Atlantic Monthly, Vol. XI., April, 1863, No. LXVI. by Various

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THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. XI.--APRIL, 1863.--NO. LXVI.

ON THE VICISSITUDES OF KEATS'S FAME.

[Joseph Severn, the author of the following paper, scarcely needs
introduction to the readers of the "Atlantic Monthly"; but no
one will object to reperusing, in connection with his valuable
contribution, this extract from the Preface to "Adonais," which
Shelley wrote in 1821:--

"He [Keats] was accompanied to Rome and attended in his last illness
by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who, I have
been informed, 'almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every
prospect, to unwearied attendance upon his dying friend.' Had I
known these circumstances before the completion of my poem, I should
have been tempted to add my full tribute of applause to the more
solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of
his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from 'such
stuff as dreams are made of.' His conduct is a noble augury of the
success of his future career. May the unextinguished spirit of his
illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead
against oblivion for his name!"

Mr. Severn is residing in Rome at the present time, from which city
he transmits this paper.]

I well remember being struck with the clear and independent manner which
Washington Allston, in the year 1818, expressed his opinion of John
Keats's verse, when the young poet's writings first appeared, amid the
ridicule of most English readers, Mr. Allston was at that time the only
discriminating judge among the strangers to Keats who were residing
abroad, and he took occasion to emphasize in my hearing his opinion of
the early effusions of the young poet in words like these:--"They are
crude materials of real poetry, and Keats is sure to become a great
poet."

It is a singular pleasure to the few in personal friends of Keats in
England (who may still have to defend him against the old and worn-out
slanders) that in America he has always had a solid fame, independent of
the old English prejudices.

Here in Rome, as I write, I look back through forty years of worldly
changes to behold Keats's dear image again in memory. It seems as if he
should be living with me now, inasmuch as I never could understand his
strange and contradictory death, his falling away so suddenly from
health and strength. He had that fine compactness of person which we
regard as the promise of longevity, and no mind was ever more exultant
in youthful feeling. I cannot summon a sufficient reason why in one
short year he should have been thus cut off, "with all his imperfections
on his head." Was it that he lived too soon,--that the world he sought
was not ready for him?

For more than the year I am now dwelling on, he had fostered a tender
and enduring love for a young girl nearly of his own age, and this love
was reciprocal, not only in itself, but in all the worldly advantages
arising from it of fortune on her part and fame on his. It was
encouraged by the sole parent of the lady; and the fond mother was happy
in seeing her daughter so betrothed, and pleased that her inheritance
would fall to so worthy an object as Keats. This was all well settled in
the minds and hearts of the mutual friends of both parties, when poor
Keats, soon after the death of his younger brother, unaccountably showed
signs of consumption; at least, he himself thought so, though the
doctors were widely undecided about it. By degrees it began to be deemed
needful that the young poet should go to Italy, even to preserve his
life. This was at last accomplished, but too late; and now that I am
reviewing all the progress of his illness from his first symptoms,
I cannot but think his life might have been preserved by an Italian
sojourn, if it had been adopted in time, and if circumstances had been
improved as they presented themselves. And, further, if he had had the
good fortune to go to America, which he partly contemplated before the
death of his younger brother, not only would his life and health have
been preserved, but his early fame would have been insured. He would
have lived independent of the London world, which was striving to drag
him down in his poetic career, and adding to the sufferings which I
consider the immediate cause of his early death.

In Italy he always shrank from speaking in direct terms of the actual
things which were killing him. Certainly the "Blackwood" attack was one
of the least of his miseries, for he never even mentioned it to me. The
greater trouble which was ingulfing him he signified in a hundred ways.
Was it to be wondered at, that at the time when the happiest life was
presented to his view, when it was arranged that he was to marry a young
person of beauty and fortune, when the little knot of friends who
valued him saw such a future for the beloved poet, and he himself, with
generous, unselfish feelings, looked forward to it more delighted on
their account,--was it to be wondered at, that, on the appearance of
consumption, his ardent mind should have sunk into despair? He seemed
struck down from the highest happiness to the lowest misery. He
felt crushed at the prospect of being cut off at the early age of
twenty-four, when the cup was at his lips, and he was beginning to drink
that draught of delight which was to last his mortal life through, which
would have insured to him the happiness of home, (happiness he had never
felt, for he was an orphan,) and which was to be a barrier for him
against a cold and (to him) a malignant world.

