The enlightened British public never committed a greater mistake
than in believing, on the rhymed “dixit” of Lord Byron, that John Keats’s
“fiery particle” was snuffed out by a single Quarterly Review article.
John was the man to stand whole broadsides of such articles,
whether from Quarterly or Edinburgh, or from both,
with a united and concentrated fire. Little in body, like Moore, he was, like Moore, thoroughly a man. He was
one of the most cheery and plucky little fellows I ever knew; and though it may look like
self-flattery, I think I may safely say that neither pluck nor fortitude always choose
bulky frames and lofty statures for their lodging. Keats could hardly
see a London street row without the impulsive wish to be in the midst of it; and in not a
few rows he had his wish gratified. This was mere frolic and youthful love of mischief and
excitement, or it was an innate love of fair-play; but I firmly believe that by the side of
any friend Keats would have faced a battery, and would have stood
under a shower of cannon-balls, chain-shot, canister or grape. Though he belonged to rather
an affected school, at times a hectoring and pretentious school, poor
Keats had an exceedingly small allowance of literary vanity. He
would often say: “I have a notion that I have something in me, but that I shall
never be able to bring it out. I feel all but sure that I never shall.” When
dying, the motto he dictated for that tombstone, which his and
| 14 | JOHN KEATS | [CHAP. II |
Late in the autumn of 1820, when he arrived at Naples, or rather at the commencement of the winter of that year, he was driving with my friend Charles Cottrell from the Bourbon Museum, up the beautiful open road which leads up to Capo di Monte and the Ponte Rossi. On the way, in front of a villa or cottage, he was struck and moved by the sight of some rose-trees in full bearing. Thinking to gratify the invalid, Cottrell, a ci-devant officer in the British Navy, jumped out of the carriage, spoke to somebody about the house or garden, and was back in a trice with a bouquet of roses.
“How late in the year! What an exquisite climate!” said the Poet; but on putting them to his nose, he threw the flowers down on the opposite seat, and exclaimed: “Humbugs! they have no scent! What is a rose without its fragrance? I hate and abhor all humbug, whether in a flower or in a man or woman!” And having worked himself strongly up in the anti-humbug humour, he cast the bouquet out on the road. I suppose that the flowers were China roses, which have little odour at any time, and hardly any at the approach of winter.
| CHAP. II] | CAMPBELL AND THE POLES | 15 |
Returning from that drive, he had intense enjoyment in halting close to the Capuan Gate, and in watching a group of lazzaroni or labouring men, as, at a stall with fire and cauldron by the roadside in the open air, they were disposing of an incredible quantity of macaroni, introducing it in long, unbroken strings into their capacious mouths, without the intermediary of anything but their hands. “I like this,” said he; “these hearty fellows scorn the humbug of knives and forks. Fingers were invented first. Give them some carlini that they may eat more! Glorious sight! How they take it in!”
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