Chapter 12

From this point forwards nothing but misery remains to be recorded of John Keats. The narrative becomes depressing to write and depressing to read. The sensation is like that of being confined in a dark vault at noonday. One knows, indeed, that the sun of the poet's genius is blazing outside, and that, on emerging from the vault, we shall be restored to light and warmth; but the atmosphere within is not the less dark and laden, nor the shades the less murky. In tedious wretchedness, racked and dogged with the pang of body and soul, exasperated and protesting, raging now, and now ground down into patience and acceptance, Keats gropes through the valley of the shadow of death.

Before detailing the facts, we must glance for a minute at the position. Keats had a passionate ambition and a passionate love--the ambition to be a poet, the love of Fanny Brawne. At the beginning of 1820, he was conscious of his authentic vocation as a poet, and conscious also that this vocation, though recognized in a small and to some extent an influential circle, was publicly denied and ridiculed; his portion was the hiss of the viper and the gander, the hooting of the impostor and the owl. His forthcoming volume was certain to share the same fate; he knew its claims would be perversely resisted and cruelly repudiated. If he could make no serious impression as a poet, not only was his leading ambition thwarted, but he would also be impeded in getting any other and more paying literary work to do--regular profession or employment he had none. He was at best a poor man, and, for the while, almost bereft of any command of funds. So long as this state of things, or anything like it, continued, he would be unable to marry the woman of his heart. While sickness kept him a prisoner, he was torn by ideas of her volatility and fickleness. Disease was sapping his vitals, pain wrung him, Death beckoned him with finger more and more imperative. Poetic fame became the vision of Tantalus, and love the clasp of Ixion.

Such was the life, or such the incipient death, of Keats, in the last twelvemonth of his brief existence.

For half a year prior to February 1820 he had been unrestful and cheerless. "Either that gloom overspread me," so he wrote to James Rice, "or I was suffering under some passionate feeling, or, if I turned to versify, that exacerbated the poison of either sensation." He began taking laudanum at times, but was induced by Brown, towards the end of 1819, to promise to give up this insidious practice. Then came the crash: it was at Hampstead, on the night of the 3rd of February.

"One night, about eleven o'clock," I quote the words of Lord Houghton, which have become classical, "Keats returned home[6] in a state of strange physical excitement; it might have appeared, to those who did not know him, one of fierce intoxication. He told his friend [Brown] he had been outside the stage-coach, had received a severe chill, was a little fevered; but added: 'I don't feel it now.' He was easily persuaded to go to bed; and, as he leapt into the cold sheets, before his head was on the pillow, he slightly coughed, and said: 'That is blood from my mouth. Bring me the candle: let me see this blood.' He gazed steadfastly some moments at the ruddy stain, and then, looking in his friend's face with an expression of sudden calmness never to be forgotten, said: 'I know the colour of that blood--it is arterial blood. I cannot be deceived in that colour. That drop is my death-warrant; I must die.'"

A surgeon arrived shortly, bled Keats, and pronounced the rupture to be unimportant, but the patient was not satisfied. He wrote to Miss Brawne some few days afterwards, "So violent a rush of blood came to my lungs that I felt nearly suffocated." By the 6th of the month, however, he was already better, and he then said in a letter to his sister: "From imprudently leaving off my great-coat in the thaw, I caught cold, which flew to my lungs." Later on he suffered from palpitation of the heart; but was so far recovered by the 25th of March as to be able to go to town to the exhibition of Haydon's picture, Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, and early in April he could take a walk of five miles. In March he had written that he was then picking up flesh, and, if he could avoid inflammation for six weeks, might yet do well; in April his doctor assured him that his only malady was nervous irritability and general weakness, caused by anxiety and by the excitement of poetry. At an untoward time for his health, about the first week in May, Keats was obliged to quit his residence in Hampstead; as Brown was then leaving for Scotland, and, according to his wont, let the house. Keats accordingly went to live in Wesleyan Place, Kentish Town. A letter which he wrote just before his departure speaks of his uncertain outlook; he might be off to South America, or, more likely, embarking as surgeon on a vessel trading to the East Indies. This latter idea had been in his mind for about a year past, off and on. What he could have contemplated doing in South America is by no means apparent. On the 7th of May Keats parted at Gravesend from Brown, and they never met again. The hand with which he grasped Brown's, and which he had of old "clenched against Hammond's," was now, according to his own words, "that of a man of fifty."

