A loose, slack, and 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 stayed a minute or so. After he had left us a little way, he ran 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.