eady received: it was studiously
composed in a different style.

"Below the _good_ how far! but far above the _great_[3]!"

In poetry I have sought to avoid system and mannerism. I wish those who
excel me in genius would pursue the same plan.

'Whether you remain in England, or journey to Italy, believe that you
carry with you my anxious wishes for your health and success--wherever
you are, or whatever you undertake--and that I am

'Yours sincerely,

'P.B. SHELLEY.'

Keats's reply to Shelley ran as follows:--

'Hampstead--August 10, 1820.

'MY DEAR SHELLEY,

'I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a
mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the
letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will
be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to prophesy[4].
There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do
so in a lingering hateful manner. Therefore I must either voyage or
journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery. My nerves at
present are the worst part of me: yet they feel soothed that, come what
extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough
to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts.

'I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem--which I would
willingly take the trouble to unwrite if possible, did I care so much as
I have done about reputation.

'I received a copy of _The Cenci_, as from yourself, from Hunt. There is
only one part of it I am judge of--the poetry and dramatic effect, which
by many spirits nowadays is considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is
said, must have a purpose; which may be the God. An artist must serve
Mammon: he must have "self-concentration"--selfishness perhaps. You, I
am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb
your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your
subject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold
chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six
months together. And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of
_Endymion_, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked
up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its
monk.

'I am in expectation of _Prometheus_ every day. Could I have my own wish
effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be but now putting
an end to the second A