Only when it was too late, only when harshness had broken the man's heart, and scorn had fatally wounded his genius, did scholars begin to adorn their pages by references to Turner's fame, did the rich begin to pay fabulous sums for the very pictures they had once despised, the nation set apart the best room in its gallery for Turner's works, while the people wove for his white tombstone wreaths they had denied his brow and paid his dead ashes honors refused his living spirit.
In similar vein we remember the English-speaking world has recently been celebrating the anniversary of the birth of Keats, who is the only pure Greek in all English literature, for whose imagination "a thing of beauty was a joy forever," and whose genius in divining the secrets of the beautiful amounted to inspiration.

We know now that no poet in all time, who died so young, has left so much that is precious.

Scholars are not wanting who believe that had he lived to see his maturity Keats would have ranked with the five great poets of the first order of genius.

Yet the publication of his volume of verse received from "Blackwood" and the "Quarterly" only contempt and bitter scorn.

Waxing bold, the penny-a-liners grew savage, until the very skies rained lies and bitter slanders upon poor Keats.