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An  Interpretation 
of  Keats's 


Endy 


mion 


By 

H.    CLEMENT   NOTCUTT 

PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH  -vvft^ 

IN    THE    UNIVERSITY 
OF    STELLENBOSCH 
SOUTH    AFRICA 


PR     . 


A  careful  study  of  Endymion  made  some  ten  years 
ago  led  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  more  of 
allegorical  significance  in  the  poem  than  had  hitherto 
been  recognised,  but  the  effort  to  trace  that  significance 
was  only  partially  successful.  Further  study  since  that 
time  has  gradually  opened  up  the  way  to  the  interpreta- 
tion that  is  worked  out  in  the  following  pages.  It  is 
probable  that  there  are  details  in  the  story  the  meaning 
of  which  still  lies  hidden,  but  it  may  at  least  be  hoped 
thit  enough  has  been  discovered  to  win  for  the  poem  its 
rightful  place  among  the  not  very  numerous  examples  in 
English  poetry  of  well-wrought  allegory. 

It  will  be  seen  that  frequent  reference  has  been  made 
to  Sir  Sidney  Colvin's  recently-published  Life  of  Keats 
(second  edition,  191 8),  which  has  superseded  all  other 
authorities  on  the  subject;  and,  while  the  interpretation 
of  Endymion  here  put  forward  differs  largely  from  his 
treatment  of  that  poem,  it  is  pleasant  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  expression  to  the  deep  sense  of  gratitude 
which  all  lovers  of  Keats  must  feel  for  his  scholarly  and 
sympathetic  work. 


Stellenbosch,  South  Africa, 
\oih  March,  19 19. 


It   is    a   strange    habit    of  wise 

humanity  to  speak  in  enigmas  ^ 

only,  so  that  the  highest  truths 

and    usefullest    laws    must    be 

hunted   for  through   whole 

picture  -  galleries      of     dreams, 

which     to     the     vulgar      seem 

dreams   only." 


/ 


An   Interpretation 
of   Keatss 

Endymion 


TT  is  generally  agreed  that  in  writing  Endymion  ^,^^'>j^^'°°  "^^ 
Keats  intended  to  do  something  more  than 
merely  to  re-tell  an  old  legend.  He  does 
not  appear,  so  far  as  the  records  go,  to  have 
left  any  definite  statement  to  that  effect,  but 
there  are  indications  that  point  distinctly  to  such  a 
purpose.  The  poem  beginning  "  I  stood  tiptoe  upon 
a  little  hill,"  with  which  his  first  volume,  published 
in  March,  1817,  opens,  had  originally  been  called 
Endymion,^  but  was  afterwards  left  without  a  title 
because  Keats  had  decided  to  make  a  more  ambitious 
effort  to  handle  the  same  subject;  and  the  significant 
fact  for  our  present  purpose  is  that  the  earlier  Endymion, 
while  it  touches  lightly  upon  the  old  legend,  is  really 
concerned  with  the  views^oLJ^ats  on  the  philoscvphv  of  ^ 
poetry.  It  would  not  then  be  surprising  to  find  that  the 
longer  and  more  ambitious  treatment  of  the  story,  upon 
which  he  set  to  work  as  soon  as  the  earlier  volume  had 
appeared,  embodied  his  views  on  the  same  subject, 
handled  this  time  in  a  fuller  and  more  elaborate  manner. 
It  is  perhaps  worth  noting  how  much  of  his  verse  is 
concerned  with  this  one  theme — the  training  and  function 
of  the  poet.  In  the  volume  of  181 7,  besides  "  I  stood 
tiptoe,"  the  epistles  to  his  brother  George,  to  Mathew, 

1  Letter  to  Charles  Cowdon  Clarke,  Dec,  1816. 


and  to  Cowden  Clarke,  and  the  more  important  Sleep  and 
Poetry,  all  deal  with  this  matter ;  and  in  one  of  his  latest 
pieces  of  work,  The  Fall  of  Hyperion,  he  returns  once 
more  to  the  same  theme.  It  is  interesting  also  to  find 
his  thoughts  on  other  matters  running  into  the  form  of 
allegory  during  the  time  when  he  was  working  on  the 
first  book  of  Endyrnion.  In  May,  1817,  he  writes  to 
Taylor  and  Hessey  (who  afterwards  published  the  poem) 
that  he  "  could  make  a  nice  little  allegorical  poem  called 
'  The  Dun,'  where  we  w^ould  have  the  Castle  of  Careless- 
ness, the  Drawbridge  of  Credit,  Sir  Novelty  Fashion's  ex- 
pedition against  the  City  of  Tailors,  etc.,  etc.,"  and  turns 
immediately  afterwards  to  the  subject  of  Endymion. 
Lastly  it  may  be  noted  that  there  is  a  passage  in  the  first 
book  which  might  of  itself  almost  settle  the  question  of 
the  real  significance  of  the  poem.  It  occurs  in  the  talk 
of  Endymion  with  Peona  (769  sq.),  and  in  it  the  mask  is 
for  the  moment  laid  aside,  and  Keats  himself  speaks 
out  in  his  own  proper  person.  He  asks  "  Wherein  lies 
happiness?"  and  goes  on  to  answer  : 

In  that  which  becks 
Our  ready   minds   to  fellowship  divine, 
A  fellowship  with  essence,  till  we  shine 
Full  alchemiz'd,  and  free  of  space.       (I.   777) 

He  proceeds  to  mark  off  the  various  grades  of  happiness, 
starting  from  the  sympathy  that  can  enter  into  the 
wonders  and  aspirations  of  former  days,  and  passing  on 
through  friendship  to  love,  which  may  "  produce  more 
than  our  searching  witnesseth  "  (834).  And  if  earthly 
love,  he  goes  on  to  say,  can  lift  us  far  above  the  ordinary 
level  of  life,  what  power  must  lie  in  a  passionate 
endeavour  to  reach  up  to  a  divine  ideal !  It  is  fortunate 
that  a  record  remains  showing  that  Keats  attached 
particular  importance  to  this  passage.      The  lines  quoted 


above  were  not  in  the  original  poem,^  and  in  sending 
them  to  his  publisher,  as  the  poem  was  passing  through 
the  press,  he  wrote  : 

"  You  must  indulge  me  by  putting  this  in,  for 
setting  aside  the  badness  of  the  other,  such  a  preface 
is  necessary  to  the  subject.  The  whole  thing  must,  I 
think,  have  appeared  to  you,  who  are  a  consecutive  man, 
as  a  thing  almost  of  mere  words,  but  I  assure  you  that, 
when  I  wrote  it,  it  was  a  regular  stepping  of  the  Imagiiia- 
tion  towards  a  truth.  My  having  written  that  argument 
will  perhaps  be  of  the  greatest  service  to  me  of  anything 
I  ever  did.  It  set  before  me  the  gradations  of  happiness, 
even  like  a  kind  of  pleasure  thermometer,  and  is  my  first 
step  towards  the  chief  attempt  in  the  drama. "^ 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  there  was  much  more  in  the 
mind  of  Keats  when  he  wrote  this  poem,  than  the  re-telling 
of  an  old  and  fantastic  tale.  But,  of  course,  the  final 
justification  for  this  view  of  Endymion  must  lie  in  the 
poem  itself.  If,  as  it  is  hoped  to  show,  there  is  to  be 
found,  running  beneath  the  surface  of  the  poem  in  a  clear 
and  unbroken  stream,  a  meaning  that  corresponds  closely 
with  the  ideas  that  are  known  to  have  filled  the  mind  of 
Keats  at  this  time,  there  will  be  no  need  of  further 
argument  on  the  matter.  An  allegory  of  this  kind  does 
not  slip  into  a  poem  by  accident. 

But,  it    may  fairly  be   asked,  why  did  not    Keats  j;^^^;;',^?,'.^ 
himself  do  something  to  elucidate  the  meaning  of  a  poem 
which,  though  it  cost  him  so  much  effort,  seems  to  have 
been  understood  by  few,  if  indeed  by  any,  in  his  own 

1  The  original  reading  was  as  follows: 

Wherein   lies  happiness?       In   that    which   becks 
Our  ready  minds  to  blending  pleasurable: 
And  that  delight  is   the    most   treasurablo 
That  makes  the  richest  Alchymy.       Behold,  etc. 
2  Letter  to  John  Taylor,   SOth  January,   1818. 


The  main 
intention. 


time,  and  which,  even  at  this  late  day  has  scarcely  yielded 
up  its  full  treasure  of  meaning? 

Two  facts  may  supply  a  sufficient  answer  to  this 
query.  The  first  is  that  before  he  had  finished  the  poem 
Keats  became  dissatisfied  with  and  tired  of  it.  This 
feeling  shows  itself  repeatedly  in  his  letters.  Soon  after 
he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  third  book  he  wrote  to 
Haydon  : 

"  My  ideas  with  respect  to  it  I  assure  you  are  very 
low — and  I  would  write  the  subject  thoroughly  again — 
but  I  am  tired  of  it  and  think  the  time  would  be  better 
spent  in  writing  a  new  Romance  which  I  have  in  my  eye 
for  next  summer."^  And  some  time  later  to  Reynolds  : 
"  I  have  copied  my  Fourth  Book,  and  shall  write  the 
Preface  soon.  I  wish  it  was  all  done;  for  I  want  to 
forget  it,  and  make  my  mind  free  for  something  new."^ 
And  then  the  unintelligent  and  unfair  criticism  with  which 
the  poem  was  received  by  most  of  those  who  noticed  it, 
and,  what  was  almost  worse,  the  indifference  of  the  greater 
part  of  the  literary  world,  would  offer  but  a  slender 
inducement  to  enter  upon  an  explanation  of  its  meaning. 
If  even  the  few  friends  who  took  up  his  defence  failed 
to  interpret  it  rightly,  what  could  be  expected  from  those 
who  began  to  read  it  with  minds  prejudiced  against  the 
author?  So  he  held  his  peace.  He  probably  felt  as 
unwilling  to  explain  his  allegory  as  a  humorist  would  be 
to  explain  one  of  his  jokes  that  had  fallen  flat,  and 
moreover  he  would  know  that  any  such  defence  would 
only  give  occasion  for  fresh  ridicule. 

Accepting  the  presence  of  an  allegory  as  a  working 
hypothesis  we  may  next  try  to  define  its  main  intention. 
It  is  true  that  any  attempt  to  state  in  matter-of-fact  prose 

1  Letter  of  28th  September,   1817. 

2  Letter  of  14th  March,  1818 :  see  also  letter  to  .John  Taylor,  27th  Feb- 

ruary, 1818,  and  to  James  Hessey,  9bh  October,  1818. 


the  significance  of  an  allegory  must  inevitably  be 
unsatisfactory.  A  painting  of  a  sunset  or  of  waves 
breaking  on  the  shore  is  unsatisfactory,  for  how  can  one 
reproduce  on  canvas  the  constantly  shifting  play  of  light 
and  colour  which  makes  the  real  beauty  of  the  scene? 
Yet  we  find  pleasure  in  the  attempt,  and  in  the  case  of 
the  allegory,  where  a  more  purely  intellectual  element  is 
involved,  an  attempt  to  define  its  purpose  has  a  real  value 
in  clearing  one's  way  towards  an  understanding  of  the 
problems  involved. 

Professor  de  Selincourt^  has  described  the  allegory  ueflniuons 
as  representing  "  the  development  of  the  poet's  soul 
towards  a  complete  realisation  of  itself."  Mr.  A.  C. 
Bradley  says^ :  "  The  adventures  of  Endymion  are  also 
the  experiences  of  the  poetic  soul  in  its  search  for  union  ^ 
with  the^absolute  Beauty."  Sir  Sidney  Colvin  gives  a 
fuller  definition^ :  "  The  essence  of  Keats's  task  is  to 
set  fojth  the  craving-  of  the  poet  for  full  communionwith 
the  essential  spirit  of  Beauty  in  the  world,  and  the 
discipline  by  which  he  is  led,  through  the  exercise  of  the 
active  human  sympathies  and  the  toilsome  acquisition  of 
knowledge,  to  the  prosperous  and  beatific  achievement 
of  his^uest."'' 

Each  of  these  writers  however  proceeds  to  remark  "^n*^ <"'^"<^'«n'- 
upon  the  irnperfect  way  in  which  the  intention  has  been 
carried   out.       Professor   de    Selincourt,    after   a   brief 

1  Totmi  of  John  Keats,  Introduction   P.  xl. 

2  Chamber^s  Cyclopedia  of  English  Literature,  vol.  III.,  p.  100. 

3  Life  of  Keats,  p.  235.       There  is  a  briefer  definition  on  p.   167 

4  In  his  essay  on  the  poems  of  Keats  (1914),  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  says: 

"  In  so  far  as  the  poem  has  an  inner  meaning,  Endymion  must 
be    identified    with    the    p>oet    as   Man.  Tlio   Moon    represents 

'  Poetry  '  or  the  Ideality  of  desired  objects,  The  Priihrijile  of  Beauty 
in  all  things:  it  is  the  suptrsensuous  quality  which  makes  all 
desired  objects  ideal ;  and  Cynthia,  as  moon  goddess,  crowns  and 
personifies  this,  representing  the  ideal  brauty  or  love  of  woman  : 
and  in  so  far  as  she  is  also  actually  the  Moon  as  well  as  the  Indian 
lad}- — who  clearly  represents  real  or  sensuous  passion — it  follows 
that  the  love  of  woman  is  in  its  essence  the  same  with  all  love 
of  beauty."  But  the  section  dealing  with  Endymion  is  not  tho 
happiest   part  of   Mr.    Bridges'    essay. 

5 


sketch  of  the  purpose  of  the  poem,  adds  :  "  It  Is  hardly 
safe  to  give  a  more  detailed  interpretation  of  the 
allegory,  for,  as  a  whole,  Endymion  is  vague  and 
obscure."^  Sir  Sidney  Colvin,  while  in  some  places 
taking  up  a  more  thorough  going  attitude  of  defence  than 
previous  writers  had  adopted,  yet  says  :  "  In  Endymion 
Keats  had  impeded  and  confused  his  narrative  by 
working  into  it  much  incident  and  imagery  symbolic  of 
the  cogitations  and  asj)irations,  the  upliftings  and 
misgivings,  of  his  own  unripe  spirit:"^  and  quotes  with 
approval  Shelley's  remark  :  "  I  think  if  he  had  printed 
about  fifty  pages  of  fragments  from  it,  I  should  have  been 
led  to  admire  Keats  as  a  poet  more  than  I  ought,  of  which 
there  is  now  no  danger."^  Mr.  A.  C.  Bradley  is  more 
severe  :  "  The  result  is  a  series  of  adventures  to  the 
details  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  assign  a  distinct 
symbolic  meaning,  and  which,  taken  more  simply,  have 
the  incoherence  of  a  broken  dream.'"^ 

That  there  are  many  faults  of  expression,  and  not 
a  few  lapses  from  good  taste  in  all  the  earlier  work  of 
Keats,  cannot  be  denied,  and  Endytnion  is  by  no  means 
free  from  these  defects ;  but  it  is  hoped  to  show  that  there 
is  a  fuller  and  more  consecutive  meaning  running  through 
the  whole  poem  than  has  yet  been  recognised ;  that  many 
of  the  details  which  have  been  thought  to  be  superfluous 
and  unmeaning  are  significant  and  appropriate  when 
viewed  from  the  right  standpoint;  and  that  much  of  the 
criticism  that  has  been  directed  against  it  is  mistaken 
and  irrelevant,  since  it  is  based  upon  a  failure  to 
understand  the  meaning  and  purpose  of  the  passages 
criticised. 

1  As   above. 

2  Life  of  Kmts,  p.  J 10. 

3  Ibid,   p.   238. 

4  As  above. 


In  trying  to  arrive  at  a  satisfactory  statement  of  the  ^„'|.°'^1;1' 
underlying  meaning  of  the  poem  it  is  necessary  to  recog- 
nise that  the  allegory  appears  to  have  a  double  purpose— 
to  carry  at  once  a  wider  and  a  narrower  meaning ;  the  wudei 
meaning  having  reference  to  the  new  birth  of  poetry 
which  came  about  as  soon  as  jhe_po_ wejTof^tHe  ps e ud o - 
classical  school  declined,  and  English  poeiry^  was 
released  from  what  Keats  regarded  as  the  cramping  and 
deadenmg  influence  that  Pope  and  his  associates  had 
exercised;  the  narrower  being  intended  to  give  some 
account  of  the  experience  of  an  individual,  picturing  the 
rise  and  developmenfof  the  poetic  passion  in  his  mind,  f 
his  earnest  pursuit  and  gradual  realisation  of  the  ideal 
that  is  set  before  him.  In  some  parts  of  the  poem  the 
two  ideas  can  be  recognised  side  by  side,  but  usually 
one  or  the  other  is  dominant  for  the  time.  Thus  in  the 
first  book  the  earlier  part  is  a  picture  of  the  spirit  of  the 
time  in  which  the  revival  of  poetry  began,  while  the  rest 
of  the  book  deals  with  the  more  personal  aspect  of  the 
subject. 

One  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  this  double 
purpose  at  work.  Iveats  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  Spenser,  and  the  Faerie  Qzieene  would  furnish  him 
with  a  precedent  that  would  be  warrant  enough  for  such 
a  plan.  It  would  indeed  have  been  difficult  to  keep  the 
two  ideas  apart  from  one  another,  for  the  impulses  that 
were  stirring  in  the  mind  of  Keats,  and  were  urging  him 
on  to  develop  his  own  gift  of  song,  were  but  part  of 
the  great  tidal  movement  that  was  flooding  in  through 
many  channels;  and  he  was  clear  sighted  enough  to 
recognise  the  fact.  If  we  look  at  the  sonnet  that  he 
addressed  to  Haydon  in  a  letter  of  November,  1816; 

Great  spirits  now  on  cartii  are  sojourning, 


in  which  he  refers  to  Wordsworth,  Leigh  Hunt  and 
Haydon  himself  as  pioneers  of  a  new  era,  and  then  read 
another  letter  addressed  to  Haydon  in  the  following  May, 
when  working  at  Endymio?i,  in  which  he  quotes  the 
opening  lines  of  Love's  Labour  Lost : 

Let  Fame,  that  all  pant  after  in  their  lives, 
Live  registered  upon  our  brazen  tombs 
And  so  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death ; 

and  adds  :  "  To  think  that  I  have  no  right  to  couple 
myself  with  you  in  this  speech  would  be  death  to  me," 
we  can  see  how  he  thought  of  his  own  ambitions  and 
ideals  as  connected  with  the  wider  movement  that  he  saw 
to  be  in  progress,  not  as  a  matter  of  boasting,  but  as  the 
recognition  of  simple  fact. 

It  may  further  be  noted  that  the  same  collocation  of 
ideas  is  to  be  found  in  Sleep  and  Poetry,  which  had  been 
published  a  little  while  before  he  seriously  took  up  the 
writing  of  Endymion.  In  this  poem  he  had  denounced, 
in  terms  that  roused  the  wrath  of  Byron,  those  who  went 
about 

Holding  a  poor  decrepid  standard  out 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottos,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau ! 

and  had  gone  on  to  celebrate  the  advent  of  happier  times 
— "  Now  'tis  a  fairer  season  :"  and  then  had  linked  with 
all  this  the  hope  that  he  himself  might  be  found  worthy  to 
play  some  part  in  this  great  poetic  revival. 

We  may  now  try  to  ascertain  what  light  can  be 
gained  on  the  purpose  of  the  poem  from  a  closer 
examination  of  the  text. 


BOOK  I. 

The  story,  so  far  as  it  is  developed  in  the  hrst  book,  The  story. 
falls  into  two  clearly  marked  divisions ;  the  hrst  of  these, 
covering  about  one-third  of  the  total  length  of  the  book 
(lines  63  to  393)  describes  the  festival  of  Fan;  the  second 
(lines  393  to  992)  deals  with  the  strange  experiences  which 
have  changed  the  life  of  Endymion.  it  will  be  con- 
venient to  consider  these  separately. 

It  is  on  the  side  of  Mount  Latmos,  near  the  western  xbo  festival  of 
coast  of  Asia  Minor,  that  the  festival  is  about  to  be  held. 
On  the  slopes  of  the  mountain  lay  a  dense  forest,  into 
some  parts  of  which  no  man  had  penetrated  (67).  Some- 
times a  lamb,  straying  away  from  the  Hock  to  which  it 
belonged,  would  be  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  but 
it  was  believed  that  such  a  lamb  would  be  shielded  from 
harm  until  it  joined  the  herds  of  Pan,  and  that  the 
shepherd  who  had  lost  it  would  gain  thereby  (78).  There 
were  many  paths  in  the  forest  leading  to  a  wide  lawn,  in 
the  midst  of  which  stood  an  altar  (90).  To  this  spot, 
early  in  the  morning  of  a  summer  day,  a  troop  of  children 
came,  and  gathered  round  the  altar,  and  as  they  stood 
expectant  a  faint  breath  of  music  came  to  their  ears  (i  14). 
Soon  there  appeared  a  troop  of  maidens  and  of  shep- 
herds, then  a  venerable  priest,  followed  by  more 
shepherds,  and  a  joyous  multitude  accompanying  a 
chariot  drawn  by  three  steeds,  in  which  rode  Endymion 
their  prince.  They  were  gathered  round  the  shrine, 
while  the  priest  exhorted  them  to  join  in  giving  thanks 
to  Pan  for  all  the  benefits  they  had  received.  After 
sacrifice  and  libation  a  hymn  to  Pan  was  sung  (232),  and 
then  many  of  those  present  joined  in  dancing  and  sports, 
while  others  allowed  their  minds  to  dwell  on  thoughts 
and  images  called  up  by  what  was  going  on  around  them, 
and  as  they  played  or  meditated  the  sun  arose  in  all  his 
glory  (350).       On  one  side  sat  a  group  of  old  men,  who 


Tlie  meaning. 


A  wi'lespread 
poetic  feeling. 


were  talking  with  one  another  about  the  next  life,  the 
duties  that  lay  before  them  and  the  hopes  of  reunion  with 
those  they  had  loved. 

It  may  be  admitted  at  the  outset  that  this  earlier  part 
of  the  first  book  is  not  the  most  hopeful  part  of  the  poem 
in  which  to  attempt  the  tracing  of  the  allegory.  As  an 
introduction  to  the  story  it  is  simple  and  effective,  but 
indications  that  would  point  out  the  purpose  beneath  the 
surface  of  the  narrative  are  not  easy  to  find.  By  making 
use,  however,  of  clues  to  be  found  in  later  parts  of  the 
poem  we  can  arrive  at  a  fair  degree  of  certainty  as  to  the 
intention  of  this  earlier  part. 

It  appears,  then,  that  we  have  here  shown  to  us  in  the 
manner  of  a  picture  the  feeling  that  was  abroad  among 
men  at  the  time  when  the  new  romantic  movement  began 
to  exercise  its  influence.  It  is  not  only  in  the  mind  of  the 
poet  that  such  a  movement  stirs  and  grows;  there  must 
be  a  stirring,  too,  in  the  minds  of  many  others  who  will 
never  be  poets,  and  they  must  be  ready  to  share  in  the 
new  ideas  and  emotions  in  such  degree  as  they  are 
capable  of.  For  some  time  past  men  had  paid  little 
heed  to  the  beauty  of  the  world  around  them.  As  Words- 
worth had  put  it  when  Keats  was  twelve  years  old  : 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have. given  our  hearts  away — a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 
The  winds  that   will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers — 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. 