Things had thus gone on pretty well with Keats's health, since he first began to rally from the blood-spitting attack of the 3rd of February; but this was not to continue. On the 22nd of June he again broke a blood-vessel, and vomited blood morning and evening. Leigh Hunt thought it high time to intervene, and removed the patient to his house, No. 13 Mortimer Terrace, Kentish Town. By the 7th of July--just about the time when Keats's last volume was published, the one containing "Lamia," "Hyperion," and all his best works--the physician had told him that he must not remain in England, but go to Italy. On the 12th, Mrs. Gisborne, the friend of Godwin and of Shelley, saw him at Hunt's house, looking emaciated, and "under sentence of death from Dr. Lamb." Three days afterwards he wrote to Haydon "I am afraid I shall pop off just when my mind is able to run alone." The stay at Leigh Hunt's house came to an end in a way which speaks volumes for the shattered nerves, and consequent morbid susceptibility, of Keats. On the 10th of August a note for him written by Miss Brawne, which "contained not a word of the least consequence," arrived at the house. Keats was then resting in his own room, and Mrs. Hunt, who was occupied, desired a female servant to give it to him. The servant quitted the household on the following day; and, in leaving, she handed the letter to Thornton Hunt, then a mere child, asking him to reconsign it to his mother. When Thornton did this on the 12th, the letter was open; opened (one assumes) either by the servant through idle curiosity, or by Thornton through simple childishness. "Poor Keats was affected by this inconceivable circumstance beyond what can be imagined. He wept for several hours, and resolved, notwithstanding Hunt's entreaties, to leave the house. He went to Hampstead that same evening." In Hampstead he had at least the solace of being received into the dwelling occupied by the Brawne family, being the same dwelling (next door to that of Brown and Keats) which had been recently tenanted by the Dilkes; yet the excitement of feeling, consequent on the continual presence of Miss Brawne, was perhaps harmful to him. Here he remained until the time for journeying to Italy arrived. He was still, it seems, left in some uncertainty as to the precise nature and gravity of his disease, for on the 14th of August he wrote to his sister: "'Tis not yet consumption, I believe; but it would be, were I to remain in this climate all the winter." Anyhow, his expectations of recovery, or of marked benefit from the Italian sojourn, were but faint.

Something may here be said of the love-letters of Keats to Fanny Brawne. They begin (as already stated) on the 1st of July 1819, and end at some date between his leaving Hampstead, early in May 1820, and quitting Hunt's house in August. We may assume the 10th July 1820, or thereabouts, as the date of the last letter. I cannot say that the character of Keats gains to my eyes from the perusal of this correspondence. Love-letters are not expected to be models of self-regulation and "the philosophic mind"; they would be bad love-letters, or letters of a bad specimen of a lover, if they were so. Still, one wants a man to show himself, _quâ_ lover, at his highest in letters of this stamp; one wants to find in them his noblest self, his steadiest as his most ardent aspirations, in one direction. Keats seems to me, throughout his love-letters, unbalanced, wayward, and profuse; he exhibits great fervour of temperament, and abundant caressingness, without the inner depth of tenderness and regard. He lives in his mistress, for himself. As the letters pass further and further into the harsh black shadows of disease, he abandons all self-restraint, and lashes out right and left; he wills that his friends should have been disloyal to him, as the motive for his being disloyal to them. To make allowance for all this is possible, and even necessary; but to treat it as not needing that any allowance should be made would seem to me futile. In the earlier letters of the series we have to note a few points of biographic interest. He says that he believes Miss Brawne liked him for himself, not for his writings, and he loves her the more for it; that, on first falling in love with her, he had written to declare himself, but he burned the letter, fancying that she had shown some dislike to him; that he had all his life been indifferent to money matters, but must be chary of the resources of his friends; that he was afraid of her "being a little inclined to the Cressid"--one of the various passages which show that he chafed at her girlish liking for general society and diversions. On the 10th of October 1819 he had had "a thousand kisses" from her, and was resolved not to dispense with the thousand and first. Early in June 1820 he speaks of her having "been in the habit of flirting with Brown," who "did not know he was doing me to death by inches."--It may be well to give three of the letters as specimens:--

