the midst of persons who admired and encouraged my beautiful pursuit of
painting, in which I was then indeed but a very poor student, but with
my eyes opening and my soul awakening to a new region of Art, and
beginning to feel the wings growing for artistic flights I had always
been dreaming about.

In all this, however, there was a solitary drawback: there were few
Englishmen at Rome who knew Keats's works, and I could scarcely persuade
any one to make the effort to read them, such was the prejudice against
him as a poet; but when his gravestone was placed, with his own
expressive line, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water," then a
host started up, not of admirers, but of scoffers, and a silly jest was
often repeated in my hearing, "Here lies one whose name was writ in
water, and _his works in milk and water_"; and this I was condemned
to hear for years repeated, as though it had been a pasquinade; but I
should explain that it was from those who were not aware that I was the
friend of Keats.

At the first Easter after his death I had a singular encounter with the
late venerable poet, Samuel Rogers, at the table of Sir George Beaumont,
the distinguished amateur artist. Perhaps in compliment to my friendship
for Keats, the subject of his death was mentioned by Sir George, and
he asked Mr. Rogers if he had been acquainted with the young poet in
England. Mr. Rogers replied, that he had had more acquaintance than he
liked, for the poems were tedious enough, and the author had come upon
him several times for money. This was an intolerable falsehood, and I
could not restrain myself until I had corrected him, which I did with my
utmost forbearance,--explaining that Sir. Rogers must have mistaken some
other person for Keats,--that I was positive my friend had never done
such a thing in any shape, or even had occasion to do it,--that he