And  it  was  a  true  charge  that  the  old  priest  made  when 

he  said 

"  Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god  Pan."     (I.   213) 

But  a  change  was  coming  over  the  minds  of  men.      They 

were  tired  of  the  wrangling  and  the  strife,  the  insincere 

compliment  and  the  bitter  jibe  that  made  up  so  large  a 


lO 


part  of  what  poets  had  for  a  long  time  been  saying  to 

them;    they    were   eager    to    respond    to    Wordsworth's 

invitation — 

Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

They  were  ready  to  join  ni  the  desire  that  this  new  spirit 

of  delight    in  and  wonder  at  all  that    is  beautiful  and 

mysterious  in  Nature  might  spread  among  mankind  :  they 

could  sing  : 

be  still  the  leaven 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth  : 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity  ; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea,       (I.   296^ 

The  main  purpose  of  this  opening  part  of  the  story  is  to 
show  the  new  movement  as  one  that  was  shared  by  many 
people;  young  and  old,  men,  women  and  children  were 
alike  stirred  by  it,  and  the  suggestion  at  the  back  of  the 
story  is  that  the  change  that  came  about  in  the  world  of 
poetry  at  this  time  was  not  merely  the  result  of  new  ideas 
and  a  fresh  outlook  on  the  part  of  the  poets;  it  was  the 
expression  of  a  spiritual  change  that  had  taken  place  in 
the  minds  of  large  numbers  of  people.  The  revelation 
had  come  to  the  poet,  as  we  shall  see,  in  a  way  that  was 
intimate  and  personal,  and  no  one  else  could  directly 
share  in  it,  but  there  were  many  who,  though  quite  unable 
to  receive  such  a  revelation  as  had  come  to  him.  still  felt 
the  throbbing  of  new  impulses,  and  shared  in  the  new  joy. 

The  revival  of  the  worship  of  Pan  stands  for  the 
fresh  interest  in  and  love  of  nature  which  were  widely 
diffused  at  the  time  of  the  poetic  revival ;  and  bearing  this 
in  mind  a  further  significance  may  be  recognised  in  some 
of  the  details  of  the  story.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
a  marble  altar  (go)  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  wide  lawn  Ti.caitorand 

,  '     ,  the  lawn. 

(82)  where  this  festival  took  place,  and  that  there  were 
many  paths  leading  through  the  forest  to  this  spot.       It 

1  I 


would    appear  that  Keats    intended  to  remind    us  that 

reverence  for  Nature  is  no  new  thing;  this  part  of  the 

great  domain  of  poetry  had  been  opened  up  long  before ; 

many  paths  led  to  it  and  had  been  trodden  by  worshippers 

in  earlier  times;  the  altar  that  they  had  built,  though  it 

had  been  neglected  for  some  time,  still  stood  there  ready 

for  the    worshippers  when  they  were  willing    to  gather 

round  it.      It  may  be  noted,  too,  that  it  was  before  sunrise 

that  the  multitude  came  together  to  renew  their  vows  to 

Pan,  and  then 

from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side, 
There  shot  a  golden  splendour  far  and  wide, 
Spangling  those  million  poutings  of  the  brine 
With  quivering  ore  :  'twas  even  an  awful  shine 
From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow  ; 
A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe.       (I.   349) 

So  the  beginning  of  the  freshly-awakened  interest  in 
Nature,  as  it  may  be  seen  in  the  poems  of  Thomson  and 
Collins  and  Gray,  showed  itself  before  the  sunshine 
splendour  of  the  new  movement  as  it  shone  forth  in  the 
time  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge. 

It  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  mark  with 
accuracy  the  limits  of  significance  intended  by  the  poet 
in  the  details  of  his  allegory.  One  cannot,  for  instance, 
be  certain  whether  or  not  he  meant  the  mighty  forest 
outspread  upon  the  sides  of  Latmos  to  represent  the 
realm  of  poetry  as  a  whole,  and  the 

gloomy  shades,  sequestered  deep, 
Where  no  man  went       (I.   67) 

to  Stand  for  some  portions  of  that  realm  which  Keats 
thought  of  as  still  remaining  to  be  occupied;  themes  or 
aspects  of  life  which  were  awaiting  the  poet  of  the  future, 
in  contrast  with  the  lawn  into  which  many  paths  led  and 
where  stood  the  altar  to  Pan,  at  which  many  poets  had 
sacrificed.  But  there  are  a  few  lines,  not  in  the  main 
current  of  the  story,  in  which  we  shall  probably  not  be 

12 


lunibs 


far  wrong  in  recognising  a  partly  personal  reminiscence,  Tho^^trayea 
also  aside  from  the  direct  line  of  the  allegory.       They 
refer  to  the  lamb  that  sometimes  strayed  far  down  those 
inmost  glens  (69)  and  never  returned  to  join  the  flocks; 

but   pass'd   unworried 
By  angry  wolf,   or  pard  with  prying  head, 
Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 
Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan  :  ay  great  his  gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.        (I.   75) 

It  seems  likely  that  Keats  was  thinking  of  the  fate  of  some 
of  his  own  poems.  There  were  many  lambs  in  the  white 
flock  of  his  first  published  volume  that  had  been  worried 
by  the  angry  wolves  or  pards  with  prying  head  who 
howled  in  the  pages  of  the  Eclectic  Review"^  and  other 
periodicals  at  Leigh  Hunt  and  all  who  were  suspected 
of  being  his  friends.  But  there  were  other  poems  that 
he  did  not  publish,  some  perhaps  had  not  even  been  put 
into  writing,^  and  these  were  never  (in  his  lifetime,  at  any 
rate)  gathered  into  the  pens  that  held  the  main  flock. 
Keats,  regarding  them  in  a  way  with  which  Browning 
would  have  fully  sympathised,^  felt  that  these  poems  had 
not  perished,  but  had  joined  the  herds  of  Pan,  and  that 
the  gain  to  him  was  great  for  they  lived  on  in  his  mind 
as  beautiful  ideals,  unmarred  by  foolish  or  unfriendly 
criticism.  There  is,  of  course,  no  need  to  suppose  that 
Keats  intended  to  limit  the  application  of  the  parable 
to  his  own  experience.  Many  a  poet  must  have  had  a 
similar  feeling  about  his  unpublished  poems. 

1  See  Colvin,   Jjxjc  oj  Keats,  p.   132. 

2  Cf.  the  sonnet  "  ^Vheu  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be,"  written 

in  January,  1818,  before  Endyinion  was  published. 

3  Cf.   Abt   Vo<jler: 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good!  What  was,  shall  live  as  before.     .     . 

All   we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good   shall  exist ; 
Not  its  semblance  but  itself ;  no  beauty,   nor   good,   nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,   but  each  survives  for  the  melodist 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conceptiou  of  an  hour." 

I  ^ 


Thus  far  \vc  have  followed  the  story  of  the  festival  of 
Pan.  It  remains  to  consider  the  latter  part  of  the  first  book, 
JlSdenS.  ^vhich  tells  of  the  experiences  through  which  Endymion 
^(  had  passed  and  which  had  caused  such  a  marked  change 
in  his  demeanour.  In  earlier  days  he  had  been  foremost 
in  all  active  exercises,  but  now  he  seemed  to  be  oppressed 
by  some  secret  grief,  and  could  not  join  in  the  festivities 
of  the  day  (393).  His  sister  Peona  drew  him  from  the 
crowd  and  took  him  to  a  quiet  retreat,  where,  under  her 
restful  influence,  he  fell  asleep  (442).  When  he  awoke, 
refreshed  and  grateful  for  her  sisterly  affection,  he  told 
her  the  cause  of  the  change  that  had  come  upon  him.  He 
had  seen  a  vision  of  surpassing  loveliness  (572),  and 
though  it  was  but  a  dream,  and  had  passed  away,  leaving 
him  desolate,  it  had  been  followed  by  a  second  appearance 
of  the  same  bright  face,  mirrored  in  a  clear  well  (895). 
This  was  no  dream,  for  he  saw  it  with  waking  eyes,  but  it, 
too,  had  quickly  vanished.  Finally,  as  he  was  one  day 
following  the  course  of  a  stream,  he  had  reached  a  quiet 
and  beautiful  cave  (935),  and,  as  he  longed  with  a  great 
longing  for  the  presence  of  the  unknown  goddess  whom 
he  had  come  to  love  so  deeply,  he  heard  her  voice  calling 
him,  and  realised  that  she  was  with  him  once  more.  But 
those  moments  had  quickly  fled,  and,  feeling  now  the 
hopelessness  of  his  passion,  he  declared  that  he  would 
put  his  grief  aside,  and  return  to  a  quiet  and  wholesome 
life. 

In  this  part  of  the  story  it  is  not  difficult  to  trace 

Keats's  own  reminiscences  of  the  way  in  which  there 

Keatss  early    araduallv  Sfrcw  uD  withiu  him  the  conviction  that  he  must 

devote  himself  to  the  pursuit  of  poetry,  until  that  became 

at  length  the  one  absorbing  passion  of  his  life. 

Endymion's  days,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  had  until 
recently  been  marked  by  healthy  activity;  he  was  full  of 

14 


/ 


energy,  and  delighted  in  manly  exercises ;  he  was  one — 

Who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  [his]  own  steed  from  Araby  ;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching  ;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling.  (I.  533) 

And  Keats,  according  to  the  account  of  his  school  friends, 
showed  a  similar  disposition  in  his  early  days.  One  of 
them,  Mr.  Edward  Holmes,  has  left  the  following  record  : 
"  Keats  was  in  childhood  not  attached  to  books.  His 
f enchant  was  for  fighting.  He  would  fight  anyone — 
morning,  noon  and  night — his  brother  among  the  rest.    It 

was  meat  and  drink  to  him He  was  not  literary  : 

his  love  of  work  and  poetry  manifested  itself  chiefly  about 
the  year  before  he  left  school.  In  all  active  exercises 
he  excelled."^ 

But  a  change  had  come  over  Endymion  ;  he  no  longer 
took  any  interest  in  the  manly  sports  that  had  hitherto         I 
been  his  chief  delight;  he  had  lost  all  his  "  toil  breeding      / 
fire  "  (537)  and  at  times  he  became  oblivious  of  all  that 
was  going  on  around  him  : 

he  did  not  heed 

The   sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low, 

Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe, 

Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms, 

Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms  : 

But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept, 

Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stcpt.      (I.  393) 

So  Keats  pictures  to  us  the  change  that  comes  over  ^' °^:,J^.'«^' 
man's  outlook  on  life  when  once  he  has  heard  the  call  to  '»^«^»'^"«='' 
devote  himself  to  the  pursuit  of  poetry.  Hitherto  he 
has  led  a  life  not  differing  in  any  marked  way  from  the 
life  of  his  fellows ;  he  has  joined  in  the  same  pursuits,  and 
has  shared  in  their  interests  and  pleasures.  But  when 
once  he  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  ideal  loftier  and  more 
beautiful  than  anything  that  has  hitherto  entered  into  his 
conception  of  life,  he  cannot  go  on  as  before.      The  old 


1  Colvin,  L'lir.   of  Keats,  pp.  11,  12. 


15 


pursuits  and  pleasures  seem  empty  and  meaningless ;  he 
becomes  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  new  ideal : 
it  fascinates  him,  and  alters  his  whole  attitude  to  life. 
Endymion  speaks  of  "  the  change  wrought  suddenly  in 
me  "  (I.  520),  and,  though  it  is  not  for  a  long  time  that 
he  fully  makes  up  his  mind  to  devote  himself  to  the  pur- 
suit of  the  new  ideal,  it  is  clear  that  Keats  intends  us  to 
think  of  the  experience  that  resulted  in  the  new  outlook 
upon  life  as  having  taken  place  on  some  definite  and 
identifiable  occasion.  It  may  further  be  noted  that  the 
experience  is  a  rare  one.  Not  many  men  are  called  to 
His  isolation.  ]jq  pocts,  and  iu  the  story  it  is  Endymion  alone  of  all 
the  people  who  sees  the  vision  and  hears  the  call.  For 
the  most  part  the  people  around  him  are  quite  unable 
to  enter  into  his  feelings,  though  there  are  a  few  of  more 
sympathetic  understanding,  who  are  able  to  share  a  little 
in  them; 

he  seem'd 
To  common  lookers  on,  like  one  who  dream'd 
Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian  : 
But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 
A  lurking  trouble  in   his  nether  lip 
And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 
Through  his  forgotten  hands  :  then  would  they  sigh, 
And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owdets'  cry, 
Of  logs  piled  solemnly.  (I.   175) 

This  isolation  of  the  poet,  the  solitariness  of  the  path  that 
he  has  to  follow  through  life,  is  a  point  frequently  insisted 
upon  in  the  allegory.  It  is  a  pathetic  illustration  of  the 
limited  degree  of  sympathetic  understanding  with  which 
the  poet  must  expect  to  meet  that  when  Keats  read  to 
Wordsworth  this  beautiful  hymn  to  Pan — a  crystal  vase, 
containing  as  a  distilled  essence  the  very  flower  of 
Wordsworth's  own  teaching — all  the  comment  that  he 
passed  upon  it  seems  to  have  been  that  it  was  "  a  pretty 
piece  of  paganism  " — Wordsworth,  who  had  himself 
declared  that  he  would  "  rather  be  a  pagan  suckled  in 

16 


a  creed  outworn  "  if  only  his  eyes  and  cars  might  he  rt^--n"'^**V 
open  to  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  world  around  him.*^"'**'^^*^!^^^ 
If  this  was  all  the  appreciation  that  Wordsworth  had  to 
offer   it  seems   unreasonable   to   speak   severely   of   the 
obtuseness    of    later    critics,    and    even    the    Quarterly 
Reviewer  should  be  pitied  rather  than  blamed. 

The    story   of   the   three-fold    revelation    that   was  The  thrcc-fow 

■'  revelation. 

granted  to  Endymion  is  skilfully  worked  out.  It  is 
obviously  intended  to  represent  the  growth  in  a  man's*  ^V 
mind  of  the  consciousness  that  he  is  called  to  be  a  poet. 
It  may  be  true  that  the  poet  is  born  not  made,  but  at  any 
rate  he  is  not  conscious  of  the  fact  when  he  is  born,  nor 
for  some  time  after.  He  may  arrive  at  the  consciousness 
in  various  ways,  but  Keats  represents  it  here  as  coming 
to  him  first  of  all  on  a  few  definite  occasions,  and  in 
such  a  way  that,  from  the  time  when  the  idea  first  dawned 
upon  him,  his  whole  outlook  upon  life  was  changed,  even 
though  some  considerable  time  went  by  before  he  finally 
made  up  his  mind  to  devote  his  life  to  this  one  purpose. 

There  are  four  aspects  of  this  part  of  the  story  that 
appear  to  be  specially  significant,  and  these  may  now  be 
considered. 

I.     In  the  first  place  it  will  be  noticed  that  some  The  first  visun 

■"•  _  in  a  familiar 

Stress  is  laid  on  the  fact  that  when  the  new  revelation  ^f*"' 
came  to  Endymion  he  was  in  a  place  that  he  had  often  i  {^J- 
been  accustomed  to  visit.  On  the  first  occasion  he  was 
on  the  border  of  a  wood,  where  the  river  winds  round 
it,  and  there  he  had  made  his  way  to  a  nook,  zckcre  he 
had  been  used  to  pass  his  weary  cz'cs  (546),  and  from 
which  he  had  often  watched  the  beauty  of  sunset;  and 
it  was  here,  heralded  by  the  sudden  blossoming  of  a  magic 
bed  of  flowers  that  the  vision  came  to  him. 

In  the  account  of  the  second  revelation  this  feature •nd the i«cond 
of  the  story  is  dwelt  upon  at  greater  length.       It  was 

17 


in  a  deep  hollow,  overarched  by  bushes  and  trees,  where 

some  mouldered  steps  led  down  to  the  margin  of  a  well 

(870).  From  there  he  had  often  brought  flowers  to 

Peona ;   there,    too,   he   would    "  bubble   up   the   water 

through  a  reed,"  or  make  ships 

Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips. 
With  leaves  stuck  in  them  ;  and  the  Neptune  be 
Of  their  petty  ocean.  (I.   882) 

When  in  a  less  childish  mood  he  often  sat  there 

contemplating-  the  figures  wild 
Of  o'er-head  clouds  melting  the  mirror  through.      (I.   886). 

It  may  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  canons  in  the 
interpretation  of  allegory  that  if  apparently  dispropor- 
tionate stress  is  laid  upon  any  aspect  of  the  story  there 
is  probably  enshrined  in  it  something  of  special  signifi- 
cance in  the  allegory.  In  a  carelessly  constructed 
allegory  this  will  not,  of  course,  hold  good,  but  the  more 
one  examines  this  poem  the  more  evidence  one  finds  that 
the  thinking  has  been  close  and  consecutive,  and  that 
while  the  expression  is  in  places  immature  and  faulty, 
the  conception  is  fine,  and  much  more  carefully  worked 
out  than  has  yet  been  admitted. 

In  this  instance,  the  meaning  is  not  difficult  to  trace, 
and  it  is  of  sufficient  importance  to  justify  the  stress  laid 
upon  the  matter.  Keats  appears  to  be  telling  us  some- 
thing of  what  led  up  to  his  realisation  of  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  real  poetry.  As  a  child  he  had,  no  doubt, 
often  heard  or  read  and  probably  learned,  poems  or  parts 
of  poems;  he  had,  perhaps,  amused  his  sister  in  her  baby 
days  by  repeating  these  to  her,  just  as  in  later  days  he  ' 
wrote  nonsense  rhymes  for  her  ;^  he  may  very  likely  have 
imitated  verses  of  the  great  poets,  picking  up  a  feather 
moulted  from  one  of  their  poems,  a  chip  from  their 
workshop,  and  making:  out  of  it  a  little  craft  of  his  own.      1 

1  See,  for  example,  letter  of  2ivl  July,  1818. 
18 


In  later  days  he  would  sit  pondering  on  the  way  in  which 
life  is  mirrored  in  such  works.  And  it  was  here,  on 
ground  long  familiar  to  him,  in  poems  that  he  had  known 
from  childhood,  that  there  came  to  him  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly  a  vision  of  the  indescribable  beauty  that 
inspires  all  really  great  poetry.  It  is  not  an  uncommon 
experience.  Many  of  us  have  learned  in  childhood 
poems  that  have  given  us  some  degree  of  pleasure  at  the 
time,  and  then  in  later  years  we  have  one  day  found  in 
them  a  charm  of  form  and  meaning  that  we  had  never 
realised  before.  There  is  granted  to  us  a  glimpse  of 
the  beauty  of  poetry  in  itself,  and  we  share  in  some  small 
degree  in  the  experience  of  Keats ;  but  it  is  only  a  very 
few  who  are  capable  of  seeing  it  as  he  saw  it,  or  in  whom 
it  can  arouse  such  an  intensity  of  wonder  and  delight  that 
it  inspires  them  to  make  an  Endymion  of  it. 

In  contrast  with  the  familiarity  of  the  ground  on  '^VS^l 

which   Endymion  had  met  with  these  experiences,  we 

find  that  the  spot  where  the  third  revelation  came  to  him 

is  not  spoken  of  as  one  of  his  earlier  haunts.      This  time 

he  had  been — 

hurling  [his]  lance 
From  place   to  place,   and  following  at  chance,       (I.  929), 

till  at  last  it  struck  through  some  young  trees  and  fell 
into  a  brook,  which  led  him  to  a  cave ;  and  the  description 
suggests  that  all  this  part  of  the  forest  was  new  to  him. 
It  may  well  have  been  the  case  that  after  Keats  had  twice 
been  surprised  by  the  recognition  of  some  unearthly 
beauty  in  poems  that  had  for  a  long  time  been  familiar 
to  him,  he  began  to  read  more  widely,  to  wander  at  ran- 
dom through  the  realms  of  gold,  and  that  in  some  place 
that  he  hit  upon  almost  by  chance  there  came  to  him 
again,  and  more  clearly  than  before,  the  sense  of  the 
surpassing  loveliness  to  be  met  with  in  poetry. 

19 


7 


proxresBive. 


A  solitary  2.     A  iTiore  obvIous  poiiit  than  the  one  dealt  with 

experience.  .        ,  , .  ,  r     i  •  r^ 

above  is  the  sohtary  character  of  these  experiences.  Un 
each  occasion  Endymion  was  wandering  quite  alone 
when  the  revelation  came  to  him,  and  this  suggests  one 
aspect  of  the  experience  through  which  the  poet  must 
pass.  The  inspirations  that  come  to  him,  the  visions 
of  beauty  that  he  sees,  are  intensely  personal  and 
individual  experiences.  Even  if  his  days  should  be 
spent  in  a  crowded  city,  in  his  poetic  life  no  one  can  go 
with  him;  he  may  tell  the  story  of  it  to  others,  but  they 
can  never  share  it;  the  vision  is  for  him  alone. 

The  revelations  3.     A  point  that  is  wcU  workcd  out  is  the  progressive 

character  of  these  experiences.       Endymion's  attention 

was  first  of  all  caught  by  a  sudden  blossoming  of  flowers 

in  a  familiar  spot.       He  pondered  over  it  until  his  head 

was  dizzy  and  distraught  (565).      At  length  he  fell  asleep 

and  then  there  came  the  vision,  first  of  the  moon  : 

She  did  soar 
So  passionately   bright,   my  dazzled  soul 
Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roll 
Through  clear  and  cloudy  :  (I.   593) 

and  when  she  vanished  there  came  in  her  place  one  who 
seemed  the  "  high  perfection  of  all  sweetness  "  (607). 
"  Yet  it  was  but  a  dream."  (574). 

On  the  second  occasion  he  was  sitting  near  the  well 
when  a  cloudy  Cupid  flew  by,  and  he  was  just  about  to 
follow  it  when  he  saw — 

The   same    bright  face    [he]    tasted   in    [his]    sleep 
Smiling  in  the  clear  well.  (I.  895) 

There  is  no  suggestion  this  time  of  the  distraction  and 
confusion  of  mind  that  marked  the  former  occasion,  and" 
moreover,  the  vision  appears  to  him,  not  when  he  is 
asleep,  but  in  his  waking  hours,  and  is  followed  by 
indications  of  the  divine  favour  that  are  unmistakable. 
The  third  appearance  comes  when  he  is  consciously 
longing  for  the  presence  of  her  who  has  become  his  ideal, 

20 


and  it  shows  a  further  advance  in  the  fact  that  on  this 
occasion  he  hears  a  voice  calHng  to  him,  and  is  granted 
a  fuller  and  more  intimate  revelation  than  before.  Thus 
Keats  has  represented  to  us  the  way  in  which  the  poet 
gradually  comes  to  a  fuller  realisation  of  what  it  is  that 
he  is  called  to  do.  He  sees  more  and  more  clearly  the 
beauty  of  the  ideal  that  is  set  before  him,  and  is  filled 
more  and  more  with  a  longing  to  attain  it.  It  will  be 
seen  that  a  further  stage  in  the  realisation  of  the  ideal 
is  represented  in  the  next  book  (II.,  714-827),  while  the 
final  consummation  is  reached  at  the  end  of  the  poem. 