(I.)

"25 College Street.

"[Postmark] _13 October 1819._

"My dearest Girl,--This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two, and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my mind for ever so short a time. Upon my soul I can think of nothing else. The time is past when I had power to advise and warn you against the unpromising morning of my life. My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you; I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again; my life seems to stop there--I see no further. You have absorbed me; I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving. I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you; I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love.

"Your note came in just here. I cannot be 'happier' away from you; 'tis richer than an argosy of pearls. Do not threat me, even in jest. I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion--I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more; I could be martyred for _my_ religion. Love is my religion--I could die for that; I could die for you. My creed is love, and you are its only tenet. You have ravished me away by a power I cannot resist; and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often 'to reason against the reasons of my love.' I can do that no more, the pain would be too great. My love is selfish; I cannot breathe without you."

(II.)

[Date uncertain--say towards June 15, 1820.]

"My dearest Fanny,--My head is puzzled this morning, and I scarce know what I shall say, though I am full of a hundred things. 'Tis certain I would rather be writing to you this morning, notwithstanding the alloy of grief in such an occupation, than enjoy any other pleasure, with health to boot, unconnected with you. Upon my soul I have loved you to the extreme. I wish you could know the tenderness with which I continually brood over your different aspects of countenance, action, and dress. I see you come down in the morning; I see you meet me at the window; I see everything over again eternally that I ever have seen. If I get on the pleasant clue, I live in a sort of happy misery; if on the unpleasant, 'tis miserable misery.

"You complain of my ill-treating you in word, thought, and deed.[7] I am sorry--at times I feel bitterly sorry that I ever made you unhappy. My excuse is that those words have been wrung from me by the sharpness of my feelings. At all events, and in any case, I have been wrong: could I believe that I did it without any cause, I should be the most sincere of penitents. I could give way to my repentant feelings now, I could recant all my suspicions, I could mingle with you heart and soul, though absent, were it not for some parts of your letters. Do you suppose it possible I could ever leave you? You know what I think of myself, and what of you: you know that I should feel how much it was my loss, and how little yours.

"'My friends laugh at you.' I know some of them: when I know them all, I shall never think of them again as friends, or even acquaintance. My friends have behaved well to me in every instance but one; and there they have become tattlers, and inquisitors into my conduct--spying upon a secret I would rather die than share it with anybody's confidence. For this I cannot wish them well; I care not to see any of them again. If I am the theme, I will not be the friend of idle gossips. Good gods, what a shame it is our loves should be so put into the microscope of a coterie! Their laughs should not affect you--(I may perhaps give you reasons some day for these laughs, for I suspect a few people to hate me well enough, _for reasons I know of_, who have pretended a great friendship for me)--when in competition with one who, if he never should see you again, would make you the saint of his memory. These laughers, who do not like you, who envy you for your beauty, who would have God-blessed me from you for ever, who were plying me with discouragements with respect to you eternally! People are revengeful: do not mind them. Do nothing but love me: if I knew that for certain, life and health will in such event be a heaven, and death itself will be less painful. I long to believe in immortality: I shall never be able to bid you an entire farewell. If I am destined to be happy with you here, how short is the longest life! I wish to believe in immortality--I wish to live with you for ever. Do not let my name ever pass between you and those laughers: if I have no other merit than the great love for you, that were sufficient to keep me sacred and unmentioned in such society. If I have been cruel and unjust, I swear my love has ever been greater than my cruelty--which lasts but a minute, whereas my love, come what will, shall last for ever. If concession to me has hurt your pride, God knows I have had little pride in my heart when thinking of you. Your name never passes my lips--do not let mine pass yours. Those people do not like me.

