page 284. In place of the three lines and a half following ‘patient Griselda" the original letter has the following:

66

The servant has come for the little Browns this morning-they have been a toothache to me which I shall enjoy the riddance of. Their little voices are like wasps' stings. Sometimes am I all wound with Browns.' We had a claret feast some little while ago. There were Dilke, Reynolds, Skinner, Mancur, John Brown, Martin, Brown and I. We all got a little tipsy-but pleasantly so. I enjoy Claret to a degree. I have been looking over the correspondence of the pretended Amena and Wells this evening. I now see the whole cruel deception. I think Wells must have had an accomplice in it. Amena's Letters are in a Man's language and in a Man's hand imitating a woman's. The instigations to this diabolical scheme were vanity and the love of intrigue. It was no thoughtless hoax-but a cruel deception on a sanguine Temperament, with every show of friendship. I do not think death too bad for the villain. The world would look upon it in a different light should I expose it—they would call it a frolic-so I must be wary-but I consider it my duty to be prudently revengeful. I will hang over his head like a sword by a hair. I will be opium to his vanity if I cannot injure his interests. He is a rat and he shall have ratsbane to his vanity. I will harm him all I possibly can. I have no doubt I shall be able to do so. Let us leave him to his misery alone except when we can throw in a little more.

At page 285, in line 3, “bever" should replace “bite”; and between "always with my Compliments" and " After you have eaten your breakfast," should be inserted—

1 Compare The Tempest, Act II, Scene II:

sometime am I

All wound with Adders.

When you are both set down to breakfast I advise you to eat your full share-but leave off immediately on feeling yourself inclined to anything on the other side of the puffy-avoid that for it does not become young women.

The words printed at the top of page 286 as“ tear off his buttons" should, it seems, be "Sew off his buttons"; they should follow a full stop, and be followed by this passage :

Yesterday I could not write a line I was so fatigued for the day before I went to town in the morning called on your Mother, and returned in time for a few friends. we had to dinner. These were Taylor, Woodhouse, Reynolds-we began cards at about 9 o'Clock, and the night coming on and continuing dark and rainy they could not think of returning to town. So we played at Cards till very daylight—and yesterday I was not worth a sixpence. Your Mother was very well but anxious for a Letter. We had half an hour talk and no more for I was obliged to be home. Mrs. and Miss Millar were well and so was Miss Waldegrave. I have asked your Brothers here for next Sunday. When Reynolds was here on Monday-he asked me to give Hunt a hint to take notice of his Peter Bell in the Examiner-the best thing I can do is to write a little notice of it myself which I will do here and copy out if it should suit my Purpose. "Peter Bell. There have been lately advertized two Books both Peter Bell by name; what stuff the one was made of might be seen by the motto 'I am the real Simon Pure.' This false florimel has hurried from the press and obtruded herself into public notice while for ought we know the real one may be still wandering about the woods and mountains. Let us hope she may soon make her appearance and make good her right to

the magic girdle. The Pamphleteering Archimage we can perceive has rather a splenetic love than a downright hatred to real florimels-if indeed they had been so christened or had even a pretention to play at bob cherry with Barbara Lewthwaite : but he has a fixed aversion to those three rhyming Graces Alice Fell, Susan Gale and Betty Foy and who can wonder at it? and now at length especially to Peter Bell-fit Apollo. The writer of this little skit from understanding It may be seen from one or two Passages of in this little skit, that the writer of it has felt the finer parts of Mr. Wordsworths Poetry, and perhaps expatiated with his more remote and sublimer muse; who sits aloof in a cheerful sadness, and This as far as it relates to Peter Bell is unlucky. The more he may love the sad embroidery of the Excursion; the more he will hate the coarse Samplers of Betty Foy and Alice Fell; and as they come from the same hand, the better will be able to imitate that which can be imitated, to wit Peter Bell-as far as can be imagined from the obstinate name. We repeat it is very unlucky-this real Simon Pure is in parts the very Man-there is a pernicious likeness in the scenery, a 'pestilent humour' in the rhymes and an inveterate cadence in some of the Stanzas that must be lamented. If we are one part pleased amused with this we are three parts sorry that an appreciator of Wordsworth should show so much temper at this really provoking name of Peter Bell-!" This will do well enough-I have copied it and enclosed it to Hunt. You will call it a little politic-seeing I keep clear of all parties-I say something for and against both parties— and suit it to the tune of the Examiner-I meant to say I do not unsuit it-and I believe I think what I say-nay I am sure I do—I and my conscience are in luck to day -which is an excellent thing. The other night I went.

to the Play with Rice, Reynolds and Martin-we saw a new dull and half damn'd opera call'd "the Heart of Mid Lothian "-that was on Saturday. I stopt at Taylor's on Sunday with Woodhouse-and passed a quiet sort of pleasant day. I have been very much pleased with the Panorama of the Ships at the north Pole-with the icebergs, the Mountains, the Bears, the Wolves-the seals, the Penguins—and a large whale floating back above water-it is impossible to describe the place.

Wednesday Evening

La belle dame sans merci—

The little review of "Peter Bell" was printed in "The Examiner" for April 25, 1819, with some modification (see page cxxiv of this volume). The heading given above is followed in the holograph by the wonderful ballad of "La Belle Dame," showing revisions of text of the most interesting kind. At the close of the poem is the following charming comment:

Why four kisses-you will say-why four because I wish to restrain the headlong impetuosity of my Museshe would have fain said "score" without hurting the rhyme-but we must temper the Imagination as the Critics say with Judgment. I was obliged to choose an even number that both eyes might have fair play, and to speak truly I think two a piece quite sufficient. Suppose I had said seven there would have been three and a half a piece -a very awkward affair and well got out of on my side

This immediately precedes the "Chorus of Fairies 4 Fire, air, earth and water-Salamander, Zephyr, Dusketha, Breama-" which will be found at pages 340 to 344 of Volume II; and that poem is followed by an unusually thoughtful passage of prose, to wit

I have been reading lately two very different books,

Robertson's America and Voltaire's Siecle de Louis xiv. It is like walking arm and arm between Pizarro and the great-little Monarch. In how lamentable a case do we see the great body of the people in both instances; in the first when Men might seem to inherit quiet of Mind from unsophisticated senses; from uncontamination of civilization and especially from their being as it were estranged from the mutual helps of Society and its mutual injuries-and thereby more immediately under the Protection of Providence-even there they had mortal pains to bear as bad, or even worse than Ba[i]liffs, Debts and Poverties of civilized Life. The whole appears to resolve into this-that Man is originally a poor forked creature subject to the same mischances as the beasts of the forest, destined to hardships and disquietude of some kind or other. If he improves by degrees his bodily accom[m]odations and comforts-at each stage, at each accent there are waiting for him a fresh set of annoyances -he is mortal and there is still a heaven with its stars above his head. The most interesting question that can come before us is, How far by the persevering endeavours of a seldom appearing Socrates Mankind may be made happy —I can imagine such happiness carried to an extremebut what must it end in ?-Death-and who could in such a case bear with death-the whole troubles of life which are now frittered away in a series of years, would the[n] be accumulated for the last days of a being who instead of hailing its approach would leave this world as Eve left Paradise. But in truth I do not at all believe in this sort of perfectibility-the nature of the world will not admit of it-the inhabitants of the world will correspond to itself. Let the fish Philosophise the ice away from the Rivers in winter time and they shall be at continual play in the tepid delight of summer. Look at the