4.  Between  these  times  of  exaltation  Endymion 
sank  into  a  mood  of  deep  depression  that  gradually 
subsided  into  a  quiet  state  of  resignation  as  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  put  aside  all  thoughts  of  the  ideal  that  seemed 
so  impossible  of  attainment,  and  tried  to  resume  his 
ordinary  life ;  and  then  this  contentment  would  be  broken 
up  by  a  fresh  vision.  This  alternation  between  joyous 
hope  and  black  despair  is,  of  course,  characteristic  of  the 
artistic  temperament,  and  is  one  of  the  penalties  that  the 
poet  has  to  pay  for  the  sensitiveness  without  which  he 
could  not  be  a  poet;  but  one  cannot  help  suspecting  that 
personal  reminiscence  has  played  a  large  part  in  this 
phase  of  the  story. 


And  this  brings  us  to  the  consideration  of  a  question  /,;^^.;",;«,g 
that  cannot  but  arise  as  one  endeavours  to  follow  out  experience? 
the  meaning  of  this  poem — the  question,  that  is,  as  to 
how   far   the    experiences    of    Endymion    represent    the      .- 
training  and  development  of    the  poet  in  general,  and 
how  far  they  correspond  to  the  personal  experiences  of 
Keats. 

21 


The  question  is  one  that  can  never  be  fully 
answered.  Keats  himself  is  the  only  one  who  could 
have  told  us  how  far  he  was  drawing  upon  memories  of 
what  he  himself  had  gone  through,  and  he  has  not  spoken. 
Of  his  letters  that  have  come  down  to  us,  only  twenty- 
four  belong  to  the  period  before  he  had  finished 
Endymion,  and  these  throw  no  direct,  and  but  little 
indirect  light  on  the  problem. 

On  the  other  hand  a  little  consideration  serves  to 
show  that  in  dealing  with  such  a  theme  he  must  inevitably 
have  drawn  mainly  upon  his  own  experience.  The  only 
poet  whose  mind  he  could  know  with  sufficient  intimacy 
was  himself.  He  was  indeed  friendly  in  varying  degrees 
with  Leigh  Hunt,  with  Shelley  and  with  Wordsworth, 
and  it  is  quite  possible  that  in  the  many  talks  that  Keats 
enjoyed  with  one  or  another  of  these— talks  of  which  a 
few  faint  echoes  have  reached  our  ears — some  ideas  may 
have  been  thrown  up  that  have  been  built  into  the 
structure  of  Endymion.  Be  this  as  it  may,  one  can 
hardly  doubt  that  the  story  of  Endymion's  effort  to  win 
the  prize  that  was  set  before  him  is  drawn  in  the  main 
from  the  recollections  that  filled  the  mind  of  Keats  of 
his  own  hopes  and  doubts  and  difficulties,  and  there  are 
some  parts  of  the  story  in  which  the  identification  is  clear. 

The  resemblance  between  the  Endymion  of  the  days 
before  the  visions,  when  his  delight  was  in  the  exercise 
of  physical  energy,  and  Keats  in  his  earlier  schooldays 
when  he  excelled  in  all  active  exercises,  and  was  not 
literary,  has  already  been  pointed  out;^  and  the  parallel 
is  the  more  striking  because  there  is  no  reason  whatever 
to  suppose  that  it  was  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Holmes  when 
he  wrote  down  his  recollections  of  Keats  as  he  knew  him 
at  the  age  of  fourteen.      No  less  striking  is  the  evidence 

1  See  above,  page  15. 
22 


of  the  change  that  came  over  Keats  in  the  course  of  the  ■^^'^^f^^'-  jl 
next  five  or  six  years.  Henry  Stephens,  one  of  the  '^^'^^'"^'^ 
medical  students  who  shared  a  room  with  him  in  London, 
has  described  his  point  of  view  in  those  days  :  "Poetry  was 
to  his  mind  the  zenith  of  all  his  aspirations  :  the  only 
thing  worthy  the  attention  of  superior  minds  :  so  he 
thought :  all  other  pursuits  were  mean  and  tame.  He 
had  no  idea  of  fame  or  greatness  but  as  it  was  connected 
with  the  pursuits  of  poetry  or  the  attainment  of  poetical 
excellence."^  If  the  free  and  active  life  of  Endymion 
in  his  earlier  days  is  a  reflection  of  the  way  in  which  Keats 
felt  when  he  was  fourteen,  it  is  equally  clear  that  the 
visions  of  divine  beauty  that  came  to  Endymion  after- 
wards, and  the  rapture  that  they  aroused  in  him,  represent 
the  feelings  with  regard  to  poetry  and  poetic  fame  that 
at  this  later  period  dominated  the  mind  of  Keats.  Of 
the  intervening  period  there  is  scarcely  any  record,  but 
one  can  feel  little  doubt  that  when  we  read  the  story  of 
the  way  in  which  Endymion  passed  from  the  heights  of 
enthusiasm  to  the  depths  of  depression,  and  of  the  efforts 
that  he  made  to  recover  a  normal  and  reasonable  frame 
of  mind,^  we  are  learning  of  the  inner  experiences  of  the 
poet.  Between  the  time  of  his  leaving  school  (about 
August,  1811)  and  the  day  when  he  dropped  his  medical 
studies  and  finally  made  up  his  mind  to  devote  himself 
to  poetry  (about  March,  18 17),  he  must  have  passed 
through  many  periods  of  doubt  and  uncertainty,  of 
longing  to  reach  the  ideal  that  he  saw  shining  before 
him,  of  despair  at  the  poor  pro.spects  of  attaining  to  it 
when  he  realised  the  feebleness  of  his  own  early  efforts. 
He  must  have  decided  more  than  once  to  put  it  all  on 
one  side  and  to  fall  in  with  ihe  wishes  of  those  of  his 


1  Colvin,   Life  of  Kcdts,  p.  31. 

2  See,    for   example,    Book    I.,    601-710,    and    913-927. 


23 


friends  who  were  urging  him  to  complete  his  medical 
studies  :  "  No  more,"  says  Endymion  to  Peona, 

will  I  count  over,  link  by  link. 
My  chain  of  grid  :  no  longer  strive  to  find 
A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind 
Blustering  about  niy  ears  :  aye,  thou  shalt  see, 
Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be ; 
What  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 
There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 
Where'er  I  look  :  but  yet,  I'll  say  'tis  naught — 
And  here  I  bid  it  die.       Have  not  I  caught, 
Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance?"       (I.   978). 

It  is  only  in  the  pages  of  Endymion  that  the  record  of 
these  perplexities  and  struggles  may  be  found,  but  a  late 
echo  of  them  survives  in  a  letter  to  Leigh  Hunt,  written 
in  May,  1817,  soon  after  he  had  begun  to  work  at  this 
poem  : 

"  I  vow  that  I  have  been  down  in  the  mouth  lately 
at  this  work.  These  last  two  days,  however,  I  have  felt 
more  confident — I  have  asked  myself  so  often  why  I 
should  be  a  poet  more  than  other  men,  seeing  how  great 
a  thing  it  is — how  great  things  are  to  be  gained  by  it, 
what  a  thing  to  be  in  the  mouth  of  Fame — that  at  last 
the  idea  has  grown  so  monstrously  beyond  my  seeming 
power  of  attainment,  that  the  other  day  I  nearly  con- 
sented with  myself  to  drop  into  a  Phaeton." 
A  wider  It  would,  howcvcr,  be  a  mistake  to  push  this  identi- 

fication  too  far.  At  certain  points  in  the  story,  both  in 
this  book  and  later,  it  seems  clear  that  Keats  is  drawing 
largely  upon  the  memory  of  his  own  experiences  in  order 
to  make  his  sketch  more  vivid  and  true ;  but  it  would 
misrepresent  the  purpose  of  the  poem  to  suppose  that 
Endymion  regularly  stands  for  Keats  himself.  He 
embodies  a  more  general  conception,  and  his  story  is 
intended  to  picture  for  us  the  kind  of  experience  through 
which  any  poet  who  is  worthy  of  the  name  must  pass; 
while  at  times  he  represents  a  still  wider  idea — that  of 
the  spirit  of  the  new  romanticism. 

24 


meaning. 


It  remains  to  consider  briefly  the  character  of  Peona,  ^'eona. 
and  her  significance  in  the  story.      She  is  represented  as 
being  devotedly  attached  to  Endymion.  When  the 

trouble  of  his  mind  so  weighed  upon  him  that  he  lost  all 
consciousness  of  those  about  him,  it  was  she  who  led  him 
away  and  soothed  him  into  a  refreshing  sleep.  She 
watched  over  him  while  he  slept,  and  when  he  awoke  she 
sang  to  soothe  him,  and  then  begged  him  to  tell  her  what 
it  was  that  had  so  strangely  altered  his  character.  But 
when  he  had  told  her  of  his  wonderful  dream  she  quite 
failed  to  understand  how  such  an  experience  could  affect 
him  so  deeply  : 

"  Is  this  the  cause? 
This  all?       Yet  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas! 
That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 
Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  have 
His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 
No  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood. 
Singling  alone  and  fearfully.      ...     (I.  721) 

how  light 
Must  dreams  themselves  be;  seeing  they're  more  slight 
Than  the  mere  nothing  that  engenders  them  ! 
Then  wherefore  sully  the  entrusted   gem 
Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick? 
Why  pierce  high-fronted  honour  to  the  quick 
For  nothing  but  a  dream?"  (I.   754) 

Endymion  replied  with  some  energy,  but  even  after  he 
had  told  her  of  the  two  later  revelations,  Peona  gave 
no  sign  that  she  was  able  to  enter  into  his  feelings,  and 
her  influence  so  far  prevailed  that  he  was  ready,  at  any 
rate  for  the  moment,  to  return  to  the  normal  life  of 
healthy  activity  from  which  he  had  so  strangely  been 
drawn  away. 

Peona  stands  for  a  type  of  person  whom  we  all  know 
and  admire.  Simple,  practical,  unimaginative,  but  at 
the  same  time  unselfish  and  affectionate,  they  form  a  most 
wholesome  element  in  the  scheme  of  life;  we  owe  them 
more  than  we  can  tell.       They  have  no  glimpse  of  the 

35 


meaning  or  power  of  lofty  and  far  away  ideals;  they 
believe  in  doing  the  practical  duty  that  lies  close  at  hand ; 
they  rejoice  when  they  can  draw  the  unpractical  idealist 
down  to  the  wholesome  level  of  quiet  everyday  life,  but 
when  they  fail  to  do  this  they  are  no  less  ready  to  hover 
round  with  ministering  cheerfulness.  They  may  at 
times  express  a  gentle  surprise  at,  or  even  disapproval  of 
the  wild  unreasonableness  of  the  dreamer,  but  the  best 
of  them,  in  whose  number  Peona  may  be  reckoned,  do 
not  worry  him,  but,  accepting  the  matter  as  being  beyond 
their  ken,  retire  into  silent  sympathy  and  practical 
helpfulness.  >vv-9\.. 

One   cannot    tell    whether    Keats    had    any    actual 
person  in  mind  in  drawing  the  portrait  of  Peona.     There 
is  an  interesting  passage  in  a  letter  that  he  wrote  to  his 
friend,  Bailey,  not  long  after  Eiidymion  had  appeared, 
Ke;as.  in  which  he  speaks  of  his  brother  George's  wife.       They 

had  recently  been  married,  and  were  on  the  point  of 
leaving  for  America. 

7  "I  had  known  my  sister-in-law  some  time  before 

she  was  my  sister,  and  was  very  fond  of  her.  I  like 
her  better  and  better.  She  is  the  most  disinterested 
woman  I  ever  knew — that  is  to  say,  she  goes  beyond 
degree  in  it.  To  see  an  entirely  disinterested  girl  quite 
happy  is  the  most  pleasant  and  extraordinary  thing  in 
the  world.  .  .  .  Women  must  want  imagination, 
and  they  may  thank  God  for  it."^ 

One  may  perhaps  infer  that  Georgiana  Keats  had 
sat  as  an  unconscious  model  for  some  of  the  features  of 
Peona.  But  there  is  a  passage  in  another  letter,  written 
to  these  young  married  people  after  they  had  settled  in 
America,  that  puts  the  matter  in  a  different  light. 

1  Letter  of  lOtli    June,  1818. 
26 


"  Your  content  in  each  other  is  a  delight  to  me  which 
I  cannot  express — the  Moon  is  now  shining  full  and 
brilliant — she  is  the  same  to  me  in  Matter  what  you  are 
to  me  in  Spirit.  If  you  were  here,  my  dear  Sister,  I 
could  not  pronounce  the  words  which  I  can  write  to  you 
from  a  distance  :  I  have  a  tenderness  for  you,  and  an 
admiration  which  I  feel  to  be  as  great  and  more  chaste 
than  I  can  have  for  any  woman  in  the  world.  You  will 
mention  Fanny  [his  sister] — her  character  is  not  formed, 
her  identity  does  not  press  upon  me  as  yours  does."^ 

This  suggests  that  some  of  the  qualities  that  appear 
in  the  sketch  of  Diana  were  derived  from  the  warm 
affection  and  admiration  that  Keats  felt  for  Georeiana. 
His  sister  was  at  this  time  only  fourteen  years  of  age, 
and  while  the  tone  of  warm  affection  in  which  Endymion 
speaks  to  Peona  corresponds  well  with  that  pervading 
the  really  delightful  letters  that  Keats  both  at  this  time 
and  afterwards,  wrote  to  her,  we  can  hardly  suppose  that 
her  opinion  as  to  the  wisdom  or  otherwise  of  his  devoting 
himself  to  the  life  of  a  poet  was  very  pronounced.  It 
is  not  of  course  to  be  supposed  that  either  Georgiana  or 
Fanny  is  at  all  closely  represented  in  the  character  of 
Peona,  but  it  may  well  be  the  case  ,as  the  passages  quoted 
from  his  letters  suggest,  that  the  affectionate  regard  that 
Keats  entertained  for  them  was  at  the  back  of  his  mind 
in  some  parts  of  the  story  and  influenced  what  he  wrote. 

It  is,  perhaps,  worth  noting  that  Mr.  Locker- Funny  Keats. 
Lampson,  who  met  Fanny  many  years  later  in  Rome  (she 
was  married  to  Sefior  Valentine  Llanos,  a  Spanish  man 
of  letters),  found  her,  both  in  the  matter  of  her  affection 
for  her  brother  John,  and  her  failure  to  understand  him, 
singularly  like  the  Peona  of  the  poem  : 

1  Letter  to  George  and  Georgiana  Keats,  October,  1818.  Mrs.  F.  M. 
Owen  in  her  study  of  "Keats  (Kcgan  Paul,  1880),  drew  attention 
to  this  letter,   and  its  bearing  upon  Endymion. 

27 


"  Whilst  I  was  in  Rome,  Mr.  Severn  introduced  me 
to  M.  and  Mme.  Valentine  de  Llanos,  a  kindly  couple. 
He  was  a  Spaniard,  lean,  silent,  dusky  and  literary,  the 
author  of  Don  Esieban  and  Sandoval.  She  was  fat, 
blonde,  and  lymphatic,  and  both  were  elderly.  She  was 
John  Keats' s  sister!  I  had  a  good  deal  of  talk  with  her, 
or  rather  at  her,  for  she  was  not  very  responsive.  I 
was  disappointed,  for  I  remember  that  my  sprightliness 
made  her  yawn ;  she  seemed  inert  and  had  nothing  to  tell 
me  of  her  wizard  brother  of  whom  she  spoke  as  a  mystery 
— with  a  vague  admiration  but  a  genuine  affection.  She 
was  simple  and  natural — I  believe  she  is  a  very  worthy 
woman. 


"1 


4 


BOOK  II. 

Thebiory.  j^  thc  sccond  book  we  are  taken  down  into  a  region 

away  from  all  the  stir  and  movement  of  human  life. 
Endymion,  wandering  in  the  forest,  is  still  in  a  restless 
and  dissatisfied  mood  notwithstanding  his  promise  to 
Peona,  when  his  fancy  is  caught  by  a  bud  from  which 
emerges  a  golden  butterfly  (61).  He  follows  it,  and  is 
led  to  the  mouth  of  a  cavern,  where  a  nymph,  rising  from 
a  fountain,  warns  him  that  he  has  yet  far  to  go  before  he 
can  attain  to  what  he  is  striving  after  (123).  In  response 
to  a  voice  calling  to  him  from  the  cavern  he  makes  his 
way  down,  and  finds  himself  in  a  strange,  though  beauti- 
ful region,  from  which  all  sign  of  human  life  has  passed 
away.  In  the  course  of  his  wanderings  he  comes  upon 
a  temple  with  many  ramifications  (257);  he  is  led  into  a 
chamber  where  he  sees  Adonis  sleeping,  and  while  he 
is  there  Venus  comes  and  carries  Adonis  away  (581);  he 

1  F.  Locker  Lampson,  My  Confidences,  p.  343:  Quoted  in  Colvin's  Life 
of  Keats,  p.  537. 

28 


passes  some  magic  fountains  and  is  delighted  with  the 
changing  shapes  that  they  assume  (606);  he  has  a  vision 
of  Cybele  (640);  and  then,  the  path  failing  him,  he  is 
carried  by  an  eagle  to  a  quiet  bower  (670)  where  his  long 
pursuit  is  rewarded  by  a  fuller  revelation  of  his  heavenly 
love  than  has  yet  been  granted  to  him.  After  she  has 
left  him  he  sees  the  pursuit  of  Arethusa  by  Alpheus  (936) 
and  sympathises  with  their  pains.  And  suddenly  he 
finds  himself  moving  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean. 

Our  study  of  the  first  book  has  led  us  to  the  con- 
clusion that  in  the  story  of  the  strange  experiences 
through  which  Endymion  passed  there  is  pictured  the 
gradual  awakening  of  Keats  to  the  possibility  that  he 
might  hope  to  achieve  fame  as  a  poet;  and  the  black 
despondency  that  settled  down  upon  him  in  the  long 
periods  of  waiting  between  the  somewhat  rare  occasions 
when  his  hopes  shone  brightly.  In  the  second  book 
the  story  is  continued.  The  hope  once  awakened  in  him 
could  not  be  crushed  by  fears  or  hesitations,  even  though 
these  might  prevail  for  a  time ;  and  there  is  now^  set  before 
us  in  picturesque  form  the  process  of  training  that  had  to 
be  undergone  in  order  that  the  poet  might  be  made  fit 
for  the  realisation  of  his  ideal. 

Sir  Sidney  Colvin  has  admirably  described  the  w^ay 
in  which  the  mind  of  Keats  naturally  worked.  "  When 
he  conceives  or  wishes  to  express  general  ideas,  his  only 
way  of  doing  so  is  by  calling  up,  from  the  multitudes 
of  concrete  images  with  which  his  memory  and  imagina- 
tion are  haunted,  such  as  strike  him  as  fitted  by  their 
colour  and  significance,  their  quality  of  association  and 
suggestion,  to  stand  for  and  symbolize  the  abstractions 
working  in  his  mind,  and  in  this  concrete  and  figurative 
fashion  he  will  be  found,  by  those  who  take  the  pains  to 

29 


follow    him,    to    think    coherently     and    purposefully 
enough."^ 
Its  meaning.  'fhe  imagcs  With  which  wc  meet  in  the  second  book 

may  at  hrst  seem  strange  and  bizarre;  the  winding 
passages  of  the  underground  world,  the  silver  grots,  the 
orbed  diamond,  the  forsaken  temple,  the  magic  fountains 
— these  may  well  be  called  wild  and  fantastic  imagina- 
tions beneath  which  Keats  has  so  effectively  hidden  his 
symbolic  purpose,    that  readers,  by  no  means    unsym- 

\  pathetic,  have  been  driven  to  doubt  whether  it  is  there  at 
all.  Even  Sir  Sidney  Colvin,  referring  primarily  to 
the  description  of  the  magic  fountains  that  kept  on 
changing  their  form,  gives  up  the  riddle  and  says  :  "  This 
and  much  else  on  the  underground  journey  seems  to  be 
the  outcome  of    pure  fancy  and  day-dreaming  on    the 

,  poet's  part,  without  symbolic  purpose."^ 

Yet  one  cannot  but  feel  that  it  is  unlikely  that  Keats 
would  allow  himself  to  wander  aimlessly  from  the  point 
in  a  poem  dealing  with  a  subject  that  was  to  him  of  all 
things  most  vital  and  sacred,  especially  when  one  bears 
in  mind  the  fact  that  it  was  just  through  such  images  that 
his  ideas  seemed  most  naturally  to  find  expression.  One 
need  not  abandon  the  hope  that  even  in  the  strange  and 
fantastic  symbolism  of  this  book  Keats  "  will  be  found, 
by  those  who  take  the  pains  to  follow  him,  to  think 
coherently  and  purposefully  enough." 

The  meaning  then  that  is  suggested  as  underlying 
the  symbolism  of  this  book  is  mainly  a  personal  one — 
Keats  is  continuing  the  story  of  his  preparation  for  the 
work  of  a  poet.  He  tells  us  how  he  could  not  put  aside 
the  longing  that  he  might  some  day  be  found  worthy  of 
this  high  calling,  however  far  away  such  an  ideal  might 

1  Colvin,  Life  of  Keats,  p.  128. 

2  Ibid,  p.  186. 

30 


seem ;  and  how,  by  what  seemed  a  happy  chance,  he  was 
led  to  enter  upon  an  earnest  and  thorough  study  of  some 
of  the  great  classical  poets.  He  tells  us  how  fascinating 
he  found  the  study,  and  yet  how  at  times  he  was  oppressed 
by  what  seemed  its  deadness  and  want  of  relation  to  life 
as  he  knew  it :  and  then  we  see  how  he  came  to  recognise^ 
a  greater  beauty  and  significance  in  some  of  the  old 
legends  than  he  had  hitherto  perceived;  and  finally,  he 
pictures  the  renewed  assurance  that  came  to  him  that  he 
would  one  day  reach  the  goal  towards  which  he  was 
striving. 

We  must  now  examine  the  details  of  the  story  with 
a  view  to  ascertaining  how  far  the  interpretation  here 
suggested  is  supported  by  them.  Endymion  has  found 
himself  unable  to  return  to  his  former  life  of  healthy 
activity  as  he  had  told  Peona  he  would  do;  he  cannot 
shake  off  the  influence  of  the  vision  that  has  called  to 
him  again  and  again  with  growing  clearness;  and  the 
interpretation  of  this  part  of  the  story  follows  naturally 
upon  that  which  we  have  already  recognised  in  the  first 
book.  When  the  idea  of  achieving  fame  as  a  poet  had 
once  laid  hold  of  the  mind  of  Keats  he  could  not  shake 
it  off :  he  might  at  times,  when  the  ideal  seemed  too  far 
out  of  reach,  resolve  to  turn  back  to  medicine  and 
surgery,  and  make  a  renewed  effort  to  fit  himself  in  the 
normal  way  for  this  profession;  but  the  call  of  poetry 
became  more  and  more  insistent,  and  no  effort  of  will, 
and  no  pressure  from  his  guardian  could  drive  it  out 
of  his  mind. 

