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 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

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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 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!'

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! 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 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

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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 air 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