"After reading my letter, you even then wish to see me. I am strong enough to walk over: but I dare not--I shall feel so much pain in parting with you again. My dearest love, I am afraid to see you: I am strong, but not strong enough to see you. Will my arm be ever round you again, and, if so, shall I be obliged to leave you again?

"My sweet love, I am happy whilst I believe your first letter. Let me be but certain that you are mine heart and soul, and I could die more happily than I could otherwise live. If you think me cruel, if you think I have slighted you, do muse it over again, and see into my heart. My love to you is 'true as truth's simplicity, and simpler than the infancy of truth'--as I think I once said before. How could I slight you? how threaten to leave you? Not in the spirit of a threat to you--no, but in the spirit of wretchedness in myself. My fairest, my delicious, my angel Fanny, do not believe me such a vulgar fellow. I will be as patient in illness and as believing in love as I am able."

(III.)

(This is the last letter of the series. Its date is uncertain; but may, as already intimated, be towards July 10, 1820. It follows next after our No. 2.)

"My dearest Girl,--I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth. I feel it almost impossible to go to Italy. The fact is, I cannot leave you, and shall never taste one minute's content until it pleases chance to let me live with you for good. But I will not go on at this rate. A person in health, as you are, can have no conception of the horrors that nerves and a temper like mine go through.

"What island do your friends propose retiring to? I should be happy to go with you there alone, but in company I should object to it: the backbitings and jealousies of new colonists, who have nothing else to amuse themselves, is unbearable. Mr. Dilke came to see me yesterday, and gave me a very great deal more pain than pleasure. I shall never be able any more to endure the society of any of those who used to meet at Elm Cottage[8] and Wentworth Place. The last two years taste like brass upon my palate. If I cannot live with you, I will live alone.

"I do not think my health will improve much while I am separated from you. For all this, I am averse to seeing you: I cannot bear flashes of light, and return into my glooms again. I am not so unhappy now as I should be if I had seen you yesterday. To be happy with you seems such an impossibility: it requires a luckier star than mine--it will never be.

"I enclose a passage from one of your letters which I want you to alter a little: I want (if you will have it so) the matter expressed less coldly to me.

"If my health would bear it, I could write a poem which I have in my head, which would be a consolation for people in such a situation as mine. I would show some one in love, as I am, with a person living in such liberty as you do.[9] Shakespeare always sums up matters in the most sovereign manner. Hamlet's heart was full of such misery as mine is, when he said to Ophelia, 'Go to a nunnery, go, go!' Indeed, I should like to give up the matter at once--I should like to die. I am sickened at the brute world you are smiling with. I hate men, and women more. I see nothing but thorns for the future: wherever I may be next winter, in Italy or nowhere, Brown will be living near you, with his indecencies. I see no prospect of any rest. Suppose me in Rome. Well, I should there see you, as in a magic glass, going to and from town at all hours--I wish I could infuse a little confidence of human nature into my heart: I cannot muster any. The world is too brutal for me. I am glad there is such a thing as the grave--I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there. At any rate, I will indulge myself by never seeing any more Dilke or Brown or any of their friends. I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a thunderbolt would strike me.--God bless you.

"J. K."

