_C._ No, I have not. I have seen two Sonnets which I think showed marks of a great genius had he lived. I have also read a poem with a classical name—I forget what. Poor Keats, I saw him once. Mr. Green,[3] whom you have heard me mention, and I were walking out in these parts, and we were overtaken by a young man of a very striking countenance whom Mr. Green recognised and shook hands with, mentioning my name; I wish Mr. Green had introduced me, for I did not know who it was. He passed on, but in a few moments sprung back and said, ‘Mr. Coleridge, allow me the honour of shaking your hand.’ 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.’ _C._ And what do you think of that? _F._ Being unacquainted, Sir, with the original I cannot speak of its merits as a translation. As a poem I think it meagre, nor do I conceive that the metres are adapted to the subject in English whatever they may be in German. _C._ I have been asked why I did not translate the camp scenes in ‘Wallenstein.’ The truth is that the labour would have been immense, and besides it would not have been borne in English, to say nothing of the fact that Mrs. Barbauld reviewed my translation of the rest of the play and abused it through thick and thin, so that it sold for wastepaper. I remember your uncle telling me that he had picked it up—he approved it, so did Canning to whom he showed it—and so might one or two more, but the edition sold for wastepaper. _F._ Had you ever any thought of translating the ‘Faust’?