with me; but a Preface is written to the public—a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility. If I write a Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will not be in character with me as a public speaker. I would be subdued before my friends, and thank them for subduing me; but among multitudes of men I have no feel of stooping; I hate the idea of humility to them. I never wrote one single line of poetry with the least shadow of public thought. Forgive me for vexing you, and making a Trojan horse of such a trifle, both with respect to the matter in question, and myself; but it eases me to tell you: I could not live without the love of my friends; I would jump down Ætna for any great public good—but I hate a mawkish popularity. I cannot be subdued before them. My glory would be to daunt and dazzle the thousand jabberers about pictures and books. I see swarms of porcupines with their quills erect "like limetwigs set to catch my winged book," and I would fright them away with a torch. You will say my Preface is not much of a torch. It would have been too insulting "to begin from Jove," and I could not [set] a golden head upon a thing of clay. If there is any fault in the Preface it is not affectation, but an undersong of disrespect to the public. If I write another Preface it must be done without a thought of those people. I will think about it. If it should not reach you in four or five days, 1 As to the Preface to Endymion, Lord Houghton remarks—“ He did 'think about it,' and within the next twenty-four hours he produced in its stead one of the most beautiful' Introductions' in the range of our literature. The personal circumstance is touched with a delicacy and tenderness that could only be overlooked by tell Taylor to publish it without a Preface, and let the Dedication simply stand—“ Inscribed to the Memory of Thomas Chatterton." I had resolved last night to write to you this morning -I wish it had been about something else-something to greet you towards the close of your long illness. I have had one or two intimations of your going to Hampstead for a space; and I regret to see your confounded rheumatism keeps you in Little Britain, where I am sure the air is too confined. Devonshire continues rainy. As the drops beat against the window, they give me the same sensation as a quart of cold water offered to revive a half-drowned devil-no feel of the clouds dropping fatness; but as if the roots of the earth were rotten, cold, and drenched. I have not been able to go to Kent's ca[ve?] at Babbicomb; however, on one very beautiful day I had a fine clamber over the rocks all along as far as that place. I shall be in town in about ten days. We go by way of Bath on purpose to call on Bailey. I hope soon to be writing to you about the things of the north, purposing to wayfare all over those parts. I have settled my accoutrements in my own mind, and will go to gorge wonders. However, we'll have some days together before I set out. I have many reasons for going wonder-ways; to make my winter chair free from spleen; to enlarge my vision; to escape disquisitions on poetry, and Kingston-criti stupidity, or misrepresented by malice, and the deep truth of the latter periods implies a justice of psychological intuition as surprising as anything in the poem itself. What might one not be authorized to expect from a genius that could thus gauge its own capacity, and, in the midst of the consciousness of its power, apprehend so wisely the sources and extent of its deficiencies ?" cism; to promote digestion and economize shoe-leather. I'll have leather buttons and belt; and, if Brown holds his mind, "over the hills we go." If my books will help me to it, then will I take all Europe in turn, and see the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. Tom is getting better: he hopes you may meet him at the top o' the hill. My love to your nurses. I am ever Your affectionate friend, John Keats. XLIII. To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. Teignmouth, 10 April 1818. My dear Reynolds, I am anxious you should find this Preface tolerable. If there is an affectation in it 'tis natural to me. Do let the printer's devil cook it, and let me be as "the casing air." You are too good in this matter; were I in your state, I am certain I should have no thought but of discontent. and illness. I might, though, be taught patience. I had an idea of giving no Preface; however, don't you think this had better go? O! let it-one should not be too timid of committing faults. The climate here weighs us [down] completely; Tom is quite low-spirited. It is impossible to live in a country which is continually under hatches. Who would live in 'Mr. Dilke suggests that the reference may be to the Kingston whom Keats had met at Horace Smith's (see page 99), and adds "If so he was I think a Commissioner of Stamps." a region of mists, game laws, indemnity bills, &c., when there is such a place as Italy? It is said this England from its clime produces a spleen, able to engender the finest sentiments, and covers the whole face of the isle with green. So it ought, I'm sure. I should still like the Dedication simply, as I said in my last.' I wanted to send you a few songs, written in your favorite Devon. I cannot be! Rain, rain, rain! I am going this morning to take a facsimile of a letter of Nelson's very much to his honour; you will be greatly pleased when you see it, in about a week. What a spite it is one cannot get out! The little way I went yesterday, I found a lane banked on each side with a store of primroses, while the earlier bushes are beginning to leaf. I shall hear a good account of you soon. Your affectionate friend 1 Keats's insistence on this point may be in requisition some of these days. The late Gabriel Rossetti was anxious to see the original Dedication substituted for the final and simpler one; and other critics of the future may have the same preference, which I am sure Rossetti would have been the last to push to execution had he noticed these passages on the subject. XLIV. To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. Teignmouth, My dear Reynolds, 27 April, 1818. It is an awful while since you have heard from me. I hope I may not be punished, when I see you well, and so anxious as you always are for me, with the remembrance of my so seldom writing when you were so horribly confined. The most unhappy hours in our lives are those in which we recollect times past to our own blushing. If we are immortal, that must be the Hell. If I must be immortal, I hope it will be after having taken a little of "that watery labyrinth," in order to forget some of my school-boy days, and others since those. I have heard from George, at different times, how slowly you were recovering. It is a tedious thing; but all medical men will tell you how far a very gradual amendment is preferable. You will be strong after this, never fear. We are here still enveloped in clouds. I lay awake last night listening to the rain, with a sense of being drowned and rotted like a grain of wheat. There is a continual courtesy between the heavens and the earth. The heavens rain down their unwelcomeness, and the earth sends it up again, to be returned to-morrow. Tom has taken a fancy to a physician here, Dr. Turton, and, I think, is getting better; therefore I shall, perhaps, remain here some months. I have written to George for some books-shall learn Greek, and very likely Italian; and, in other ways, prepare myself to ask Hazlitt, in about |