his life."I have heard Hunt say, 'Why endeavor after a long poem?' to which I should answer, 'Do not the lovers of poetry like to have a little region to wander in, where they may pick and choose, and in which the images are so numerous that many are forgotten and found new in a second reading,-which may be food for a week's stroll in the summer. * * Besides, a long poem is a test of Invention, which I take to be the polar-star of poetry, as Fancy is the sails, and Imagination the rudder. Did our great Poets ever write short pieces? I mean, in the shape of tales. This same Invention seems indeed of late years to have been forgotten as a poetical excellence.' But enough of this, I put on no laurels till I shall have finished Endymion."

* * * *

"One thing has pressed upon me lately and increased my humility and capability of submission, and that is this truth men of genius are great as certain ethereal chemicals operating on the mass of neutral intellect, but they have not any individuality, any determined character. I would call the top and head of those who have a proper self, Men of Power." * "I wish I was as certain of the end of all your troubles as that of your momentary start about the authenticity of the Imagination. I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of Imagination. What the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be Truth, whether it existed before or not;-for I have the same idea of all our passions as of Love; they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty. The

Imagination may be compared to Adam's dream: he awoke and found it Truth. I am more zealous in this affair, because I have never yet been able to perceive how anything can be known for Truth by consecutive reasoning, and yet it must be so. Can it be that even the greatest philosopher ever arrived at his goal without putting aside numerous objections? However it may be, O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts! It is a vision in the form of youth,'-a shadow of reality to come,-and this consideration has further convinced me, for it has come as auxiliary to another speculation of mine,—that we shall enjoy ourselves hereafter by having what we call happiness on earth repeated in a finer tone. And yet such a fate can only befall those who delight in Sensation, rather than hunger, as you do, after Truth. Adam's dream will do here, and seems to be a conviction that Imagination and its empyreal reflection is the same as human life and its spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, the simple imaginative mind may have its rewards in the repetition of its own silent working coming continually on the spirit with a fine suddenness. To compare great things with small, have you never, by being surprised with an old melody, in a delicious place, by a delicious voice, felt over again your very speculations and surmises at the time it first operated on your soul? Do you not remember forming to yourself the singer's face-more beautiful than it was possible, and yet, with the elevation of the moment, you did not think so?

Even then you were mounted on the wings of Imagination, so high that the prototype must be hereafter: that delicious face you will see. Sure this cannot be exactly the case with a complex mind-one that is imaginative and, at the same time, careful of its fruits,— who would exist partly on sensation, partly on thought, -to whom it is necessary that 'years should bring the philosophic mind?' Such an one I consider yours, and therefore it is necessary to your eternal happiness that you not only drink this old wine of Heaven, which I shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal musings on 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 honor. 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 honors 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 vigor must have been considerable, for he signalized himself one day by giving a severe drubbing to a butcher whom he 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 dusthole 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!'"

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 two-and-thirty palaces.' How happy is such a voyage of conception, what delicious diligent indolence! A 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 middle age 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