The    incident   that   breaks    in    upon    his    mood    of  TJ/ifm,*^!*)®' 
depression  leads  on  to  the  journey    underground   with 
which  this  book  is  mainly  concerned.       End}mion — 


is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring, 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  upbursting  cold  :  a  wild  rose  tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy  :  lo !  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water:  how! 
It  swells,   it  buds,   it  flowers  beneath  his  sight; 
And,   in  the  middle,   there  is  softly   pight 
A  golden  butterfly;   upon  whose  wings 
There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  things. 
For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft.       (II.   53) 

Endymion  follows  this  little  herald  as  it  flutters  away, 
and  in  the  pursuit  his  mood  of  languor  is  changed  into 
eagerness.  It  leads  him  to  the  side  of  a  fountain  pouring 
out  near  the  mouth  of  a  cavern.  As  it  sips  from  the 
stream  it  vanishes,  but  soon  afterwards  Endymion  hears 
a  voice  calling  to  him,  and  looking  round  he  sees  the 
nymph  of  the  fountain,  who  tells  him  that  it  is  she  who, 
in  the  form  of  the  butterfly,  has  led  him  to  this  place, ^ 
and  w^arns  him  that  he  has  yet  far  to  travel  before  he  can 
hope  to  attain  the  object  of  his  desires.  She  vanishes, 
and  Endymion  is  left  with  a  sense  of  perplexity  and 
disappointment.  He  watches  the  moon,  now  shining 
brightly,  and  though  he  does  not  recognise  her  oneness 
with  his  divine  visitant,  his  spirit  is  stirred  with  an  intense 
longing;  he  feels  that  he  is  almost  "  sailing  with  her 
through  the  dizzy  sky  "  (187),  and,  as  his  passionate 
desire  grows  almost  too  great  to  bear,  he  hears  a  voice 
calling  to  him  from  the  cavern  and  bidding  him  descend. 
Its  meaning.  jj^g  yjg^y  ^{^^^  js  ^q  \)q  takcu  of  the  mcauiug  of  this 

episode  must  depend  on  the  interpretation  that  is  given 
^        to  the  story  of  the  underground  wanderings  of  Endymion, 
\^'        to  which  it  serves  as  an  introduction.  This  will  be 

considered  in  its  place,  but  for  the  moment  it  may  be 

1  This   point   has   not   always   been   understood,    but    it    appears   to    be 
a   necessary   inference    from    the   text: 

all  I  dare  to  .say, 
Is   that    I   pity   thee ;   that   on   this   day 
I've  been  thy  guide.  (II.  121). 

32 


taken  as  a  working  assumption  that  these  wanderings  f 
are  intended  to  represent  the  course  of  study  in  classical 
poetry  that  Keats  carried  on  for  some  time.  With  this 
as  a  clue  one  is  led  to  recognise  that  Keats  is  here  depict- 
ing an  experience  of  which  no  other  record  remains,' 
though  we  know  that  he  must  at  some  time  have  passed 
through  it.  .  He  was  not  much  more  than  eight  years 
old  when  he  began  to  attend  Mr.  Clarke's  school  at 
Enfield,  and  how  soon  he  took  up  the  study  of  Latin  we 
do  not  know;  but  we  do  know  that  at  some  period, 
probably  during  the  last  two  years  of  his  school  life, 
classical  story  and  poetry  began  to  exercise  a  fascination 
upon  him  that  is  not  usual  in  the  case  of  a  school  boy; 
and  we  may  gather  that  he  is  picturing  to  us  his  recollec- 
tion of  the  occasion  when  he  first  felt  this  fascination. 

The  actual  experience,  vivid  though  it  may  have 
been  in  the  recollection  of  Keats,  is  presented  to  us  in 
a  manner  that  makes  it  by  no  means  easy  to  recognise 
the  meaning  of  the  details.  It  reminds  one  of  a  photo- 
graph taken  from  an  aeroplane,  which,  though  concerned 
with  actual  and  even  familiar  objects,  shows  them  in  a 
way  that  is  difficult  to  interpret.  But,  read  in  the  light 
of  the  idea  stated  above,  it  appears  to  mean  that  on 
some  occasion  when  Keats  was  deep  in  meditation, 
turning  over  the  pages  of  some  book,  possibly 
Lempriere's  Classical  Dictionary,  which  as  Cowden 
Clarke  tells  us  he  appeared  to  learn  during  the  later 
months  of  his  school  life,  he  lighted  upon  some  legend 
or  story  that  "  snared  his  fancy."  He  read  it  and 

became  interested  in  it,  and,  turning  from  the  bare  outline 
given  in  Lempriere  (the  bud)  to  the  pages  of  Ovid  or 
Virgil  in  which  it  was  told  at  length  with  all  the  beauty 
of  their  verse,  he  found  more  charm  and  meaning  in  it 
than  he  had  at  first  recognised  ("  it  flowers  beneath  his 

33 


sight  ").  He  followed  it  up  through  the  different 
writers  that  had  touched  it,  and  found  the  pursuit  full  of 
interest  and  pleasure. 

"  It  seemed  he  flew  tlic  way  so  easy  was."        (II.    69) 

At  length  the  pursuit  came  to  an  end ;  the  immediate 
interest  of  the  story  was  exhausted,  and  he  began  to 
realise  what  it  had  to  tell  him  with  regard  to  his  poetical 
ambitions.  The  story  transformed  itself  into  a  warning. 
Delightful  as  he  had  found  it,  the  little  investigation  that 
he  had  carried  out  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  limitations 
of  his  own  knowledge  and  he  began  to  realise  that  he 
"  must  wander  far  in  other  regions  "  before  he  could 
hope  to  attain  to  his  ideal.  He  felt  discouraged.  He 
had  thought  more  than  once  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of 
the  fulfilment  of  his  hopes  :  he  had  encamped — 

"  To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight  "       (II.   143) 

only  to  meet  with  disappointment  and  failure.       The 

verses  that  he  had  written   could  not,  even  in  his  own 

judgment,  be  called  poetry.      Yet  he  could  not  abandon 

hope ;  and  as  he  dwelt  upon  the  beauty  of  poetry  in  itself, 

the   achievement  of  the   poet  loomed   more   and   more 

oflorious    in  his    imao^ination  until   there    seemed  to  be 

nothing   else   worth   living   for;   and,   realising   that   to 

become  worthy  of  such  achievement  he  must  bury  himself 

in  a  course  of  earnest  and  prolonged  study,  he  resolved 

to  enter  upon  it  forthwith.       "  Oh,  for  ten  years,"  cried 

Keats  in  another  place — 

"  that  1  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poetry  ;  so  I  may  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. "^ 

SirTround.  Thc  TCSt  of  this  book  is  concerned  with  Endymion's 

adventures  underground,    and  it  may  be  noted    at  the 
outset,  as  bearing  upon  the  interpretation  that  has  been 

1  Sleep  and  Poetry,  1.  96. 

34 


suggested,  that  the  region  through  which  he  passes  is 
one  from  which  all  human  life  has  departed;  there  are 
some  remains  of  man's  handiwork,  of  which  the  shrine 
with  the  image  of  Diana  is  the  most  striking;  but  the 
impression  left  is  that  these  courts  and  passages  have 
long  been  silent  and  forsaken.  They  are  a  fitting 
symbol  of  the  literature  of  an  age  long  gone  by.  There 
are  near  the  opening  of  this  part  of  the  story  a  few  lines 
which  it  would  be  hard  to  match  as  a  description  of  classi- 
cal literature  as  a  whole  : 

Dark,  nor  light, 
The  region  :  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up  ;  a  gleaming  melancholy  , 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems  ; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems.      (II.  221) 

The  imperfect  and  partial  understanding  of  these  old 
writers,  which  is  all  that  is  possible  in  these  latter  days, 
together  with  the  unfading,  clear  cut  beauty  of  number- 
less passages  in  them,  is  suggested  here  with  a  skill  and 
sureness  of  touch  that  Keats  did  not  often  attain  to  at 
this  period  of  his  work.  When  Tennyson  tried  to 
describe  the  kind  of  beauty  that  he  had  found  in  the 
classical  poets  he  used  the  same  image  : 

"  Jewels  five  words  long 
That  on  the  stretch'd   forefinger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  for  ever,"l 

The  pleasure  that  Endymion    found  in  exploring  this 

new  region — 

"  'Tw-as  far  too  strange,  and  wonderful  for  sadness; 

Sharpening  by  degrees  his  appetite 

To  dive  into  the  deepest  "—  (II.  219) 

may  be  taken  as  a  reminiscence  of  the  delight  with  which 
Keats  plunged  into  his  classical  studies  when  he  had  once 
beeun  to  feel  the  fascination  of  them.  "  He  was  at 
work,"  says  Cowden  Clarke,  "  before  the  first  school-hour 

1  The  Princess,   Canto  11.,   3oo. 


began,  and  that  was  at  seven  o'clock;  almost  all  the 
intervening  times  of  recreation  were  so  devoted;  and 
during  the  afternoon  holidays,  when  all  were  at  play,  he 
would  be  in  the  school — almost  the  only  one — at  his  Latin 

or  French  translation/'!       ^x;^  i--^>^<f<^>M/';_  <U^ 

The  track  that  Endymion  followed  is  described  in 
some  detail.  We  hear  of  "  a  vein  of  gold  "  (II.  226); 
''  metal  woof,  like  Vulcan's  rainbow  "  (230);  of — 

"  silver  grots  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal."  (II.  237) 

The  path  leads  along  a  track  "  with  all  its  lines  abrupt 
and  angular  "  (228),  now  entering  "  a  vast  antre,"  where 
the  "  monstrous  roof  curves  hugely  "  (231),  now  leading 
"  through  winding  passages  "  (235)  or  crossing  a 
ridge—" 

"  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 
Towers  like  an  ocean  cliff  "       (II.  240); 

and  the  description  suggests  on  the  one  hand  the  qualities 
that  are  characteristic  of  ancient  classical  poetry  as  con- 
trasted with  that  of  the  modern  romantic  school — the 
severity,  the  colder,  harder  kind  of  beauty;  and  on  the 
other  the  great  variety  of  interest  and  outlook  to  be  met 
with  as  one  passes  from  one  to  another  of  the  great  writers 
of  Greece  and  Rome.      A  little  later  Endymion  came  in 

sight  of — 
The  orbed  an  Orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 

diamond.  qj^j  darkness  from   his  throne:  'twas  like  the  sun 

Uprisen  o'er  chaos:  (II.  245) 

and  the  amazement  that  he  felt  in  looking  at  it,  so  great 
that  his  bosom  grew  chilly  and  numb  (243),  reminds  us 
of  the  feelings  attributed  to  Cortez  and  his  men,  who 

"  Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild   surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien," 

1  Colvin,  Life  of  Keats    p.  13. 

36 


and  probably  refers  to  the  same  experience,  when  Keats 
first  looked  into  Chapman's  Homer;  and  this  interpreta- 
tion is  confirmed  by  the  suggestion  that  the  words  carry 
of  a  light  set  to  shine  in  a  region  that  was  all  dark  before. 
It  is  at  this  point,  indeed,  that  Keats  gives  us  a  plain 
intimation  of  the  meaning  of  the  story,  for  he  tells  us  that 
the  wonders  of  this  region  are — 

past  the  wit 
Of  any  spirit  to  teil,  but  one  of  those 
Who,  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close, 
Will  be  its  high  remembrancers:  who  they? 
The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 
For  Greece  and  England.  (II.  249) 

Endymion  now  came  to  a  temple  The  temple. 

so  complete  and  true 
In  sacred  custom  that  he  well  nigh  fear'd 
To  search  it  inwards.  (II.  257) 

With  feelings  of  awe  he  approached  and  looked  "  down 
sidelong  aisles  and  into  niches  old  "  (264)  and  then 

began  to  thread 
All  courts  and  passages,  "S'herc  silence  dead 
Rous'd  hy  his  whispering  footsteps  murmured  faint  : 
And  long  he  travers'd  to  and  fro,  to  acquaint 
Himself  with  every  mystery  and  awe.       (II.  266) 

It  seems  likely  that  in  the  description  of  the  minute  and 
careful  way  in  which  Endymion  examined  this  temple^ 
Keats  has  embodied  his  recollections  of  his  own  study 
of  Virgil's  Aeneid.  Cowden  Clarke  tells  us  that  he 
was  so  fascinated  with  this  epic  that  before  leaving 
school  he  had  voluntarily  translated  in  writing  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  it.^       Nor  did  his  apprenticeship  to 

1  Colvin  (Life  of  Keats,  p.  184)  takes  the  latter  part  of  this  description 

to  refer  to  some  other  building  than  the  temple  in  which  stands 
the  image  of  Diana ;  but  it  seems  bcttci  to  regard  the  whole 
passage,  down  to  line  270,  as  relating  to  the  same  temple.  The 
fair  shrine  beyond  which  stands  the  quivered  Diana  is  in  the 
chief    [hall]    of   the   temple   (I.   298').  Endymion   fir.st   sees   tiiis 

"  through  a  long  pillar'd  vista  "  (260),  so  that  the  temple  is  not 
a  small  building,  and  the  other  aisles  and  courts  and  passages 
may   be   naturally  taken   as  forming  part  of  it. 

2  Colvin,   Life  of  Keats,    p.   14. 

37 


Mr.  Hammond  lessen  his  enthusiasm,  for  '"'  at  Edmonton 
he  plunged  back  into  his  school  occupations  of  reading 
and  translating  whenever  he  could  spare  the  time.  He 
finished  at  this  time  his  prose  version  of  the  Aejzeid."^ 
And  the  recollection  must  have  been  a  pleasant  one  to 
have  inspired  such  lines  as  those  italicised  above.  One 
would  have  to  seek  far  to  find  such  a  perfect  description 
of  the  sensations  aroused  as  one  makes  one's  way  with 
wonder  and  admiration  through  this  great  poem  of  days 
long  gone  by. 

At  length  Endymion  grew  wearied  and  sat  down 
"  before  the  maw  of  a  wide  outlet  "  to  think  about  what 
he  had  seen. 

There,  when  new  wonders  ceas'd  to  float  before 
And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 
The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self!       (II.  274) 

If  one  tries  to  enter  into  the  feelings  of  Keats  when  he 
had  completed  his  translation  of  the  Aeneid  one  can  well 
imagine  that  he  had  become  conscious  of  a  new  standard 
of  poetical  expression ;  he  had  begun  to  realise  as  he  had 
never  done  before  what  a  value  belonged  to  the  choice 
of  the  mot  juste  :  he  had  felt — 

"  All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 
often  flowering  in  a  lonely   word;  " 

and  he  realised  painfully  how  far  his  own  attempts  fell 
short  of  this  standard ;  his  verses  would,  indeed,  seem 
crude,"  his  recognition  of  his  own  limitations  might 
well  make  him  feel  "  sore."  His  aspirations  for  poetic 
fame  appeared — 

A   mad  pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf, 

Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-briar. 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire.      (II.   277) 

But  soon  another  feeling  became  more  prominent.  He 
was  oppressed  by  the  loneliness  of  the  place  and  the 

1  Colvin,  Life  of  Keats,  p.  18. 
38 


deadness  of  his  surroundings.  He  longed  to  see  the 
sky,  the  rivers,  the  flowers  and  the  grass;  he  was  cut  off 
from  all  these  things;  he  was  in  a  region  from  which  all 
life  had  departed,  and  the  work  to  which  he  felt  himself 
called  could  not  be  accomplished  in  such  a  place. 

"  No!"  exclaimed  he,  "  Why  should  I  tarry  here?" 
"  No!"  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable;       (II.  295) 

for  the  romantic  poets,  great  as  was  their  admiration  for 
the  true  classics,  felt  that  they  had  to  speak  out  a  living 
message  to  a  living  world,  and  that  no  mere  imitation  of 
the  methods  of  a  by-gone  age  could  accomplish  this.  So 
he  returned  into  the  temple,  and  reaching  the  shrine  of 
Diana  prayed  to  her  that  as  she  does  not  "  waste  her  love- 
liness in  dismal  elements  "  (312)  so  he  may  be  delivered 
from  the  rapacious  deep  and  brought  where  he  can  "  once 
more  hear  the  linnet's  note  "  (322).  And  in  this  passion- 
ate cry  we  may  recognise  a  feeling  in  the  mind  of  Keats 
that  greatly  as  these  works  that  he  had  been  studying 
were  to  be  admired  for  their  perfection  of  form,  their 
brilliance  of  expression,  and  their  variety  of  interest,  yet 
they  belonged  to  another  age,  another  race  of  men,  and 
were  lacking  in  fresh  and  living  significance  for  the  world 
of  his  day.  But,  as  in  answer  to  the  prayer  of  Endymion, 
there  sprang  up  through  the  marble  floor  of  the  temple 
a  growth  of  leaves  and  flowers  : 

Nor  in  one  spot  alone,  the  floral  pride 

In   a   long   whispering   birth   enchanted   grew 

Before  his  footsteps —  (II.  345) 

so  Keats  came  to  realise  that  the  eternal  principles  of  life 
might  even  yet  find  expression  through  the  seemingly 
dead  pages  of  these  poets  of  a  by-gone  age. 

Cheered  by  this  assurance,  which  would  remind  him 
of  the  occasion  when  the  first  revelation  of  divine  beauty 
was  vouchsafed  to  him  (I.  554  sq.),  Endymion  started  off 
once  more  "  increasing  still  in  heart  and  pleasant  sense  " 

39 


(II.  35 1)-       Before  long  he  caught  the  sound  of  music, 

and  he  was  deeply  stirred.       It  was  a  hopeful  sign,  and 

showed  that  his  ear  must  now  be  more  finely  attuned  to 

the  melodies  of  heaven,  for  when  this  same  supernatural 

music  had  before  broken  "  in  smoothest  echoes  through 

copse-clad  vallies  "  (I.  119)  it  was  only  the  children,  the 

heralds  of  the  coming  day,  who  were  given  power  to  hear 

it.       So  entranced  was  he  by  the  music  that  it  was  only 

through  the  leading  of  ''  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  " 

that  he  passed  safely  through  a  thousand  mazes  till 

Venus  ana  At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 

■^^°°''-  A  chamber,  myrtle  wall'd,  embower'd  high,       (II.  388) 

where  lay  Adonis,  sleeping,  guarded  by  Cupids.  Endy- 
mion,  though  "  a  wanderer  from  upper  day  "  is  welcomed, 
and  is  feasted  with  wine  and  fruit  and  manna,  while  there 
is  told  to  him  the  story  of  the  passion  of  Venus  for 
Adonis,  of  the  fate  that  befel  him,  and  of  the  decree  by 
which  his  death,  "  medicined  to  a  lengthened  drowsi- 
ness "  was  changed  "  each  summer  time  to  life."  Soon 
Venus  herself  comes  down,  and,  after  speaking  words  of 
encouragement  to  Endymion,  carries  Adonis  away  with 
her.  So  ends  this  episode.  It  represents  the  fulfilment 
of  the  promise  of  the  life  that  was  to  be  discovered  in 
these  old  legends.  Keats  is  still  trying  by  means  of 
images  "  to  symbolise  the  abstractions  working  in  his 
mind,"'  but  the  meaning  of  the  images  here  is  not  obscure. 
He  is  telling  us  how,  after  he  had  first  recognised  that 
there  was  something  more  in  these  old  legends  than  the 
dead  perfection  of  an  obsolete  poetry,  one  of  them  at 
least  blossomed  out  richly  and  filled  him  with  delight. 
And  while  the  revelation  lasted,  while  the  sense  of  the 
living  truth  embodied  in  the  story  was  full  upon  him, 
the  world  of  classic  poetry  no  longer  seemed  dim  and 
lonely;  it  was  full  of  warmth  and  light  and  music  and 
meaning.        As  Sir  Sidney  Colvin  has  remarked  :  "  To 

40 


rescue  the  mind  of  England  from  this  mode  of  deadness 
was  part  of  the  work  oi  the  poetical  revival  of  1800  and 
onwards,  and  Keats  was  the  poet  who  has  contributed 
most  to  the  task.  ...  It  was  his  gift  to  make  live 
by  imagination,  whether  in  few  words  or  in  many,  every 
ancient  fable  that  came  up  in  his  mind."  He  could 
"  follow  out  a  classic  myth  ....  from  a  mere  hint 
to  its  recesses,  and  find  the  human  beauty  and  tenderness 
that  lurk  there. "^ 

At  length  the  inspiration  passed  : 

The  earth  clos'd — gave  a  solitary  moan — 

And  left  him  once  again  in  twilight  lone.     (II.  586) 

Endymion  was  greatly  cheered  by  what  he  had  seen  : 

he  felt  assur'd 
Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endur'd  , 

Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So  with  unusual  gladness  on  he  hies.     (II.  590) 

And  in  these  words  we  may  take  it  that  Keats  is  recalling 
the  feeling  of  encouragement  and  pleasure  with  which, 
after  the  revelation  that  he  has  pictured  for  us  above, 
he  turned  again  to  the  study  of  the  classics  with  a  fuller 
assurance  that  he  would  gain  from  them  guidance  and 
inspiration  for  his  poetical  work. 

The  path  that  he  follows  is  described  by  images 
similar  to  those  in  which  the  earlier  part  of  the  under- 
ground journey  is  set  before  us.       He  passes — 

Through  caves  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall  and  turquois  floor. 
Black  polish'd  porticos  of  awful  shade, 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade  :     (II.  594) 

and  the  suggestion,  as  before,  is  that  of  a  great  and 
wonderful  beauty,  but  a  beauty  that  is  hard  and  cold  and 
without  life,  such  as  is  usually  felt  to  be  the  characteristic 
of  the  greater  part  of  classical  poetry. 

1  Colvin,  Life  of  Keats,  p.  220. 

41 


The  magic 
fountains. 


Ovid's 
Metamor- 
phoses. 


But   now    Endymion   comes   upon    a   new   marvel. 
The  path  which  he  is  following  brings  him — 

just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountahis,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear;  but  at  the  splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,   and   'gan   to  enclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork  streaming  round 
Alive.  (II.   603) 

Endymion  dwelt  long  on  the  strangeness  of  the 
scene,  and  the  detail  with  which  it  is  described  suggests 
that  he  gave  to  it  the  same  close  attention  as  he  had 
previously  devoted  to  the  temple  which  he  had  reached  in 
the  earlier  part  of  his  wanderings.  The  whole  descrip- 
tion may  at  first  appear  fantastic  in  the  extreme,  but, 
following  the  clue  that  has  led  us  to  this  point,  we 
recognise  that  Keats  is  telling  us  how,  after  his  study  of 
Virgil,  he  went  on  to  make  himself  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  poems  of  Ovid,  more  especially  with  the 
Metamorphoses.  "  Every  minute's  space  " — so  the 
description  runs — 

The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace  : 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines;  then  weeping  trees. 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind, 
Which,   in  a  wink,  to    watery  gauze  refin'd. 
Poured   into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,   and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair. 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare  ; 
And  then  the  water,   into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams, 
Pillars  and  frieze,  and  high   fantastic  roof. 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.  (II.  613) 

"  It  was  from  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,''  says  Colvin,  "  as 
Englished  by  that  excellent  Jacobean  translator,  George 
Sandys,  that  Keats,  more  than  from  any  other  source, 
made  himself  familiar  with  the  details  of  classic  fable. "^ 


1  Life  of  Keats,  p.  171. 


42 


Evidences  of  this  are  strewn  freel)  over  the  pages  of 
EndymioH.  The  scene  of  the  sleep  of  Adonis  and  the 
coming  of  Venus  to  awake  him  is  drawn  from  the  tenth 
book  of  the  Metamorphoses;  the  description  of  Cybele 
(II.  639-649)  is  imitated  from  a  passage  in  the  same  book 
where  Venus  is  represented  as  telling  to  Adonis  the  story 
of  Atalanta;  the  pursuit  of  Arethusa  by  Alpheus  (II.  916) 
comes  from  the  fifth  book ;  and  that  of  Glaucus  and  Scylla 
(Book  III.)  is  given  in  the  thirteenth  and  twenty-fourth 
books.  This  free  use  of  Ovid,  added  to  the  emphasis 
which  is  laid  throughout  this  passage  on  the  alterations 
that  are  taking  place  in  the  form  and  significance  of  the 
magic  fountains,  leaves  little  room  for  doubt  as  to  the 
meaning  of  the  poet.  He  may  have  thought  that  in 
making  use  of  the  expressions  "  changed  magic  "  (613) 
and  ''  founts  Protean  "  (627)  he  was  giving  a  sufficiently 
broad  hint  of  his  purpose. 

