“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.”
This seems to have been an inspiration of long anterior date; for Mr. Stephens, the surgical fellow-student and fellow-lodger of Keats, says that in one twilight when they were together the youthful poet produced the line—
“A thing of beauty is a constant joy;”
which, failing wholly to satisfy its author’s ear, was immediately afterwards improved into its present form. Even before handing over any part of his MS. to the printer, Keats, at the “immortal dinner” which came off in Haydon’s painting-room, on the 28th of December 1817, and at which Wordsworth, Lamb, and others, were present, had bespoken a strange and heroic fate for one copy of his book; for he made Mr. Ritchie, who was about to set forth on an African exploration, promise that he would carry the volume “to the great desert of Sahara, and fling it in the midst.”
“Invention” was the quality which Keats most sought for in his “Endymion,” as shown in his letter to Mr. Bailey, already cited. He said—“It [‘Endymion’] will be a test 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.... 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.... This same Invention seems indeed of late years to have been forgotten as a poetical excellence.” The term “invention” might be used in various senses. Keats seems to have meant the power of producing a great number of minor incidents, illustrative images, and other particulars, all tending to reinforce and fill out the main conception and subject-matter.
Keats wrote a preface to “Endymion” on March 19, 1818, which was objected to by Hamilton Reynolds, and by his friends generally. It was certainly off-hand and unconciliating, and some readers would have regarded it as defiant. Its general purport was that the poem was faulty, but the author would not keep it back for revision, which would make the performance a tedium to himself, “I have written to please myself, and in hopes to please others, and for a love of fame.” There was a good deal more, jaunty and provocative enough. Keats was not well inclined to suppress this preface. He replied on April 9th to Reynolds in a letter from which some weighty words must be quoted:—
“I have not the slightest feeling of humility towards the public, or to anything in existence but the Eternal Being, the principle of Beauty, and the memory of great men.... 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.... 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.... 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.”
Keats, however, yielded to his censors, and wrote a rather shorter preface, by far a better one. It bears the date of April 10th, being the very next day after he had written to Reynolds in so unsubmissive a tone. This second preface says substantially much the same thing as the first, but without any aggressive or “devil-may-care” addenda. It is too important to be omitted here:—
“Knowing within myself the manner in which this poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public. What manner I mean will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible, are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they, if I thought a year’s castigation would do them any good. It will not: the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away—a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that, while it is dwindling, I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live.
“This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment. But no feeling man will be forward to inflict it; he will leave me alone with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look, with a zealous eye to the honour of English literature.