He kept continually in his hand a polished, oval, white carnelian, the
gift of his widowing love, and at times it seemed his only consolation,
the only thing left him in this world clearly tangible. Many letters
which he was unable to 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 remaining 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 effort 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.[A]

[Footnote A: Whilst this was passing at Rome, another scene of the
tragedy was enacting in London. The violence of the Tory party in
attacking Keats had increased after his leaving England, but he had
found able defenders, and amongst them Mr. John Scott, the editor of
the "Champion," who published a powerful vindication of Keats, with a
denunciation of the party-spirit of his critics. This led to a challenge
from Mr. Scott to Mr. Lockhart, who was then one of the editors of
"Blackwood." The challenge was shifted over to a Mr. Christie, and he
and Mr. Scott fought at Chalk Farm, with the tragic result of the death
of Keats's defender,--and this within a few days of the poet's death at
Rome. The deplorable catastrophe was not without its compensations, for
ever after there was a more chastened feeling in both parties.]

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
any one 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.

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 Sir. 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 advantageous 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, be 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 in 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 Reform 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 extraordinary 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 favorite ward and
_protegee_, 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 a 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 MacIvor 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 any one,--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 gray 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 of London,) 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 on all the others
he was ready with interesting comments and speculations. Observing this,
and wondering within myself at his apathy with regard to the young lost
poet, as I had reason to be proud of Keats's growing fame, I ventured to
talk about him, and of the extraordinary caprices of that fame, which at
last had found its resting-place in the hearts of _all real lovers of
poetry._

I soon perceived that I was touching on an embarrassing theme, and I
became quite bewildered on seeing Miss Scott turn away her face, already
crimsoned with emotion. Sir Walter then falteringly remarked, "Yes, yes,
the world finds out these things _for itself at last,_" and taking my
hand, closed the interview,--our last, for the following night he
was taken seriously ill, and I never saw him again, as his physician
immediately hurried him away from Rome.

The incomprehensibleness of this scene induced me to mention it on the
same day to Mr. Woodhouse, the active and discriminating friend of
Keats, who had collected every written record of the poet, and to whom
we owe the preservation of many of the finest of his productions. He was
astonished at my recital, and at my being ignorant of the fact that _Sir
Walter Scott was a prominent contributor to the Review which through its
false and malicious criticisms had always been considered to have caused
the death of Keats_.

My surprise was as great as his at my having lived all those seventeen
years in Rome and been so removed from the great world, that this, a
fact so interesting to me to know, had never reached me. I had been
unconsciously the painful means of disturbing poor old Sir Walter with
a subject so sore and unwelcome that I could only conclude it must have
been the immediate cause of his sudden illness. Nothing could be farther
from my nature than to have been guilty of such seemingly wanton
inhumanity; but I had no opportunity afterwards of explaining the truth,
or of justifying my conduct in any way.

This was the last striking incident connected with Keats's fame which
fell within my own experience, and perhaps may have been the last, or
one of the last, symptoms of that party-spirit which in the artificial
times of George IV. was so common even among poets in their treatment of
one another,--they assuming to be mere politicians, and striving to be
oblivious of their heart-ennobling pursuit.

It only remains for me to speak of my return to Rome in 1861, after an
absence of twenty years, and of the favorable change and the enlargement
during that time of Keats's fame,--not as manifested by new editions of
his works, or by the contests of publishers about him, or by the way in
which most new works are illustrated with quotations from him, or by the
fact that some favorite lines of his have passed into proverbs, but by
the touching evidence of his _silent grave_. That grave, which I can
remember as once the object of ridicule, has now become the poetic
shrine of the world's pilgrims who care and strive to live in the happy
and imaginative region of poetry. The head-stone, having twice sunk,
owing to its faulty foundation, has been twice renewed by loving
strangers, and each time, as I am informed, these strangers were
Americans. Here they do not strew flowers, as was the wont of olden
times, but they pluck everything that is green and living on the grave
of the poet. The _Custode_ tells me, that, notwithstanding all his pains
in sowing and planting, he cannot "meet the great consumption." Latterly
an English lady, alarmed at the rapid disappearance of the verdure on
and around the grave, actually left an annual sum to renew it. When the
_Custode_ complained to me of the continued thefts, and asked what he
was to do, I replied, "Sow and plant twice as much; extend the poet's
domain; for, as it was so scanty during his short life, surely it ought
to be afforded to him twofold in his grave."