Bidding  farewell  to  these  sights  Endymion  passes  cjbeio 
on  and  soon  sees  the  vision  of  Cybele,  to  which  allusion 
has  already  been  made.  C}bele,  wife  of  Cronos  and 
mother  of  the  gods,  may  be  taken  to  represent  the  fount 
and  source  of  all  these  legends,  in  which  the  poet  is  now 
beginning  to  perceive  a  deeper  meaning;  and  he  has  this 
brief  glimpse  of  her  shortly  before  his  wanderings  in  the 
region  of  classical  poetry  are  crowned  with  their  great 
reward.  For,  at  this  point,  he  finds  that  the  diamond 
path  that  he  has  been  following  ends  abruptly  in  mid  air. 
In  his  perplexity  Endymion  asks  for  divine  help,  and 
there  comes  to  him  a  large  eagle  on  which  he  flings  him- 
self and  is  borne  down — 

Through  unknown  things  ;  till  exhaled  asphodel 
And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  interbreath'd, 
Came  swelling  forth.  (II.  663) 

The  eagle  lands  him  in  the  greenest  nook  of  a  jasmine 
bower  all  bestrown  with  golden  moss.         He  wanders 

43 


Diana. 


through  verdant  cave  and  cell,  and  feels  a  swell  of 
sudden  exaltation.  An  intense  longing  for  his  heavenly 
love  comes  upon  him;  he  knows,  however,  that  no 
passionate  striving  of  spirit  will  bring  her  to  him,  and 
yielding  quietly  to  the  influences  by  which  he  feels  him- 
self to  be  surrounded,  suddenly  he  finds  that  she  is  with 
him.  Even  now  he  does  not  realise  the  full  measure  of 
the  glory  that  is  his,  but  the  period  of  their  intercourse 
is  more  prolonged,  more  intimate,  and  more  complete 
than  ever  it  has  been  before. 

This  is  the  climax  of  the  second  book,  and  it  is 
evidently  intended  to  set  forth  by  means  of  picture  and 
imagery  some  part  of  the  experience  through  which  the 
poet  passed  in  the  course  of  his  efforts  to  attain  to  the 
understanding  of  the  innermost  mysteries  of  poetry. 
We  may  regard  him  as  telling  us,  in  the  course  of  this 
book,  of  some  incident  that  awakened  his  interest  in 
classical  poetry,  and  that  led  to  his  plunging  into  a  deep 
and  thorough  study  of  certain  parts  of  it,  more  especially 
the  Aeneid  of  Virgil  and  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid; 
of  the  curiosity  and  interest  which  the  study  aroused  in 
him;  of  the  discouragement  that  came  upon  him  as  he 
reflected  that  this  was  the  expression  of  the  mind  of  an 
age  that  had  long  passed  away,  whose  aim  in  life  and 
mode  of  thought  and  manner  of  speech  seemed  to  have 
little  or  no  meaning  for  the  men  and  women  of  his  day ; 
of  the  wonder  and  delight  which  he  felt  when,  as  by  a 
revelation,  he  became  aware  of  a  deeper  and  richer  mean- 
ing that  lay  beneath  the  surface  of  these  old  myths  and 
legends ;  and  then  how  he  reached  a  point  where  it  seemed 
to  him  that  classical  poetry  had  done  for  him  all  that  it 
could  do  in  the  way  of  leading  him  to  the  ideal  that  he 
was  seeking.  It  was  at  that  time,  when  all  the  course 
of  painful  striving  through  which  he  had  gone  seemed 
to  have  led  to  no  tanq-ible  result,  that  there  came  to  him  an 


44 


inspiration,  as  from  some  divine  source,  which  carried 
him  right  into  the  very  presence  of  the  spirit  of  perfect 
poetry;  and  this  mood  of  exaltation  and  attainment  lasted 
longer  and  was  more  complete  than  ever  before;  and, 
though  he  knew,  even  while  the  mood  was  upon  him, 
that  it  could  not  endure,^  but  would  die  away  after  a  time, 
yet  he  felt  cheered  and  encouraged,  for  he  knew  that  he 
was  coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  realisation  of  the  full 
powers,  the  high  ideal,  towards  which  he  was  striving. 
This  appears  to  be  the  meaning,  so  fas  as  one  has  been 
able  to  trace  it,  that  Keats  intended  to  convey  in  this  book, 
and,  while  we  may  feel  that  the  climax  is  told  in  a  manner 
not  worthy  of  the  loftiness  of  the  experience  that  it  is  in- 
tended to  represent,  we  must  at  the  same  time  recognise 
that  it  reveals  something  of  the  earnestness  and  intensity 
with  which  Keats  pursued  his  aims  and  ideals.  The  plea- 
sure that  comes  from  the  exercise  of  the  creative  instinct  is 
shared  by  many.  The  child  who  draws  the  picture  of  a 
cow  or  carves  his  little  boat  of  bark  knows  something  of 
it;  the  man  who  lays  out  a  garden  or  designs  a  house, 
shares  in  it ;  the  writer  of  verse  that  others  can  only  read 
with  a  smile  has  felt  some  thrill  of  pleasure  in  the  making 
of  it;  but  which  of  us  can  hope  to  enter  into  the  joy 
of  the  poet  who  has  produced  a  masterpiece  able  to  stir 
thousands  of  hearts  by  its  subtle  magic — 

Our  birth  is  hut  a  sleep  and  a  jorgeHing 

or 

Thou  ivast  not  horn  jar  death,  immortal  Birdl 

This  is  the  level  of  attainment,  with  the  rapture  that  must 
belong  to  it,  that  Keats  has  attempted  to  depict  for  us 
in  this  book. 

Endymion,    awaking  out  of    his  great  experience, 
finds  that  he  is  alone.      He  feels  sad  and  forlorn,  but  no 

1  Ah,  thou  wilt  s1rnl 
Away   from   iiio  agaiu,   indeed.  (II.   745) 

45 


longer  resentful,  as  he  had  been  on  former  occasions  when 
these  wonderful  visitations  had  passed.  He  sat  down 
in  a  marvellous  grotto  and  thought  over  the  story  of  his 
life,  and  coming  down  to  this  latest  experience  he  began 
to  wonder  what  he  still  had  to  endure  before  he  could 
come  to  the  full  realisation  of  his  hopes.  As  he  pondered 
he  heard  a  noise,  and  soon — 

On  either  side  outg'ush'd,  with  misty  spray, 
A  copious  spring;  and  both  together  dash'd 
Swift,  mad,  fantastic  round  the  rocks.      {II.  918) 

Arethula^"'^  It  was  Alphcus  in  pursuit  of  Arethusa.  She  longs  to 
yield,  but  fears  the  wrath  of  Diana;  and  Endymion, 
moved  with  a  fellow  feeling  of  pity  for  their  longings 
unfulfilled,  prays  to  his  still  unknown  qoddess  to  have 
compassion  on  them  and  to  make  them  happy.  Then, 
turning,  he  moved  along  a  sandy  path  and  found  that — 

The  visions  of  the  earth  were  gone  and  fled — 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head.      (II.  1022) 

The  significance  of  this  incident,  with  which  the 
second  book  closes,  appears  to  be  two-fold.  It  is  in 
the  first  place  a  fresh  illustration  of  the  life  and  power 
that  may  be  found  in  these  old  stories  for  those  who  have 
sympathy  and  insight  to  enter  into  their  spirit ;  and  there 
is  further,  the  suggestion,  preparing  the  way  for  one 
aspect  of  what  is  to  follow  in  the  next  book,  that  Endy- 
mion is  coming  to  be  less  absorbed  in  his  own  perplexities 
and  troubles,  and  is  learning  to  look  with  a  feeling  of 
sympathy  upon  the  difficulties  of  others;  and  this  marks 
an  important  advance  in  the  process  of  his  training. 

The  introduc-  If  wc  uow  tum  to  the  lines  that  form  the  introduction 

to  this  book,  wc  find  that  they  bear  out  the  interpretation 
to  which  the  study  of  the  rest  of  the  book  has  led  us. 
The  essence  of  them  is  contained  in  the  first  seven  lines, 

46 


tion  to  the 
second  book. 


and  the  remainder  of  the  passage  is  merely  expansion 
and  illustration  of  the  one  idea  stated  at  the  beginning  : 

O  sovereign  power  of  love  !    O  grief !     O  balm  ! 
All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm, 
And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed  years  : 
For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 
Have  become  indolent;  but  touching  thine, 
One   sigh    doth  echo,   one  poor  sob  doth  pine. 
One  kiss  brings  honcy-dcw  from  buried  days.     (II.  1) 

And  he  goes  on  to  say  that  the  tale  of  the  wars  around 
Troy  or  of  the  campaigns  of  Alexander  has  little  power 
to  move  us,  while  our  souls  thrill  with  responsive 
sympathy  when  we  hear  such  stories  as  those  of  Troilus 
and  Cressida  or  of  Imogen.  So,  it  will  be  remembered, 
a  large  part  of  classical  poetry  is  imaged  as  cold  and 
lifeless ;  its  beauty  is  like  that  of  the  diamond  or  sapphire ; 
but  where  it  enshrines  the  passion  of  love  it  pulsates  with 
life.  Such  stories  as  those  of  Venus  and  Adonis,  or  of  the 
river  lovers,  still  retain  their  power  to  rouse  our  sympathy. 

In  working  out  the  interpretation  of  this  book  it  has  JJ°'/J^^j^a?i  the 
been  convenient  to  deal  with  it  primarily  as  a  record  of 
the  personal  experience  of  Keats ;  but  here,  no  less  than 
in  the  first  book,  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  that  the 
allegory  has  a  wider  significance,  and  is  intended  to 
represent  the  process  of  training  which  may  be  regarded 
as  desirable,  if  not  necessary,  for  anyone  who  aspires  to 
the  name  of  poet.  It  is  evident  that  the  journey  of 
Endymion  suggests  a  much  more  extensive  study  of 
classical  literature  than  Keats  ever  had  the  opportunity 
of  carrying  out.  He  did,  indeed,  come  to  know  Homer 
with  as  much  completeness  as  the  translation  of  Chapman 
made  possible ;  he  studied  Ovid  both  with  the  help  of 
Sandys  and  in  the  original  text;  while,  as  noted  above, 
he  translated  the  whole  of  the  ^Aeneid  for  himself;  but 
beyond  this  his  knowledge  of  the  classics  appears  to  have 
been  derived  from  such  secondary  sources  as  Tooke's 

47 


Pantheon,  Lcmpriere's  Classical  Dictionary  and  Spence's 
Polynietis.  He  was  fully  conscious,  however,  of  the 
disadvantages  of  the  limited  range  of  his  own  knowledge, 
and  accordingly  in  describing  Endymion's  wanderings 
through  the  "  dusky  empire  with  its  diadems  "  he  sug- 
gests a  much  wider  range  of  study,  'though  the  sketch  is 
naturally  coloured  by  reminiscences  of  what  he  knew  best. 


BOOK  III. 

g»^«>sftnd  The  third  book  is  mainly  concerned  with  the  story 

of  Glaucus  and  Scylla.        It  tells  how  Glaucus,  having 
won  the  power  of  living  in  the  sea,  saw  and  loved  Scylla 
(399)>  ^nd    tried  to  win  her,  but,  tiring  of    the  pursuit, 
turned  aside  and  yielded  to  the  wiles  of    Circe  (418). 
After  a  time  he  awoke  to  a  sense  of  his  degradation,  and 
was  condemned  to  impotence  for  a  long  space  of  time, 
while  Scylla  appeared  to  be  dead  (619).       During  this 
time  he  was  witness  of  a  shipwreck.       One  of  the  men 
from  the  ship,  being  carried  by  the  sea  towards  Glaucus, 
thrust  a  scroll  into  his  hand,  but  fell  back  and  perished 
with  the  rest  (674).         On  the  scroll  Glaucus  found  a 
message   that  gave   him  hope   of   deliverance.      When 
Endymion  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings  met  Glaucus, 
the  old  man  hailed  him  joyfully  and  claimed  his  help 
(234).      By  rightful  use  of  the  magic  scroll  Glaucus  was 
restored  to  youthful  energy  and  Scylla  was  revived  (780), 
while  those  of  the  dead  whose  bodies  had  been  carefully 
laid  aside  by  Glaucus  during  the  period  of  his  punishment 
were  restored  to  life,  and  all  went  in  joyful  procession 
to  the  hall  of  Neptune  (868).       There,  after  the  singing 
of  a  hymn  to  the  god,  a  vision  of  Oceanus  was  seen  (994). 
Endymion  fell  senseless,  but  in  his  swoon  received  the 

48 


promise  of  Diana  that  he  should  soon  be  raised  to  immor- 
tality. When  he  awoke  he  found  himself  in  a  cool  forest 
beside  a  placid  lake. 

We  have  found  that  in  the  first  book  of  this  poem  rcprewnts  x 

^  poetical 

the  underlying  meaning,  so  far  as  one  can  trace  it,  appears  ""^^■*^^'"'-"°t- 
to  be  concerned,  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  book,  with  the 
new  movement  that  made  itself  felt  in  the  realm  of 
English  poetry  from  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century ;  while  in  the  latter  part  of  the  first  and  throughout 
the  second  book  w^e  are  being  told  of  the  experiences 
through  which  a  poet  might  pass  as  he  came  under  the 
influence  of  such  a  movement  and  strove  to  realise  its 
ideals  in  his  own  work.  In  the  third  book  it  seems  that 
the  more  individual  aspect  of  the  story  retires  into  the 
background  for  a  time,  and  we  are  again  chiefly  concerned 
with  the  larger  movements  of  English  poetry. 

There  is,  as  in  the  last  book,  an  introductory  passage 

of  about  forty  lines,  the  significance  of  which  may  be 

more  suitably  considered  when  the  meaning  of  the  main 

theme  of  the  book  has  been  dealt  with;  but  after  this 

there  is  a  further  passage  (to  line  187)  that  intervenes 

before  the  story  really  moves  on  its  way  again,  lines  that 

are  mainly  devoted  to  praise  of  the  beauty  and  influence 

of  the  moon.      We  are  told  of  the  gentle  and  far-reaching 

nature  of  this  influence  : 

Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  Hp  K^for'uS 

Kissing  dead  things  to  Hfe (III.  56)  moon 

thy  benediction  passeth  not 

One  obscure  hiding  phice,  one  Httle  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent. 

She  is  shining  now,  though  with  but  a  pale  light,  upon 
Endymion  in  his  wanderings  : 

thy  cheek  is  pale 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale  :  thou   dost  bewail 
His  tears,  who  weeps  for  thee.  (III.  75) 

49 


But  even  these  faint  beams  have  power  to  warm  the 

heart  of  Endymion,  and  to  comfort  him  in  his  solitude. 

Endymion  wonders  at  the  power  that  she  exercises;  it 

had  pervaded  all  the  occupations  of  his  earlier  life,  and 

as  he  grew  up  it  still  blended  with  all  his  ardours  (i6o) 

and  lor  Diana,  ^[^q^i  his  strauge  lovc  camc  and  the  influence  of  the  moon 

grew  less. 

She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade  and  fade  away 

Yet  not  entirely !   no,    thy   starry   sway 

Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour.     (III.  177) 

He  is  torn  between  the  attraction  of  the  two  : 

Dearest  love,  forgive 
That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live ! — 
Pardon   me,   airy  planet,   that   I   prize 
One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries!     (III.  183) 

and  it  is,  of  course,  obvious  that  he  does  not  recognise 
the  identity  of  the  two. 
Tho  meaning  It  can  hardly  be  doubted,   if  we  keep  in  view  the 

of  the  conimst.  '  ^ 

general  purpose  of  the  poem,  and  the  length  at  which  this 
matter  is  treated,  that  we  have  here  something  of  signifi- 
cance in  relation  to  the  work  of  the  poet,  some  aspect 
of  poetic  theory  that  Keats  felt  to  be  of  importance.  It 
is,  of  course,  true  that  Keats  had  been  from  childhood 
'  passionately  fond  of  moonlight,^  and  this  fact  no  doubt 
influenced  the  tone  of  the  passage,  and  may,  indeed,  have 
given  rise  to  it.  But  it  says  more  than  this,  and  one  may 
find  a  clue  to  the  further  meaning  in  the  repeated  failure 
of  Endymion  to  recognise  the  identity  of  his  heavenly 
visitant  with  the  moon  whose  beauty  affected  him  so 
powerfully,^  and  starting  with  this  as  a  guide  we  may 

1  See  Ck)lvin,  Life  of  Keats,  pp.  166,   7. 

2  Tliis  point  occurs  in  each  of  the  four  books.       When  Endymion  sees 

the  vision  for  the  first  time  ho  is  watching  the  moon  and  is  fas- 
cinated by  her  beauty  (I.  591) ;  sho  disappears  behind  a  cloud  (597) 
and  then' the  goddess  appears  (602),  but  ho  does  not  connect  the 
two.  Again,  before  ho  begins  his  wanderings  underground,  the 
beauty  of  the  moon  fills  him  with  delight  and  longing,  but,  so 
little  is  he  coii8<^'ious  of  her  identity,  that  he  begs  her  to  point  out 
liis  love'vS  far  dwelling  (J I.  178).  In  the  fourth  book  the  situation 
has  gi^ovy-n  even  more  compk-x  ])ccause  of  the  appearance  of  Diana 
in  a  new  form,  and  the  perplexity  arising  from  his  failure  to 
perceive  her  identity  is  greater  than  ever.  (IV.  429,  438,  497; 
and  cf.   9o). 

50 


interpret  the  passage  somewhat  in  this  way.  Cynthia 
(the  moon)  stands  for  that  element  in  the  attractiveness 
of  poetry  which  depends  upon  beauty  of  form.  It  is, 
indeed,  an  influence  as  widespread  as  life  itself;  there 
is  a  rhythm  in  the  growth  of  the  flowers,  in  the  song  of 
the  birds,  in  the  movement  of  the  rivers  and  the  tides 
and  it  is,  of  course,  a  large  part  of  the  very  essence  of 
poetry.  But  poetry  must  also  express  feeling  and  passion 
though  the  moving  power  of  passion  will  visit  the  poet 
less  frequently,  will  be  less  constantly  present  as  a  force, 
than  the  gentler  and  milder  influence  of  beauty  in  form. 
Yet,  if  the  poet  is  to  reach  any  high  level  of  attainment, 
he  must  come  to  recognise  that  these  two,  diff"erent  as 
their  appearance  may  be,  are  not  to  be  finally  separated. 
When  the  poet,  in  moments  of  greatest  achievement 
attains  his  ideal,  he  finds  not  merely  that  beauty  of 
expression  and  beauty  of  feeling  are  both  present,  but 
that  they  can  no  longer  be  distinguished  from  one 
another;  in  the  white  heat  of  the  finest  inspiration  he 
learns  that  they  are  one.^ 

Meanwhile    Endymion  has  been  wandering    in  the 

depths  of  ocean.       He  has  passed  many  relics  of  former 

days — 

Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breast-plates  large  Ocean  relics. 

Of  gone  sea-warriors ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe  ; 

Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 

The  sway  of  human  hand:  (III.  123) 

1  Compare  what  Mr.  A.  C.  liradley  says  in  his  famous  lecture,  Poetry 
for  Poetry's  Sake:  "The  value  of  versification  when  it  is  india- 
solubly  fused  with  meaning,  can  hardly  be  exaggerated.  The 
gift  for  feeling  it,  even  more,  pc  rhr.ps,  than  the  gift  for  feeling 
the  value  of  style,  is  the  specific  gilt  for  poetry,  as  distinguished 
from  other  arts.  But  versification,  taken  as  far  as  possible,  all 
by  itself,  has  a  very  different  worth.  Some  aesthetic  worth  it 
has;  how  much,  you  may  experience  by  reading  poetry  in  a  language 
of  which  you  do  not  understand  a  syllable.  The  pleasure  is 
quito  appreciable,  but  it  is  not  great ;  nor  in  actual  poetic  experi- 
ence do  you  meet  with  it,  as  such,  at  ah.  For,  I  rej)oat,  it  is  not 
added  to  the  pleasure  of  the  meaning  when  you  road  poetry  that 
you  do  understand  :  by  some  mystery  the  music  is  then  the  music  of 
the  meaning,  and  tholWfl  Sl'i^  one.'"'  (Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry, 
p.   21.) 

51 


and  these  things  give  him  a  feeling  of  depression  which 
IS  only  removed  by  the  soothing  influence  of  the  moon. 

bl^'edTpoT  The  passage,  as  is  well  known,  is  based  upon  the 

Shakegpoaro 

account  given  by  Clarence  of  one  part  of  his  dream, ^  and 
Jeffrey's  remark  upon  it  is  worth  remembering — "  It 
comes  of  no  ignoble  lineage,  nor  shames  its  high  descent." 
This  is  well  put,  but  it  falls  short  of  the  truth,  for  in  these 
lines  Keats  has  rehandled  the  lines  from  Shakespeare 
with  so  much  skill  and  imaginative  power  that  they  sur- 
pass the  material  of  which  they  were  built.  But  for  our 
present  purpose  it  is  more  to  the  point  to  see  if  w^e  can 
define  the  character  of  the  changes  that  Keats  has 
introduced,  for  in  this  way  we  have  the  best  hope  of  get- 
ting upon  the  track  of  his  purpose.  It  will  be  seen  on 
comparing  the  two  passages  that  Keats  has  throughout 
laid  stress  on  the  antiquity  of  the  remains  w^hich  Endy- 
mion  found  on  the  sea  bottom,  while  Shakespeare  does 
not  refer  at  all  to  this  aspect  of  them.  Thus  the  "  great 
anchors  "  of  Clarence's  dream  become  "  old  rusted 
anchors ;"  "  wedges  of  gold  "  are  transformed  into  "  gold 
'vase  emboss'd  with  long-forgotten  story  ";  and  several 
things  not  found  in  the  earlier  passage,  such  as  the 
"  mouldering  scrolls,  writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by 
those  souls  who  first  were  on  the  earth,"  are  introduced, 
all  emphasizing  the  same  point.      Some  men  would  have 

1  Mothought   I   saw    a    thousand   fearful    wrecks; 
Ten  thousand  men  that  fishen  a;naw'd  upon  ; 
Wedges  of  gold,   great  anchors,  heaps  of   pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  Ecatter'd  in  the  bottom  of  the   sea: 
Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls,  and,  in  those  holes 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept, 
As  'twere  in  Kcorn  of  eyes,   reflecting  gems, 
Which  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep. 
And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scatt-or'd  by. 
(King  Eichard  the  Third,  I.  4.) 

52 


delighted  to  examine  these  relics,  but  it  was  not  so  with 

Endymion  : 

A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  him  ;  and  unless 
Diana  had  clias'd  away  that  heaviness 
He  might  have  died.  (III.   136) 

What  Keats  appears  to  have  in  mind  is  that  the  study 
of  old  things  merely  because  they  are  old  is  not  an  inspir- 
ing pursuit  for  a  poet.  Antiquarianism,  as  he  may  have 
met  with  in  the  pages  of  Strutt  or  of  Ritson,  only 
depresses  the  spirit  of  poetry,  and  may  even  kill  it  if  a 
higher  inspiration  docs  not  come  to  keep  it  alive.  That 
Keats  did  not  undervalue  the  imaginative  treatment  of 
stories  of  olden  days  is  abundantly  clear,  but  for  one  who 
could  do  this  with  the  genius  of  Scott  there  were  scores 
who  would  be  dull  and  wearisome,  and  the  poet  hurried 
from  them  to  seek  fresh  inspiration  elsewhere. 

