Enemy in the world. This is the solitude of the soul, "not of woods or trees or mountains-but the desert of "society-the waste and oblivion of the heart. He is "himself alone. His existence is purely intellectual, and "is therefore intolerable to one who has felt the rapture "of affection, or the anguish of woe." As I am about it I might as well give you his character of Godwin as a Romancer-"Whoever else is, it is pretty clear that the "author of Caleb Williams is not the Author of Waverley.

Nothing can be more distinct or excellent in their "several ways than these two writers. If the one owes "almost everthing to external observations and tradi"tional character, the other owes everything to internal conception and contemplation of the possible workings "of the human Mind. There is little knowledge of the "world, little variety, neither an eye for the picturesque nor a talent for the humourous in Caleb Williams, for instance, but you cannot doubt for a moment of the originality of the work and the force of the conception. "The impression made upon the reader is the exact "measure of the strength of the author's genius. For "the effect both in Caleb Williams and St. Leon is "entirely made out, not by facts nor dates, by blackletter, "or magazine learning, by transcript nor record, but by "intense and patient study of the human heart, and by "an imagination projecting itself into certain situations, " and capable of working up its imaginary feelings to the height of reality." This appears to me quite correct. Now I will copy the other Poem-it is on the double immortality of Poets

Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth-
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double liv'd in regions new?

Yes-and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of Sun and Moon;
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
And the parle of voices thundrous;
With the Whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on elysian Lawns

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large bluebells tented,
Where the daisies are rose scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on Earth is not.
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing;
But melodious truth divine,
Philosophic numbers fine;
Tales and golden histories
Of Heaven and its Mysteries.
Thus ye live on Earth' and then
On the Earth ye live again;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us here the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying
Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth born souls still speak
To mortals of the little week
They must sojourn with their cares ;
Of their sorrows and delights

Of their Passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame-
What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us every day
Wisdom, though fled far away.

1 Probably a clerical error for high.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,

Ye have left your Souls on Earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,

Double liv'd in Regions new!

These are specimens of a sort of rondeau which I think I shall become partial to-because you have one idea amplified with greater ease and more delight and freedom than in the sonnet. It is my intention to wait a few years before I publish any minor poems-and then I hope to have a volume of some worth—and which those people will relish who cannot bear the burthen of a long poem. In my journal I intend to copy the poems I write the days they are written-there is just room I see in this page to copy a little thing I wrote off to some Music as it was playing

I had a dove and the sweet dove died,

And I have thought it died of grieving :

O what could it grieve for? it was tied

With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.
Sweet little red-feet why should you die?

Why should you leave me-sweet dove why?
You lived alone in the forest tree.

Why pretty thing could you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas.
Why not live sweetly as in the green trees?

Sunday [3 January 1819]. I have been dining with Dilke to day. He is up to his Ears in Walpole's letters. Mr. Manker is there, and I have come round to see if I can conjure up anything for you. Kirkman came down to see me this morning-his family has been very badly off lately. He told me of a villainous trick of his Uncle William in Newgate Street who became sole Creditor to his father under pretence of serving him, and put an

execution on his own Sister's goods. He went in to the family at Portsmouth; conversed with them, went out and sent in the Sheriff's officer. He tells me too of abominable behaviour of Archer to Caroline MathewArcher has lived nearly at the Mathews these two years; he has been amusing Caroline-and now he has written a Letter to Mrs. M. declining, on pretence of inability to support a wife as he would wish, all thoughts of marriage. What is the worst is Caroline is 27 years old. It is an abominable matter. He has called upon me twice lately -I was out both times. What can it be for?-There is a letter to-day in the Examiner to the Electors of Westminster on Mr. Hobhouse's account. In it there is a good character of Cobbett-I have not the paper by me or I would copy it. I do not think I have mentioned the discovery of an African Kingdom-the account is much the same as the first accounts of Mexico-all magnificence-there is a Book being written about it. I will read it and give you the cream in my next. The romance we have heard upon it runs thus: They have window frames of gold-100,000 infantry-human sacrifices. The Gentleman who is the Adventurer has his wife with him-she, I am told, is a beautiful little sylphid woman

her husband was to have been sacrificed to their Gods and was led through a Chamber filled with different instruments of torture with privilege to choose what death he would die, without their having a thought of his aversion to such a death-they considering it a supreme distinction. However he was let off and became a favourite with the King who at last openly patronized him, though at first on account of the Jealousy of his Ministers he was wont to hold conversations with his Majesty in the dark middle of the night. All this sounds a little Blue-beardish-but I hope it is true. There is another thing I must mention of the momentous

kind; but I must mind my periods in it-Mrs. Dilke has two Cats-a Mother and a Daughter-now the Mother is a tabby and the daughter a black and white like the spotted child. Now it appears to me, for the doors of both houses are opened frequently, so that there is a complete thoroughfare for both Cats (there being no board up to the contrary), they may one and several of them come into my room ad libitum. But no-the Tabby only comes-whether from sympathy for Ann the Maid or me I cannot tell-or whether Brown has left behind him atmospheric spirit of Maidenhood I cannot tell. The Cat is not an old Maid herself-her daughter is a proof of it-I have questioned her I have look'd at the lines of her paw-I have felt her pulse to no purpose. Why should the old Cat come to me? I ask myself and myself has not a word to answer. It may come to light some day; if it does you shall hear

of it.

Kirkman this morning promised to write a few lines to you and send them to Haslam. I do not think I have anything to say in the Business way. You will let me know what you would wish done with your property in England-what things you would wish sent out-but I am quite in the dark about what you are doing—if I do not hear soon I shall put on my wings and be after you. I will in my next, and after I have seen your next letter, tell you my own particular idea of America. Your next letter will be the key by which I shall open your hearts and see what spaces want filling with any particular information. Whether the affairs of Europe are more or less interesting to you-whether you would like to hear of the Theatres-of the bear Garden-of the Boxers -the Painters, the Lectures-the Dress-the progress of Dandyism the progress of Courtship-or the fate of Mary Miller-being a full, true, and très particular