CCCXVII.

Rev. Thomas Arnold, D.D., to the Rev. G. Cornish.

Fox How: July 6, 1839.

As I believe that the English universities are the best place the world for those who can profit by them, so I think for the idle and self-indulgent they are about the very worst, and I would far rather send a boy to Van Diemen's Land, where he must work for his bread, than send him to Oxford to live in luxury, without any desire in his mind to avail himself of his advantages. Childishness in boys, even of good abilities, seems to me to be a growing fault, and I do not know to what to ascribe it, except to the great number of exciting books of amusement, like Pickwick and Nickleby, Bentley's Magazine, &c. &c. These completely satisfy all the intellectual appetite of a boy, which is rarely very voracious, and leave him totally palled, not only for his regular work, which I could well excuse in comparison, but for good literature of all sorts, even for History and for Poetry.

I went up to Oxford to the Commemoration, for the first time for twenty-one years; to see Wordsworth and Bunsen receive their degrees; and to me, remembering how old Coleridge inoculated a little knot of us with the love of Wordsworth, when his name was in general a by-word, it was striking to witness the thunders of applause, repeated over and over again, with which he was greeted in the Theatre by Undergraduates and Masters of Arts alike.

CCCXVIII.

This letter was written from Leatherhead, and during the composition of Endymion,' to Mr. Bailey, a very sympathetic friend of Keats, who barely survived him.

John Keats to W. Bailey.

October 8, 1817.

My dear Bailey,- I refused to visit Shelley, that I might have my own unfettered scope. . . . As to what you say about my being a Poet, I can return no answer but by saying that the high idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering too high above me. At any rate I have no right to talk until

Endymion' is finished. It will be a test, a trial of my powers of imagination, and chiefly of my invention,-which is a rare thing indeed—by which I must make 4000 lines of one bare circumstance and fill them with poetry. And when I consider that this is a great task, and that when done it will take me but a dozen paces towards the Temple of Fame,-it makes me say-God forbid that I should be without such a task!' I have heard Hunt say, and I may be asked, Why endeavour after a long poem?' To which I should answer, 'Do not the lovers of poetry like to have a little region to wander in, where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and found new in a second reading,-which may be food for a week's stroll in the summer?' not that they like this better than what they can read through before Mrs. Williams comes down stairs?—a morning's work at most.

Besides, a long poem is a test of invention, which I take to be the polar star of poetry, as Fancy is the sails, and Imagination the rudder. Did our great poets ever write short pieces? I mean, in the shape of Tales. This same invention seems indeed of late years to have been forgotten in a partial excellence. But enough of this-I put on no laurels till I have finished 'Endymion,' and I hope Apollo is not enraged at my having made mockery of him at Hunt's.

The little mercury I have taken has corrected the poison and improved my health-though I feel from my employment that I shall never again be secure in robustness. Would that you were as well as

Your sincere Friend and Brother

JOHN KEATS.

CCCXIX.

Written at the most fecund moment of Keats' life, when he had just completed 'Isabella' and 'St. Agnes' Eve,' and had laid 'Lamia aside unfinished that he might give his whole strength to 'Hyperion.'

John Keats to W. Reynolds.

Winchester: August 25, 1819.

My dear Reynolds,-By this post I write to Rice, who will tell you why we have left Shanklin, and how we like the place.

I have indeed scarcely anything else to say, leading so monotonous a life, unless I was to give you a history of sensations and day nightmares. You would not find me at all unhappy in it, as all my thoughts and feelings, which are of the selfish nature, home speculations, every day continue to make me more iron. I am convinced more and more, every day, that fine writing is, next to fine doing, the top thing in the world; the 'Paradise Lost' becomes a greater wonder. The more I know what my diligence may in time probably effect, the more does my heart distend with pride and obstinacy. I feel it in my power to become a popular writer. I feel it in my power to refuse the poisonous suffrage of a public. My own being, which I know to be, becomes of more consequence to me than the crowds of shadows in the shape of men and women that inhabit a kingdom. The soul is a world of itself, and has enough to do in its own home. Those whom I know already and who have grown as it were a part of myself, I could not do without; but for the rest of mankind, they are as much a dream to me as Milton's Hierarchies.' I think if I had a free and healthy and lasting organisation of heart, and lungs as strong as an ox so as to be able to bear unhurt the shock of extreme thought and sensation without weariness, I could pass my life very nearly alone, though it should last eighty years. But I feel my body too weak to support me to this height; I am obliged continually to check myself, and be nothing.

