John Keats.

ROME has seen many illustrious men. Her emperors, patriots and sages, have built for her an undying fame, through all time, by deed and word. Not even the Goth and Vandal could tear down what had so firmly been reared, and Rome of our day is still, in name at least, the Imperial City. Here cluster the votaries of art, at the shrine of the Apollo Belvedere, the Venus de Medicis, and the Laocöon. The painter revels in the luxuriance of the Italian scenery, and the glow of the Italian sky, and from Europe and America come the learned, the wealthy, the refined, all on a pious pilgrimage to the last lingering traces of classic beauty and classic art.

But there are many beside these who come, seeking in the clear air and cool breezes, that health which other climes could no longer give. You may see their pale faces as you walk the streets, successors of those who, for years, have been brought hither on the same errand.

Near the close of the year 1819, a young Englishman, suffering from almost hopeless consumption, came with a friend to Rome. He took up his residence in the Piazza di Spagna, and was attended by Dr., afterwards Sir James, Clark. But it was found impossible to check the disease, and by the early part of 1820, the invalid was never from his room; rarely from his bed.

His friend watched him with more than a brother's tenderness, and his excellent physician was unremitting in his efforts. For a very short time these attentions seemed not without effect; but it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame which gave them hope. On the night of the 23d of February, the sick man lies dying. By his side sits the friend who has so faithfully watched him for three long months, and who now, with all hope gone, can do no more than wait for the last scene which shall close the tragedy. A book lies open upon his knee, unheeded now, by both, since he for whose pleasure it was taken up, has lost all power of attention. He is resting peacefully, for the first time in many days, breathing the perfume of a few favorite flowers, and the wearied one at his side falls into a troubled sleep.

It is a sad picture. That pale, intellectual face is strangely altered since the time of his health; strangely written over by the fingers of care, with hieroglyphics known to God alone. Yet it has now, in his stillness, the look of other days; the old Apollo cast of features, mar

red, but not spoiled, by the slightly projecting underlip, and radiant with the glory of the golden hair. A noble ruin, truly!

It is a little before four in the morning, and the sick man awakes with a start, and a convulsive effort to gain his breath. In broken words, he tells his friend to raise him up, and to thank God it has come at last. Half-sitting, half-lying, "the phlegm seems to boil in his throat;" his head falls back on Severn's shoulder, and, almost before you can realize it, he has passed away. And then comes over the countenance that settled expression of perfect rest, so often seen and remarked in those who, through life, have borne much trouble.-John Keats is dead.

In those days Rome was fearful of plague-was superstitious. Hardly has the body been removed, when the police fumigate the room, scrape the walls, and drive the lonely watcher, weighed down by the burden of his grief, to seek for shelter elsewhere. All the record of the poet's death is the new-made grave in the Protestant cemetery, near to the pyramidal tomb of the old tribune, Caius Cestius, and guarded on every side by the violets and daisies, which have taken to their care, when dead, him who in life loved them so well.

Our duty, in this essay, is to look at John Keats as a man, as a poet, and at his works: to speak no unkind word of censure, or unduly to exalt what he has written, but to give you the plain story, and to tell you the honest opinion of unprejudiced men. By some he has been blamed too severely, by others praised too highly, we would avoid both extremes.

Keats would have been a poet, but not the one he was, had he not found at school a venerable and battered Lempriere's Dictionary. It fired his mind with many a quaint old legend, many a wonderful story. Nymphs, Satyrs, Heroes, Gods and Goddesses, became to him no mere fiction, but real beings, endued with a power they had not had, save when Greece and Rome were young. Of course, this displayed itself in his school exercises-it could not fail-and his teachers, luckily for him, sensible men, fostered in him this love of the beautiful, until it grew into forming a very part of his nature. Nor was their kindness bestowed amiss. Whether through ambition or a wish to give them pleasure, Keats suddenly became possessed of a strong desire to obtain all the first prizes for literary merit. In this he fully succeeded, but it was at the expense of his ordinary recreation, the time for which he would spend in writing translations of Virgil, or Fenelon, or in reading equally congenial works. These were, however, but few. Spence's "Polymetis," Tooke's "Pantheon," and Lempriere,

introduced him into ancient mythology, while Marmontel's "Incas of Peru," ," "Robinson Crusoe," and Shakspeare, led him to the more modern haunts of fancy.

In this way he passed his school days, till the period when it was deemed best for him to commence the study of medicine, as apprentice to a surgeon. Most fortunately for him, as in this manner he became acquainted with Charles Cowden Clark, a long and faithful friend. Through him and his father, books were loaned to the young enthusiast, for so they all regarded him, that his favorite subjects might be made clear to his mind. Works he would scarcely else have seen, thus became familiar, and they said of him, that he devoured them all, and was ever craving more. Then came that love for the old poets, for Chaucer, Ben Jonson, Phineas Fletcher, Drayton, and the Milton of the "Lycidas," and "Arcades," which so filled his thought and showed in his writings. Shakspeare was growing on him daily, and rarely has there been so devoted a student of the great poet's beauties. Bat Spenser was his first love, and at this time his undoubted preference. A quaint simile, or elegant turn in the verse, would delight him beyond measure, and he was never so pleased as when he dug out some trophy, like “the sea-shouldering whale,” to exhibit and glory over.

