and Voltaire's Siecle de Louis XIV. It is like walking arm and arm between
Pizarro and the great-little Monarch. In how lamentable a case do we see
the great body of the people in both instances; in the first, where Men
might seem to inherit quiet of Mind from unsophisticated senses; from
uncontamination of civilisation, and especially from their being, as it
were, estranged from the mutual helps of Society and its mutual
injuries--and thereby more immediately under the Protection of
Providence--even there they had mortal pains to bear as bad, or even worse
than Bailiffs, Debts, and Poverties of civilised Life. The whole appears
to resolve into this--that Man is originally a poor forked creature
subject to the same mischances as the beasts of the forest, destined to
hardships and disquietude of some kind or other. If he improves by
degrees his bodily accommodations and comforts--at each stage, at each
ascent there are waiting for him a fresh set of annoyances--he is mortal,
and there is still a heaven with its Stars above his head. The most
interesting question that can come before us is, How far by the
persevering endeavours of a seldom appearing Socrates Mankind may be made
happy--I can imagine such happiness carried to an extreme, but what must
it end in?--Death--and who could in such a case bear with death? The whole
troubles of life, which are now frittered away in a series of years, would
then be accumulated for the last days of a being who instead of hailing
its approach would leave this world as Eve left Paradise. But in truth I
do not at all believe in this sort of perfectibility--the nature of the
world will not admit of it--the inhabitants of the world will correspond
to itself. Let the fish Philosophise the ice away from the Rivers in
winter time, and they shall be at continual play in the tepid delight of
summer. Look at the Poles and at the Sands of Africa, whirlpools and
volcanoes--Let men exterminate them and I will say that they may arrive at
earthly Happiness. The point at which Man may arrive is as far as the
parallel state in inanimate nature, and no further. For instance suppose a
rose to have sensation, it blooms on a beautiful morning, it enjoys
itself, but then comes a cold wind, a hot sun--it cannot escape it, it
cannot destroy its annoyances--they are as native to the world as itself:
no more can man be happy in spite, the worldly elements will prey upon his
nature. The common cognomen of this world among the misguided and
superstitious is "a vale of tears," from which we are to be redeemed by a
certain arbitrary interposition of God and taken to Heaven--What a little
circumscribed straightened notion! Call the world if you please "The vale
of Soul-making." Then you will find out the use of the world (I am
speaking now in the highest terms for human nature admitting it to be
immortal which I will here take for granted for the purpose of showing a
thought which has struck me concerning it) I say '_Soul-making_'--Soul as
distinguished from an Intelligence. There may be intelligences or sparks
of the divinity in millions--but they are not Souls till they acquire
identities, till each one is personally itself. Intelligences are atoms of
perception--they know and they see and they are pure, in short they are
God--how then are Souls to be made? How then are these sparks which are
God to have identity given them--so as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to
each one's individual existence? How, but by the medium of a world like
this? This point I sincerely wish to consider because I think it a grander
system of salvation than the Christian religion--or rather it is a system
of Spirit-creation--This is effected by three grand materials acting the
one upon the other for a series of years--These three Materials are the
_Intelligence_--the _human heart_ (as distinguished from intelligence or
Mind), and the _World_ or _Elemental space_ suited for the proper action
of _Mind and Heart_ on each other for the purpose of forming the _Soul_ or
_Intelligence destined to possess the sense of Identity_. I can scarcely
express what I but dimly perceive--and yet I think I perceive it--that you
may judge the more clearly I will put it in the most homely form possible.
I will call the _world_ a School instituted for the purpose of teaching
little children to read--I will call the _human heart_ the _horn Book_
used in that School--and I will call the _Child able to read, the Soul_
made from that _School_ and its _horn book_. Do you not see how necessary
a World of Pains and troubles is to school an Intelligence and make it a
soul? A Place where the heart must feel and suffer in a thousand diverse
ways. Not merely is the Heart a Hornbook, It is the Mind's Bible, it is
the Mind's experience, it is the text from which the Mind or Intelligence
sucks its identity. As various as the Lives of Men are--so various become
their souls, and thus does God make individual beings, Souls, Identical
Souls of the sparks of his own essence. This appears to me a faint sketch
of a system of Salvation which does not offend our reason and humanity--I
am convinced that many difficulties which Christians labour under would
vanish before it--there is one which even now strikes me--the salvation of
Children. In them the spark or intelligence returns to God without any
identity--it having had no time to learn of and be altered by the
heart--or seat of the human Passions. It is pretty generally suspected
that the Christian scheme has been copied from the ancient Persian and
Greek Philosophers. Why may they not have made this simple thing even more
simple for common apprehension by introducing Mediators and Personages, in
the same manner as in the heathen mythology abstractions are personified?
