had evidently, as yet, dwelt too much with nymphs, and fawns, and nightingales, to paint, like a master, the workings of the human breast-to display the conflicts of passion, or reveal the thoughts that lie brooding below the surface. Whether he would ever have possessed dramatic powers, is doubtful. And we are inclined to think that an imagination so delicate, would have shrunk from grappling with the strong passions of man, or could with difficulty have adhered with severe fidelity to our human nature. Many considerations, however, would suspend a toohasty decision. During the six years of his literary life, his mind was in constant and rapid progress. Fortunately for him the "getting-on system, as it is inimitably depicted by Mr. Dickens, in his Doctor Blimber's academy, had not urged his studies in advance of his capacity; on the contrary, his genius was far ahead of his knowledge; and who can tell now to what "new scenes and changes" this progress might have carried him? He might have" moulted his feathers, and stood on his legs," or rivalled the "Tempest" or "Midsummer Night's Dream." He gives us reason to suppose that man was often the subject of his inspection. In one of his letters he says: "When I am in a room with people, if I am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then, not myself goes home to myself, but the identity of every one in the room begins to press upon me, so that I am in a very little time annihilated." This passage, if he did not deceive himself, would go far to make us believe that the universality of the dramatist that universality by which Shakspeare threw himself into, and lost himself in his characters, with as much ease as he would have put on their stage dresses-was a faculty he possessed and exercised. Of what he was capable in the highest flights of sublime invention, one noble, but alas! fragmentary poem, remains to show. His "Hyperion," had it been finished, would have placed him on a high eminence among poets. The jealous spirit of Byron confessed its power. The conception of the poem is very fine. The old dynasty of Heaven-Saturn, Cybele, and the giant race of Titans-fallen, like Satan and his angels, from their high estate. The power of this outworn race of brute agency yielding to the higher and more spiritual influences. How fine this picture of the fallen gods: "Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave Creus was one-his ponderous iron mace Lay by him, and a shattered rib of rock Told of his rage, ere he thus sunk and pin'd, Iapetus another in his grasp : A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed tongue Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length It is only from a view of the idiosyncrasy of Keats' mind and feelings that we can account for his fondness for the old fables and traditions of Greek literature. His sensuous imagination associated the fair appearances of the external world, and the yearnings of the soul after the grand and beautiful, with incarnations and sensible existences. The agencies of invisible power were clothed with shapes, and endued with attributes, analogous to the impression they made, or the thoughts they awakened; and the same reverential and creative principle, which gave life and mystical predominance to the fictions of the lively Greek, operated, thousands of years after, to restore them their lost dominion in the ideal of a kindred mind. Nor is it wonderful that a mental formation so susceptible of beauty, whether in the animate or inanimate creation—so alive to impressions received through the sensesshould prefer instinctively "those fair humanities of old religion"-raised, by a beautiful excess, a little above us, without breaking the ties of sympathy, which connect the series-ascending from the lowest to the highest order of being, to the far loftier and severer truth, which, indulging no passion or appetite, shows man at once his fallen condition and his deliverance. Mr. Milnes can scarcely account for the phenomenon, that a youth, not only unread in Greek literature, but unacquainted with the language, should fall into the manners, feelings, and sentiments of ancient fable, with an originality, freshness, and propriety, unrivalled since Moschus or Theocritus. But we conceive that wherein Mr. Milnes thinks the wonder chiefly to consist his ignorance of the language -was, in fact, in a mind constituted as his was, so far from an obstacle, a great safeguard against a commonplace, and second-hand scholarship. English literature, from Chaucer to Milton. was stuffed with interlarded heathenism of this dull and clumsy quality. Had Keats gone through the drudgery of college lectures and Greek versify ings, the same process which would have sharpened his critical acumen, might have dulled the edge of his imagination, and dried up the freshness of his heart in that channel for ever. Thoroughly acquainted with the Greek mythology from English sources, he wove his own fancies around the naked trellis-work he found. His genius, foreign only from the circumstances of changed times and manners, but not essentially different, became acclimated to genial themes and scenes, and his creations, original as "Marmion" or the "Lay," were, like these poems, true to the spirit of the ages they represented. We cannot cease, however, to be astonished at his "fine paganism," as Wordsworth called