It is seldom one reads a letter (not to speak of a love-letter) more steeped than this in wretchedness and acrimony; wretchedness for which the cause was but too real and manifest; acrimony for which no ground has been shown or is to be surmised. What Mr. Dilke had done, or could be supposed to have done, to merit the invalid's ire, is unapparent. Mr. Brown may be inferred, from the verses of Keats already quoted, to have had the general character and bearing of a _bon vivant_ or "jolly dog"; sufficiently versed in the good things of this world, whether fish, flesh, or womankind; jocose, or on occasion slangy. But Keats himself, in the nearly contemporary letter in which he arraigned Miss Brawne for "flirting with Brown," had said: "I know his love and friendship for me--at this moment I should be without pence were it not for his assistance;" and we refuse to think that any contingency could be likely to arise in which his "indecencies" would put Miss Brawne to the blush. Be it enough for us to know that Keats, in the drear prospect of expatriation and death, wrote in this strain, and to wish it were otherwise.

The time had now arrived when Keats was to go to Italy. It was on the 18th of September 1820 that he embarked on the _Maria Crowther_ from London. Haydon gives us a painful glimpse of the poet shortly before his departure: "The last time I saw him was at Hampstead, lying on his back in 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 of 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." Another attached friend, of whom I have not yet made mention, accompanied him; and in the annals of watchful and self-oblivious friendship there are few records more touching than the one which links with the name of John Keats that of Joseph Severn. Severn, two years older than Keats, had known him as far back as 1813, being introduced by Mr. William Haslam. Keats was then studying at Guy's Hospital, but none the less gave Severn "the complete idea of a poet." The acquaintance does not seem to have proceeded far at that date; but, through the intervention of Mr. Edward Holmes (author of a "Life of Mozart," and "A Ramble among the Musicians of Germany") was renewed whilst the poet was composing "Endymion"; and Severn may probably have co-operated in some minor degree with Haydon in training Keats to a perception of the great things in plastic art. In 1820 Severn, a student-painter at the Royal Academy, had won the gold medal by his picture of The Cave of Despair, from Spenser, entitling him to the expenses of a three years' stay in Italy, for advancement in his art. He had an elegant gift in music, as well as in painting; and it is a satisfaction to learn that at this period he had "great animal spirits," for without these what he went through during the ensuing five months would have been but too likely to break him down. I must make room here for another letter from Keats, one addressed to his good friend Brown, deeply pathetic, and serving to assuage whatever may have been like "brass upon our palate" in the last-quoted letter to Fanny Brawne.

"_Saturday, September 28._

"_Maria Crowther_, off Yarmouth, Isle of Wight.

"My dear Brown,--The time has not yet come for a _pleasant_ letter from me. I have delayed writing to you from time to time, because I felt how impossible it was to enliven you with one heartening hope of my recovery. This morning in bed the matter struck me in a different manner. I thought I would write 'while I was in some liking,' or I might become too ill to write at all, and then, if the desire to have written should become strong, it would be a great affliction to me. I have many more letters to write, and I bless my stars that I have begun, for time seems to press--this may be my best opportunity.

"We are in a calm, and I am easy enough this morning. If my spirits seem too low you may in some degree impute it to our having been at sea a fortnight without making any way. I was very disappointed at not meeting you at Bedhampton, and am very provoked at the thought of you being at Chichester to-day.[10] I should have delighted in setting off for London for the sensation merely--for what should I do there? I could not leave my lungs or stomach or other worse things behind me.

"I wish to write on subjects that will not agitate me much. There is one I must mention, and have done with it. Even if my body would recover of itself, this would prevent it. The very thing which I want to live most for will be a great occasion of my death. I cannot help it--who can help it? Were I in health, it would make me ill, and how can I bear it in my state? I daresay you will be able to guess on what subject I am harping: you know what was my greatest pain during the first part of my illness at your house. I wish for death every day and night to deliver me from these pains; and then I wish death away, for death would destroy even those pains, which are better than nothing. Land and sea, weakness and decline, are great separators; but death is the great divorcer for ever. When the pang of this thought has passed through my mind, I may say the bitterness of death is past. I often wish for you, that you might flatter me with the best.