Seriously I think it probable that this system of Soul-making may have
been the Parent of all the more palpable and personal schemes of
Redemption among the Zoroastrians the Christians and the Hindoos. For as
one part of the human species must have their carved Jupiter; so another
part must have the palpable and named Mediator and Saviour, their Christ,
their Oromanes, and their Vishnu. If what I have said should not be plain
enough, as I fear it may not be, I will put you in the place where I began
in this series of thoughts--I mean I began by seeing how man was formed by
circumstances--and what are circumstances but touchstones of his heart?
and what are touchstones but provings of his heart, but fortifiers or
alterers of his nature? and what is his altered nature but his Soul?--and
what was his Soul before it came into the world and had these provings and
alterations and perfectionings?--An intelligence without Identity--and how
is this Identity to be made? Through the medium of the Heart? and how is
the heart to become this Medium but in a world of Circumstances?
There now I think what with Poetry and Theology, you may thank your stars
that my pen is not very long-winded. Yesterday I received two Letters from
your Mother and Henry, which I shall send by young Birkbeck with this.
Friday, April 30.
Brown has been here rummaging up some of my old sins--that is to say
sonnets. I do not think you remember them, so I will copy them out, as
well as two or three lately written. I have just written one on
Fame--which Brown is transcribing and he has his book and mine. I must
employ myself perhaps in a sonnet on the same subject--
ON FAME
_You cannot eat your cake and have it too._--Proverb.
How fever'd is that Man who cannot look
Upon his mortal days with temperate blood
Who vexes all the leaves of his Life's book
And robs his fair name of its maidenhood.
It is as if the rose should pluck herself
Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,
As if a clear Lake meddling with itself
Should cloud its clearness with a muddy gloom.
But the rose leaves herself upon the Briar
For winds to kiss and grateful Bees to feed,
And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,
The undisturbed Lake has crystal space--
Why then should man, teasing the world for grace
Spoil his salvation by a fierce miscreed?
ANOTHER ON FAME
Fame like a wayward girl will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease--
She is a Gipsy will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her,
A Jilt whose ear was never whisper'd close,
Who think they scandal her who talk about her--
A very Gipsy is she Nilus born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar--
Ye lovesick Bards, repay her scorn for scorn,
Ye lovelorn Artists, madmen that ye are,
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then if she likes it she will follow you.
TO SLEEP
O soft embalmer of the still midnight
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes embowered from the light
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine--
O soothest sleep, if so it please thee close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its dewy Charities.
Then save me or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow breeding many woes.
Save me from curious conscience that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a Mole--
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my soul.
The following Poem--the last I have written--is the first and the only one
with which I have taken even moderate pains. I have for the most part
dash'd off my lines in a hurry. This I have done leisurely--I think it
reads the more richly for it, and will I hope encourage me to write other
things in even a more peaceable and healthy spirit. You must recollect
that Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before the time of Apuleius the
Platonist who lived after the Augustan age, and consequently the Goddess
was never worshipped or sacrificed to with any of the ancient fervour--and
perhaps never thought of in the old religion--I am more orthodox than to
let a heathen Goddess be so neglected--
ODE TO PSYCHE
O Goddess hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear!
Surely I dreamt to-day; or did I see
The winged Psyche, with awaked eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
And on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair Creatures couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring fan
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A Brooklet scarce espied
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, freckle pink, and budded Syrian
They lay, calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embraced and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bid adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender dawn of aurorian love.
The winged boy I knew:
But who wast thou O happy happy dove?
His Psyche true?
O latest born, and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded Hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these though Temple thou hadst none,
Nor Altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe no incense sweet
From chain-swung Censer teeming--
No shrine, no grove, no Oracle, no heat
Of pale mouth'd Prophet dreaming!
O Bloomiest! though too late for antique vows;
Too, too late for the fond believing Lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the Air, the water and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
From happy Pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing by my own eyes inspired.
O let me be thy Choir and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged Censer teeming;
Thy Shrine, thy Grove, thy Oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd Prophet dreaming!
Yes, I will be thy Priest and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my Mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind.
Far, far around shall those dark cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by Zephyrs streams and birds and bees
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep.
And in the midst of this wide-quietness
A rosy Sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain;
With buds and bells and stars without a name;
With all the gardener-fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers will never breed the same--
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win;
A bright torch and a casement ope at night
To let the warm Love in.
Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche.
Incipit altera Sonneta
I have been endeavouring to discover a better Sonnet Stanza than we have.
The legitimate does not suit the language over well from the pouncing
rhymes--the other kind appears too elegiac--and the couplet at the end of
it has seldom a pleasing effect--I do not pretend to have succeeded--it
will explain itself.
If by dull rhymes our English must be chained,
And, like Andromeda, the sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained Loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet;
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown,
So, if we may not let the muse be free,
She will be bound with Garlands of her own.
[May 3.]
This is the third of May, and everything is in delightful forwardness; the
violets are not withered before the peeping of the first rose. You must
let me know everything--how parcels go and come, what papers you have,
and what newspapers you want, and other things. God bless you, my dear
brother and sister.
Your ever affectionate Brother
JOHN KEATS.
XCIII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place. Saturday Morn.
[_Postmark_, February 27, 1819.]
My dear Fanny--I intended to have not failed to do as you requested, and
write you as you say once a fortnight. On looking to your letter I find
there is no date; and not knowing how long it is since I received it I do
not precisely know how great a sinner I am. I am getting quite well, and
Mrs. Dilke is getting on pretty well. You must pay no attention to Mrs.
Abbey's unfeeling and ignorant gabble. You can't stop an old woman's
crying more than you can a Child's. The old woman is the greatest nuisance
because she is too old for the rod. Many people live opposite a
Blacksmith's till they cannot hear the hammer. I have been in Town for two
or three days and came back last night. I have been a little concerned at
not hearing from George--I continue in daily expectation. Keep on reading
and play as much on the music and the grassplot as you can. I should like
to take possession of those Grassplots for a Month or so; and send Mrs. A.
to Town to count coffee berries instead of currant Bunches, for I want you
to teach me a few common dancing steps--and I would buy a Watch box to
practise them in by myself. I think I had better always pay the postage of
these Letters. I shall send you another book the first time I am in Town
early enough to book it with one of the morning Walthamstow Coaches. You
did not say a word about your Chillblains. Write me directly and let me
know about them--Your Letter shall be answered like an echo.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
XCIV.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, March 13 [1819].
My dear Fanny--I have been employed lately in writing to George--I do not
send him very short letters, but keep on day after day. There were some
young Men I think I told you of who were going to the Settlement: they
have changed their minds, and I am disappointed in my expectation of
sending Letters by them.--I went lately to the only dance I have been to
these twelve months or shall go to for twelve months again--it was to our
Brother in law's cousin's--She gave a dance for her Birthday and I went
for the sake of Mrs. Wylie. I am waiting every day to hear from George--I
trust there is no harm in the silence: other people are in the same
expectation as we are. On looking at your seal I cannot tell whether it is
done or not with a Tassie--it seems to me to be paste. As I went through
Leicester Square lately I was going to call and buy you some, but not
knowing but you might have some I would not run the chance of buying
duplicates. Tell me if you have any or if you would like any--and whether
you would rather have motto ones like that with which I seal this letter;
or heads of great Men such as Shakspeare, Milton, etc.--or fancy pieces of
Art; such as Fame, Adonis, etc.--those gentry you read of at the end of
the English Dictionary. Tell me also if you want any particular Book; or
Pencils, or drawing paper--anything but live stock. Though I will not now
be very severe on it, remembering how fond I used to be of Goldfinches,
Tomtits, Minnows, Mice, Ticklebacks, Dace, Cock salmons and all the whole
tribe of the Bushes and the Brooks: but verily they are better in the
Trees and the water--though I must confess even now a partiality for a
handsome Globe of gold-fish--then I would have it hold 10 pails of water
and be fed continually fresh through a cool pipe with another pipe to let
through the floor--well ventilated they would preserve all their beautiful
silver and Crimson. Then I would put it before a handsome painted window
and shade it all round with myrtles and Japonicas. I should like the
window to open onto the Lake of Geneva--and there I'd sit and read all day
like the picture of somebody reading. The weather now and then begins to
feel like spring; and therefore I have begun my walks on the heath again.
Mrs. Dilke is getting better than she has been as she has at length taken
a Physician's advice. She ever and anon asks after you and always bids me
remember her in my Letters to you. She is going to leave Hampstead for the
sake of educating their son Charles at the Westminster School. We (Mr.