At  length  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes, 

He  saw,  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea.  Giftucus. 

An  old  man  sitting  cairn  and  peacefull)'.       (HI.  191) 

This  was  Glaucus,  whose  story  fills  the  greater  part  of 
this  book,  for  though  Endymion  plays  an  important  part 
in  the  development  of  events,  the  interest  attaching  to 
his  actions  is  for  the  time  subordinate,  while  Glaucus  and 
his  past  history  take  the  most  prominent  place. 

The  story  of  Glaucus,  as  he  told  it  to  Endymion  H'^ston-- 
(III.  318  sq.)  offers  in  its  early  stages  some  points  of 
similarity  to  that  of  Endymion  himself.  He  was  a 
fisherman,  and  he  delighted  in  his  life  upon  the  sea. 
He  felt  the  same  craving  as  Endymion  had  felt  for  quiet- 
ness and  meditation  and  communion  with  Nature  : 

the  crown 
Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude  : 
More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude, 
Keeping  in  wait  whole  da}s  for  Neptune's  voice, 
And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice!     (HI.  352) 

53 


Its  in*nn:nc. 


A  new  poetic 
iTiovemenf. 


And  he  so  far  achieved  his  desire  that  he  found  himself 
able  to  live  and  move  freely  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean. 

It  is  not  until  we  reach  a  later  part  of  the  story  of 
Glaucus  that  we  meet  with  any  very  clear  indications  of 
its  allegorical  meaning,  but  it  may  be  worth  while  to  point 
out  at  once  what  appears  to  be  the  true  line  of  interpreta- 
tion, making  use  by  anticipation  of  clues  that  will  be 
found  further  on. 

The  story  of  Endymion  as  we  have  seen,  represents 
in  one  aspect  the  growth  of  the  new  spirit  which  was 
making  itself  felt  in  English  poetry  before  the  time  of 
Keats,  and  which  found  its  fulfilment  in  what  we  know 
as  the  New  Romantic  Movement.  It  is  this  more 
general  side  of  his  theme  that  the  poet  appears  to  be  deal- 
ing with  in  the  third  book,  the  more  individual  and 
personal  aspect  of  it  being  dropped  for  the  time. 

Just  as  Endymion  represents  the  poetic  spirit  which 
was  animating  the  age  of  Keats,  so  Glaucus  in  his  youth 
may  be  regarded  as  representing  a  different  poetic  spirit, 
animating  an  earlier  age.^  His  loneliness,  his  longing 
for  utmost  quietude,  his  desire  to  be  free  of  Neptune's 
Kingdom  (III.  2>77)^  his  entrance  into  this  new  life,  his 
passion  for  and  pursuit  of  Scylla — all  these  early 
experiences,  corresponding  largely  to  those  through 
which  Endymion  passed,  represent  the  5^earnings,  the 
idealisms  and  the  tentative  efforts  which  belong  to  the 
development  of  a  new  movement,  and,  while  the  details 
vary,  the  general  course  that  it  follows  is  much  the  same 
in  one  age  as  in  another.  Such  a  movement,  for 
example,  was  that  which  had  for  its  aim  the  attainment 
of  correctness  of  style  and  polish  of  form  in  the  days  of 
Waller  and  his  contemporaries,  and  those  who  kept  that 


1  It   does  not  appear  necessary  to  take  the  thousand  years  (326)  in  a 
literal   sense. 


54 


ideal  before  them  no  doubt  strove  with  no  less  earnest- 
ness and  sincerity  to  reach  it  than  the  poets  of  a  later 
age  strove  after  the  different  ideals  that  seemed  to  them 
so  much  loftier.  We  are  told  clearly  about  the  earnest- 
ness and  eagerness  of  the  pursuit : 

My  passion  grew 
The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 
Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear. 
Until  'twas  too  fierce  agony  to  bear.       (III.  407) 

But  from  this  point  his  story  ceases  to  resemble  that  of^^* '*'^"'''- 
Endymion,  for,  impatient  at  his  want  of  success  in  attain- 
ing his  ideal,  Glaucus  turned  aside  to  seek  help  from 
Circe,  and  under  the  influence  of  her  baleful  charms 
allowed  himself  to  be  seduced  from  his  aim,  to  forget  his 
high  ideal,  and  to  follow  an  unworthy  and  degrading 
course  of  life.  After  a  time  he  came  to  himself  and  saw 
in  her  true  light  the  witch  to  whose  charms  he  had  sur- 
rendered. He  watched  her  as  she  e.xercised  her  evil 
influence  upon  those  around  her — 

Wizard  and  brute, 
Laughing,  and  wailing,  grovelling,  serpentining. 
Showing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting! 
O  such  deformities!  (III.  500) 

until  he  was  filled  with  remorse.  But  it  was  too  late ; 
he  had  incurred  the  fierce  displeasure  of  the  goddess  and 
was  condemned  to  an  age-long  decrepitude.  He 
plunged  once  more  into  the  ocean,  only  to  discover  that 
Scylla  was  dead,  slain  by  the  hated  power  of  Circe,  and 
as  for  himself  it  was  not  long  before  his 

hmbs  became 
Gaunt,  u  ither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd  and  lame. 

(III.  637) 

If  we  now  attempt  to  follow  up  the  clue  which  his 
guided  us  thus  far  it  would  appear  that  we  must  look 
for  some  critical  phase  in  the  development  of  English 
poetry    where,    in    the    view    of    Keats,    things    took    a 

55 


disastrous  course;  where   poetry  turned  aside  from  its 

nobler  aims,  became  unfaithful  to  its  lofty  ideals,  and, 

falling    under    influences    which,    though    superficially 

attractive,  were  essentially  mean  and  base,  was  reduced 

to  a  state  of  decrepitude.      And  it  is  not  difficult  to  put 

one's  finger  upon  the  period  when,  in  the  opinon  of  Keats, 

a  change  of  this  nature  had  come  over  English  poetry. 

He  regarded  the  spirit  that  became  dominant  after  the 

Restoration  as  a  spirit  of  unfaithfulness  to  the  true  ideals 

of  poetry.      ''  He  hated,"  says  Sir  Sidney  Colvin,  "  the 

whole  '  Augustan  '  and  post-Augustan  tribe  of  social  and 

moral  essayists  in  verse,  and  Pope  their  illustrious  master, 

most  of  all."^       His  feeling  was,  of  course,  shared  by 

other  poets  of  the  time.      There  is  a  passage  in  an  essay 

of  Wordsworth's^  which  had  appeared  not  long  before 

Keats  began  to  write  Endymion,  in  which  Pope  and  his 

school  are  described  in  terms  that  Keats  would  have 

heartily  endorsed,  and  one  may  almost  suspect  that  the 

younger  poet  is  merely  translating  into  the  picturesque 

imagery  of  his  poem  what  the  elder  one  has  expressed 

in  direct  criticism.       The  passage  reads  as  follows  : 

m^p^pI^'^*^  "  The  arts  by  which  Pope,  soon  afterwards,  con- 

trived to  procure  to  himself  a  more  general  and  a  higher 
reputation  than  perhaps  any  English  Poet  ever  attained 
during  his  lifetime,  are  known  to  the  judicious.  And 
as  well  known  is  it  to  them  that  the  undue  exerticni 
of  these  arts  is  the  cause  why  Pope  has  for  some  time 
held  a  rank  in  literature,  from  which,  if  he  had  not  been 
seduced  by  an  over-love  of  immediate  popularity,  and 
had  confided  more  in  his  native  genius,  he  never  could 
have  descended.  He  bewitched  the  nation  by  his 
melody,   and  dazzled  it  by  his  polished  style,  and  was 

1  TAfe  of  Keats,  p.   18. 

2  Essay  supplementary  to  the  Preface  to  the  1815  edition  of  Wordsworth's 

poems :    reprinted    in    the   Prose   Works   of    William    Word.=iworth, 
Vol.  II.   (ed.  Knight).       Tlie  passage  quoted  is  on  page  2.3'S. 

^6 


himself  blinded  by  his  own  success.  Having  wandered 
from  humanity  in  his  Eclogues  with  boyish  inexperience, 
the  praise,  which  these  compositions  obtained,  tempted 
him  into  the  belief  that  Nature  was  not  to  be  trusted,  at 
least  in  pastoral  Poetry.  To  prove  this  by  example  he 
put  his  friend  Gay  upon  writing  those  Eclogues  which 
the  author  intended  to  be  burlesque.  The  instigator  of 
the  work,  and  his  admirers,  could  perceive  in  them  nothing 
but  what  was  ridiculous.  Nevertheless,  though  these 
Poems  contain  some  detestable  passages,  the  effect,  as 
Dr.  Johnson  well  observes,  "  of  reality  and  truth  become 
conspicuous,  even  when  the  intention  was  to  show  them 
grovelling  and  degraded." 

In  Sleep  and  Poetry,  which  had  appeared  only  a 
few  months  before  Keats  wrote  the  passage  now  under 
consideration,^  he  had  expressed  his  feelings  on  this 
matter  in  no  uncertain  way.  After  speaking  with  SassicMschoo 
enthusiasm  of  the  work  of  the  poets  of  the  Elizabethan 
age,  when  "  the  Muses  were  well  nigh  cloyed  with 
honours,"  he  goes  on  to  ask — 

"  Could  all  this  be  forgotten?  " 
and  the  answer  is, 

Yes,  a  schism 
Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 
Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

He  speaks  of  them  as  "  dead  to  things  they  knew  not 

of,"  and  finally  denounces  them  as  an 

Ill-fated,  impious  race ! 
That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face, 
And  did  not  know  it, — no,  they  went  about 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepid  standard  out 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottos,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau  !  (11.  181,  sq.) 

The  very  expressions  of  which  Keats  makes  use  in  this 

passage  suggest  in  a  striking  way  its  relation  with  this 

1  The  volume  which  includes  Sleep  and  Poetry  Has  publislii>d  in  March, 
1817.  The  third  book  of  Endymion  was  written  in  September  of 
the   same  year. 

57 


part  of  the  story  of  Glaucus.       While  under  the  spell 

of  Circe  he  was  "  dead  "  to  the  beauty  of  Scylla;  he  had 

been  guilty  of  *'  impiety  "  in  deserting  the  nobler  ideal 

for  the  baser;  he  was  certainly  "  ill-fated,"  and  the  word 

"  decrepid  "     would    apply    more    exactly    to    him    as 

described  in  the  story  than  to  the  standard  of  the  school 

of  Pope. 

We  may  take  it  then  that  Keats  is  in  this  passage 

describing  to  us  in  picturesque  form  what  he  regarded 

as    the    tragical    history    of    English    poetry    after    the 

Restoration.       ?Ie  shows  us  how  it  was  ready  for  a  fresh 

adventure,  and  how,  when  a  new  and  beautiful  ideal  was 

in  sight,  it  had  allowed  itself  to  be  turned  aside  from  its 

high  aims,  and  had  abandoned  itself  to  the  pursuit  of 

false  pleasures — a  course  that  resulted  in  a  long  period 

of  hopeless  futility  :     the  ideal  had  to     all  appearance 

perished.       Such  was  certainly  his  view  of  the  course 

of  poetry  in  that  period,  and  it  would  appear  that  this 

is  the  real  meaning  of  the  story  of  Glaucus. 

What  Circe  Jt  sccms,  indeed,  that  Keats,  not  content  with  draw- 

stands  for.  '  '  ' 

ing  this  unflattering  picture  of  the  general  tendency  and 
influence  of  the  school  of  poetry  for  which  he  felt  such 
a  hearty  dislike,  has  in  the  figure  of  Circe  sketched  a 
portrait — or  perhaps  one  should  say  a  caricature — of  no 
less  a  person  than  its  distinguished  head  and  chief,  Pope 
himself.  This  is  suggested  by  certain  resemblances 
between  the  expressions  which  Wordsworth  applies  to 
Pope  in  the  passage  quoted  above  and  the  account  of 
Circe  in  the  poem  ;^  it  is  confirmed  by  the  description  of 
those  who  surrounded  Circe  as 

Shewing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bafj,  and  sting! 

(I.  502) 

1  Note,  for  instance,  "The  arts  by  which  Pope  oontrived  .  .  •  ■"  : 
"  the  undue  exertion  of  those  arts:  "  and  compare  what  is  8-aid  of 
Gay's  Eclogues — "  The  instif^ator  of  the  work  (Pope)  .  .  .  . 
oould  perceive  in  thorn  nothing  but  what  was  ridiculous,"  with 
lino  509,  "  Oft-times  upon  the  sudden  sh?  laughed  out." 

58 


words  that  aptly  represent  the  tribe  of  petty  and  malicious 
satirists  that  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  Pope's  favours, 
or  more  often  writhed  under  his  lash.  But  the  passage 
that  appears  to  leave  little,  if  any,  room  for  doubt  as  to 
the  intention  of  Keats  occurs  a  little  further  down  in  the 
description  of  the  same  incident  : 

Avenging,  slow, 
Anon  she  took  a  branch  ot  mistletoe, 
And  emptied  on't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 
Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 
Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 
She  lifted  up  the  charm  :  appealing  groans 
From  their  piK)r  breasts  went  sueing  to  her  ear 
In  vain;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier 
She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 
Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil, 
Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage, 
Shrieks,  yells  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimage ; 
Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 
And  puff  from  the  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat ; 
Then  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 
More  v,'ildering  than  all  that  hoarse  affright ; 
For  the  whole  herd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen, 
Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python 
Antagonizing  Boreas, — and  so  vanish'd. 
Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  :  she  banish'd 
These  phantoms  with  a  nod.  (III.  513) 

One  can  hardly  fail  to  recognise  in  these  lines  :;  The  ounciati. 
picture,  drawn  with  no  small  degree  of  humour  and  skill, 
of  the  treatment  meted  out  by  Pope  to  the  petty  scribblers 
of  his  day  in  the  pages  of  The  Dunc'iad.  The  merciless 
spirit  in  which  the  punishment  was  administered,  the 
"  shrieks  and  yells  and  groans  "  that  it  produced,  and 
the  entire  disappearance  of  the  victim.s  from  the  literary 
stage  are  excellently  depicted  :  Horneck,  Roome,  Jacob, 
Goode — who  would  ever  hear  their  names  to-day  unless 
he  reads  the  lines  in  which  they  received  their  castiga- 
tion?  Pope,  indeed,  "  banished  these  phantoms  with 
a  nod." 

The  words  "  Avenging,  slow,"  with  which  the  pas- 
sage referring  to  The  Dunciad  opens,  may  or  may  not 

59 


have  been  chosen  with  reference  to  that  poem,  but  they 
apply  to  it  more  exactly  than  they  do  to  the  Circe  of 
classical  legend.  In  the  preface  to  the  first  edition 
(1728),  Pope  indicates  that  his  purpose  is  to  avenge  him- 
self upon  his  enemies  :  "  I  will  onl\^  observe  as  a  fact 
that  every  week  for  these  two  months  past,  the  town  has 
been  persecuted  with  pamphlets,  advertisements,  letters, 
and  weeklv  essays,  not  only  against  the  wit  and  writings, 
but  against  the  character  and  person  of  Mr.  Pope  : 
while  as  for  the  "  slowness,"  the  same  preface  speaks 
of  it  MS  having  been  "  the  labour  of  full  six  years  of  his 
life." 
The  story  01  Au  iucideut  that  is  related  a  little  further  on  in  the 

the  rescued 

^'■'"°"  story  of  Glaucus  appears  to  carry  a  meaning  that  con- 

firms the  line  of  interpretation  that  has  been  given  to  the 
preceding  part  of  the  poem.  After  Glaucus  had  passed 
a  long  time  in  the  state  of  decrepitude  to  which  he  had 
been  reduced  by  Circe,  he  was  one  day  sitting  on  a  rock 
that  stood  out  above  the  spray  when  he  saw^  a  vessel 
approach.  A  storm  arose,  the  vessel  was  wrecked  before 
his  eyes ;  the  feebleness  to  which  he  had  been  reduced 
made  of  no  avail  his  eager  desire  to  save  those  who  were 
,  drowning,  and  he  saw  one  after  another  sink  helpless 
into  the  deep.  While  he  was  still  watching  there 
emerged  from  the  waves  an  old  man's  hand,  holding  out 
a  scroll  and  a  wand.  Glaucus  seized  these  treasures 
and  even  touched  the  hand  that  held  them,  but  it  slipped 
from  his  grasp  and  sank.  The  storm  abated  and  the 
sun  shone  again. 

I  was  athirst 
To  search  the  lx)ok,  and  in  the  wanninj^  air 
Parted   its  drippint,'-  leaves  with  eager  care. 
Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew  on 
My  soul  page  after  page,  till  well-nigh  won 
Into  forgetfulness  :  (III.  676) 

and,  above  all,  he  found  to  his  great  joy  that  the  book 
contained  the  promise   of  his  ultimate  deliverance,  for 

60 


it  spoke  of  a  youth,  "  by  heavenly  power  lov'd  and  led," 

who  should  stand  before  him  and  who  was  to  be  told  how 

to   bring   about   the   redemption   of   Glaucus    from   the 

punishment  to  which  he  had  been  condemned ;  and  it  was 

added, 

The  youth  elect 
Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  be  destroy'd.      (III.  710) 

To  interpret  rierhtly  the  siQ^nificance  of  this  incident  a  redeeming 

^  .  inUuence. 

in  relation  to  the  meaning  of  the  book  as  a  whole  we 
must  look  for  some  influence  that  gave  promise  of  new 
life  to  English  poetry  after  the  period  of  decrepitude 
which  was  the  penalty  of  yielding  to  the  influence  of 
Pope.  It  may  be  well  to  note  in  passing  that  we  are  not 
concerned  with  the  justice  or  injustice  of  such  a  method 
of  representing  this  school  of  poetry.  Whether  it  is 
to  be  regarded  as  a  fair,  though  severe  satire,  or  an  unfair 
caricature,  is  a  matter  outside  our  present  enquiry. 
There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  views  of  Keats  on  the  point, 
and  the  interpretation  here  suggested  corresponds  with 
those  views.  It  is,  however,  generally  agreed  that  the 
influences  which  brought  about  a  change  of  spirit  in 
English  poetry  are  represented  most  completely  in  the 
revival  of  interest  in  the  ballad,  and  that  Bishop  Percy's 
Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry  at  once  expressed 
and  stimulated  this  interest  in  the  most  effective  manner. 
Wordsworth,  in  the  essay  to  which  reference  has  already 
been  made,  speaks  with  great  enthusiasm  of  Percy's  work, 
and,  after  pointing  out  the  influence  that  it  had  exerted 
on  the  revival  of  poetry  in  Germany,  adds  :  For  our  own 
country,  its  Poetry  has  hern  ahsohitely  rrdccrned  by  it."^ 

1  Pros«>  work.s  ot  William  Wordsworth  (t>d.  Knight),  Vol.  II..  p.  UI7, 
The  italicxs  are  ours.  It  is  worth  noting  that  in  September,  1817, 
when  Keats  was  writing  this  third  I)ook  of  Emlyinion,  he  was 
stayini/  at  O.xford  with  his  friend  Bailey,  and  hi.s  letters  record 
that  they  had  been  reading  Wordsworth  together.  See  Letter 
to  Reynolds,  21st  Septt'.niber,  1817.  In  a  letter  writt<'n  to  liailey 
a  little  later  (November,  1817)  he  refers  {.gain  to  Wordsworth. 

6i 


The  correspondence  between  this  expression  of  Words- 
worth's and  the  story  as  shaped  by  Keats  is  so  striking 
that  one  can  hardly  suppose  it  to  be  accidental,  especially 
when  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  parallelism  pre- 
viously noted  between  essay  and  poem;  and  it  is  not 
unlikely  that  in  this  sentence  we  have  the  germ  out  of 
which  the  incident  originally  grew  in  the  mind  of  Keats. 

Tbe  h'storyof  Whcn  wc  comc  to  cxaminc  the  details  of  the  incident 

the  ballads. 

their  correspondence  with  the  histoiy  of  the  ballads  be- 
comes evident.  He  tells  us,  in  words  which  seem  care- 
fully adapted  to  the  meaning  underlying  the  surface  that 

The  crew  had  qone. 
By  one  and  one,  1o  pale  oblivion  ;  (III.  665) 

and  even  the  one  whose  hand,  emerging,  held  up  the 
scroll  that  Glaucus  safely  grasped,  was  not  himself 
rescued,    but    sank    again    and    disappeared.  This 

corresponds  exactly  with  the  fate  that  has  overtaken  the 
makers  of  the  ballads ;  some  fragments  of  their  work  have 
been  rescued  from  destruction,  but  they  themselves  have 
all  sunk  down  into  oblivion.  Not  even  their  names 
have  survived,  nor  is  it  known  who  gathered  together  the 
ballads  that  Percy  found  in  the  famous  scroll  that  he 
rescued  only  by  a  hairsbreadth  from  destruction.  Yet, 
if  only  the  lovers  of  poetry  had  stirred  themselves  earlier 
how  much  more  might  have  been  rescued.  "  It  was 
not  till  the  publication  of  Allan  Ramsay's  Evergreen 
and  Tea  Table  Miscellany,  and  of  Bishop  Percy's 
Rellqucs  (1765),"  says  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  "  that  a  serious 
effort  was  made  to  recover  Scottish  and  English  folk- 
songs from  the  recitation  of  the  old  people  who  still  knew 
them  by  heart."  And  w^hen  we  ask  why  the  effort  was 
not  made  earlier,  the  answer  that  Keats  puts  forward 
is  that  it  was  due  to  the  paralysing  effect  of  the  influence 
of  the  school  of  Pope  : 

62 


O  they  had  all  been  sav'd  but  crazed  eld 
Annull'd  my  vigorous  cravings  :  and  thus  qutU'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on't,  O  Latmian!  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 
Against  that  hell-born  Circe.  (III.  661) 

The  interest  that  they  roused  is  described  in  the  lines 
already  quoted  (p.  60)  and  the  story  goes  on  to  tell  of 
the  promise  of  redemption  that  was  contained  in  the  scroll, 
and  of  how  this  promise  was  fulfilled  when  Endymion, 
representing  the  spirit  of  the  new  poetry,  scattered  first 
upon  Glaucus,  and  then  upon  Scylla,  some  of  the 
"  powerful  fragments  "  of  the  rescued  scroll,  and  how 
under  its  magic  influence  Glaucus  was  restored  to  his 
youthful  vigour  and  beauty,  and  Scylla  came  to  life  again. 
Underneath  the  symbolism  we  can  hardly  fail  to  recog- 
nise that  Keats  is  representing  to  us  the  restoration  of 
a  true  poetic  ideal,  and  the  infusion  of  fresh  life  and 
energy  into  poetry  after  its  long  period  of  futile  decrepi- 
tude, and  that  he  is  emphasising  the  part  played  by  the 
rediscovery  of  the  ballads  in  bringing  about  this  renais- 
sance. The  other  details  of  the  story — the  undoing  of 
the  tangled  thread,  the  thread  which  was  so  weak  for 
Glaucus,  but  which  Endymion  handled  safely ;  the  read- 
ing of  the  shell  on  which  Glaucus  could  see  "  no  sign  or 
character  " ;  the  breaking  of  the  wand  against  the  lyre, 
which  was  followed  by  some  sweet  and  sudden  music — 
all  these  are  significant  in  different  ways  of  the  magic 
power  immanent  in  the  spirit  of  the  new  poetry. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  same  message  that  ,,0 tank 01 
gave  to  Glaucus  the  hope  of  ultimate  redemption  spoke 
of  a  task  that  he  must  undertake  during  the  period  of 

his  bondage  : 

all  lovers  tempest-tost, 
.^.nd  in  the  savage  overv^hclming  lost, 
He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 
Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil.      (HI.  703) 

63 


This  may  be  taken  to  represent  the  reverent  regard  that 
was  paid  to  the  great  poets  of  former  times  even  during 
the  period  of  poetical  decrepitude.  There  is  no  lack  of 
evidence  on  this  point.  Dryden,  in  his  Preface  to  the 
Fables,  for  example,  makes  a  comparison  between 
Chaucer  and  Ovid  which  works  out  on  the  whole  to  the 
advantage  of  the  English  poet ;  the  imitation  of  Spenser, 
sometimes  in  form  only,  at  other  times  in  a  way  that  shows 
a  feeling  for  the  magic  beauty  of  his  poetry,  was  a  fre- 
quent occupation  among  the  minor,  and  an  occasional 
amusement  of  the  major  poets  of  this  time;^  while 
Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets  and  Thomas  Warton's 
Observations  on  the  Faerie  Qtieene,  which  appeared  only 
nine  years  after  the  death  of  Pope,  illustrate  the  same 
feeling.  The  spirit  that  had  animated  these  poets  was 
no  longer  a  vital  force  in  English  poetry,  but  the  care 
that  was  taken  of  them  was  a  hopeful  sign  for  the  future. 
When  Endymion  came  to  them  he  found  their 

patient  lips 
All  ruddy, — for  here  death  no  blossom  nips     (III.  739) 

That  is  to  say,  their  poetry  remained  unspoiled,  even 
though  for  the  time  they  could  not  be  said  to  exercise  any 
living  influence.  But  now,  after  renewing  the  youthful 
vigour  of  Glaucus  and  Scylla,  Endymion  passed  on — 

Showering  those  jxiwerful  fraj^nients  on  the  dead. 

