read came for him. Some he allowed me to read to him, others were too worldly; for, as he said, he had "already journeyed far beyond them." There were two letters, I remember, for which he had no words, but he made me understand that I was to place them on his heart within his winding-sheet.

Those bright falcon eyes, which I had known only in joyous intercourse, while revelling in books and Nature, or while he was reciting his own poetry, now beamed an unearthly brightness and a penetrating steadfastness that could not be looked at. It was not the fear of death-on the contrary he earnestly wished to die-but it was the fear of lingering on and on that now distressed him, and this was wholly on my account. Amidst the world of emotions that were crowding and increasing as his end approached, I could always see that his generous concern for me in my isolated position at Rome was one of his greatest cares. In a little basket of medicines I had bought at Gravesend at his request there was a bottle of laudanum, and this I afterwards found was destined by him "to close his mortal career," when no hope was left, and to prevent a long, lingering death, for my poor sake. When the dismal time came, and Sir James Clark was unable to encounter Keats's penetrating look and eager demand, he insisted on having the bottle, which I had already put away. Then came the most touching scenes. He now explained to me the exact procedure of his gradual dissolution, enumerated my deprivations and toils, and dwelt upon the danger to my life, and certainly to my fortunes, from my continued attendance upon him. One whole day was spent in earnest representations of this sort, to which, at the same time that they wrung my heart to hear and his to utter, I was obliged to oppose a firm resistance. On the second day his tender appeal turned to despair, in all the power of his ardent imagination and bursting heart.

From day to day, after this time, he would always demand of Sir James Clark, "How long is this posthumous life of mine to last?" On finding me inflexible in my purpose of remain ing with him he became calm, and tranquilly said that he was sure why I held up so patiently was owing to my Christian faith, and that he was disgusted with himself for ever appearing before me in such savage guise; that he now felt convinced how much every human being required the support of religion, that he might die decently. "Here am I," said he, with desperation in death that would disgrace the commonest fellow. Now, my dear Severn, I am sure, if you could get some of the works of Jeremy Taylor to read to me, I might become really a Christian, and leave this world in peace." Most fortunately I was able to procure the "Holy Living and Dying." I read some passages to him, and prayed with him, and I could tell by the grasp of his dear hand that his mind was reviving. He was a great lover of Jeremy Taylor, and it did not seem to require much ef

fort in him to embrace the Holy Spirit in these comforting works.

Thus he gained strength of mind from day to day just in proportion as his poor body grew weaker and weaker. At last I had the consolation of finding him calm, trusting, and more prepared for his end than I was. He tranquilly rehearsed to me what would be the process of his dying, what I was to do, and how I was to bear it. He was even minute in his details, evidently rejoicing that his death was at hand. In all he then uttered he breathed a simple, Christian spirit; indeed, I always think that he died a Christian, that " Mercy" was trembling on his dying lips, and that his tortured soul was received by those Blessed Hands which could alone welcome it.

After the death of Keats, my countrymen in Rome seemed to vie with one another in evincing the greatest kindness towards me. I found myself in the midst of persons who admired and encouraged my beautiful pursuit of painting, in which I was then indeed but a very poor student, but with my eyes opening and my soul awakening to a new region of Art, and beginning to feel the wings growing for artistic flights I had always been dreaming about.

In all this, however, there was a solitary drawback: there were few Englishmen at Rome who knew Keats's works, and I could scarcely persuade anyone to make the effort to read them, such was the prejudice against him as a poet; but when his gravestone was placed, with his own expressive line, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water," then a host started up, not of admirers, but of scoffers, and a silly jest was often repeated in my hearing, Here lies one whose name was writ in water, and his works in milk and water;" and this I was condemned to hear for years repeated, as though it had been a pasquinade; but I should explain that it was from those who were not aware that I was the friend of Keats.

66

At the first Easter after his death I had a singular encounter with the late venerable_poet, Samuel Rogers, at the table of Sir George Beaumont, the distinguished amateur artist. Perhaps in compliment to my friendship for Keats, the subject of his death was mentioned by Sir George, and he asked Mr. Rogers if he had been acquainted with the young poet in England. Mr. Rogers replied, that he had had more acquaintance than he liked, for the poems were tedious enough, and the author had come upon him several times for money. This was an intolerable falsehood, and I could not restrain myself until I had corrected him, which I did with my utmost forbearance-explaining that Mr. Rogers must have mistaken some other person for Keats-that I was positive my friend had never done such a thing in any shape, or even had occasion to do it-that he possessed a small independence in money, and a large one in mind.