Brown and I) shall leave in the beginning of May; I do not know what I
shall do or where be all the next summer. Mrs. Reynolds has had a sick
house; but they are all well now. You see what news I can send you I
do--we all live one day like the other as well as you do--the only
difference is being sick and well--with the variations of single and
double knocks, and the story of a dreadful fire in the Newspapers. I
mentioned Mr. Brown's name--yet I do not think I ever said a word about
him to you. He is a friend of mine of two years' standing, with whom I
walked through Scotland: who has been very kind to me in many things when
I most wanted his assistance and with whom I keep house till the first of
May--you will know him some day. The name of the young Man who came with
me is William Haslam.
Ever your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
XCV.--TO FANNY KEATS.
[_Postmark_, Hampstead, March 24, 1819.]
My dear Fanny--It is impossible for me to call on you to-day--for I have
particular Business at the other end of the Town this morning, and must be
back to Hampstead with all speed to keep a long agreed on appointment.
To-morrow I shall see you.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
XCVI.--TO JOSEPH SEVERN.
Wentworth Place, Monday Aft. [March 29? 1819].
My dear Severn--Your note gave me some pain, not on my own account, but on
yours. Of course I should never suffer any petty vanity of mine to hinder
you in any wise; and therefore I should say "put the miniature in the
exhibition" if only myself was to be hurt. But, will it not hurt you? What
good can it do to any future picture. Even a large picture is lost in that
canting place--what a drop of water in the ocean is a Miniature. Those who
might chance to see it for the most part if they had ever heard of either
of us and know what we were and of what years would laugh at the puff of
the one and the vanity of the other. I am however in these matters a very
bad judge--and would advise you to act in a way that appears to yourself
the best for your interest. As your "Hermia and Helena" is finished send
that without the prologue of a Miniature. I shall see you soon, if you do
not pay me a visit sooner--there's a Bull for you.
Yours ever sincerely
JOHN KEATS.
XCVII.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place [April 13, 1819].
My dear Fanny--I have been expecting a Letter from you about what the
Parson said to your answers. I have thought also of writing to you often,
and I am sorry to confess that my neglect of it has been but a small
instance of my idleness of late--which has been growing upon me, so that
it will require a great shake to get rid of it. I have written nothing and
almost read nothing--but I must turn over a new leaf. One most
discouraging thing hinders me--we have no news yet from George--so that I
cannot with any confidence continue the Letter I have been preparing for
him. Many are in the same state with us and many have heard from the
Settlement. They must be well however: and we must consider this silence
as good news. I ordered some bulbous roots for you at the Gardener's, and
they sent me some, but they were all in bud--and could not be sent--so I
put them in our Garden. There are some beautiful heaths now in bloom in
Pots--either heaths or some seasonable plants I will send you
instead--perhaps some that are not yet in bloom that you may see them come
out. To-morrow night I am going to a rout, a thing I am not at all in love
with. Mr. Dilke and his Family have left Hampstead--I shall dine with them
to-day in Westminster where I think I told you they were going to reside
for the sake of sending their son Charles to the Westminster School. I
think I mentioned the Death of Mr. Haslam's Father. Yesterday week the two
Mr. Wylies dined with me. I hope you have good store of double violets--I
think they are the Princesses of flowers, and in a shower of rain, almost
as fine as barley sugar drops are to a schoolboy's tongue. I suppose this
fine weather the lambs' tails give a frisk or two extraordinary--when a
boy would cry huzza and a Girl O my! a little Lamb frisks its tail. I have
not been lately through Leicester Square--the first time I do I will
remember your Seals. I have thought it best to live in Town this Summer,
chiefly for the sake of books, which cannot be had with any comfort in the
Country--besides my Scotch journey gave me a dose of the Picturesque with
which I ought to be contented for some time. Westminster is the place I
have pitched upon--the City or any place very confined would soon turn me
pale and thin--which is to be avoided. You must make up your mind to get
stout this summer--indeed I have an idea we shall both be corpulent old
folks with triple chins and stumpy thumbs.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
XCVIII.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Tuesday [April 13, 1819].