And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  his  head, 

As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch.  (III.  784) 

The  revival  of  interest  in  poetry  which  resulted  from  the 
study  of  the  ballads  spread  to  the  works  of  the  older 
poets,  so  that  they  began  once  more  to  take  their  place 

1  Profefj&or  Phelps  lia.s  mi  inUTt'stiiig  chapter  (jii  this  matter  in  Tlie 
Beginnings  of  the  English  Romantic  Movemtnt  (Ginn),  and  in  an 
Ai>pc'Mdix  p^ivos  a  li.st  of  fifty-sovon  imitations  of  Spenser  published 
between   1706    and   1775. 

64 


amonii^  the  vital  influences  of  the  day.  The  music  of 
poetry  was  once  more  heard  in  the  land  : 

Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers, 

Budded,  and  swell'd,  and,  full-blown,  shed  full  showers 

Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divine.      (III.  798) 

As  the  host  of  those  who  had  been  redeemed  by  this ''■*^«'o"'<''"  »'"-'• 
magic  power  moved  on  their  way  to  the  palace  of  Neptune 

they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.       Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.  (III.  820) 

This  is  probably  intended  to  refer  to  the  romantic  move- 
ment on  the  continent  of  Europe,  more  particularly  in 
France  and  Germany,  which  developed  side  by  side  with 
the  movement  in  England,  and  to  the  way  in  which  ea(h 
movement  stimulated  the  other. 

The  closing  part  of  the  book  describes  the  joyous  The temivaiin 
celebration  of  this  fresh  renaissance  held  in  the  palace  paiace, 
of  Neptune,  symbolical  of  the  enthusiasm  and  delight 
that  were  aroused  by  the  revived  interest  in  the  poetry 
of  past  ages.  The  general  bearing  of  the  passage  seems 
sufficiently  clear,  but  there  are  two  incidents  in  it  that 
require  a  little  closer  examination. 

The  first  of  these  is  the  appearance  at  the  festival 
of  a  number  of  the  more  ancient  gods  : 

On  00/ \   throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old,  Ooeanun. 

To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheep-fold, 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  for  ever:  (III.   993) 

and  with  him  came  Doris  and  Nereus  and  Amphion  (an 
error  for  Arion)  and  others. 

We  cannot  but  call  to  mind  the  passage  in  the  second 
book  (639  sq.)  where  Endymion  comes  tipon  the  vision 
of  Cybele  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings  underground. 
In  both  cases  Keats  appears  to  be  suggesting  that  the 
spirit  of    poetry,  as  it  found    expression  in  the  earliest 

65 


of  Kn  IvDiioD. 


efforts  of  mankind,  is  looking  with  benevolent  regard 
upon  this  latest  manifestation,  differing  greatly  in  form 
and  expression,  yet  animated  by  the  same  spirit  of  rever- 
ence, and  fostered  by  the  same  divine  protection  as  in 
former  ages. 

The  second  tells  of  the  swoon  into  which  Endymion 
fell  after  looking-  upon  this  vision  of  the  elder  gods  : 

The  palace  whirls 
Around  giddy  Endymion;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortaHty.      (III.  1005) 

He  fell  unconscious  at  the  feet  of  Neptune,  and  was 
carried  away  by  the  Nereids. 

It  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  some  distinct  mean- 
ing underlies  this  incident,  and,  keeping  a  firm  hold  of 
the  clue  by  which  we  have  been  guided  thus  far  we  may 
arrive  at  a  reasonable  interpretation  of  it.  The  salient 
points  that  must  be  kept  in  view  are,  that  it  is  Endymion 
who  has  played  a  leading  part  in  the  revival  of  the  dead 
forms  of  those  who  had  been  tended  by  the  care  of 
Glaucus,  and  yet,  when  the  revival  is  complete,  and  is 
the  occasion  of  great  rejoicing,  Endymion  alone  is  unable 
to  bear  it,  and  sinks  into  unconsciousness  notwithstanding 
the  assurances  that  he  has  received  of  an  early  fulfilment 
of  his  desires.  Bearing  in  mind  that  Endymion  stands 
for  the  spirit  of  the  new  poetry,  we  may  recognise,  as 
has  already  been  pointed  out,  that  we  have  here  sketched 
for  us  the  way  in  which  this  spirit  brought  renewed  life 
and  significance  into  the  study  of  the  earlier  poets.  They 
had  never  ceased  to  be  regarded  with  respect  and  admira- 
tion, but  under  the  new  influence  they  came  to  have  a 
fresh  vitality  that  was  a  source  of  delight  and  an  occasion 
for  thanksgiving. 

So  far  the  path  is  fairly  plain.  And  though  the 
next  stretch  of  it  is  less  clearly  marked,  we  are  probably 
following  the  right  track  if  we  interpret  the  remaining 

66 


part  of  the  story  as  showing  that  although  the  spirit  of 
the  new  poetry  has  reacted  thus  powerfully  on  the  older 
poetry,  it  cannot  live  upon  the  result  of  this.  There  is 
hope  and  promise  that  its  ideals  may  be  fulfilled,  but  for 
the  moment  the  very  success  that  it  has  achieved  in  giving 
new  life  and  meaning  to  the  poetry  of  earlier  days  may 
tend  to  lessen  its  own  vitality.  Certainly  it  cannot 
flourish  upon  inspiration  drawn  merely  from  its  pre- 
decessors. In  seeking  them  it  has  strayed  too  far  from 
mortality.  It  can  only  become  a  living  force  by  seeking 
contact  with  the  actual  life  of  men  and  women,  and  by 
entering  into  their  joys  and  sorrows.  The  way  in  which 
this  is  accomplished  and  the  ideal  finally  reached  will 
be  found  in  the  next  book. 

The  lines  that  form  the  introduction  to  this  book  are  The  introduc- 
tion to  the 

not  in  Keats's  happiest  vein;  nor  do  they  at  first  sight  *^'"^ ^°°^ 
appear  to  have  much  bearing  on  the  main  theme  of  the 
poem.  Their  most  obvious  reference  is  political,  and 
in  this  sense  they  denounce  the  empty  pomp  of  incom- 
petent rulers  who  have  induced  submissive  peoples  to 
receive  them  with  mistaken  enthusiasm.  But  an  examina- 
tion of  the  phrases  used  makes  it  evident  that  they  may 
bear  another  meaning,  and,  indeed,  appear  to  have  been 
chosen  for  that  purpose.  We  may  question  the  poetic 
fitness  of  such  expressions  as  "  most  prevailing  tinsel," 
or  "  baaing  vanities,"  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  they 
effectively  describe  the  feeling  that  Keats  entertained 
for  the  writings  of  Pope  and  his  school.  He  regarded 
them  as  showing  "  not  one  tinge  of  sanctuary  splen- 
dour;  "  that  is  to  say,  they  had  never  offered  Milton's 
prayer  that  he  might  be 

From  out  His  secret  altar  touched  with  sacred  fire  : 
and  he  may  well  have  been  thinking  more  of  them  than 

67 


of    those    who    had    incurred    Leigh    Hunt's    political 
animosity  when  he  wrote  : 

With  unladen  breasts, 
Save  ol  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 
To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being;'s  high  account, 
Their  tiptop  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones. 

(III.  12) 

The  contrast  that  he  proceeds  to  draw  describes  no  less 

clearly  his  feeling  as  to  the  loftier  aims  and  ideals  of 

the  poetical  movement  in  the  midst  of  which  he  was  living 

when  compared  with  those  of  the  previous  age  : 

No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 

But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell. 

Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfin'd, 

Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind. 

And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents 

To  watch  the  abysm-birth  of  elements.      (III.  23) 

A  careful  reading  of  the  whole  passage  makes  it  evident 
that  while  the  political  meaning  is  on  the  surface,  the 
literary  is  clearly  to  be  seen  just  underneath  it.  More- 
over, while  the  political  reference  has  no  recognisable 
bearing  on  the  matters  with  which  the  poem  is  concerned, 
the  literary  significance  of  the  passage  brings  it  into 
immediate  relation  with  the  meaning  which  we  have  found 
to  underlie  the  story  of  this  book. 


BOOK  IV. 

Thc-tory.  Thc  story  of  the  fourth  book  turns  upon  one  strong 

situation  which  is  presented  with  some  degree  of  power. 
The  situation  arises  from  a  new  and  irresistible  attraction 
that  Endymion  feels  for  an  Indian  m.aiden  who  now 
appears  for  the  first  time.  After  his  sea  adventures  he 
finds  himself  in  a  green  forest  near  a  placid  lake  and 
there  he  hears  a  plaintive  cry  (40),  which,  as  he  discovers, 
comes  from  a  beautiful  Indian  maiden  who  has  failed 

68 


to  find  solace  in  the  revelry  of  Bacchus  (268)  and  is 
longing  for  human  affection.  He  is  torn  between  the 
attraction  that  he  feels  for  her,  and  his  devotion  to  his 
heavenly  love.  The  development  of  the  situation  thus 
presented  is  less  effective,  and  one  cannot  but  feel  that 
the  story  has  suffered  for  the  sake  of  the  allegory. 
Mercury  comes  down,  and  at  a  touch  of  his  wand  there 
spring  from  the  earth  two  jet-black  winged  steeds  on 
which  Endymion  and  the  maiden  fly  up  into  the  regions 
of  the  sky  (347).  There,  overcome  by  slumber,  he 
dreams  that  he  is  in  heaven,  and  wakes  to  find  himself 
indeed  in  the  presence  of  his  divine  love  (436).  In  sore 
perplexity  he  turns,  now  to  her,  now  to  the  Indian  maid, 
and  yet  in  spite  of  all  appearance  he  knows  in  his  heart 
that  he  is  not  unfaithful  to  either.  At  length  he  finds  that 
his  companion  has  vanished,  and  soon  afterwards  her 
steed  plunges  down  to  the  earth  (512).  Endymion's 
steed  bears  him  to  the  Cave  of  Quietude,  where  he  fails 
to  see  the  guests  passing  on  their  way  to  Diana's  wed- 
ding feast,  though  he  seems  to  have  heard  their  song 
(556,  611). 

His  steed  brings  him  down  to  earth  again,  and  there 
he  finds  his  Indian  love  (623).  Now  that  he  feels  his 
feet  once  more  planted  on  solid  ground  he  determines  to 
devote  himself  to  this  earthly,  human  love,  feeling  that 
he  has  been  too  presumptuous  in  aspiring  to  a  heavenly 
destiny.  To  Endymion's  dismay  she  tells  him  that  she 
is  forbidden  to  accept  his  love  (752).  He  sits  despon- 
dent on  the  very  spot  where  he  had  first  seen  the  vision 
of  Diana,  and  while  he  sits  there  Peona  appears  (800). 
She  sees  his  downcast  look,  and  bids  him  be  happy,  for 
she  will  rejoice  that  he  has  found  such  a  lovely  mate. 
He  declares  that  he  will  live  a  hermit's  life,  and  that 
Peona  alone  shall  visit  him,  but  expresses  a  hope  that 
the  Indian  maid  will  stay  with  Peona  (870).       He  bids 

69 


farewell  to  them  both,  and  they  leave  him,  but  he  calls 
them  back,  begging  them  to  meet  him  once  more  that 
evening  in  the  grove  behind  great  Diana's  temple  (911). 
The  denouement  forms  an  effective  close  to  the  story. 
As  the  sun  sinks  Endymion  makes  his  way  to  the  temple, 
thinking  that  surely  his  troubles  and  his  life  must  now 
have  an  ending.  The  two  maidens  are  there,  but,  as  he 
utters  his  desire  that  heaven's  will  may  be  declared,  a 
wonderful  change  takes  place.  His  Indian  love  is 
transformed,  and  he  sees  that  she  is  no  other  than  his 
divine  love,  Cynthia  or  Diana.  They  bid  farewell  to 
Peona  with  a  promise  that  she  should  meet  them  many 
a  time  in  these  forests,  and  they  vanish. 

Peona  went 
Home  throuj^h  the  giooin\   wood  in  wonderment. 

itaraeanina  \\7q  havc  uow  to  cousidcr  the  meaning  of  this  closing 

part  of  the  story  and  its  relation  to  the  allegory  as  we 
have  thus  far  traced  it.^ 

h!ditt7mL^den  '^^c  cry  of  the  Indian  maiden,  with  which  the  story 

resumes  its  way,  represents  the  cry  that  is  always  going 
up  from  humanity  in  all  quarters  of  the  world  for 
sympathy  and  help.  To  Endymion  this  was  a  new  and 
unexpected  appeal  and  yet  it  is  one  to  which  his  heart 
instinctively  responded.  So,  Keats  would  tell  us,  in 
the  development  of  the  soul  of  the  poet  as  he  knew  it, 
the  ambition  to  e.xccl  in  poetry  first  took  possession  of 
him,  and  it  was  only  after  he  had  been  pursuing  this  aim 
for  a  considerable  time  that  a  new  desire  began  to  appeal 
to  him,  the  desire  of  doing  something  to  serve  his  fellow 
men.       This  was  not  a  new  conception  for  Keats.       In 

1  In  his  rditiori  oi'  tho  Poems  of  Koats  (Methnon,  1907),  Professor  de 
Selinc-ourt  has  pivoii  a  irioio  detailed  explanation  of  the  allegory 
iiR  developtnl  in  the  fourth  lK>ok  than  has  elsewhere  been  attempted. 
Although  the  lino  of  treatment  here  followed  differs  in  .^mo  respectsS 
from  that  which  he  has  adopted,  I  wish  to  lecord  with  gratitude 
my  obligation  to  hin  interpretation,  which  lias  been  of  more  service 
than  anything  else  that  T  have  seen  in  opening  up  the  way  to  a 
fuller  understanding  of  the  allegory 

70 


Sleep  and  Poetry,  which  had  appeared  in  the  volume 
published  in  March,  i8i;,  he  outlines  the  same  order  of 
development : 

O  for  ten  years,  tlial  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy  ;  so  may  I  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has   to  itself  decreed. 

And  after  sketching  symbolicalh'  the  way  in  which  he 
would  spend  this  period  of  training,  he  goes  on  to  say  : 

And  can  1  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell? 
Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life, 
Where  I  may  find  the  af^onies,  the  strife 
Of  human  hearts. 

But  a  new  element  is  introduced  into  the  later  treatment 
of  the  idea,  that  of  the  clash  between  the  two  ideals,  and 
the  doubt  and  perplexity  of  mind  that  is  the  consequence 
of  this  clash.  So  keenly  did  Endymion  realise  the 
trouble  of  the  Indian  maid,  and  so  fully  did  his  heart 
respond  to  her  appeal,  that  he  felt  perplexed  and  troubled 
beyond  endurance.  He  loved  his  mysterious  goddess  Tiieconmci 
no  less  than  before ;  his  intense  delight  in  the  beauty  of 
the  moon  was  as  great  as  ever ;  and  these  two  had  already 
appeared  to  him  to  be  in  strange  conflict,^  for  he  had  not 
recognised  them  as  two  phases  of  one  devotion ;  and  now, 
to  add  to  his  perplexity,  he  felt  himself  drawn  by  an 
irresistible  attraction  to  the  Indian  maiden,  to  whose  tale 
of  sorrow  he  had  listened.  ''  I  have  a  triple  soul !"  he 
cried,  torn  by  this  painful  conflict  of  feeling.  Such, 
Keats  would  have  us  understand,  is  the  trouble  and  per- 
plexity in  the  mind  of  the  poet  while  he  looks  upon  beauty 
of  form  and  intensity  of  feeling  in  poetry  as  separate  and 
conflicting  ideals,  more  especially  when  their  rivalry  is 
complicated  by  a  larger  desire  to  do  some  service  of  real 
value  to  mankind. 

1  Book  TTT.,  liiirs  17"-197:  sor  pape  TiO. 

71 


To  Endymion  it  seems  at  the  moment  that  he  cannot 
but  yield  to  the  cry  for  sympathy  and  help,  sacrificing  all 
his  former  hopes  and  ideals,  though  such  a  sacrifice  must 
bring  death  as  a  consequence  : 

Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel 

Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 

Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 

And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew  me.      (IV.   111.) 

But  the  maiden  does  not  see  that  Endymion's  love  for 
her  need  bring  any  such  dire  consequences  in  its  train. 
Leaving  this  doubt  unsolved  Endymion  asks  her  about 
Srow°*°^  her  former  life,  and  in  response  she  sings  a  song — one  of 
the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  whole  poem — telling  of 
the  mystery  and  the  inevitability  of  sorrow  in  human  life. 
She  goes  on  to  speak  of  her  unsatisfied  longing  for 
sympathy  : 

in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept.     (IV.  183) 

And  then  telling  the  story  that  is  always  being  repeated 
in  the  history  of  the  race,  she  relates  how  she  tried  to  find 
satisfaction  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  : 

And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of   revellers :  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew!     (IV.   103) 

They  called  her  to  join  them  : 

Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy!  (IV.   226) 

She  followed  at  their  invitation,  and  through  every  clime 

watched  humanity  yielding  to  the  call  of  pleasure;  but 

it  was  of  no  avail  : 

Into  these  regions  came  1  following  him, 
Sick  hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear 

Alone,  without  a  peer  : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear.     (IV.  268) 

72 


unrortunate 


And  she  takes  up  again  the  song  with  which  she  began  : 

Come  then,  Sorrow  ! 

Sweetest  Sorrow  ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast  : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee 

And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best.     (IW  279) 

It  seems  strange  that  after  such  a  surpassingly  beautiful 
rendering  of  one  aspect  of  his  theme  Keats  should  have  An 

,  uni 

allowed  himself  to  lapse  mimediately  into  a  strain  of  p*^"*** 
weak  and  maudlin  sentiment  that  for  the  moment  excuses 
the  worst  severity  of  his  critics,  but  so  it  is.  The  lines 
in  which  Endymion  declares  his  devotion  to  the  maiden 
fall  as  far  below  the  normal  level  of  the  poem  as  did  the 
former  passage  in  which  he  expressed  his  passion  for  the 
unknown  goddess.  We  feel  inclined  to  adopt  the  lines 
that  follow  and  to  apply  them  to  this  part  of  the  poem  : 
to  cry  a  triple  woe  that  such 

words  went  echoing  dismally 
Through  the  wide  forest — a  most  fearful  tone.      (I\'.  321) 

But  it  is  not  difficult  to  recognise  the  intention  that  under-  with  a  true 

nieanlDi;. 

lies  the  passage;  and  this  is  no  less  true  and  cogent  than 
the  expression  of  it  is  false  and  deplorable.  Keats  is 
trying  to  show  with  what  irresistible  force  the  passion 
for  humanity  may  lay  hold  of  a  man  when  his  ears  and 
heart  are  open  to  its  sorrows,  and  how  he  is  impelled  to 
put  aside  all  other  claims  in  order  to  devote  himself 
wholly  to  this  one  service.  A  no  less  passionate  devo- 
tion had  filled  the  soul  of  Endymion  when  his  mysterious 
goddess  had  last  visited  him  (III.  739-/61),  and,  though 
we  may  well  wish  that  both  passages  had  been  written  in 
a  manner  more  worthy  of  the  genius  that  sustained  Keats 
through  so  much  of  his  work,  we  cannot  but  recognise 
that  the  parallelism  in  itself  adds  a  true  significance  to 
the  poem. 

7o 


Tj^e^^ryof  Whilc  Endymioii  was  pouring  out  his  protestations 

of  love  a  voice  was  heard  crying  H'oel  IV&ef  fl'oe  to  thai 
Endym'wyi!  One  can  find  little  or  no  help  in  this  place 
towards  the  explanation  of  this  incident,  but  if  we  com- 
pare with  it  a  later  passage  (632  sq.),  where  Endymion 
again  declares  his  readiness  to  sacrifice  everything  in 
order  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  the  new-found  love, 
we  may  gain  some  light  on  its  meaning.  In  each  case  he  is 
checked;  in  this  instance  by  the  cry  of  woe,  in  the  later 
one  by  the  refusal  of  the  maiden  :  "  I  may  not  be  thy 
love  "  (752).  The  intention  in  each  case  probably  is  to 
suggest  that  if  the  poet  in  his  passion  for  humanity 
abandons  his  poetic  ideals  he  is  committing  a  grave  error 
which  cannot  result  in  good. 

Tiie  steeds.  ^t  this  point  in  the   story    Mercury   appears   and 

touches  the  earth  with  his  wand.  From  it  there  spring 
two  winged  steeds.  They  evidently  have  a  meaning 
similar  to  that  of  the  chariot  in  Sleep  and  Poetry  :  they 
represent  the  power  of  the  imagination.  It  may  be  noted 
that  just  as  the  chariot  in  the  earlier  poem  appears  imme- 
diately after  the  recognition  by  the  poet  of  the  necessity 
of  entering  into  "  the  agonies,  the  strife  of  human  hearts," 
so  in  this  case  it  is  when  he  is  distracted  by  the  conflict  of 
his  feelings,  and  is  shuddering  at  the  cry  of  woe,  that  the 
intervention  of  Mercury  takes  place.  Trusting  himself 
to  this  new  power  Endymion  and  his  companion  are 
carried  aloft,  far  above  the  level  of  the  earth. 

