ABSTRACT
72A loose, slack, not well-dressed youth met Mr.——— and myself in a lane near Highgate. ——— knew him, and spoke. It was Keats. He was introduced to me, and staid a minute or so. After he had left us a little way, he came back, and said: “Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having pressed your hand !” — “There is death in that hand,” I said to ———, when Keats was gone; yet this was, I believe, before the consumption showed itself distinctly.