My dear Haydon--When I offered you assistance I thought I had it in my
hand; I thought I had nothing to do but to do. The difficulties I met with
arose from the alertness and suspicion of Abbey: and especially from the
affairs being still in a Lawyer's hand--who has been draining our Property
for the last six years of every charge he could make. I cannot do two
things at once, and thus this affair has stopped my pursuits in every
way--from the first prospect I had of difficulty. I assure you I have
harassed myself ten times more than if I alone had been concerned in so
much gain or loss. I have also ever told you the exact particulars as well
as and as literally as any hopes or fear could translate them: for it was
only by parcels that I found all those petty obstacles which for my own
sake should not exist a moment--and yet why not--for from my own
imprudence and neglect all my accounts are entirely in my Guardian's
Power. This has taught me a Lesson. Hereafter I will be more correct. I
find myself possessed of much less than I thought for and now if I had all
on the table all I could do would be to take from it a moderate two years'
subsistence and lend you the rest; but I cannot say how soon I could
become possessed of it. This would be no sacrifice nor any matter worth
thinking of--much less than parting as I have more than once done with
little sums which might have gradually formed a library to my taste. These
sums amount together to nearly L200, which I have but a chance of ever
being repaid or paid at a very distant period. I am humble enough to put
this in writing from the sense I have of your struggling situation and the
great desire that you should do me the justice to credit me the
unostentatious and willing state of my nerves on all such occasions. It
has not been my fault. I am doubly hurt at the slightly reproachful tone
of your note and at the occasion of it,--for it must be some other
disappointment; you seem'd so sure of some important help when I last saw
you--now you have maimed me again; I was whole, I had began reading
again--when your note came I was engaged in a Book. I dread as much as a
Plague the idle fever of two months more without any fruit. I will walk
over the first fine day: then see what aspect your affairs have taken, and
if they should continue gloomy walk into the City to Abbey and get his
consent for I am persuaded that to me alone he will not concede a jot.
XCIX.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, Saturday.
[April 17, 1819?]
My dear Fanny--If it were but six o'Clock in the morning I would set off
to see you to-day: if I should do so now I could not stop long enough for
a how d'ye do--it is so long a walk through Hornsey and Tottenham--and as
for Stage Coaching it besides that it is very expensive it is like going
into the Boxes by way of the pit. I cannot go out on Sunday--but if on
Monday it should promise as fair as to-day I will put on a pair of loose
easy palatable boots and me rendre chez vous. I continue increasing my
letter to George to send it by one of Birkbeck's sons who is going out
soon--so if you will let me have a few more lines, they will be in time. I
am glad you got on so well with Mons{r.} le Cure. Is he a nice
clergyman?--a great deal depends upon a cock'd hat and powder--not
gunpowder, lord love us, but lady-meal, violet-smooth, dainty-scented,
lilly-white, feather-soft, wigsby-dressing, coat-collar-spoiling,
whisker-reaching, pig-tail-loving, swans-down-puffing, parson-sweetening
powder. I shall call in passing at the Tottenham nursery and see if I can
find some seasonable plants for you. That is the nearest place--or by our
la'kin or lady kin, that is by the virgin Mary's kindred, is there not a
twig-manufacturer in Walthamstow? Mr. and Mrs. Dilke are coming to dine
with us to-day. They will enjoy the country after Westminster. O there is
nothing like fine weather, and health, and Books, and a fine country, and
a contented Mind, and diligent habit of reading and thinking, and an
amulet against the ennui--and, please heaven, a little claret wine cool
out of a cellar a mile deep--with a few or a good many ratafia cakes--a
rocky basin to bathe in, a strawberry bed to say your prayers to Flora in,
a pad nag to go you ten miles or so; two or three sensible people to chat
with; two or three spiteful folks to spar with; two or three odd fishes to
laugh at and two or three numskulls to argue with--instead of using dumb
bells on a rainy day--
Two or three Posies
With two or three simples--
Two or three Noses
With two or three pimples--
Two or three wise men
And two or three ninny's--
Two or three purses
And two or three guineas--
Two or three raps
At two or three doors--
Two or three naps
Of two or three hours--
Two or three Cats
And two or three mice--
Two or three sprats
At a very great price--
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies--
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs.---- mum
Two or three Smiles
And two or three frowns--
Two or three Miles
To two or three towns--
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets--
Two or three dove eggs
To hatch into sonnets--
Good-bye I've an appointment--can't
stop pon word--good-bye--now
don't get up--open the door my-
self--good-bye--see ye Monday.
J. K.
C.--TO FANNY KEATS.
[Hampstead, May 13, 1819.]
My dear Fanny--I have a Letter from George at last--and it contains,
considering all things, good news--I have been with it to-day to Mrs.
Wylie's, with whom I have left it. I shall have it again as soon as
possible and then I will walk over and read it to you. They are quite well
and settled tolerably in comfort after a great deal of fatigue and harass.
They had the good chance to meet at Louisville with a Schoolfellow of
ours. You may expect me within three days. I am writing to-night several
notes concerning this to many of my friends. Good-night! God bless you.
JOHN KEATS.
CI.--TO FANNY KEATS.
[Hampstead, May 26, 1819.]