The old poet received the correction with much kindness, and thanked me for so effectually setting him right: indeed, this encounter was the groundwork of a long and to me ad

vantageous friendship between us. I soon discovered that it was the principle of his sarcastic wit not only to sacrifice all truth to it, but even all his friends, and that he did not care to know any who would not allow themselves to be abused for the purpose of lighting up his breakfast with sparkling wit, though not quite, indeed, at the expense of the persons then present. I well remember, on one occasion afterwards, Mr. Rogers was entertaining us with, a volley of sarcasms upon a disagreeable lawyer, who made pretensions to knowledge and standing not to be borne, on this occasion the old poet went on, not only to the end of the breakfast, but to the announcement of the very man himself on an accidental visit, and then with a bland smile and a cordial shake of the hand, he said to him, "My dear fellow, we have all been talking about you up to this very minute," and, looking at his company still at table, and with a significant wink, he, with extraordinary adroitness and experienced tact, repeated many of the good things, reversing the meaning of them, and giving us the enjoyment of the double entendre. The visitor was charmed, nor even dreamed of the ugliness of his position. This incident. gave me a painful and repugnant impression of Mr. Rogers, yet no doubt it was after the manner of his time, and such as had been the fashion in Walpole's and Johnson's days.

I should be unjust to the venerable poet not to add, that notwithstanding what is here related of him, he oftentimes showed himself the generous and noble-hearted man. I think that in all my long acquaintance with him he evinced a kind of indirect regret that he had commenced with me such an ugly attack on dear Keats, whose fame, when I went to England in 1838, was not only well established, but was increasing from day to day, and Mr. Rogers was often at the pains to tell me so, and to relate the many histories of poets who had been less fortunate than Keats.

It was in the year of the Reforin Bill, 1830, that I first heard of the Paris edition (Galignani's) of Keats's works, and I confess that I was quite taken by surprise, nor could I really believe the report until I saw the book with the engraved portrait from my own drawing: for, after all the vicissitudes of Keats's fame which I had witnessed, I could not easily understand his becoming the poet of the "million." I had now the continued gratification in Rome of receiving frequent visits from the admirers of Keats and Shelley, who sought every way of showing kindness to me. One great cause of this change, no doubt, was the rise of all kinds of mysticism in religious opinions, which often associated themselves with Shelley's poetry. And I then, for the first time, heard him named as the only really religious poet of the age. To the growing fame of Keats I can attribute some of the pleasantest and most valuable associations of my after-life, as it included almost the whole society of gifted young men, at that time called "Young England." "Here I may allude to the xtraordinary change I now observed in the

manners and morals of Englishmen generally: the foppish love of dress was in a great measure abandoned, and all intellectual pursuits were caught up with avidity, and even made fashionable.

The most remarkable example of the strange capriciousness of Keats's fame which fell under my personal observation, occurred in my later Roman years, during the painful visit of Sir Walter Scott to Rome in the winding-up days of his eventful life, when he was broken down not only by incurable illness and premature old age, but also by the accumulated misfortunes of fatal speculations and the heavy responsibility of making up all with the pen, then trembling in his failing hand.

I had been indirectly made known to him by his favourite ward and protégée, the late Lady Northampton, who, accustomed to write to him monthly, often made mention of me; for I was on terms of friendship with all her family, an intimacy which in great part arose from the delight she always had in Keats's poetry, being herself a poetess, and most enlightened and liberal critic.

When Sir Walter arrived, he received me like an old and attached friend; indeed, he involuntarily tried to make me fill up the terrible void then recently created by the death of Lady Northampton at the age of thirty-seven years. I went at his request to breakfast with him every morning, when he invariably commenced talking of his lost friend, of her beauty, her singularly varied accomplishments, of his growing delight in watching her from a child in the Island of Mull, and of his making her so often the model of his most successful female characters, the Lady of the Lake, and Flora MicIvor particularly, Then he would stop short to lament her unlooked-for death with tears and groans of bitterness such as I had never before witnessed in anyone; his head sinking down on his heaving breast. When he revived (and this agonizing scene took place every morning), he implored me to pity him, and not heed his weakness; that in his great misfortunes, in all their complications, he had looked forward to Rome and his dear Lady Northampton as his last and certain hope of repose: she was to be his comfort in the winding-up of life's pilgrimage: now, on his arrival, his life and fortune almost exhausted, she was gone! gone! After these pathetic outpourings, he would gradually recover his old cheerfulness, his expressive grey eye would sparkle even in tears, and soon that wonderful power he had for description would show itself, when he would often stand up to enact the incident of which he spoke, so ardent was he, and so earnest in the recital.

