still thought he slept." Three days later his body was carried, attended by several of the English in Rome who had heard his story, to its grave in that retired and verdant cemetery which for his sake and Shelley's has become a place of pilgrimage to the English race for ever. It was but the other day that the remains of Severn were laid in their last resting-place beside his friend.'

1 Severn, as most readers will remember, died at Rome in 1879, and his remains were, in 1882, removed from their original burying-place to a grave beside those of Keats in the Protestant cemetery near the pyramid of Caius Sestius.

CHAPTER IX.

Character and Genius.

THE touching circumstances of Keats's illness and death at Rome aroused, naturally, as soon as they were known, the sympathy of every generous mind. Foremost, as all the world knows, in the expression of that sympathy was Shelley. He had been misinformed as to the degree in which the critics had contributed to Keats's sufferings, and believing that they had killed him, was full both of righteous wrath against the offenders and of passionate regret for what the world had lost. Under the stress of that double inspiration Shelley wrote

"And a whirlwind of music came sweet from the spheres."

As an utterance of abstract pity and indignation, Adonaïs is unsurpassed in literature; with its hurrying train of beautiful spectral images, and the irresistible current and thrilling modulation of its verse, it is perhaps the most perfect and sympathetic effort of Shelley's art; while its strain of transcendental consolation for mortal loss contains the most lucid exposition of his philosophy. But of Keats as he actually lived the elegy presents no feature, while the general impression it conveys of his character and fate is erroneous. A similar false impression was at the same time conveyed to a circle of readers incommeasurably wider than that reached by Shelley in the well

known stanza of Don Juan. In regard to Keats, Byron tried both to hunt with the hounds and run with the hare. When the Edinburgh praised him he was furious, and on receipt of the Lamia volume wrote with vulgar savagery to Murray: "No more Keats, I entreat-flay him alive; if some of you don't, I must skin him myself." Then after his death, hearing that it had been caused by the critics, he turns against the latter, and cries: "I would not be the person who wrote that homicidal article for all the honour and glory of the world." In the Don Juan passage he contrived to have his fling at the reviewers, and at the weakness, as he imagined it, of their victim in the same breath.

Taken together with the notion of "Johnny Keats" to which Blackwood and the Quarterly had previously given currency, the Adonaïs and the Don Juan passage alike tended to fix in the public mind an impression of Keats's character as that of a weakling to whom the breath of detraction had been poison. It was long before his friends, who knew that he was 66 as like Johnny Keats as the Holy Ghost," did anything effectual to set his memory right. Brown had been bent on doing so from the first, but in the end wrote only the brief memoir, still in manuscript, which has been quoted so often in the above pages. anything like a full biography, George Keats in America could alone have supplied the information; but against him, since he had failed to send help to his poet-brother in the hour of need (having been in truth simply unable to do so), Brown had unluckily conceived so harsh a prejudice that friendly communication between them became impossible. Neither was Dilke, who alone among Keats's friends in England took George's part, disposed, under the circumstances, to help Brown in his task. For a long time

For

George himself hoped to superintend and supply materials for a life of his brother, but partly his want of literary experience, and partly the difficulty of leaving his occupations in the West, prevented him. Mr. Taylor, the publisher, also at one time wished to be Keats's biographer, and with the help of Woodhouse collected materials for the purpose, but in the end failed to use them. The same wish was entertained by John Hamilton Reynolds, whose literary skill and fine judgment and delicacy should have made him, of all the poet's friends, the most competent for the work. But of these many projects not one had been carried out when, five-and-twenty years after Keats's death, a younger man, who had never seen him, took up the taskthe Monckton Milnes of those days, the Lord Houghton freshly remembered by us all-and with help from nearly all Keats's surviving friends, and by the grace of his own genial and sympathetic temper, set the memory of the poet in its true light in the beautiful and moving book with which every student is familiar.

Keats had, indeed, enemies within his house, apart (if the separation can with truth be made) from the secret presence of that worst enemy of all, inherited disease, which killed him. He had a nature all tingling with pride and sensitiveness; he had the perilous capacity and appetite for pleasure to which he owns when he speaks of his own "exquisite sense of the luxurious;" and with it the besetting tendency to self- torment which he describes as his "horrid morbidity of temperament." The greater his credit that on the one hand he gave way so little to selfindulgence, and that, on the other, he battled so bravely with the spirits that plagued him. To the bridle thus put on himself he alludes in his unaffected way when he speaks of the "violence of his temperament, continually smoth

ered up." Left fatherless at eight, motherless at fifteen, and subject, during the forming years of his life which followed, to no other discipline but that of apprenticeship in a suburban surgery, he showed in his life such generosity, modesty, humour, and self-knowledge, such a spirit of conduct and degree of self-control, as would have done honour to one infinitely better trained and less hardly tried. His hold over himself gave way, indeed, under the stress of passion, and as a lover he betrays all the weak places of his nature. But we must remember his state of health when the passion seized, and the worse state into which it quickly threw, him, as well as the lack there was in her who caused it-not, indeed, so far as we can judge, of kindness and loyalty, but certainly, it would seem, of the woman's finer genius of tact and tenderness. Under another kind of trial, when the work he offered to the world, in all soberness of self-judgment and of hope, was thrust back upon him with gibes and insult, he bore himself with true dignity; and if the practical consequences preyed upon his mind, it was not more than reason and the state of his fortunes justified.

In all ordinary relations of life his character was conspicuous alike for manly spirit and sweetness. No man who ever lived has inspired in his friends a deeper or more devoted affection. One, of whose name we have heard little in this history,' wrote while the poet lay dying: "Keats must get himself again, Severn, if but for me-I cannot afford to lose him; if I know what it is to love, I truly love John Keats." The following is from a letter of Brown, written also during his illness: "He is present to me everywhere and at all times-he now seems sitting here at my side, and looking hard into my face. . .. 1 Haslam, in Severn MSS.