the chairs and sofas stuffed with cygnet's down, the food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winandermere, I should not feel, or rather my happiness should not be, so fine; my solitude is sublime-for, 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 my window-panes are my children; the mighty abstract Idea of Beauty in all things, I have, stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness. An amiable wife and/ sweet children I contemplate as 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 Body-guard: "then Tragedy with scepter'd pall comes sweeping by:" according to my state of mind, I am with Achilles shouting in the trenches, or with Theocritus in the vales of Sicily; or throw my whole being into Troilus, and, repeating those lines, "I wander like a lost soul upon the Stygian bank, staying for waftage," I melt into the air with a voluptuousness so delicate, that I am content to be alone. Those things, combined with the opinion I have formed of the generality 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. I have written this that you might see that I have my share of the highest pleasures of life, and that, though I may choose to pass my days alone, I shall be no solitary; you see there is nothing< splenetic in all this. The only thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one short passing day, is

1

1

> any doubt about my powers for poetry: I seldom 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 myself; I should be happier if Tom were well, and if 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 with 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 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 to advantage in a room, and eclipse (from a certain tact) one who is reckoned to be a good poet. I hope I am not here playing tricks "to make the angels weep." I think not; for I have not the least contempt for my species; and, though it may sound paradoxical, 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.

Tom is rather more easy than he has been, but is still so nervous that I cannot speak to him of you;—indeed it is the care I have had to keep his mind aloof from feelings too acute, that has made this letter so rambling. I did not like to write before him a letter he knew was to

1 Lord Houghton gives this word as imitating; but it seems safe to substitute irritating without manuscript authority.

reach your hands; I cannot even now ask him for any message; his heart speaks to you.

Be as happy as you can, and believe me, dear Brother and Sister, your anxious and affectionate Brother,

This is my birth-day.

John.

LXXI.

To FANNY KEATS.

Miss Tuckey's,

Walthamstow.

[Postmark, Hampstead, 5 November 1818.]

My dear Fanny,

I have seen Mr. Abbey three times about you, and have not been able to get his consent. He says that once more between this and the Holydays will be sufficient. What can I do? I should have been at Walthamstow several times, but I am not able to leave Tom for so long a time as that would take me. Poor Tom has been rather better these 4 last days in consequence of obtaining a little rest a nights. Write to me as often as you can, and believe that I would do any thing to give you any pleasure-we must as yet wait patiently. Your affectionate Brother

John

LXXII.

To JAMES RICE.

Well Walk,

My dear Rice,

24 November 1818.

Your amende honorable I must call “un surcroit d'amitié," for I am not at all sensible of any thing but that you were unfortunately engaged, and I was unfortunately in a hurry. I completely understand your feeling in this mistake, and find in it that balance of comfort which remains after regretting your uneasiness. I have long made up my mind to take for granted the genuineheartedness of my friends, notwithstanding any temporary ambiguousness in their behaviour or their tongues, -nothing of which, however, I had the least scent of this morning. I say, completely understand; for I am everlastingly getting my mind into such-like painful trammels—and am even at this moment suffering under them in the case of a friend of ours. I will tell you two most unfortunate and parallel slips-it seems down-right preintention: A friend says to me, "Keats, I shall go and see Severn this week."-"Ah! (says I) you want him to take your portrait." And again, "Keats," says a friend, "when will you come to town again?"—" I will," says I, "let you have the MS. next week." In both these cases I appeared to attribute an interested motive to each of my friends' questions-the first made him flush, the second made him look angry:—and yet I am innocent in both cases; my mind leapt over every interval, to what I saw was, per se, a pleasant subject with him. You see I have no allowances to make-you see how far I am

from supposing you could show me any neglect. I very much regret the long time I have been obliged to exile from you; for I have one or two rather pleasant occasions to confer upon with you. What I have heard from George is favourable. I expect a letter from the settlement itself.

Poor Tom has been so bad that I have delayed your visit hither-as it would be so painful to you both. I cannot say he is any better this morning-he is in a very dangerous state-I have scarce any hopes of him. Keep up your spirits for me my dear Fanny-repose entirely in

Your affectionate Brother

John.

(LXXIII) Thomas Keats was buried at the Church of St. Stephen, Coleman Street, on the 7th of December 1818.