Each morning, at his request, I took for his examination some little picture or sketch that might interest him, and amongst the rest a picture of Keats (now in the National Portrait Gallery,) but this, I was surprised to find, was the only production of mine that seemed not to interest him; he remained silent about it, but

CHAP. I.-HOW SHE CAME TO US.

Fancy a somewhat unfashionable, but exceedingly comfortable old house; with a small garden behind and a still smaller garden in front, half way up the City-road; fancy five brothers, four of them in the prime of life, and the other a boy fresh from school, and you will have some idea of the heroes of this story, and where they lived. I, Arthur Bell, am the youngest of those brothers. Our parents died long before I can remember, leaving us the house in the Cityroad and an income of £500 a year. But before going any further, I must describe my brothers, who were anything but "worldly," led respectable, knowledge-loving lives; and looked upon marriage as all very well for ordinary people, but a thing far beneath the thoughts of such wise and sensible fellows as themselves.

Matthew, the eldest, and head of our household, was what the irreverent would have called a "fogey," and I believe he had been a "fogey" ever since the time when he was first allowed to follow his own ideas. Old-fashioned in his dress (high collars, double-folding stocks, and that sort of thing), he looked much older than he really was; but though a "fogey," he was, in our opinion, a paragon of common sense and wisdom. He was of a scientific turn of mind, read all the works on new discoveries, and generally came to the conclusion that, "strange to say, ideas very similar had at one time

occurred to him."

George, my second brother, was an amateurartist. Ever since I could remember, he was going to send a picture to the academy; but as soon as he had begun one subject he was struck with a "splendid idea" for another, and set to work upon that: it somehow happened that his great works were never finished.

William was given to chemistry, and a back room on the ground floor was fitted up with everything necessary for the practice of medicine. He called it the surgery (George had even painted the word on the door), though, considering the odd things it contained, it reminded me more of the laboratory of some alchemist of olden times. The worst of it was, William was always inventing some new medicine and wishing to try its effects upon the first of his brothers who showed the slightest signs of being ill.

Frank, who was just past thirty, courted neither art nor science, though he was far from idle, making it his business to visit the tradespeople, settle accounts, and all that sort of thing. Now Frank had passed his youth at a German college, and it was rumoured that his life in Fatherland had been far from

steady; but Frank was now as well-conducted as the others, though it was evident that he had not always been so, for whenever Germany was mentioned, brother Matthew would immediately change the conversation.

And myself. Just left school, nearly seventeen, neither very dull nor very clever, particularly fond of literature, nearly all my knowledge of the world derived from books, and with an idea that there was a great deal of happiness in life, some of which would of course fall to my share.

We had two servants. Thorman, butler, footman, and cook in the bargain, and his wife, who did the remainder of the household work. Every Saturday a charwoman haunted the premises, but it seemed to me that her chief employment was continually popping in and out with a mysterious jug concealed under her shawl.

Hitherto, between my brothers and myself, there had been a sort of imaginary gulf, which was perhaps only necessary in a household composed of four steady middle-aged gentlemen and one bit of a schoolboy; the latter being supposed to have no higher ambition than to be top of the class and to think that happiness consisted in being home for the holidays; but now a monarchy of four kings and one subject was to be changed into a republic of five, which meant that I was to enjoy everything my brothers enjoyed and live as they lived, and had been living for many years. We came down between eight and nine, and during breakfast divided the Times into five portions, changing the sheets about until we had all obtained as much information about the world in general as we required. And then came the serious business of the day. Matthew retired to his room and was deep in science for the rest of the morning; George put on a canvas suit and pottered about among his unfinished pictures, unsettled at which to work, and generally only just making up his mind when the bell rang for dinner; William made the lower part of the house unbearable by the peculiar odours which came from his "surgery;" and Frank, amongst other domestic duties, ordered the dinner, often even assisting in the cooking, an art which he learnt abroad. I took to literature, sending every conceivable form of contribution to the magazines of the day, many of which were returned, many more were not, and about two or three times a year I was encouraged by seeing myself in print and receiving a P.O. order from some editor whose standard of excellence I had managed to reach. We dined at three, and over our wine and dessert read novels. It may seem strange that brothers, themselves above the follies and failings of "poor humanity," should