just been cut, and numerous fields were lying allow. We saw the next day a number of fields planted with a sort of beans which were used for fodder to the cattle. Their produce is bought by the Pasha and exported from the country. The Pasha has a monopoly of all the cotton, sugar, beans, and corn, which is grown in the country. He has agents all through the country, who make the people work, and they punish those who are indolent or refractory with the bastinado. The Pasha takes the produce at his own price, and this arbitrary mode prevails through all Egypt. As we sailed onwards to Etfou the country seemed much more populous. The villages seen from the boat were much more numerous also. We arrived at Etfou at 6 A.M. on the 21st June. This is a large, mean-looking village. The houses resemble mud pigeon-houses very much crowded together. The people were in great numbers, apparently very well dressed and comfortable. Neither here nor elsewhere in Egypt have we met with a single beggar. Here we entered another large canal boat, which had been prepared for our use by the agent at Alexandria and sent up for us. We then commenced our voyage on the large canal which was dug by Mohammed Ali, commencing here and terminating in Alexandria. It is twenty-five yards across, and for the first mile well lined with trees, and afterwards it was through a flat uninteresting country. Of the manner in which this canal was dug, and the conduct of the Pasha, much has been written. He is, however, only one of the numbers of eastern potentates who have been

"Content to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of Mercy on mankind.” We met some boats full of soldiers, bound from Alexandria to Cairo. We observed the costume of the women, both on board the boats which we met on the river and also near the shore. They all wore the half veil which conceals the whole of the face except the eyes; it is fastened by a wire frame to the bridge of the nose, and is tied behind the back of the head. We had several Arabs in the boat with us, who kept up a continuous chorus, and did not cease singing either day or night. One song treated of a bird which they considered presided over their destiny; another was a chorus-song inciting one another to work; another one of congratulation to each other as having finished their journey, so far, in safety. Their attention to their forms of devotion might shame the Christian, and show also to him how little true religion lived in the " mere lifeless forms of devotion." They also went on during the day with their dances, and played on the rude instruments which they esteem as music: these produced an uncouth and most inharmonious sound. Their dance consisted in clapping hands and jogging about their hips in a most ungraceful manner. The instruments which they moved to were a pipe

and a sort of double fife, also a tambourine; and the women sounded castanettes. The Arabs in Egypt, both male and female, are the most immodest race I have ever come in contact with. We passed two fine palacelike-looking houses, one belonging to an Italian, and the other to the Greek consul. We also saw the large glassmanufactory of Mohammed Ali. These are all built of stone. We passed some large ruined towers which had been formerly used to garrison the guards who acted as protectives to the convoys of supplies which came down the country to Alexandria, and who were stationed there by the Pasha, to prevent the incursions of the different wild tribes of Arabs. However, as these are no longer apprehended, the towers have been allowed to go to decay. We saw, at 7 in the evening, the great salt lake, Meriotis ; and, as we had no wind, we proceeded but slowly, and did not reach Alexandria until 7 a.m. on the 22nd June. We landed, and proceeded straight to the gate of entrance, and the guide had our luggage on camels, and followed us close. When we got to the gate a guard of fellows dressed in white, with old ricketty muskets, turned out, and the sentry who walked inside stopped the guide who was with the camels and said something to him in Arabic. Our guide forthwith took a small cloth from his girdle, and handed the said sentry a coin or two, and after this the whole party passed on and "all was well;" but such open-handed bribery I had never before seen. We then proceeded to the city, passing Pompey's Pillar and a burying ground. There are walls all round the city and a dry ditch. After we entered we passed through some clean lanes, with stone walls on each side, surrounding gardens which evidently belonged to rich gentry. We arrived at a very large broad street, in which are the hotels, and where the houses are regular and fine. This, which is called the French quarter of the town, is really, for a foreign town, rather a desirable place of residence.

In Alexandria there are plenty of shops, principally kept by French, Maltese, or Italians. The shopkeepers or merchants would not come near us, or take anything, even coin, except by pincers, as we had passed through the plague country. We found that we should have to wait at least five days, as the French steamer had not yet arrived. We took up our quarters at an hotel which was a very convenient one. It was built as all the large houses here are. There is a large court in the centre, to enter which are doors at the back of the building, which is the same size as its front, and the wings of the house have all back entrances to it: they are built at right angles to the front of the house; so this square affords a thorough draft to all the chambers. We transacted all our business satisfactorily, and found that we were obliged to get certificates of health from a doctor, and a passport from a consul previous to being allowed on board the French steamer. We went in the evening to see Cleopatra's Needle. It is a fine obelisk of granite, apparently about

70 feet in height, not so large as the one which now stands at Luxor, but the hieroglyphics Some distance from were very deeply cut. this another similar one lies prostrate. Some people insist that the fallen one is the true Cleopatra's Needle. We also extended our walk round the town. The vaults, which are made of stone and extend several miles round Alexandria, are inhabited by the poor Arabs. They are the remains of the old town; they are wretched and must, I should think, be unhealthy. The fountains in the centre of the streets of the Frank part of the town are large and pretty. On all were inscribed, in Arabic, the following words: "Drink, and be grateful to Mohammed for the gift of water." The lanes are narrow, close, and dirty. The next day we went to the shipping which lies in the spacious harbour. They were in great numbers, and the Pasha's crafts of war looked very large, but I wsa told, by persons qualified to judge, were not of a seaworthy description. We saw and went on board several English men-of-war. This is a famous place for trade, and there is a fine wooden pier to the western side of the town. I was much interested by seeing the new war steamers, which were quite a novelty to us after a residence of such duration in India, and the French one which we hoped to sail by was in the harbour.

SPRING LONGINGS.

I shall be better, sister dear,

When the gentle springtime comes; When the primrose peeps from out the moss, And the fragrant violet blooms.

When the meads are white with daisies,

And the hedges white with may;
When all is fresh and fair, sister,
I could not go away.

But spring comes on so slowly;
The winter lingers long;
And I listen for the cuckoo's note
And the blackbird's mellow song.

I watch for the drooping catkins,
On the willow branches hung,
And the wind-flower, like a silver bell
By the gentle fairies hung.

I long to see the buttercups,
Bathed by soft April rain:
I must see the golden mayflower
And blue hyacinths again.

We used to find them, blue and white,
In the greenwood's cool dark shade;

And the drooping mare's-tail, where the brook
A merry music made.

And there we found the curled fronds
Of the tender maiden-hair,

And celandine, both great and less,
And pearl-like snowdrops fair.

"He [Keats] was accompanied to Rome and attended in his last illness by Mr. Severn (the author of the following paper), 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!"-SHELLEY'S "Adonais."

The following was written by Mr. Joseph Severn, during his residence in Rome:

I well remember being struck with the clear and independent manner in 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 personal friends of Keats in England (who may still have to defend him against the old worn-out slanders) that in America he always had a solid fame, independent of the old English prejudices.

Here in Rome, as I write, I look back through more than 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 be 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 men tioned it to me. The greater trouble which was engulfing 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 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 cornelian, 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 bis 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.

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 aud 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, 1 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 bis 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