I have written this that you might see I have my share of the highest pleasures and that though I may choose to pass my days alone I shall be no Solitary. You see there is nothing spleenical in all this. The only thing that can ever affect me personally for more than one short passing day, is any doubt about my powers for poetry-I seldom have any, and I look with hope to the nighing time when I shall have none. I am as happy as a Man can bethat is in myself I should be happy if Tom was well, and I knew you were passing pleasant days. Then I should be most enviable-with the yearning Passion I have for the beautiful, connected and made one with the ambition of my intellect. Think of my Pleasure in Solitude in comparison of my commerce with the world-there I am a child-there they do not know me, not even my most intimate acquaintance-I give in to their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child. Some think me middling, others silly, others foolish-every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will, when in truth it is with my will-I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so great a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room, and eclipse from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet. I hope I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species, and though it may sound paradoxical, my greatest elevations of soul leave me every time more humbled.—Enough of thisthough in your Love for me you will not think it enough.

Haslam has been here this morning and has taken all the Letters except this sheet, which I shall send him by the Twopenny, as he will put the Parcel in the Boston post Bag by the advice of Capper and Hazlewood, who

assure him of the safety and expedition that way-the Parcel will be forwarded to Warder and thence to you all the same. There will not be a Philadelphia ship for these six weeks-by that time I shall have another Letter to you. Mind you I mark this letter A. By the time you will receive this you will have I trust passed through the greatest of your fatigues. As it was with your Sea Sickness I shall not hear of them till they are past. Do not set to your occupation with too great an anxiety-take it calmly-and let your health be the prime consideration. I hope you will have a Son, and it is one of my first wishes to have him in my Arms-which I will do please God before he cuts one double tooth. Tom is rather more easy than he has been but is still so nervous that I cannot speak to him of these Matters -indeed it is the care I have had to keep his Mind aloof from feelings too acute that has made this letter so short a one-I did not like to write before him a Letter he knew was to reach your hands-I cannot even now ask him for any Message—his heart speaks to you. Be as happy as you can. Think of me and for my sake be cheerful.

1

Believe me my dear Brother and Sister
Your anxious and affectionate Brother
John

This day is my Birthday—

All our friends have been anxious in their enquiries and all send their remembrances.

My dear Fanny,

LXXX.

To FANNY KEATS.

[Postmark, Hampstead, 5 November 1818.]

I have seen Mr. Abbey three times about you, and have not been able to get his consent. He says that once more between this and the Holydays will be sufficient. What can I do? I should have been at Walthamstow several times, but I am not able to leave Tom for so long a time as that would take me. Poor Tom has been rather better these 4 last days in consequence of obtaining a little rest a nights. Write to me as often as you can, and believe that I would do any thing to give you any pleasure we must as yet wait patiently.

Your amende Honorable I must call "un surcroit d'Amitié," for I am not at all sensible of anything but that you were unfortunately engaged and I was unfortunately in a hurry. I completely understand your feeling in this mistake, and find in it that balance of comfort which remains after regretting your uneasiness. I have long made up my mind to take for granted the genuine

heartedness of my friends, notwithstanding any temporary ambiguousness in their behaviour or their tongues, nothing of which however I had the least scent of this morning. I say completely understand; for I am everlastingly getting my mind into such-like painful trammels—and am even at this moment suffering under them in the case of a friend of ours.-I will tell you two most unfortunate and parallel slips-it seems down-right preintention. A friend says to me, "Keats, I shall go and see Severn this week."-"Ah! (says I) you want him to take your Portrait."—And again, "Keats," says a friend, "when will you come to town again?"-"I will," says I, 66 let you have the MS. next week." In both these cases I appeared to attribute an interested motive to each of my friends' questions-the first made him flush, the second made him look angry:-and yet I am innocent in both cases; my mind leapt over every interval, to what I saw was per se a pleasant subject with him. You see I have no allowances to make-you see how far I am from supposing you could show me any neglect. I very much regret the long time I have been obliged to exile from you: for I have one or two rather pleasant occasions to confer upon with you. What I have heard from George is favourable-I expect a letter from the Settlement itself.

Your sincere friend

I cannot give any good news of Tom.

John Keats.

My dear Fanny,

LXXXII.

To FANNY KEATS.

Tuesday Morn

[Postmark, Hampstead, 1 December 1818.]

Poor Tom' has been so bad that I have delayed your visit hither-as it would be so painful to you both. I cannot say he is any better this morning—he is in a very dangerous state-I have scarce any hopes of him. Keep up your spirits for me my dear Fanny-repose entirely in

I am greatly obliged to you. I must needs feel flattered by making an impression on a set of ladies. I should be content to do so by meretricious romance verse, if they alone, and not men, were to judge. I should like very much to know those ladies-though look here, Woodhouse—I have a new leaf to turn over: I must work; I must read; I must write. I am unable to

He died the same day, and was buried in the church of St. Stephen, Coleman Street, on the 7th of December 1818.