Here on my return to Rome, all kinds of happy associations with the poet
surround me, but none so touching as my recent meeting with his sister.
I had known her in her childhood, during my first acquaintance with
Keats, but had never seen her since. I knew of her marriage to a
distinguished Spanish patriot, Senor Llanos, and of her permanent
residence in Spain; but it was reserved for me to have the felicity of
thus accidentally meeting her, like a new-found sister, in Rome. This
city has an additional sacredness for both of us as the closing scene of
her illustrious brother's life, and I am held by her and her charming
family in loving regard as the last faithful friend of the poet. That I
may indulge the pleasures of memory and unite them with the sympathy of
present incidents, I am now engaged on a picture of the poet's grave,
and am treating it with all the picturesque advantages which the antique
locality gives me, as well as the elevated associations which this
poetic shrine inspires. The classic story of Endymion being the subject
of Keats's principal poem, I have introduced a young Roman shepherd
sleeping against the head-stone with his flock about him, whilst the
moon from behind the pyramid illuminates his figure and serves to
realize the poet's favorite theme in the presence of his grave. This
interesting incident is not fanciful, but is what I actually saw on an
autumn evening at Monte Tertanio the year following the poet's death.

* * * * *

A SPASM OF SENSE.

The conjunction of amiability and sense in the same individual renders
that individual's position in a world like this very disagreeable.
Amiability without sense, or sense without amiability, runs along
smoothly enough. The former takes things as they are. It receives all
glitter as pure gold, and does not see that it is custom alone which
varnishes wrong with a shiny coat of respectability, and glorifies
selfishness with the aureole of sacrifice. It sets down all collisions
as foreordained, and never observes that they occur because people will
not smooth off their angles, but sharpen them, and not only sharpen
them, but run them into you. It forgets that the Lord made man upright,
but he hath sought out many inventions. It attributes all the confusion
and inaptitude which it finds to the nature of things, and never
suspects that the Devil goes around in the night, thrusting the square
men into the round places, and the round men into the square places. It
never notices that the reason why the rope does not unwind easily is
because one strand is a world too large and another a world too small,
and so it sticks where it ought to roll, and rolls where it ought to
stick. It makes sweet, faint efforts with tender fingers and palpitating
heart to oil the wheels and polish up the machine, and does not for a
moment imagine that the hitch is owing to original incompatibility of
parts and purposes, that the whole machine must be pulled to pieces
and made over, and that nothing will be done by standing patiently by,
trying to soothe away the creaking and wheezing and groaning of the
laboring, lumbering thing, by laying on a little drop of sweet-oil with
a pin-feather. As it does not see any of these things that are happening
before its eyes, of course it is shallowly happy. And on the other hand,
he who does see them and is not amiable is grimly and Grendally happy.
He likes to say disagreeable things, and all this dismay and disaster
scatter disagreeable things broadcast along his path, so that all he
has to do is to pick them up and say them. Therefore this world is his
paradise. He would not know what to do with himself in a world where
matters were sorted and folded and laid away ready for you when you
wanted them. He likes to see human affairs mixing themselves up in
irretrievable confusion. If he detects a symptom of straightening, it
shall go hard but he will thrust in his own fingers and snarl a thread
or two. He is delighted to find dogged duty and eager desire butting
each other. All the irresistible forces crashing against all the
immovable bodies give him no shock, only a pleasant titillation. He is
never so happy as when men are taking hold of things by the blade, and
cutting their hands, and losing blood. He tells them of it, but not in
order to relieve so much as to "aggravate" them; and he does aggravate
them, and is satisfied. Oh, but he is an aggravating person!

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