weak and inconsistent; he had an exquisite sense of humour, but it was in the fields Keats was in his glory. His ruin was owing to his want of decision of character and power of will, without which genius is a curse. He could not bring his mind to bear on one object, and was at the mercy of every pretty theory Leigh Hunt's ingenuity would suggest. . . . . He had a tending to religion when first I knew him, but Leigh Hunt soon forced it from his mind. Never shall I forget Keats once rising from his chair and approaching my last picture ("Entry into Jerusalem "), he went before the portrait of Voltaire, placed his hand on his heart and bowing low 66 ". . . . In reverence done, as to the power That dwelt within, whose presence had infused From nectar, drink of gods," as Milton says of Eve after she had eaten the apple. "That's the being to whom I bend," said he, alluding to the bending of the other figures in the picture, and contrasting Voltaire with our Saviour, and his own adoration to that of the crowd. Leigh Hunt was the great unhinger of his best dispositions. Latterly, Keats saw Leigh Hunt's weakness. I distrusted his leader, but Keats would not cease to visit him because he thought Hunt illused. This showed Keats's goodness of heart.' 1 The following paragraph is given by Mr. F. W. Haydon under the head of "Table-Talk" (Volume II, page 258): "I remember Keats repeating to me that exquisite ode to Pan, just after he had conceived it, in a low, half-chanting, trembling tone. What a true genius he was! Poor fellow! I know the miserable mistake,' said he, 'I have ignorantly made in devoting myself to Leigh Hunt; but he is not selfish, and I'll not shrink now he is in trouble.' These were his very words. I was to have made He began life full of hope, and his brother told me that he recounted with pride and delight the opinion we had expressed of his powers the first morning he had breakfasted with me. Fiery, impetuous, ungovernable, and undecided, he expected the world to bow at once to his talents as his friends had done, and he had not patience to bear the natural irritation of envy at the undoubted proof he gave of strength. Goaded by ridicule he distrusted himself, and flew to dissipation. For six weeks he was hardly ever sober, and to show you what a man of genius does when his passions are roused, he told me that he once covered his tongue and throat, as far as he could reach, with cayenne pepper, in order to enjoy the "delicious coolness of claret in all its glory." This was his own expression.1 The death of his brother wounded him deeply, and it appeared to me from that hour he began to droop. He wrote his exquisite "Ode to the Nightingale" at this time, and as we were one evening walking in the Kilburn meadows he repeated it to me, before he put it to paper, in a low, tremulous under-tone which affected me extremely. He had great enthusiasm for me and so had I for him, but he grew angry latterly because I shook my head at his proceedings. I told him, I begged of him to bend his genius to some definite object. I remonstrated on his absurd dissipation, but to no purpose. The last time I saw him was at Hampstead, lying on his back in a drawing of Keats, and my neglect really gave him a pang, as it now does me." It might seem from this that the idea of printing Endymion as a quarto with a frontispiece consisting of Keats's portrait by Haydon (see Volume III, page 107) was abandoned in consequence of Haydon's failure to fulfil his offer. 1 See note at page 357. a white bed, helpless, irritable, and hectic. He had a book, and enraged at his own feebleness, seemed as if he were going out of the world with a contempt for this, and no hopes of a better. He muttered as I stood by him that if he did not recover he would "cut his throat." I tried to calm him, but to no purpose. I left him in great depression of spirit to see him in such a state. Poor dear Keats! When Keats was living, I could not get Hazlitt to admit Keats had common talents! Death seems to cut off all apprehensions that our self-love will be wounded by acknowledging genius. But let us see, and sift the motives of this sudden change. "Blackwood's" people Hazlitt would murder, morally or physically, no matter which, but to murder them he wishes. To suppose Keats's death entirely brought on by "Blackwood's" attacks is too valuable and mortal a blow to be given up. With the wary cunning of a thoroughbred modern review writer, he dwells on this touching subject, so likely to be echoed by all who have suffered by "Blackwood's" vindictive animosities. Now, Keats is an immortal; before, he was a pretender! Now, his sensitive mind withered under their "murderous criticism," when, had Keats been a little more prominent, Hazlitt, as soon as any man, would have given him the first stab! He thus revenges his own mortification by pushing forward the shattered ghost of poor fated Keats. 1 This passage from a letter to Miss Mitford written in September 1823 is given by Mr. F. W. Haydon with the explanatory note— "In his review of Shelley's Works, Hazlitt had spoken of Keats, Shelley, and Byron as 'a band of immortals.' This tickled my father, to whom Hazlitt had persistently denied Keats's claims to any talent, much less immortality." I have great pleasure in introducing to you this gentleman-Mr. William Ewing-for his kind services to our poor Keats and myself. Altho' we came here strangers to him, he gave us all the attention of an old friend, and that of the most valuable kind. You will remember my mention of a gentleman who sought all over Rome for an Ice Jelly when it was told me none could be got. It was this gentleman who procured one, and who rendered me many other like services on the like dreadfull occasions. I had no other soul to help me. Except Dr. Clark and myself, he saw more of Keats than any one-he will inform you on many points, as yet, too dreadfull for me to write. I am still compleatly unnerved when I look upon poor Keats's death; it still hangs upon me like a horrible dream. You will find this These extracts were printed in The Athenæum for the 23rd and 30th of August 1879. I have only inserted a few lines from one of the originals and placed the name in a blank for which there is not now any occasion. gentleman to possess extraordinary skill as a Sculptorhis works in Ivory are to me the most beautiful things of the kind I ever saw. Rome, July 17th, 1821. You see on the approach of the hot and dangerous weather I shall be obliged to go away, and that without placing a Stone on poor Keats's grave. All his papers I have sent to you, packed for safety in a Box of divers things belonging to my old friend and Master Mr. Bond. I chose this from many as the safest way-they will arrive in London about August or September. Mr. Taylor has written me of his intention to write some remembrances of our Keats. This is a kind thought of his, and I reverence this good man-nothing can be more interesting than to have the beautiful character of Keats described and appreciated. If it can be made known to the English, his memory will be cherished by them, not more for his Genius than for his English nature. I begin to think of him without pain-all the harsh horror of his death is fast subsiding from my mind. Sometimes a delightful glance of his life about the time when I first knew him will take possession of me and keep me speculating on and on to some passage in the " Endymion." (I am fortunate to have a copy of this—it is Dr. Clark's the last also.) Here I find many admirersaye, real ones—of his Poetry. This is a very great pleasure to me. I have many most agreeable conversations about him-but that only with classical scholars. The "Lamia" is the greatest favourite. I have been most sadly harassed about my picture for the Royal Academy, for this reason,-I have received notice to send it by the 10th of August. Now this is a |