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bustle, quite uncongenial to his delicate taste and retired inclinations. His uncontroulable and unlimited sympathy with all kinds of suffering, injured at once his state of health, which was never good, and his purse, which was never heavy. His last works, Lamia, the Eve of St. Agnes, &c. went a great way towards enabling the public to form a just opinion of his genius; they succeeded in a great degree in exhibiting to the world the beauty and the value of a treasure which it seemed to be unconscious of possessing. Some of his most unreasonable and implacable enemies had been obliged reluctantly to confess the purity of his private life; and now some of the most liberal among them began to do tardy justice to his eminent abilities. The Edinburgh Review, which had heretofore neglected him, now stepped forward, and made ample amends for its offence, by an eloquent and manly critique upon his works in general. Among other complimentary remarks, the Reviewer, speaking of the imitation of our older authors having brought in, as it were, a second spring in our poetry," says that "few of its blossoms are either more profuse of sweetness, or richer in promise, than that which is now before us." He then goes on to say, "there is no author whatever whose writings will form so good a test by which to try the love which any one professes to bear towards poetry." Other critics spoke of these poems, (which, though their publication had been thus long delayed, were all written when the author was but twenty,) in scarcely less flattering terms, and one, in particular, characterized them as follows:-" The author's versification is now perfected, the exuberances of his imagination restrained, and a calm power, the surest and loftiest of all power, takes place of the impatient workings of the younger god within him. The character of his genius is that of energy and voluptuousness, each able at will to take leave of the other, and possessing, in their union, a high feeling of humanity, not common to the best authors who can less command them.". These concurring testimonies appeared to promise much in favour of the young aspirant's future fame and fortune; but, alas! he has not been allowed to remain among us to realize the bright

hopes in which they perhaps induced him to indulge. I shall conclude these desultory remarks, so unworthy of the illustrious spirit who is the subject of them, with a re-statement of some particulars of the latter days of Mr. Keats, communicated to the public by an intimate friend of the departed poet.

"When Keats left England, he had a presentiment that he should not return; that this has been too sadly realized the reader already knows. After his arrival in Italy, he revived for a brief period, but soon after declined, and sunk gradually into his grave. His complaint was a consumption, under which he had languished for some time; but his death was accelerated by a cold caught on his voyage. He was one of three English poets who had been compelled by circumstances to adopt a foreign country as their own. He was the youngest, but the first to leave us. His sad

and beautiful wish is at last accomplished: it was that he might drink of the warm south,' and 'leave the world unseen, and (he is addressing the nightingale,)

"And with thee fade away into the forest dim;
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou amongst the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow,

And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow."

A few weeks before he died, a gentleman who was sitting at his bed side, spoke of an inscription to his memory, but he declined this altogether, desiring that there should be no mention of his name or country; 66 or if any," said he, " let it be-Here lies the body of one whose name was writ in water !" There is something in this to us most painfully affecting; indeed, the whole story of his latter days is well calculated to make a deep imprsseion. It is to be hoped that his biography will be given to the world, and also whatever he may have left (whether in poetry or prose) behind him. The public is fond of patronizing poets:

No. 42.

G G

they are considered in the light of an almost helpless race: they are bright as stars, but, like meteors,

"Short-lived and self-consuming!"

We do not claim the patronage of the public for Mr. Keats, but we hope that it will now cast aside every little and unworthy prejudice, and do justice to the high memory of a young but undoubted poet."

April 4, 1821.

J. W. DALBY.

CLAUDINE: A SÁVOYARD TALE.

Concluded from page 280.

THIS kind of life, which was a tolerably comfortable one, had already lasted more than two years, when one day Claudine and her boy, being in the square of the palace, and stooping down to put their things in readiness, saw a foot placed upon the stool. Claudine immediately took the brush, and, without looking at the owner of the shoe, she began her task. When she had done the worst part of it, she raised her head. The brush fell from her hands; she stood thunderstruck she instantly knew Mr. Belton! Little Benjamin, who had nothing to call off his attention, and knew nothing of who was there, picked up the brush, "and with his feeble hands endeavoured to go on instead of Claudine, who remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the young Englishman. Mr. Belton, somewhat surprised, asked Claudine why she stopped, and he smiled at the efforts of the child, with whose appearance he was much pleased. Claudine had by this time recovered herself, and she apologized to Mr. Belton, in such a sweet tone of voice, and with such propriety of language, that the Englishman, still more surprised than he was before, began to question her respecting her country and her situation. With an apparently calm air, Claudine replied, that she and her brother were two orphans, who earned their living in the way in which he saw them employed, and that they were both born in the valley of Chamouny. That name forcibly struck Mr. Belton; he looked earnestly at Claudine; and, thinking that he perceived a resemblance to features which he had not forgotten, he ask