it. The originality of his Grecian verse is so complete, that an ancient would never doubt its descent from a common source of inspiration; and, truly, few of the old masters ever drank deeper from the sacred spring. If Keats had flourished in the age of the emperor Julian, that determined stickler for the old religion would have hailed with delight a genius which could clothe his loved fictions with new beauty, and recommend them by the graces of inexhaustible imagery. The language of Keats is, in our opinion, a more striking phenomenon than his unlearned classicality. The picturesque beauty of his phraseology, the imaginative pregnancy of his epithets, and the richness of his vocabulary is unsurpassed by any writer in the English language. This could not have resulted from any degree of industry. It is one thing to have all the words in a dictionary at command; it is another to combine them in magical groupings. One epithet may strike the reader more than the most elaborate simile. When Shakspeare said, "This little life is rounded by a sleep." Had he not a whole picture before him of a little island, girded round by the ocean, eternity? The reader will find Keats' poetry full of these pregnant epithets. It is said by Johnson that Pope, in his translation of Homer, had enriched the language with every turn of phrase and form of expression it was capable of; but the reader of Keats will find elegancies of expression and happy words to be found nowhere else. Keats used to say, "he pursued fine phrases like a lover," and we must admit that these coy mistresses to him, at least, were not chary of their fa yours. As his sensation was intimately connected with the imaginative faculty, so his ear was not only exquisite in its sense of harmony, but almost interpreted the meaning to the fancy. In one of his comments on the passage from "Paradise Lost" : "To slumber here as in the vales of heaven," He says, "there is cool pleasure in the very sound of vale." a Keats was a creature of impulse; his action seldom resulted from any weighed principle; but he had good heart. The beautiful, moral, as well as physical, shed a halo round his thoughts, and raised his affections. The charm of his character, no less than the impression his genius made on all who knew him, turned acquaintances quickly into friends, and made his friends not only admire but love him. The homage which genius pays to genius; the love which unites congenial spirits; but, above all, the things which a friend can do and suffer for a friend, throw a beautiful charm, or rather consecration over the closing scene of Keats' life. That closing scene was in perfect keeping with his beautiful existence. Of too fine a temper for the rude shocks and conflicts of the world, racked with bodily pain, and bleeding at every pore from the wounds of a cruel separation from the object of a passion-the only one he had ever felt -that consumed him, and burned madly within him, he prayed for the quiet of the grave, and fell asleep in the arms of kindred genius. A plain open-heartedness and genuine simplicity of character, united to every great and generous emotion, endeared him to his many friends in a degree rarely observable in this world of cold hearts and self-absorption. The letter of Leigh Hunt to Mr. Severn (a name never to be heard without respect and admiration), which did not reach the "Eternal City" till after the dying poet had breathed his latest sigh, conveys some idea of the state of feeling shared in common at that time by all who knew, valued, and loved him : "Tell him," says Mr. Hunt, "tell that great poet and noble-hearted man, that we shall all bear his memory in the most precious part of our hearts, and that the world shall bow their heads to it as our loves do." In the last hour that awaits every man, the embraces of friends to be seen no more, the consciousness of greatness achieved, and the thought of living after death in the memory of men, are not enough, cannot reasonably be enough to satisfy the parting spirit. We would hope that Keats was not without that "faith which looks through death." It is on feeling hearts, fine sensibilities like his, that the simple and sublime words of Scripture work with most effect; nor is it easy to suppose that a mind so gentle and so tender could have contemplated the divine love incarnated in the lowly Jesus, without emotion and gratitude. But his end was peaceful and happy, nor was that lovely imagination ex 66 tinct-it lingered to the last. "Severn," said he, in one of the intervals of pain, "I feel the flowers growing over me;"" and there they do grow, even all the winter long, making one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place." The volumes before us have been long a desideratum, but we do not regret they did not appear sooner. The published poetry of Keats has been. some twenty years before the public. It has been silently winning its way, making many proselytes to poetical doctrines, very much differing from those held in the days of Pope and Dryden, and pointing back to the fountain of all that is great in the Elizabethan era. These volumes appear just in time to gratify a laudable interest awakened by merit already felt and valued; and Keats is fortunate in having been consigned to one so thoroughly alive to his merits and defects, as Mr. Milnes unquestionably is. Mr. Milnes unites a fine