ned)
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 talke