My dear Bailey--After a tolerable journey, I went from Coach to Coach as far as Hampstead where I found my Brothers--the next Morning finding myself tolerably well I went to Lamb's Conduit Street and delivered your parcel. Jane and Marianne were greatly improved. Marianne especially, she has no unhealthy plumpness in the face, but she comes me healthy and angular to the chin--I did not see John--I was extremely sorry to hear that poor Rice, after having had capital health during his tour, was very ill. I daresay you have heard from him. From No. 19 I went to Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neighbours.--Shelley was there--I know nothing about anything in this part of the world--every Body seems at Loggerheads. There's Hunt infatuated--there's Haydon's picture in statu quo--There's Hunt walks up and down his painting room criticising every head most unmercifully. There's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. "The web of our life is of mingled yarn."[27] Haydon having removed entirely from Marlborough Street, Cripps must direct his letter to Lisson Grove, North Paddington. Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown's, in came Reynolds, he was pretty bobbish, we had a pleasant day--he would walk home at night that cursed cold distance. Mrs. Bentley's children are making a horrid row[28]--whereby I regret I cannot be transported to your Room to write to you. I am quite disgusted with literary men and will never know another except Wordsworth--no not even Byron. Here is an instance of the friendship of such. Haydon and Hunt have known each other many years--now they live, pour ainsi dire, jealous neighbours--Haydon says to me, Keats, don't show your lines to Hunt on any Account, or he will have done half for you--so it appears Hunt wishes it to be thought. When he met Reynolds in the Theatre, John told him that I was getting on to the completion of 4000 lines--Ah! says Hunt, had it not been for me they would have been 7000! If he will say this to Reynolds, what would he to other people? Haydon received a Letter a little while back on this subject from some Lady--which contains a caution to me, through him, on the subject--now is not all this a most paltry thing to think about? You may see the whole of the case by the following Extract from a Letter I wrote to George in the Spring--"As to what you say about my being a Poet, I can return no Answer but by saying that the high Idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it towering too high above me. At any rate, I have no right to talk until Endymion is finished--it will be a test, a trial of my Powers of Imagination, and chiefly of my invention, which is a rare thing indeed--by which I must make 4000 lines of one bare circumstance, and fill them with poetry: and when I consider that this is a great task, and that when done it will take me but a dozen paces towards the temple of fame--it makes me say--God forbid that I should be without such a task! I have heard Hunt