Southey wrote the article in question, I am well aware.  Observe the impudence of the man in speaking of himself.  The only remark worth notice in this piece is the assertion that I imitate Wordsworth.  It may as well be said that Lord Byron imitates Wordsworth, or that Wordsworth imitates Lord Byron, both being great poets, and deriving from the new springs of thought and feeling, which the great events of our age have exposed to view, a similar tone of sentiment, imagery, and expression.  A certain similarity all the best writers of any particular age inevitably are marked with, from the spirit of that age acting on all.  This I had explained in my Preface, which the writer was too disingenuous to advert to.  As to the other trash, and particularly that lame attack on my personal character, which was meant so ill, and which I am not the man to feel, ’tis all nothing.  I am glad, with respect to that part of it which alludes to Hunt, that it should so have happened that I dedicate, as you will see, a work which has all the capacities for being popular to that excellent person.  I was amused, too, with the finale; it is like the end of the first act of an opera, when that tremendous concordant discord sets up from the orchestra, and everybody talks and sings at once.  It describes the result of my battle with their Omnipotent God; his pulling me under the sea by the hair of my head, like Pharaoh; my calling out like the devil who was game to the last; swearing and cursing in all comic and horrid oaths, like a French postilion on Mount Cenis; entreating everybody to drown themselves; pretending not to be drowned myself when I am drowned; and lastly, being drowned.

You would do me a particular kindness if you would call on Hunt, and ask him when my parcel went, the name of the ship, and the name of the captain, and whether he has any bill of lading, which, if he has, you would oblige me by sending, together with the rest of the information, by return of post, addressed to the Post Office, Florence.

To MRS. HUNT

Keats and some others

[Pisa] 11 Nov. 1820.

MY BEST MARIANNE,

I am delighted to hear that you complain of me for not writing to you, although I have much more reason to complain of you for not writing to me.  At least it promises me a letter from you, and you know with what pleasure we receive, and with what anxiety we expect intelligence from you—­almost the only friends who now remain to us.

I am afraid that the strict system of expense to which you are limited annoys you all very much, and that Hunt’s health suffers both from that and from the incredible exertions which I see by the Indicators and the Examiners that he is making.  Would to Heaven that I had the power of doing you some good! but when you are sure that the wish is sincere, the bare expression of it may help to cheer you.