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[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 whichWashington Allston, in the year 1818, expressed his opinion of JohnKeats's verse, when the young poet's writings first appeared, amid theridicule of most English readers, Mr. Allston was at that time the onlydiscriminating judge among the strangers to Keats who were residingabroad, and he took occasion to emphasize in my hearing his opinion ofthe early effusions of the young poet in words like these:—"They arecrude materials of real poetry, and Keats is sure to become a greatpoet."
It is a singular pleasure to the few in personal friends of Keats inEngland (who may still have to defend him against the old and worn-outslanders) that in America he has always had a solid fame, independent ofthe old English prejudices.
Here in Rome, as I write, I look back through forty years of worldlychanges to behold Keats's dear image again in memory. It seems as if heshould be living with me now, inasmuch as I never could understand hisstrange and contradictory death, his falling away so suddenly fromhealth and strength. He had that fine compactness of person which weregard as the promise of longevity, and no mind was ever more exultantin youthful feeling. I cannot summon a sufficient reason why in oneshort year he should have been thus cut off, "with all his imperfectionson his head." Was it that he lived too soon,—that the world he soughtwas not ready for him?
For more than the year I am now dwelling on, he had fostered a tenderand enduring love for a young girl nearly of his own age, and this lovewas reciprocal, not only in itself, but in all the worldly advantagesarising from it of fortune on her part and fame on his. It wasencouraged by the sole parent of the lady; and the fond mother was happyin seeing her daughter so betrothed, and pleased that her inheritancewould fall to so worthy an object as Keats. This was all well settled inthe min