"To a man of your nature such a letter as Haydon's must have been extremely cutting.... As soon as I had known Haydon three days, I had got enough of his character not to have been surprised at such a letter as he has hurt you with. Nor, when I knew it, was it a principle with me to drop his acquaintance, although with you it would have been an imperious feeling.... I must say one thing that has pressed upon me lately, and increased my humility and capability of submission, and that is this truth: _Men of genius_ are great as certain ethereal chemicals operating on a mass of neutral intellect; but they _have not any individuality, any determined character_." The following also, from a letter of January 1818 to the same correspondent, relates partly to Haydon: "The sure way, Bailey, is first to know a man's faults, and then be passive. If after that he insensibly draws you towards him, then you have no power to break the link." Haydon's verdict upon Keats is no doubt extremely important. I give here the whole entry in his diary, 29th of March 1821, omitting only two passages which have been already extracted in their more essential context:-- "Keats, too, is gone! He died at Rome, the 23rd February, aged twenty-five. A genius more purely poetical never 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,