Keats and I though about the same age, and both inclined to literature, were in many respects as different as two individuals could be. He enjoyed good health--a fine flow of animal spirits--was fond of company--could amuse himself admirably with the frivolities of life--and had great confidence in himself. I, on the other hand was languid and melancholy--fond of repose--thoughtful beyond my years--and diffident to the last degree. But I always delighted in administering to the happiness of others: and being one of a large family, it pleased me much to see him and his brother George enjoy themselves so much at our little domestic concerts and dances.... He was of the sceptical and republican school. An advocate for the innovations which were making progress in his time. A faultfinder with everything established. I, on the contrary, hated controversy and dispute--dreaded discord and disorder--loved the institutions of my country.... But I respected Keats' opinions, because they were sincere--refrained from subjects on which we differed, and only asked him to concede with me the imperfection of human knowledge, and the fallibility of human judgment: while he, on his part, would often express regret on finding that he had given pain or annoyance by opposing with ridicule or asperity the opinions of others. Of Keats's physical appearance and poetical preferences the same witness writes further:-- A painter or a sculptor might have taken him for a study after the Greek masters, and have given him 'a station like the herald Mercury, new lighted on some heaven-kissing hill.' His eye admired more the external decorations than felt the deep emotions of the Muse. He delighted in leading you through the mazes of elaborate description, but was less conscious of the sublime and the pathetic. He used to spend many evenings in reading to me, but I never observed the tears in his eyes nor the broken voice which are indicative of extreme sensibility. These indeed were not the parts of poetry which he took pleasure in pointing out. This last, it should be noted, seems in pretty direct contradiction with one of Cowden Clarke's liveliest recollections as follows:--'It was a treat to see as well as hear him read a pathetic passage. Once when reading _Cymbeline_ aloud, I saw his eyes fill with tears, and his voice faltered when he came to the departure of Posthumus, and Imogen saying she would have watched him-- Till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay follow'd him till _he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air_; and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept.'