It would be vain for me to endeavour after a more reasonable

manner of writing to you. I have nothing to speak of but myself, and what can I say but what I feel? If you should have any reason to regret this state of excitement in me, I will turn the tide of your feelings in the right channel, by mentioning that it is the only state for the best sort of poetry-that is all I care for, all I live for. Forgive me for not filling up the whole sheet; letters become so irksome to me, that the next time I leave London I shall petition them all to be spared me. To give me credit for constancy, and at the same time waive letter-writing, will be the highest indulgence I can think of.

CCCXX.

During the very last days of his health, Hood was induced
to march across Germany with the 19th Polish Infantry, a
regiment in which his friend Franck was an officer. He wrote,
'I
pass for very hardy, if not foolhardy, I slight the cold so,' and
it is to be feared that exposure during this voluntary campaign
commenced his fatal illness. This letter was sent from Halle to
his child, who was then residing with her mother at Coblenz.

Thomas Hood to his Daughter.

Halle: October 23, 1837.

My dear Fanny,—I hope you are as good still as when I went away-a comfort to your good mother and a kind playfellow to your little brother. Mind you tell him my horse eats bread out of my hand, and walks up to the officers who are eating, and pokes his nose into the women's baskets. I wish I could give you both a ride. I hope you liked your paints; pray keep them out of Tom's way, as they are poisonous. I shall have rare stories to tell you when I come home; but mind, you must be good till then, or I shall be as mute as a stockfish. Your mama will show you on the map where I was when I wrote this; and when she writes will let you put in a word. You would have laughed to see your friend Wildegans running after the sausage boy to buy a 'würst.' There was hardly an officer without one in his hand smoking hot. The men piled their guns on the grass, and sat by the side of the road, all munching at once like ogres. I had a pocket full of bread and butter, which soon went into my 'cavities,' as Mrs. Dilke calls them. I only hope I shall not get so hungry as to eat my horse. I know I need not say, keep school and mind your book, as you love to learn. You can have Minna sometimes, her papa says. Now God bless you, my dear little girl, my pet, and think of

your

Loving Father
THOMAS HOOD.

CCCXXI.

This is a fair example of the every-day correspondence of that creature of infinite jest whose life had already become one long and brave struggle against diseases. Under the name of Peter Priggins is disguised Mr. J. T. Hewlett, one of the chief contributors to 'Hood's Magazine.'

Thomas Hood to Charles Dickens.

My Dear Dickens,-Only thinking of the pleasure of seeing you again, with Mrs. Dickens, on Tuesday or Wednesday, I never remembered, till I got home to my wife, who is also my flapper (not a young wild duck, but a Remembrancer of Laputa), that I have been booked to shoot some rabbits-if I can-at Wantage, in Berks, a reverend friend called 'Peter Priggins,' will be waiting for me, by appointment, at his railway-station on Tuesday. But I must and can only be three or four days absent; after which, the sooner we have the pleasure of seeing you the better for us. Mrs. Hood thinks there ought to be a ladies' dinner to Mrs. Dickens. I think she wants to go to Greenwich, seeing how much good it has done me, for I went really ill, and came home well. So that occasionally the diet of Gargantua seems to suit me better than that of Panta-gruel. Well,-adieu for the present. Live, fatten, prosper, write, and draw the mopuses wholesale through Chapman and Haul.

Yours ever truly

THOMAS HOOD.

CCCXXII.

No one ever wrote brighter or prettier letters to children than Hood. He knew how to restrain the quick march of his wit until their small footsteps could keep pace with it, and then would follow a revel of innocent drollery. This note was addressed to the little daughter of his friend Dr. Elliot.

Thomas Hood to May Elliot.

Monday, April 1844.

My dear May, I promised you a letter, and here it is. I was sure to remember it; for you are as hard to forget, as you are soft