Endi-mionH  It  is  worth  whilc  turning:  back  for  a  moment  to  note 

re;i'l:iips-  to  " 

fcaiin?!'^'"''  how  this  rcadmcss  of  Endymion  to  commit  himself  to 
the  guidance  of  what  he  felt  to  be  a  higher  power,  offering 
to  lead  him,  is  repeatedly  illustrated  in  the  course  of  the 
poem.  It  is  suggested  in  each  of  the  three  original 
appearances;  in  the  quickness  with  which  he  saw  that 
some  divine  power  was  manifesting  itself  in  the  magic  bed 
of  flowers  (I.  559),  in  his  readiness  to  follow  the  cloudy 

74 


Cupid  flying  above  the  well  (I.  891);  and  again  in  his 
listening  attitude  before  the  voice  called  to  him  from  the 
cave ;  and  the  eagerness  with  which  he  hurried  in  when 
he  heard  it  (I.  960).  But  it  is  shown  more  clearly  as  the 
story  proceeds.  When  the  golden  butterfly  came  out  of 
the  flower  he  followed  it  with  enthusiasm  till  it  vanished 
(II.  66),  and  then  when  further  direction  was  given  to  him 
he  did  not  "  contend  one  moment  in  reflection  "  (II.  215), 
but  "  fled  into  the  fearful  deep."  There  when  the  path 
that  he  was  following  ended  "  abrupt  in  middle  air  " 
(II.  653)  he  threw  himself  "  without  one  impious  word  " 
(II.  659)  upon  the  eagle  that  "  crost  towards  him,"  trusting 
himself  unhesitatingly  to  this  divine  messenger  and 
caring  not  how  perilous  the  adventure  might  seem.  It 
was  a  similar  instinct  that  led  him  to  respond  to  the  appeal 
of  Glaucus  for  help  (III.  282,  712)  and  to  listen  to  the  cry 
of  the  Indian  maid;  and,  as  we  shall  see,  the  consum- 
mation is  reached  when  Endymion  explicitly  declares 
himself  ready  to  submit  entirely  to  the  will  of  heaven 
(IV.  974). 

In  all  these  instances  Keats  is  showing  us,  by  his 
usual  method  of  concrete  imasfes,  what  he  regfards  as  the  insi.imtion 

S  o  mi  I  the  yoot. 

real  meaning  of  poetic  inspiration.  There  is  the  impulse 
or  suggestion  that  appears  to  come  from  some  source 
outside  of  the  poet  himself,  but,  if  any  result  is  to  follow, 
there  must  also  be,  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  a  quickness 
to  perceive  and  a  readiness  to  respond  to  the  promptings 
that  come  to  him.  It  is,  of  course,  a  truth  of  wider  appli- 
cation than  that  which  is  given  to  it  here,  but  this  is  the 
aspect  of  it  that  belongs  to  the  theme  of  the  poem,  and 
the  repeated  reference  to  the  idea  suggests  how  much 
value  Keats  placed  upon  it.  It  was  a  similar  idea  that 
he  had  pictured  in  Sleep  and  Poetry  when  he  represented 
the  charioteer  (the  poet)  as  coming  down  in  his  car  (the 
imagination)  and,  while  there  pass  before  him  "  shapes 

75 


The  incidents 
of  the  flight 


oa  a  pernonal 
reminiscence. 


of  delight  and  mystery  and  fear,"  he  leans  forward  "  most 
awfullv  intent,"  and  seems  to  listen,  and  writes  "  with 
hurrying  glow."  It  is  the  poet  acting  as  the  channel 
through  which  the  divine  can  speak  to  humanity.  In  a 
letter  written  to  Haydon  soon  after  he  had  begun  to  work 
at  this  poem  Keats  gives  expression  to  a  similar  feeling  : 
*•  Thank  God  !  I  do  begin  arduously  where  I  leave  off, 
notwithstanding  occasional  depressions;  and  I  hope  for 
the  support  of  a  High  Power  while  I  climb  this  little 
eminence  \ Endymion\  and  especially  in  my  Years  of. 
more  momentous  Labour.  I  remember  your  saying  that 
you  had  notions  of  a  good  Genius  presiding  over  you.  I 
have  of  late  had  the  same  thought,  for  things  which  I  do 
at  Random  are  afterwards  confirmed  by  my  judgment  in 
a  dozen  features  of  Propriety.  Is  it  too  daring  to  fancy 
Shakespeare  this  Presider?  "^ 

The  incidents  that  follow  upon  the  appearance  of 
Mercury  and  the  mounting  of  Endymion  and  his  com- 
panion on  the  jet-black  steeds,  though  they  may  be  con- 
sidered conflicting  and  pointless  so  far  as  the  mere  story 
is  concerned,  are  full  of  significance  as  a  revelation  of  the 
working  of  the  poet's  mind.  They  include  the  flagging 
of  the  steeds  at  the  approach  of  Sleep;  the  dream  of 
Endymion,  and  his  waking  consciousness  of  the  presence 
of  his  divine  love ;  his  perplexity  as  he  turns  now  to  her, 
now  to  the  maiden  beside  him,  and  feels  drawn  alike  to 
both,  yet  convinced  that  he  is  not  unfaithful  to  either. 
Then  comes  the  effort  that  Endymion  makes  to  rouse  the 
steeds  again ;  the  rising  of  the  moon  ;  the  vanishing  of  the 
Indian  maid,  and  the  entry  of  Endymion  into  the  Cave  of 
Quietude. 

In    attempting   to   trace    the    significance   of   these 
incidents  we  may,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  think  of  them 


1  Letter  of   10th  May,    1817. 


76 


in  the  first  place  as  representing  a  personal  experience 
of  the  poet  on  some  single  occasion.  Starting  then  a  little 
further  back  than  the  series  of  events  outlined  above,  we 
may  picture  him  as  sitting  one  evening,  and  allowing  his 
thoughts  to  centre  round  "  the  agonies,  the  strife  of 
human  hearts,"  until  he  is  led  to  wonder  whether  after  all 
it  were  not  better  to  try  to  do  something  to  alleviate  this 
suffering  rather  than  to  struggle  on  in  the  apparently 
hopeless  effort  to  win  fame  as  a  poet.  But  before  long 
his  thoughts  are  touched  as  by  an  inspiration  from 
heaven.  "  He  always  saw  ideas  embodied,"  as  Mr. 
Bradley  justly  remarks.^  His  imagination  is  roused,  and 
still  keeping  in  mind  the  thought  that  had  been  with  him 
before,  he  is  carried  aloft  with  a  rush,  and  sees  it  all  in  a 
different  light,  under  new  aspects.  Tired  with  the 
imaginative  strain  he  feels  sleep  coming  upon  him,  and, 
though  he  still  tries  to  see  more  clearly  what  he  is  striving 
after,  he  does  not  succeed,  and  falling  into  unconscious- 
ness he  begins  to  dream.  His  dream  follows  the  line, 
not  of  his  meditations  of  the  moment,  but  of  the  ideas  that 
have  for  a  long  time  dominated  his  outlook  upon  life ;  he 
fancies  that  he  has  achieved  his  ideals  as  a  poet,  and  that 
he  has  been  found  worthy  to  join  the  company  of  those 
whom  he  has  reverenced  as  gods;  he  can  take  part  in  their 
life  and  can  a  little  use  their  instruments. ^  It  is  but  a 
dream,  and  yet  when  he  wakes  it  seems  at  first  as  if  it  were 
true,  and  he  feels  that  this  power  is  really  his ;  he  is  indeed 
a  poet!  What  has  become  of  his  desire  to  serve  man- 
kind .^     Must  this  be  abandoned  ?     In  perplexity  he  turn.s 

1  Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry,  p   217. 

2  There  is  a  poem  entitled  A  Drauoht  of  Sunshine  (ed.  Selincourt,  p.  ."^03), 

which  Keats  sent  to  Revnolds  in  a  letter  of  31st  January,  181S — 
the  same  letter  in  wiiich  he  wrote  out  one  of  his  most  beautiful 
sonnets,  "  When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be."  Endijminn 
was  at  this  time  passing  through  the  press  and  was  receiving 
some  fini\l  touches.  It  is  probable  that  these  lines  refer  to 
this  part  of  the  story,  and  tlius  have  :norc  point  and  value  than 
has  yet    been  allowed  tx)  them. 

77 


from  one  ideal  to  the  other,  feeling  that  he  is  bound  to 
follow  each  of  them,  yet  not  knowing  how  they  can  be 
reconciled.  He  calls  to  mind  the  flight  of  imagination 
which,  before  he  fell  asleep,  had  so  magically  uplifted 
these  aspirations  for  service,  and  tries  to  renew  this  aspect 
of  his  thoughts,  but  a  gleam  of  the  old  poetic  desires  that 
had  so  long  haunted  him  comes  into  his  mind;  his  passion 
to  do  something  for  humanity  falls  away,  and,  exhausted 
by  the  conflict  of  emotion  through  which  he  has  passed 
he  sinks  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 

It  is  not,  of  course,  intended  to  suggest  that  the  experi- 
ences here  outlined  were  necessarily  confined  to  a  single 
occasion ;  it  may  well  have  been  that  the  desire  to  give 
some  practical  kind  of  help  towards  the  relief  of  human 
suffering  developed  gradually  in  the  mind  of  Keats ;  that 
there  was  more  than  one  occasion  on  which  the  poetical 
impulse  that  was  never  far  beneath  the  surface  of  his  con- 
sciousness, acting  on  this  desire,  lifted  it  up  into  the  region 
of  creative  imagination,  and  that  periods  of  exhaustion 
and  moods  of  apathy  intervened.  The  significance  of 
the  story  is  not  bound  up  with  any  particular  time  scheme. 
But  whether  it  pictures  for  us  the  experience  of  a  single 
occasion,  or  one  that  was  spread  over  some  longer  period 
of  time,  it  represents  a  phase  in  the  process  of  Keats's 
poetic  development,  and  one  that  he  regards  as  of  more 
than  personal  significance. 

The  xvo.i.im%'  While    Eudymiou  lay    unconscious  in    the  Cave  of 

Quietude  there  passed  by  "  A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion'd  mul- 
titude "  (558).  They  sang  a  song  in  celebration  of  the 
coming  marriage  feast  of  Diana. 

We  are  probably  intended  to  understand  by  this  the 
attitude,  not  so  much  of  the  general  public,  as  of  that 
section  of  it  which  has  a  genuine  interest  in  poetry,  and 
which  recognises  the  early  dawn  of  a  new  era,  such  as  the 

78 


gu<'s:«. 


New  Romantic  Movement  in  poetry.  Among  such  as 
these  there  may  be  confidence  and  rejoicin<:^  at  a  time  when 
the  poet  himself  who  has  given  cause  for  such  feelings 
is  still  far  from  regarding  his  hopes  as  satisfied  or  his  aims 
as  accomplished.  He  may  indeed  be  very  little  conscious 
of  the  interest  and  pleasure  that  others  are  taking  in  his 
work. 

Soon  after  this  Endymion's  steed  descended;  he  Kn'Umion 
found  himself  once  more  on  the  solid  earth,  and  close  at '"""''• 
hand  was  the  Indian  maid.  The  dreams  that  he  had 
cherished,  the  ideals  after  which  he  had  striven,  now 
appeared  to  him  unreal,  or  at  least  hopeless  of  attain- 
ment; and  he  declared  that  he  would  put  them  aside  and 
devote  himself  whole-heartedly  to  the  service  of  his  new- 
found love.  But  to  his  unutterable  dismay  she  told 
him  that  this  could  not  be;  no  such  end  to  his  perplexity 
and  trouble  was  possible.  He  knew  not  how  to  answer 
her,  and  while  he  sat  in  a  stupor  of  grief  and  despair 
Peona  came  to  greet  them. 

There  is  little  difficulty  in  the  interpretation  of  this  thp  po^i  nn.i 

J  >■  praciiL'ul  life. 

part  of  the  story,  if  we  follow  the  track  that  has  led  us 
thus  far.  After  a  prolonged  and  lofty  flight  of  the 
imagination  a  reaction  is  bound  to  follow;  the  poet  must 
inevitably  come  down  to  earth  again  and  once  more  find 
himself  in  contact  with  the  troubles  and  pains  of  human 
life.  And  if  these  have  before  aroused  his  solicitude  and 
sympathy,  in  the  mood  of  such  a  reaction  their  appeal 
will  be  stronger  than  ever.  Poetry,  especially  on  the  side 
of  beauty  of  form  and  expression,  may  seem  for  the  time 
an  unpractical  pursuit,  especially  if,  after  trying  for  long 
months  and  years  to  attain  to  lofty  ideals,  the  poet  is 
conscious  that  he  has  always  fallen  short  of  them. 

I  have  clung 
To  nolhing,   lov'd   a   nothinq-,    nothing   seen 
Or  felt  but  a  great  dream!  (I\'.  636) 

79 


So  he  turns  with  a  sigh  of  relief  to  a  more  direct  and  more 
practical  way  of  helping  mankind.  The  desires  and 
ambitions  that  he  has  so  long  cherished  appear  now  to  be 
hopelessly  unattainable,  and  he  resolves  that  he  will  no 
longer  be  guilty  of  the  folly  of  pursuing  them. 

Against  his  proper  glory 
I  las  my  own  soul  conspired  :  so  my  story 
Will   I   to  children   utter,    and   repent. 
Fhcrc  never  liv'd   a   mortal   man,   who  benl 
His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 
Hut  starv'd  and  died.^       My  sweetest  Indian,  here, 
Here  will  I  knetl,   for  thou   'xdeemed  hasl 
My  life  from  too  thin  breathing:  gone  and  past 
Are  cloudy  phantasms.        Caverns  lone,   farewell ! 
And  air  of  visions,   and   the   monstrous  swell 
Of  visionary  seas !       No,   never  more 
Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the   shore 
Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 
Adieu,   my  daintiest   Dream  !   although   so   vast 
My  love  is  still  for  thee.       The  hour  may  conic 
When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 
On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee.  (IV.  643) 

But  however  welcome  such  a  cutting  of  the  Gordian 
knot  may  seem  for  the  moment  as  a  relief  from  the  doubts 
and  perplexities  that  he  has  been  trying  to  face,  no  such 
resolve  can  be  a  permanent  solution  of  his  difficulties. 
The  call  of  the  divine  ideal  has  been  too  clear,  the 
-response  has  been  too  spontaneous,  the  efforts  to  reach 
the  ideal  have  been  too  intense,  to  be  abandoned  in  this 
way,  and  humanity  itself  cannot  accept  of  service  ren- 
dered at  such  a  cost;  it  would  involve  an  unfaithfulness 
that  could  but  lead  to  death ;  and  the  poet  is  for  a  time 
thrown  back  upon  his  perplexities  and  uncertainties. 

The^ceneVf"  Thcrc  is  somc  significance  in  the  fact  that,  at  this 

x\tionl.^         point  of  the  story,  Endymion  is  back  again,  though  he  is 

unconscious  of  it,  in  the  very  spot  where  he  had  first  seen 

the  vision  that  had  called  him  out  from  the  ordinary  life 

1  In  a  similar  mood  he  wrote  to  Haydon  (11th  May,  1817) :  "  There  is 
no  groator  Sin  after  the  >se\en  deadly  than  to  flatter  onosdf 
into  an   idea  oi'  being  a  great  Poet." 

8o 


of  men.  The  long  process  of  training  throiis^h  which 
Endymion  had  passed  could  not  of  itself  make  him  a 
poet.  Before  that  end  could  be  attained  he  must  return 
to  the  source  of  inspiration  that  had  given  the  original 
impulse  to  his  new  way  of  life.  This  is  thr  essential 
element  in  the  whole  process,  without  which  ail  the  rest, 
useful  and  even  necessary  as  it  may  he,  must  fail  of  its 
effect,  for  it  is  this  inspiration  that  alone  gives  life  and 
power  to  the  words  of  tRe^oet. 

The  last  occasion  on  which  we  heard  of  Peona  was  v»on». 
when  she  tried  to  soothe  the  spirit  of  Endymion,  troubled 
by  the  early  visions  that  he  had  seen,  and  to  draw  him 
back  to  his  former  natural  and  healthy  manner  of  life 
(I.  991).  During  the  period  of  his  strange,  fantastic 
wanderings  he  has  been  far  out  of  her  ken,  but  now  that 
he  has  returned  once  more  to  the  scenes  of  his  earlier 
youth  she  comes  to  him  wath  glad  welcome,  and  rejoices 
in  the  hope  of  his  resuming  a  more  normal  mode  of  life. 
There  is  nothing  selfish  in  her  attitude ;  she  welcomes  with 
open  heart  the  beautiful  stranger,  but  completely  misin- 
terprets the  situation,  and  is  reduced  to  bewildered 
amazement  when  Endymion  puts  all  her  hopeful  sugges- 
tions on  one  side,  declaring  that  he  wmII  live  a  hermit  bfc, 
and  that  Peona  herself  shall  be  his  only  visitant. 

The  strange  impasse  to  which  the  adventures  of  Jf^V^i'Sr^? 
Endymion  have  led  appears  to  represent  in  a  large 
measure  the  personal  experience  of  Keats,  though  the 
general  situation  has  a  wider  meaning.  There  seems  to 
have  been  a  time  when  he  was  greatly  perplexed  and 
harassed  in  his  outlook  upon  life.  On  the  one  hand 
the  desire  of  making  his  name  live  in  the  ranks  of  the 
poets  w^as  very  strong  within  him ;  on  the  other  he  was 
oppressed  by  the  pains  and  sorrows  of  his  fellow  men,  and 
longed  to  devote  himself  to  their  service.       In  the  days 

81 


when  he  was  working  as  a  medical  student  "  Poetry  was 
to  his  mind  the  zenith  of  all  his  aspirations  :  the  only  thing 
worthy  the  attention  of  superior  minds  " — such  is  the 
record  of  one  of  his  fellow  students,  already  quoted.^ 
But  a  little  later  we  find  him  writing  :  "  I  find  there  is  no 
worthy  pursuit  but  the  idea  of  doing  some  good  to  the 
world. "^  And  it  would  appear  that  for  a  time  he  could 
see  no  way  of  reconciling  the  two  ideals.  He  was  drawn 
most  powerfully  towards  each  of  them,  so  much  so  that 
he  could  not  without  pain  think  of  forsaking  either;  yet 
for  the  time  it  seemed  that  he  could  not  follow  them  both ; 
he  must  choose  between  them.  Still  less  was  it  possible 
to  return  to  the  ordinary  life  of  men  from  which  he  had 
felt  himself  to  be  separated  ever  since  he  had  seen  the 
vision  of  poetic  beauty.  And  so  a  feeling  of  depression 
settled  down  upon  him;  his  ideals  were  unattainable;  a 
return  to  his  former  life  vvas  impossible.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  way  out  of  the  tangle  of  contradiction.  He  was 
inclined  to  seek  for  peace  in  solitude,  and  to  abandon 
both  ideals  as  being  beyond  his  reach.  Yet  he  could  fmd 
no  satisfaction  in  such  a  decision.  To  cut  himself  off 
from  the  aims  and  aspirations  that  had  lifted  him  above 
the  ordinary  ways  of  men  would  not  give  rest  to  his  soul. 
Thus  far  it  may  be  that  we  have  been  shown  how  the 
struggle  and  perplexity  worked  in  the  mind  of  Keats. 

The  denouement  is  finely  conceived,  and  pictures  for 
us  a  truth  of  universal  signiricance 

Endymion,  feeling  the  impossibility  of  cutting  him- 
self off  thus  from  all  that  he  had  longed  for,  begged  Peona 
to  bring  the  Indian  maid  that  evening  to  meet  him  one- 
more;  they  were  to  come  to  the  groves  behind  the  temp^ 
of  Diana.      So  strongly  did  he  feel  the  futility  of  all  hi 

1  Sro  p.  23,  Colvin.  Life  of  Kent-',  p.  .'51. 

2  To  John   Taylor,   2tth  April,    J«1S.       This  lotlcr   reads   ns   if   lio   had 

roceutly   cleared   np   the   difllr-ulty   reft-r.'fd   to  above. 

82 


hocH3.il  and  e.tfort.s  thai:  at  cue  moment  he  was  ready  to 
vVi;lco"-i".c  de^-th,  though  at  CLnolher  it  seemed  a  cruel  end 
t.0  v/hat  he  knew  had  been  at  least  a  sinc-^ie  strivir.g  to- 
t/ards  d:e  light.  Ipx  this  mood  he  approached  the  temple, 
and  met  Reonj  and  the  Indian  maid.  When  Peona  asked 
him  what  v/as  to  happen  next,  his  answer  showed  that  he 
had  rc9ched  some  solution  ox  his  doubts  and  perT}]eMities  rue  re.-oiving 

of'!'" 

— the  solution,  that  is,  of  willingness  to  submit  entire)  v  to  >^*'-o'«':>'- 
the  guidarice  of  a  higher  power  : 

"  Sistccr,  I  would  have  commaad, 
If  it  'verr-  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate."     (I\'.  975) 

And  then  the  final  revelation  is  granted  tc  him,  and  he 
teari:-s  to  hio  amazement  and  joy  that  the  goddess  whom 
hvv  ha^  so  long  pursued,  but  has  never  fully  known,  and 
the  Indian  maiden  who  has  called  out  his  passionate 
devotion,  aic  not  rivals  for  his  love,  but  are  difterent 
aspects  of  the  same  being,  v-hom  he  now  knows  in  truth, 
and  to  Vv-Qom  he  will  henceforth  be  joined  in  deathless 
deJio-ht. 


So  it  is,  Keats  would  tell  us.  when  the  ooet  comes    • 

i 
to  realise    that  his  iongmg    aspirations  after    beauty  and    j 

perfection  in  his  poet!)',  and  his  passionate  desire  to  serve    | 

his  f.eliow  creatures,  are  not  conflicting  ideals,  but  are  one 

aiid  the  same;  that  cor  him  lo  use  faithfully  and  earnestly  1 

his  poetic  gift  is  to  render  the  highest  service  to  mmkind  ;  ; 

then  he  has  becom^e  a  true  poet.  / 

It  -s  a  p>er..sant  little  touch  that  Peona  is  no!:  shut  p^onrv-ssiKv/c 
oat  irom  a  bhare  in  this  joyful  climax,  though  she  fails 
to  'jomprehend  irs  meaning.  The  poet's  ways  are  in  a 
large  measure  ways  vdiere  otners  cannot  foilo'-v  hi.m,  yet 
he  does  noi  lose  touch  with  their  life;  and  the  men  and 
wnm-in — not  a  small  company — to  whomi  poetry  is  little 
better  chan  sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal,  ;:nd  who 
fi~il  it  incom;prehensible  that  a  lifetimie  should  be  devoted 


to  it,  may  yet  have  some  share  in  the  beauty  and  joy  that 
it  brings  into  human  life. 
Tbeintrcduc-  Xhc  introtiuction  to  this  book  dwells  on  ihe  wav  in 

tjon  to  thu  ^ 

rc-r:htoox.  y;h[(.i^  English  poetry,  refusing  to  be  merely  imitative  of 
even  the  best  of  what  other  lands  could  offer,  waited  until 
the  time  had  come  to  develop  its  own  genius;  and  Keats 
feels  that  the  new  movement  in  poetry,  with  the  celebra 
tion  of  which  this  poem  is  largely  concerned,  represents 
the  full  fruition  of  the  hopes  that  had  so  long  been 
waiting  for  fulfilment.  The  note  thus  sounded  is  in  har- 
mony with  the  triumphant  close  to  which  the  story  finally 
attains. 


§4 


hs'li  i  ^  »J^^ 


PR     Notcutt,  Henry  Clement 

4.334-      An  interpretation  of  Keat's 

E62N6   Endymion 


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