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of bursting a blood-vessel, I drank three bottles of Claret, and began an answer, finding that there was nothing in the Article for which I could lawfully knock Jeffrey on the head, in an honourable way. However, I would not be the person who wrote the homicidal article, for all the honour and glory in the World, though I by no means approve of that School of Scribbling which it treats upon.

(1821, April 26. Letter 884, to John Murray, Vol. V., p. 269.)

Did you know John Keats? They say that he was killed by a review of him in the Quarterly-if he be dead, which I really don't know. I don't understand that yielding sensitiveness. What I feel (as at this present) is an immense rage for eight-and-forty hours, and then, as usual-unless this time it should last longer.

(1821, May 14. Letter 892, to Thomas Moore, Vol. V., p. 287.)

I have just read "John Bull's letter:" it is diabolically well written, and full of fun and ferocity. I must forgive the dog, whoever he is, I suspect three people one is Hobhouse, the other M' Peacock (a very clever fellow), and lastly Israeli; there are parts very like Israeli; and he has a present grudge with Bowles and Southey, etc. There is something too of the author of the Sketch-book in the Style. Find him

out.

(1821, June 29. Letter 906, to John

Murray, Vol. V., p. 315.)

It appears to me that there is a distinction between native and foreign criticism in the case of living authors, or at least should be; I don't speak of Journalists (who are the same all over the world), but where a man, with his name at length, sits down to an elaborate attempt to defame a foreigner of his acquaintance, without provocation and without legitimate object for what can I import to the Germans? What effect can I have upon their literature? . . . I have just been turning over the homicide review of J. Keats. It is harsh certainly and contemptuous, but not more so than what I recollect of the Edinburgh R. of "the Hours of Idleness" in 1808. The Reviewer allows him "a degree of talent which deserves to be put in the right way,' "rays of fancy," "gleams of Genius," and "powers of language." It is harder upon L. Hunt than upon Keats, and professes fairly to review only one book of his poem. Altogether, though very provoking, it was hardly so bitter as to kill, unless there was a morbid feeling previously in his system.

(1821, August 7.

Letter 918, to John Murray, Vol. V., p. 341.)

I have read over the poem [i.e. Don Juan, Cantos iii., iv., and v.] carefully, and I tell you, it is poetry. Your little envious knot of parson-poets may say what they please: time will show that I am not in this instance mistaken. I see in the last two

Numbers of the Quarterly a strong itching to assail me (see the review of the "Etonian"); let it, and see if they shan't have enough of it. I don't allude to Gifford, who has always been my friend, and whom I

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do not consider responsible for the articles written by others. But if I do not give Mr Milman, and others of the crew, something that shall occupy their dreams! I have not begun with the Quarterers; but let them look to it. As for Milman (you well know I have not been unfair to his poetry ever), but I have lately had some information of his critical proceedings in the Quarterly, which may bring that on him which he will be sorry for. I happen to know that of him, which would annihilate him, when he pretends to preach morality-not that he is immoral.

(1821, August 31. Letter 924, to John Murray, Vol. V., p. 352.)

I have been thinking over our late correspondence, and wish to propose to you the following articles for our future:

4thly. That you send me no periodical works whatsoever-no Edinburgh, Quarterly, Monthly, nor any Review, Magazine, Newspaper, English or foreign, of any description. 5thly. That you send me no opinions whatsoever, either good, bad, or indifferent, of yourself, or your friends, or others, concerning any work, or works of mine, past, present, or to come.

Some of these propositions may at first seem strange, but they are founded. . . . Reviews and Magazines are at the best but ephemeral and superficial reading who thinks of the grand article of last year in any given review? in the next place, if they regard myself, they tend to increase Egotism; if favourable, I do not deny that the praise elates, and if unfavourable, that the abuse irritates-the latter may conduct me to inflict a species of Satire, which

would neither do good to you nor to your friends: they may smile now, and so may you; but if I took you all in hand, it would not be difficult to cut you up like gourds. I did as much by as powerful people at nineteen years old, and I know little as yet, in three-and-thirty, which should prevent me from making all your ribs Gridirons for your hearts, if such were my propensity. But it is not. Therefore let me hear none of your provocations. If any thing occurs so very gross as to require my notice, I shall hear of it from my personal friends. For the rest, I merely request to be left in ignorance. The same applies to opinions, good, bad, or indifferent, of persons in conversation or correspondence: these do not interrupt, but they soil the current of my Mind. I am sensitive enough, but not till I am touched; and here I am beyond the touch of the short arms of literary England, except the few feelers of the Polypus that crawl over the Channel in the way of Extract. All these precautions in England would be useless: the libeller or the flatterer would there reach me in spite of all; but in Italy we know little of literary England, and think less, except what reaches us through some garbled and brief extract in some miserable Gazette. (1821, September 24. Letter 938, to John Murray, Vol. V., p. 373.)

I see the way that he [i.e. Murray] and his Quarterly people are tending they want a row with me, and they shall have it. I only regret that I am not in England for the nonce; as, here, it is hardly fair ground for me, isolated and out of the way of prompt rejoinder and information as I am. But, though

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backed by all the corruption, and infamy, and patronage of their master rogues and slave renegadoes, if they do once rouse me up,

"They had better gall the devil, Salisbury."

I have that for two or three of them, which they had better not move me to put in motion;—and yet, after all, what a fool I am to disquiet myself about such fellows! It was all very well ten or twelve years ago, when I was a "curled darling," and minded such things. At present, I rate them at their true value; but, from natural temper and bile, am not able to keep quiet.

(1821, October 28. Letter 952, to Thomas Moore, Vol. V., p. 398.)

You have received my letter (open) through M' Kinnaird, and so, pray, send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years.

(1821, November 3. Letter 954, to John Murray, Vol. V., p. 472.)

Attacks upon me were to be expected; but I perceive one upon you in the papers, which I confess that I did not expect. How, or in what manner, you can be considered responsible for what I publish, I am at a loss to conceive.

If Cain be "blasphemous," Paradise Lost is blasphemous; and the very words of the Oxford