should have had her when I was in health, and I should have remained well. I can bear to die-I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God! God! God! Every thing I have in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vivid about her—I see her -I hear her. There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the case when I was in England; I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her again - Now! O that I could be buried near where she lives! I am afraid to write to her to receive a letter from her - to see her hand-writing would break my heart – even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, what am I to do? Where can I look

for consolation or ease? If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through the whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which you will do immediately, write to Rome (poste restante) — if she is well and happy, put a mark thus+; if

Remember me to all. I will endeavour to bear my miseries patiently. A person in my state of health should not have such miseries to bear. Write a short note to my sister, saying you have heard from me. Severn is very well. If I were in better health I would urge your coming to Rome. I fear there is no one can give me any comfort. Is there any news of George? O that something fortunate had ever happened to me or my brothers ! — then I might hope,

but despair is forced upon me as a habit. My dear Brown, for my sake be her advocate for ever. I cannot say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in

Rome, November 30, 1820. MY DEAR BROWN'T is the most difficult thing in the world to me to write a letter. My stomach continues so bad, that I feel it worse on opening any book, — yet I am much better than I was in quarantine. Then I am afraid to encounter the pro-ing and con-ing of anything interesting to me in England. I have an habitual feeling of my real life having passed, and that I am leading a posthumous existence. God knows how it would have been-but it appears to me-however, I will not speak of that subject. I must have been at Bedhampton nearly at the time you were writing to me from Chichester - how unfortunate - and to pass on the river too! There was my star predominant! I cannot answer anything in your letter, which followed me from Naples to Rome, because I am afraid to look it over again. I am so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the sight of any handwriting of a friend I love so much as I do you. Yet I ride the little

horse, and at my worst even in quarantine, summoned up more puns, in a sort of desperation, in one week than in any year of my life. There is one thought enough to kill me ; I have been well, healthy, alert, the etc., walking with her, and now knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and shade, all that information (primitive sense) necessary for a poem, are great enemies to the recovery of the stomach. There, you rogue, I put you to the torture; but you must bring your philosophy to bear, as I do mine, really, or how should I be able to live? Dr. Clark is very attentive to me ; he says there is very little the matter with my lungs, but my stomach, he says, is very bad. I am well disappointed in hearing good news from George, for it runs in my head we shall all die young. I have not written to Reynolds yet, which he must think very

neglectful; being anxious to send him a good account of my health, I have delayed it from week to week. If I recover, I will do all in my power to correct the mistakes made during sickness; and if I should not, all my faults will be forgiven. Severn is very well, though he leads so dull a life with me. Remember me to all friends,

and tell Haslam I should not have left London without taking leave of him, but from being so low in body and mind. Write to George as soon as you receive this, and tell him how I am, as far as you can guess; and also a note to my sister who walks about my imagination like a ghost she is so like Tom. I can scarcely bid you good-bye, even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow. God bless you!

JOHN KEATS.

I. POEMS

Page 1. IMITATION OF SPENSER.

A transcript of this poem in a copy-book of Tom Keats contains two variations from the text of 1817. Line 12 reads,

'Whose silken fins, and golden scalès light' and in line 29 glassy for glossy. The first reading is required by the rhythm; but the absence of the mark of the possessive case leads one to think that the accent mark may have been a hasty reading of the proper mark as printed.

Page 9. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.

That it was Balboa and not Cortez who first saw the Pacific Ocean, an American school-boy could have told Keats; but it is not such slips as these that unmake poetry.

Page 9. EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON MA

Leigh Hunt's competing sonnet is as follows: 'Green little vaulter in the sunny grass

Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both though small are strong
At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.'

Page 40. LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. Sir Charles Dilke has a manuscript copy of which the four closing lines are:

Our freshening River through yon birchen

grove :

Do come now!' Could he gainsay her who strove,

So soothingly, to breathe away a Curse?

Lines 440-442.

When last the Harvesters rich armfuls took.
She tied a little bucket to a Crook,

Ran some swift paces to a dark well's side,
And in a sighing-time return'd, supplied
With spar-cold water; in which she did squeeze
A snowy napkin, and upon her knees
Began to cherish her poor Brother's face;
Damping refreshfully his forehead's space,
His
eyes, his Lips: then in a cupped shell
She brought him ruby wine; then let him
smell,

Time after time, a precious amulet,
Which seldom took she from its cabinet.
Thus was he quieted to slumbrous rest:

Line 466.

A cheerfuller resignment, and a smile
For his fair Sister flowing like the Nile
Through all the channels of her piety,
He said: 'Dear Maid, may I this moment die,
If I feel not this thine endearing Love.

Lines 470-472.

From woodbine hedges such a morning feel,
As do those brighter drops, that twinkling steal
Through those pressed lashes, from the blos-
som'd plant

Lines 494, 495.

More forest-wild, more subtle-cadenced
Than can be told by mortal; even wed
The fainting tenors of a thousand shells
To a million whisperings of lily bells;
And mingle too the nightingale's complain
Caught in its hundredth echo; 't would be
vain:

Lines 539, 540.

And come to such a Ghost as I am now! But listen, Sister, I will tell thee how.

Lines 545, 556.

And in this spot the most endowing boon
Of balmy air, sweet blooms, and coverts fresh
Has been outshed; yes, all that could enmesh
Our human senses - make us fealty swear
To gadding Flora. In this grateful lair
Have I been used to pass my weary eves.

Line 555. Ditamy. So Keats unmistakably in manuscript and print. The prevailing form is dittany.