everything was against him,— birth, health, even friends, since it was partly on their account that he was sneered at. His very name stood in his way, for Fame loves best such syllables as are sweet and sonorous on the tongue, like Spenserian, Shakespearian.
In spite of Juliet, there is a great deal in names, and when the fairies come with their gifts to the cradle of the selected child, let one, wiser than the rest, choose a name for him from which well-sounding derivatives can be made, and, best of all, with a termination in on. Men judge the current coin of opinion by the ring, and are readier to take without question whatever is Platonic, Baconian, Newtonian, Johnsonian, Washingtonian, Jeffersonian, Napoleonic, and all the rest.
You cannot make a good adjective out of Keats
,— the more pity,— and to say a thing is Keatsy
is to contemn it. Fortune likes fine names.
tells us that Keats
was very much depressed by the fortunes of his book.
This was natural enough, but he took it all in a manly way, and determined to revenge himself by writing better poetry.
He knew that activity, and not despondency, is the true counterpoise to misfortune.
is sure of the change in his spirits, because he would come to the painting-room and sit silent for hours.
But we rather think that the conversation, where Mr. Haydon
was, resembled that in a young author's first play, where the other interlocutors are only brought in as convenient points for the hero to hitch the interminable web of his monologue upon.
had been continuing his education this year, by a course of Elgin
marbles and pictures by the great Italians
, and might very naturally have found little to say about Mr. Haydon
's extensive works, that he would have cared to hear.
Lord Houghton, on the other hand, in his eagerness to prove that Keats
was not killed by the article in the Quarterly, is carried too far