The old _Monthly Mag._ was the precursor of the _New Monthly_, which started about 1830, or thereabouts I think, after which the old one ailed, but went on till fatal old Heraud finished it off by editing it, and fairly massacred that elderly innocent. You speak, in a former letter (touching the continuation of _Christabel_), of “a certain European magazine.” Are you aware that it was as old a thing as _The Gentleman’s_, and went on _ad infinitum?_ Other such were the _Universal Magazine, the Scots’ Magazine_--all endless in extent and beginning time out of mind,--to say nothing of the _Ladies’ Magazine and Wits’ Magazine_. Then there was the _Annual Register_. All these are quarters in which you might prosecute researches, and might happen to find something about Keats. _The Monthly Magazine_ must have commenced almost as early, I believe. I cannot help thinking there was a similar _Imperial Magazine_. The following letter possesses an interest independent of its subject, which to me, however, is interest enough. Mr. William Watson had sent Rossetti a copy of a volume of poems he had just published, and had received a letter in acknowledgment, wherein our friend, with characteristic appreciativeness, said many cordial words of it: Your young friend Watson [he said in a subsequent letter] wrote me in a very modest mood for one who can do as he can at his age. I think I must have hurriedly mis-expressed myself in writing to him, as he seems to think I wished to dissuade him from following narrative poetry. Not in the least--I only wished him to try his hand at clearer dramatic life. The dreamy romantic really hardly needs more than one vast Morris in a literature--at any rate in a century. Not that I think him derivable from Morris--he goes straight back to Keats with a little modification. The narrative, whether condensed or developed, is at any rate a far better impersonal form to work in than declamatory harangue, whether calling on the stars or the Styx. I don’t know in the least how Watson is faring with the critics. He must not be discouraged, in any case, with his real and high gifts. The young poet, in whom Rossetti saw so much to applaud, can scarcely be said to have fared at all at the hands of the critics. Here is a pleasant piece of literary portraiture, as valuable from the peep it affords into Rossetti’s own character as from the description it gives of the rustic poet: