earth, but also increase in knowledge, and know all things."

This self-drawn picture of the mind, or rather the temperament, of Keats might well inspire painful reflections. If this were a completely true representation, it is evident that those sensuous appetites, and that yearning for enjoyment which has made his poetry the wail and remonstrance of a disinherited Paganism, must ere long have worn away all manliness of character and degenerated into a peevish sentimentalism. But he was preserved from this destiny by the strong presence of counteracting qualities, unselfish benevolence, a sturdy love of right, and that main security and test of moral earnestness, a deep sense of honour. In this spirit he wrote about the same time to his brothers-after asserting that works of genius are the finest things in this world-"No! for that sort of probity and disinterestedness which such men as Bailey possess does hold and grasp the tip-top of any spiritual honours that can be paid to anything in this world. And, moreover, having this feeling at this present come over me in its full force, I sat down to write to you with a grateful heart, in that I had not a brother who did not feel and credit me for a deeper feeling and devotion for his uprightness, than for any marks of genius, however splendid."

With a great work on hand and in improved health he seems at this time to have enjoyed himself thoroughly. His bodily vigour must have been considerable, for he signalised himself one day by giving a severe drubbing to a butcher whom he

MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS.

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caught beating a little boy, to the enthusiastic admiration of a crowd of bystanders. His society was much sought after from the agreeable combination of earnestness and pleasantry, which distinguished him both from graver and gayer men. The good and fine things he said gained much by his happy transitions of manner. His habitual gentleness gave effect to his occasional bursts of indignation, and at the mention of oppression or wrong, or at any calumny against those he loved, he rose into grave manliness at once and seemed like a tall man. On one occasion when a falsehood respecting the young artist Severn was repeated and dwelt upon, he left the room, saying, "he should be ashamed to sit with men who could utter and believe such things." Another time, hearing of some base conduct, he exclaimed, "Is there no human dust-hole into which we can sweep such fellows?" He used to complain of the usual character of conversation, and said, "If Lord Bacon were alive, and to make a remark in the present day in company, the conversation would stop on a sudden."

To the production of Endymion, Keats added some charming compositions in a lighter style, such as the "Lines on the Mermaid Tavern," "Robin Hood," and "Fancy," showing a perfect mastery over the more ordinary and fluent rhythm. His sense of the poetic function evidently grew with his task. He wrote to Mr. Reynolds, "We hate Poetry that has a palpable design upon us, and, if we do not agree, seems to put its hand into its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing

which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject. How beautiful are the retired flowers! How would they lose their beauty, were they to throng into the highway, crying out, 'Admire me, I am a violet! Dote upon me, I am a primrose!'"

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Again, "When man has arrived at a certain ripeness of intellect, any one grand and spiritual passage serves him as a starting-post towards all the twoand-thirty palaces.' How happy is such a voyage of conception, what delicious diligent indolence! doze upon a sofa does not hinder it, and a nap upon clover engenders ethereal finger-pointings; the prattle of a child gives it wings, and the converse of middleage a strength to beat them; a strain of music conducts to an odd angle of the Isle,' and when the leaves whisper, it puts a girdle round the earth.' Nor will this sparing touch of noble books be any irreverence to these writers; for, perhaps, the honours paid by man to man, are trifles in comparison to the benefit done by great works to the 'spirit and pulse of good' by their mere passive existence. Memory should not be called knowledge. Many have original minds who do not think it: they are led away by custom. Now it appears to me that almost any man may, like the spider, spin from his own inwards, his own airy citadel. The points of leaves and twigs on which the spider begins her work are few, and she fills the air with a beautiful circuiting. Man should be content with as few points to tip with the fine web of his soul, and weave a tapestry empyrean-full of symbols for his spiritual eye, of

softness for his spiritual touch, of space for his wandering, of distinctness for his luxury. But the minds of mortals are so different and bent on such diverse journeys, that it may at first appear impossible for any common taste and fellowship to exist between two or three, under those suppositions. It is, however, quite the contrary. Minds would lead each other in contrary directions, traverse each other in numberless points, and at last greet each other at the journey's end. An old man and a child would talk together, and the old man be led on his path and the child left thinking. Man should not dispute or assert, but whisper results to his neighbour, and thus by every germ of spirit sucking the sap from mould ethereal, every human being might become great, and humanity, instead of being a wide heath of furze and briars, with here and there a remote oak or pine, would become a grand democracy of forest-trees.”

A lady whose feminine acuteness of perception is only equalled by the vigour of her understanding, thus describes Keats as he appeared about this time at Hazlitt's lectures:-"His eyes were large and blue, his hair auburn; he wore it divided down the centre, and it fell in rich masses on each side his face; his mouth was full and less intellectual than his other features. His countenance lives in my mind as one of singular beauty and brightness; it had the expression as if he had been looking on some glorious sight. The shape of his face had not the squareness of a man's, but more like some women's faces I have seen-it was so wide over the forehead and so small at the chin. He seemed in perfect

health, and with life offering all things that were precious to him."

The increased ill-health of his brother Tom and the determination of George to emigrate to America cast much gloom over the completion of "Endymion," which was, however, dispersed by a pedestrian tour through Scotland, in the company of Mr. Brown, a retired merchant, who had been Keats's neighbour during the preceding summer, and whose sympathetic and congenial disposition he had much enjoyed. Mr. Reynolds' objection to a projected Preface provoked the following spirited remonstrance :

"I have not the slightest feeling of humility towards the public or to anything in existence but the Eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the Memory of great Men. When I am writing for myself, for the mere sake of the moment's enjoyment, perhaps nature has its course with me; but a Preface is written to the public-a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility. If I write a Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will not be in character with me as a public speaker. I would be subdued before my friends, and thank them for subduing me, but among multitudes of men I have no feel of stooping I hate the idea of humility to them. I never wrote one single line of poetry with the least shadow of public thought. Forgive me for vexing you, and making a Trojan horse of such a trifle, both with respect to the matter in question, and myself; but it eases me to tell you: I could not live without the love of my friends; I would jump down Etna