"I think, without my mentioning it, for my sake you would be a friend to Miss Brawne when I am dead. You think she has many faults: but for my sake think she has not one. If there is anything you can do for her by word or deed, I know you will do it. I am in a state at present in which woman, merely as woman, can have no more power over me than stocks and stones; and yet the difference of my sensations with respect to Miss Brawne and my sister is amazing. The one seems to absorb the other to a degree incredible. I seldom think of my brother and sister in America. The thought of leaving Miss Brawne is beyond everything horrible--the sense of darkness coming over me--I eternally see her figure eternally vanishing. Some of the phrases she was in the habit of using during my last nursing at Wentworth Place ring in my ears. Is there another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be--we cannot be created for this sort of suffering. The receiving this letter is to be one of yours.

"I will say nothing about our friendship, or rather yours to me, more than that, as you deserve to escape, you will never be so unhappy as I am. I should think of--you[11] in my last moments. I shall endeavour to write to Miss Brawne if possible to-day.[12] A sudden stop to my life in the middle of one of these letters would be no bad thing, for it keeps one in a sort of fever awhile.

"Though fatigued with a letter longer than any I have written for a long while, it would be better to go on for ever than awake to a sense of contrary winds. We expect to put into Portland Roads to-night. The captain, the crew, and the passengers are all ill-tempered and weary. I shall write to Dilke. I feel as if I was closing my last letter to you."

The ship at last proceeded on her voyage, and in the Bay of Biscay encountered a severe squall. Keats soon afterwards read the storm-scene in Byron's "Don Juan": he threw the book away in indignation, denouncing the author's perversity of mind which could "make solemn things gay, and gay things solemn." Late in October he reached the harbour of Naples, and had to perform a tedious quarantine of ten days. After landing on the 31st,[13] he received a second letter from Shelley, then at Pisa, urging him to come to that city. The first letter on this subject, dated in July, had invited Keats to the hospitality of Shelley's own house; but in November this project had been given up, as "we are not rich enough for that sort of thing"--although Shelley still intended (so he wrote to Leigh Hunt) "to be the physician both of his body and his soul,--to keep the one warm, and to teach the other Greek and Spanish." Keats, however, had brought with him a letter of introduction to Dr. (afterwards Sir James) Clark, in Rome,--or indeed he may have met him before leaving England--and he decided to proceed to Rome rather than Pisa. Dr. Clark engaged for him a lodging opposite his own: it was in the first house on the right as you ascend the steps of the Trinità del Monte. The precise date when Keats reached Rome, his last place of torture and of rest, does not appear to be recorded: it was towards the middle of November. He was at first able to walk out a little, and occasionally to ride. Dr. Clark attended his sick bed with the most exemplary assiduity and kindness. He pronounced (so Keats wrote to Brown in a letter of November 30th, which is perhaps the last he ever penned) that the lungs were not much amiss, but the stomach in a very bad condition: perhaps this was a kindly equivocation, for by this time--as was ascertained after his death--Keats can have had scarcely any lungs at all. The patient was under no illusion as to his prospects, and he more than once asked the physician "When will this posthumous life of mine come to an end?"

The only words in which the last days of Keats can be adequately recorded are those of Severn: our best choice would be between extract and silence. There were oscillations from time to time, from bad to less bad, but generally the tendency of the disease was steadily downwards. The poet's feelings regarding Fanny Brawne were so acute and harrowing that he never mentioned her to his friend. I give a few particulars from Severn's contemporary letters--the person addressed being not always known.

"_December 14._ His suffering is so great, so continued, and his fortitude so completely gone, that any further change must make him delirious.