ed her her name. "My name is Claude," said she. "And you come from Chamouny?" "Yes, sir, I come from the very village of Le-Prieuré." "Have you no other brother?" "No, sir; I have only Benjamin." "Have not you a sister?"" "Yes, sir. What is your sister's name?" "Her name is Claudine.” Claudine?" "Yes, that is her name." "Where is she?" "Oh! I know nothing of her." "How can you know nothing of her?" "For many reasons, sir, which can be of no consequence to you, but which make me weep." Her eyes were, in reality, full of tears. Mr. Belton stood looking at her in silence. Claudine reminded him that her work was done, and Mr. Belton, who was in no hurry to go, drew from his pocket a guinea, and, evidently affected, put it into her hand. "I cannot give you change," said Claudine. 66 Keep it," replied the Englishman," and answer the question which I am going to ask you. Should you have any objection to quit your present employment, to obtain a good situation?" "That cannot be, sir." "And why not?" "Because nothing in the world could induce me to quit my brother." "But, suppose that he should be taken with you?" "That would alter the case." "Well then, Claude, you are mine, I take you into my service: you will be very happy in my house, and your brother shall live there." "Sir," replied Claudine, much agitated, "have the goodness ⚫ to favour me with your address, and I will come to speak to you to-morrow morning." Mr. Belton tore off the back of a letter, made Claudine premise not to fail, and then continued his walk, frequently, however, turning back his head.

1 It was high time for Claudine that the conversation should be put an end to, for she was almost choked with her tears. She hastened back to her lodging, and shut herself up, that she might deliberate upon what she ought to do. To enter into the service of the young Englishman appeared to her to be dangerous, yet her heart prompted her to it, and the desire of restoring a father to Benjamin, was a powerful motive. On the other hand, the manner in which Mr. Belton had deceived her, and the promise which she had given to the rector of Salenches, and the vow which she had

made, to avoid every thing that could put her virtue to the hazard, caused her to hesitate for a long while; but the interest of Benjamin outweighed all this. After having thoroughly reflected on the subject, Claudine resolved to accept the offer of Mr. Belton, to serve him zealously, and to make him love his child, but carefully to conceal from him that she was the Claudine whom he had seemed to remember. She regretted now that she had, perhaps, said too much, and she firmly determined not to add a single word which could bring him acquainted with the whole of her story.

Having settled her plan, she went the next morning to Mr. Belton, by whom she was kindly received. The Englishman agreed to give her good wages; he gave her and Benjamin an apartment, and he ordered that they should be new clothed without delay. When all this was arranged, Mr. Belton wished to renew the conversation of the preceding day, and he questioned his new servant concerning the sister to whom he had alluded. Claudine, however, interrupted him—" Sir," said she, 66 my sister no longer exists; she must be dead of misery, grief, and repentance: all our family has wept for her misfortunes, and those who are not our relations, have, perhaps, no right to recal to our memory such melancholy recollections." More than ever surprised, by the manner and talent of Claude, Belton from that moment ceased his enquiries, but he Couceived a sincere esteem, and contracted a real friendship, for this singular young man.

In a very short time Claude became the favourite of his master. Little Benjamin, to whom Mr. Belton felt himself drawn by an involuntary charm, was always in his room, and the Englishman loaded him with presents. The amiable child, who seemed to know intuitively that he owed his existence to Mr. Belton, loved him almost as much as he did Claudine, and he told him so with such winning grace, and with such artless caresses, that the Englishman could hardly live without Benjamin. Claudine wept for joy; but she concealed her tears, and took double precautions not to be known. The dissipated manner in which Mr. Belton lived, his connections, his intrigues with several