from so
mennee powints.

I am afraid that the worst form of American greenness appears abroad
in a desire to be perfectly up in critical appreciation of the arts,
and to approach the great works in the spirit of the connoisseur. The
ambition is not altogether a bad one. Still I could not help laughing
at a fellow-countryman when he told me that he had not yet seen
Raphael's "Transfiguration," because he wished to prepare his mind for
understanding the original by first looking at all the copies he could
find.

VII.

The Basilica San Paolo fuori le Mura surpasses every thing in splendor
of marble and costly stone--porphyry, malachite, alabaster--and luxury
of gilding that is to be seen at Rome. But I chiefly remember it
because on the road that leads to it, through scenes as quiet and
peaceful as if history had never known them, lies the Protestant
graveyard in which Keats is buried. Quite by chance the driver
mentioned it, pointing in the direction of the cemetery with his whip.
We eagerly dismounted and repaired to the gate, where we were met by
the son of the sexton, who spoke English through the beauteous line of
a curved Hebrew nose. Perhaps a Christian could not be found in Rome
to take charge of these heretic graves, though Christians can be got
to do almost any thing there for money. However, I do not think
a Catholic would have kept the place in better order, or more
intelligently understood our reverent curiosity. It was the new
burial-ground which we had entered, and which is a little to the right
of the elder cemetery. It was very beautiful and tasteful in every
way; the names upon the stones were chiefly English and Scotch,
with here and there an American's. But affection drew us only to the
prostrate tablet inscribed with the words, "Percy Bysshe Shelley, Cor
Cordium," and then we were ready to go to the grave of him for whom we
all feel so deep a tenderness. The grave of John Keats is one of
few in the old burying-ground, and lies almost in the shadow of the
pyramid of Caius Cestius; and I could not help thinking of the wonder
the Roman would have felt could he have known into what unnamable
richness and beauty his Greek faith had ripened in the heart of the
poor poet, where it was mixed with so much sorrow. Doubtless, in his
time, a prominent citizen like Caius Cestius was a leading member of
the temple in his neighborhood, and regularly attended sacrifice: it
would have been but decent; and yet I