uncertainties which you are so peculiarly made to create. My recovery of bodily health will be of no benefit to me if you are not mine when I am well. For God’s sake save me—or tell me my passion is of too awful a nature for you. Again God bless you. J. K. No—my sweet Fanny—I am wrong—I do not wish you to be unhappy—and yet I do, I must while there is so sweet a Beauty—my loveliest, my darling! good bye! I kiss you—O the torments! APPENDIX. I. FANNY BRAWNE’S ESTIMATE OF KEATS. In discussing the effect which the _Quarterly Review_ article had on Keats, Medwin[58] quotes the following passages from a communication addressed to him by Fanny Brawne after her marriage:— “I did not know Keats at the time the review appeared. It was published, if I remember rightly, in June, 1818.[59] However great his mortification might have been, he was not, I should say, of a character likely to have displayed it in the manner mentioned in Mrs. Shelley’s Remains of her husband. Keats, soon after the appearance of the review in question, started on a walking expedition into the Highlands. From thence he was forced to return, in consequence of the illness of a brother, whose death a few months afterwards affected him strongly. “It was about this time that I became acquainted with Keats. We met frequently at the house of a mutual friend, (not Leigh Hunt’s), but neither then nor afterwards did I see anything in his manner to give the idea that he was brooding over any secret grief or disappointment. His conversation was in the highest degree interesting, and his spirits good, excepting at moments when anxiety regarding his brother’s health dejected them. His own illness, that commenced in January 1820,[60] began from inflammation in the lungs, from cold. In coughing, he ruptured a blood-vessel. An hereditary tendency to consumption was aggravated by the excessive susceptibility of his temperament, for I never see those often quoted lines of Dryden without thinking how exactly they applied to Keats:— The fiery soul, that working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay. From the commencement of his malady he was forbidden to write a line of poetry,[61] and his failing health, joined to the uncertainty of his prospects, often threw him into deep melancholy.