"_December 17._ Not a moment can I be from him. I sit by his bed and read all day, and at night I humour him in all his wanderings.... He rushed out of bed and said 'This day shall be my last,' and but for me most certainly it would. The blood broke forth in similar quantity the next morning, and he was bled again. I was afterwards so fortunate as to talk him into a little calmness, and he soon became quite patient. Now the blood has come up in coughing five times. Not a single thing will he digest, yet he keeps on craving for food. Every day he raves he will die from hunger, and I've been obliged to give him more than was allowed.... Dr. Clark will not say much.... All that can be done he does most kindly; while his lady, like himself in refined feeling, prepares all that poor Keats takes, for--in this wilderness of a place for an invalid--there was no alternative.

[To Mrs. Brawne.] "_January 11._ He has now given up all thoughts, hopes, or even wish, for recovery. His mind is in a state of peace, from the final leave he has taken of this world, and all its future hopes.... I light the fire, make his breakfast, and sometimes am obliged to cook; make his bed, and even sweep the room.... Oh I would my unfortunate friend had never left your Wentworth Place for the hopeless advantages of this comfortless Italy! He has many many times talked over 'the few happy days at your house, the only time when his mind was at ease'.... Poor Keats cannot see any letters--at least he will not; they affect him so much, and increase his danger. The two last I repented giving: he made me put them into his box, unread.

"_January 15._ Torlonia the banker has refused us any more money. The bill is returned unaccepted, and to-morrow I must pay my last crown for this cursed lodging-place: and what is more, if he dies, all the beds and furniture will be burnt, and the walls scraped, and they will come on me for a hundred pounds or more.... You see my hopes of being kept by the Royal Academy will be cut off unless I send a picture in the spring. I have written to Sir T. Lawrence.

"_February 12._ At times I have hoped he would recover; but the doctor shook his head, and Keats would not hear that he was better; the thought of recovery is beyond everything dreadful to him.

[To Mrs. Brawne.] "_February 14._ His mind is growing to great quietness and peace. I find this change has its rise from the increasing weakness of his body; but it seems like a delightful sleep to me, I have been beating about in the tempest of his mind so long. To-night he has talked very much to me, but so easily that he at last fell into a pleasant sleep. He seems to have comfortable dreams without nightmare. This will bring on some change: it cannot be worse--it may be better. Among the many things he has requested of me to-night, this is the principal--that on his grave shall be this, 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water.'... Such a letter has come! I gave it to Keats, supposing it to be one of yours; but it proved sadly otherwise. The glance of that letter tore him to pieces. The effects were on him for many days. He did not read it--he could not; but requested me to place it in his coffin, together with a purse and letter (unopened) of his sister's: since which time he has requested me not to place _that_ letter in his coffin, but only his sister's purse and letter, with some hair. Then he found many causes of his illness in the exciting and thwarting of his passions; but I persuaded him to feel otherwise on this delicate point.... I have got an English nurse to come two hours every other day.... He has taken half a pint of fresh milk: the milk here is beautiful to all the senses--it is delicious. For three weeks he has lived on it, sometimes taking a pint and a half in a day.

"_February 22._ This morning, by the pale daylight, the change in him frightened me: he has sunk in the last three days to a most ghastly look.... He opens his eyes in great doubt and horror; but, when they fall upon me, they close gently, open quietly, and close again, till he sinks to sleep.

"_February 27._ He is gone. He died with the most perfect ease--he seemed to go to sleep. On the 23rd, about four, the approaches of death came on. 'Severn--I--lift me up. I am dying--I shall die easy. Don't be frightened: be firm, and thank God it has come.' I lifted him up in my arms. The phlegm seemed boiling in his throat, and increased until eleven, when he gradually sank into death, so quiet that I still thought he slept. I cannot say more now. I am broken down by four nights' watching, no sleep since, and my poor Keats gone. Three days since the body was opened: the lungs were completely gone. The doctors could not imagine how he had lived these two months. I followed his dear body to the grave on Monday [February 26th], with many English.... The letters I placed in the coffin with my own hand."

No words of mine shall be added here to tarnish upon the mirror of memory this image of a sacred death and a sacred friendship.