To sum up his character in a few words, he was a perfect creature of impulse and sensibility; no gem escaped his quick perception, and he fairly reveled in the new world, which opened like fairy land to his view.

At London, where he went to prosecute his studies, we find him even more fortunate in his friendships. He was introduced into the choicest literary circles, and passed much of his time with Leigh Hunt and his compeers. In fact, he has been accused, and with some truth, of imitating Hunt in his forms of expression, and yielding to him undue adoration. Be this as it may, it is certain, that the friendly sympathy of the author of "Rimini," was worth very much to the future author of "Hyperion," and made more of his merits than he himself, unaided, could have done.

Nor did he, in the midst of these literary enjoyments, neglect the more serious duties of study. His note-book bore the evidence of accurate and continued attention, and he obtained the degree of Doctor of Medicine, with ease and honor.

And now comes the great mistake in his life. He had very little money, and no chance of making more, except by the practice of his profession. In this, his skill was beyond peradventure. His readiness

of hand and eye was universally noticed, and few had a better opportunity to begin a successful course. And yet, almost as soon as he graduated, he gave up his profession entirely, merely alleging as a reason, "that he feared he might do some harm." Would that all physicians were even half as susceptible!

He launched out on the broad ocean of life with no firmer support beneath him than the flimsy tissue of poetry. Now poetry is an excellent thing under certain restrictions; it combines beauties no other art possesses; it enchants by the charms of both music and painting, and he who denies the utility of poetry, denies the utility of words. But too much of it cloys. Like the Israelites, we grumble because we have all manna, and no meat, and would sooner choose the coarseest fare, instead of its dainties. It is therefore, on the face of it, a very hazardous experiment, to say the least, to depend for a livelihood on what must inevitably satiate the public taste. You may search the records of poets' lives, if you will, but you will find the exception rare indeed to the rule, that the successful bard has always begun with money, or with a trade or profession. Those who have not, are those who, in spite of talents, have failed. There always will be times when the publishers refuse poetry a fair recompense, when magazines are niggardly, and when the author fails to get the value of his work. There is always need of prose, but there is often no use for poetry. How then shall he live, who, as yet unknown to fame, craves admission and pay together? Collins went around the streets of London, starving, because he could not sell to any publisher his "Ode on the Passions," and finally died, a confirmed lunatic, because no one would buy or appreciate its companions. Chatterton-whose example, well known as it was to Keats, might have taught him better-sought wealth and fame through his verses, and splendid instance of misguided talent as he is, was treated as a forger, denounced, repulsed, and weary of the constant struggle, put an end to his own life. Goldsmith succeeded, though not by poetry alone; but while he rose, hundreds sank. Keats tried it, and died in extremest poverty.

His first volume, published shortly after his arrival in London, was an utter failure. No one spoke of it, no one criticised it, and it fell completely dead.

But in view of all this, Keats is firm in his purpose, and gives up all for poetry. He begins a life of sensations, sensibilities, and sensuousness-mark you, not sensuality. We have seen that he was a creature of his impulses and emotions-he gives up all now for these.

However, he entered on his new life with more manliness and reso

luteness, than his character would imply. He read and studied the old authors; conversed with friends; took tours to visit scenery, and lived in picturesque spots. Then, after a number of contributions to Leigh Hunt's journal, he sent forth to the world "Endymion," his longest, most ambitious poem.

If his first book had failed to attract attention, this one brought the critics upon him with double fury. Blackwood's Magazine, in an article which Keats supposed, though erroneously, to be the work of Sir Walter Scott, dubbed the class of writing to which his poems belonged with the title of the "Cockney School," and ridiculed them unmercifully. About the same time, and before Jeffrey had even thought of that criticism which has so honored his name, Gifford published, in the Quarterly Review, his ever memorable article, distinguished no less by its superciliousness than by its keen malice, and unchecked brutality. In four pages he cites absurdities enough to damn to eternal disgrace any justly censured production, and, worst of all, he does it unfairly. He destroys connections which would explain, and contrasts which would palliate, and never even gives it credit for a single excellence. At the lapse of more than forty years, it almost makes one's blood boil to read it. And when we think of the shock it must have given the poet, we no longer wonder at the current rumor, of those words forming his death-warrant. But we trust Charles Brown and Monckton Milnes, when they tell us it was not so, and himself, when he corroborates the assertion.

On this score, then, let Mr. Gifford go free. Grievously did he jar the frail vessel, but his was not the hand to break it. Yet he suffered far more for his attempt than others would for the deed. Never was. critic so scathed and scorched by the fires of any wrath as was he by Shelley's, in "Adonais." Unsparing as the Furies, each word follows him, driving him from hearthstone and altar, into the scorn of the world.

But the strong will of Keats rose, undaunted, over all. Like the tree of the Indian magician, sprang at once into leaf and flower and fruit, the purpose to which we owe that grand torso, "Hyperion," and the exquisite Eve of St. Agnes." It gave a new zest to his life, acted on him as a perpetual goad, and resulted in that triumph which he died too soon to enjoy.

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We have mentioned his first and second volumes; the third, “Lamia, Isabella, and Other Poems," was his last. From these, and his posthumous papers, we are to draw our conclusions respecting his merit as a poet. And as his writings readily divide into four classes,