From all these details it would appear that Keats was by no means an ardent devotee of the feminine type of character. He thought there was but little congruity between the Ideal and the Real of womanhood. He parted company, in this regard, with Shakespeare and Shelley, and adhered rather to Milton. So it was before he was in love; and to be in love was not the occasion of any essential alteration of view. He ascribed to Fanny Brawne the same volatile appetite for amusement, the same propensity for flirtation, the same comparative shallowness of heart-affection, which he imputed to her sex in general. He loved her passionately: he believed in her not passionately, nor even intensely. That he was hard hit by the blind and winged archer was a patent fact; but he still knew the archer to be blind. In a room, says Keats's surgical fellow-student, Mr. Stephens, he was always at the window peering out into space, and it was customary to call the window-seat "Keats's place." In his last illness he told Severn that the intensest of his pleasures had been to watch the growth of flowers; and, after lying quiet one day, he whispered, "I feel the daisies [or "the flowers"] growing over me." In an early stage of his fatal illness, February 16, 1820, he had written pathetically to James Rice: "How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world impress a sense of its natural beauties upon us! Like poor Falstaff, though I do not 'babble,' I think of green fields; I muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have known from my infancy--their shapes and colours are as new to me as if I had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the happiest moments of our lives. I have seen foreign flowers in hot-houses, of the most beautiful nature, but I do not care a straw for them. The simple flowers of our spring are what I want to see again." Music was another of his great enjoyments. He would sit for hours while Miss Charlotte Reynolds played to him on the pianoforte; and a wrong note in an orchestra has been known to rouse his pugnacity, and make him wish to "go down and smash all the fiddles." Haydn's symphonies were among his prime favourites, and Purcell's songs from Shakespeare. "Give me," he wrote from Winchester to his sister, in August 1819, "books, fruit, French wine, and fine weather, and a little music out of doors, played by somebody I do not know, and I can pass a summer very quietly." He would also listen long to Severn's playing, following the air with a low kind of recitative; and could himself "produce a pleasing musical effect, though possessing hardly any voice."