I was struck by the energy of his manner, and gave him my hand.
He passed on and we stood still looking after him, when Mr. Green said,
‘Do you know who that is? That is Keats, the poet.’
‘Heavens!’ said I, ‘when I shook him by the hand there was death!’ This was about two years before he died.
F. But what was it?
C. I cannot describe it. There was a heat and a dampness in the hand. To say that his death was caused by the Review is absurd, but at the same time it is impossible adequately to conceive the effect which it must have had on his mind.
It is very well for those who have a place in the world and are independent to talk of these things, they can bear such a blow, so can those who have a strong religious principle; but all men are not born Philosophers, and all men have not those advantages of birth and education.
Poor Keats had not, and it is impossible I say to conceive the effect which such a Review[4] must have had upon him, knowing as he did that he had his way to make in the world by his own exertions, and conscious of the genius within him.
Have you seen, Mr. F., anything of Lord Byron’s poetry?
F. Nothing, Sir, but the Translation of ‘Faust.’