existed. In
fireside conversation he was weak and inconsistent, but he was in
his glory in the fields. The humming of a bee, the sight of a
flower, the glitter of the sun, seemed to make his nature
tremble; then his eyes flashed, his cheeks glowed, his mouth
quivered. He was the most unselfish of human creatures; unadapted
to this world, he cared not for himself, and put himself to any
inconvenience for the sake of his friends. He was haughty, and
had a fierce hatred of rank [this corresponds with Hunt's remark,
that Keats looked upon a man of birth as his natural enemy], but
he had a kind, gentle heart, and would have shared his fortune
with any man who wanted it. His classical knowledge was
inconsiderable, but he could feel the beauties of the classical
writers. He had an exquisite sense of humour, and too refined a
notion of female purity to bear the little sweet arts of love
with patience. _He had no decision of character_, and, having no
object upon which to direct his great powers, was at the mercy of
every pretty theory Hunt's ingenuity might start. One day he was
full of an epic poem; the next day epic poems were splendid
impositions on the world. Never for two days did he know his own
intentions.... The death of his brother wounded him deeply, and
it appeared to me that he began to droop from that hour. I was
much attracted to Keats, and he had a fellow-feeling for me. I
was angry because he would not bend his great powers to some
definite object, and always told him so. Latterly he grew
irritated because I would shake my head at his irregularities,
and tell him that he would destroy himself.... Poor dear Keats!
had nature given you firmness as well as fineness of nerve, you
would have been glorious in your maturity as great in your
promise. May your kind and gentle spirit be now mingling with
those of Shakespeare and Milton, before whose minds you have so
often bowed! May you be considered worthy of admission to share
their musings in heaven, as you were fit to comprehend their
imaginations on earth! Dear Keats, hail and adieu for some six or
seven years, and I shall meet you. I have enjoyed Shakespeare
more with Keats than with any other human creature."

In writing to Miss Mitford, Haydon added:

"His ruin was owing to _his want of decision of character, and
power of will_, without which genius i