simplicity to a picturesqueness of expression very captivating, and the poet involuntarily peeps out in many a passage. Good criticism-by no means silent where censure is called for-gives these volumes additional value, and to every lover of poetry-to every one who loves to contemplate the highest order of human genius soaring aloft, or fretted like a caged eagle; weak as a breaking wave, or, in its hour of strength, "Not charloted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy;" we would recommend these attractive and instructive remains, and can assure the reader from our own experience that he will close the book to recur to it often again, and that from the perusal he will derive much pleasure, much knowledge, and will feel the better for it. CEYLON AND THE CINGALESE. BY ONESIPHORUS, AUTHOR OF "CHINA AND THE CHINESE," &c. CHAPTER V. MODE OF PREPARING CINNAMON-CASTE WHICH PERFORM THE OPERATION-GOING TO BENN'S TO SEEK FOR CRAVATS, AND IN THEIR STEAD FIND INSOLENCE-PETTAH-MOORMAN'S SHOPVERANDAH QUESTION-GALLE FACE-SUNSET-FIRE FLIES HOVERING OVER THE LAKE COLOMBO. "Gratis anhelans, multa agendo nihil agens." OF our ping, big-whiskered baby, of the infantine age of twenty-four years. Is not that what you were going to say, Gus? Well, perhaps not exactly; but I am sure some long-winded sentiment was coming out, so I thought it best to cut it short. You are a good-tempered fellow, though, beloved cousin,' or, by Jupiter Ammon, you would constantly resent my impertinent remarks. But here comes Dighton's carriage. What a rumlooking nigger that is, running by the side of the horse! What does he look like? Red turban; a thing doing duty for a coat, that looks like a grubby white bed-gown with short sleeves; knee breeches to match; his lovely brown face, arms, hands, naked legs and feet, presenting as you would say, Gus a pleasing contrast; but which I say looks tarnation ugly." "How are you, Whalmer?-how are you, Atkins ?-are you ready, my boys? Otwyn would not get out of the carriage. He says that he is incapable of using the exertion, or undertaking the fatigue, which would result from getting out of the carriage to salute you; as you must get into the carriage to go to the cinnamon gardens, and so see him, he need not get out to see you." "Well, Dighton, let's start. Come, Gus, you bundle in first; keep your long legs to yourself. Close packing -four big he fellows in your machine, Dighton. But I beg the machine's pardon for not using its proper designation, palanquin carriage;' pity it is not a little larger. Dang your imperance, Otwyn, you lazy varmint; why did you not come out, and ask us in a gentlemanly manner how we found ourselves?" "Well, old fellow, consider I did come out, and did inquire as to the state of your salubrity. Really, Atkins, I am half dead with the heat." It is rayther hot for us, white Christians; but those black heathen pagans don't seem to mind it a bit. Dighton, what a queer-looking chap your horsekeeper is; does he wear your livery?" "I found him clad in that costume, and they tell me it's the custom here; but I do not find it more absurd than our European livery.” "Look, Gus, there goes another chap, holding the horse's head, dressed in sky blue, and a sort of crest on his arm; here comes another, in white and purple. This is style; a phaeton with a horse-keeper at the side of each horse. They look well in their dress of bright red, turbans and all; it's quite refreshing, in this cool climate, to gaze on their subdued coloursugh! what taste some folks have. Those niggers look red hot, as if they had just come out of Mount Etna to get a breath of fresh air." "If they can find any iced, or even cool air, I only hope they won't keep it all to themselves; the smallest donation would be thankfully received, and gratefully acknowledged, if they send some this way." "I say, Dighton, do all these cinnamon gardens belong to you?” "No, there are two other proprietors besides our firm, who have plantations here. These are called the Cinnamon Gardens,' par excellence, and lead into Slave Island. But here is our place; and there stands the burgher-clerk, whom I ordered to keep the peelers here, and remain to explain the process to us.” 66 He seems to be taking it easy, at all events; he has brought himself to an anchor; and look at these interesting natives, in the elegant attitude indulged in by them, when they squat on their heels." "I expected to have perceived a fragrance diffused around; but, in passing through the cinnamon gardens, not the slightest aroma was percep tible." "It is a mistaken idea, Whalmer, of many; but you will find, that as soon as they commence peeling the cinnamon bushes, the effluvia will be very powerful. Smell this blossom; scarcely any scent is perceptible; but, strange to say, the oil which is obtained from the berry, or fruit, by boiling -which, when cold, is a substance like wax. is frequently made into candles, and will emit a very pleasant perfume in burning." "What is the size of the fruit, and what is it like ?" "The fruit is smaller than a pea, and shaped like an acorn; but to see a plantation in full beauty, you should visit it when it is first putting forth the young leaves, which are of a pale, delicate yellow, streaked with bright red." "It must be very beautiful, Digh.. ton; yet these cinnamon laurels, with their vesture of shining dark green |