Pleasure never is at home.
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth:
Then let winged fancy wander
Towards heaven still spread beyond her--
Open wide the mind's cage door,
She'll dart forth and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy, let her loose!
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the spring
Fades as doth its blossoming:
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with kissing. What do then?
Sit thee in an ingle when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter night:
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the Ploughboy's heavy shoon:
When the night doth meet the moon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish vesper from the sky.
Sit thee then and send abroad
With a Mind self-overaw'd
Fancy high-commission'd; send her,--
She'll have vassals to attend her--
She will bring thee, spite of frost,
Beauties that the Earth has lost;
She will bring thee all together
All delights of summer weather;
All the faery buds of May,
On spring turf or scented spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth
With a still mysterious stealth;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup
And thou shalt quaff it--Thou shalt hear
Instant harvest carols clear,
Bustle of the reaped corn
Sweet Birds antheming the Morn;
And in the same moment hark
To the early April lark,
And the rooks with busy caw
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt at one glance behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White plumed lilies and the first
Hedgerow primrose that hath burst;
Shaded Hyacinth alway
Sapphire Queen of the Mid-may;
And every leaf and every flower
Pearled with the same soft shower.
Thou shalt see the fieldmouse creep
Meagre from its celled sleep,
And the snake all winter shrank
Cast its skin on sunny bank;
Freckled nest eggs shalt thou see
Hatching in the hawthorn tree;
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on its mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the Beehive casts its swarm--
Acorns ripe down scattering
While the autumn breezes sing,
For the same sleek throated mouse
To store up in its winter house.
O, sweet Fancy, let her loose!
Every joy is spoilt by use:
Every pleasure, every joy--
Not a Mistress but doth cloy.
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gaz'd at? Where's the Maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice however soft
One would hear too oft and oft?
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let then winged fancy find
Thee a Mistress to thy mind.
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter
Ere the God of torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide:
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's when her Zone
Slipp'd its golden clasp, and down
Fell her Kirtle to her feet
While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid--Mistress fair!
Thou shalt have that tressed hair
Adonis tangled all for spite;
And the mouth he would not kiss,
And the treasure he would miss;
And the hand he would not press
And the warmth he would distress.
O the Ravishment--the Bliss!
Fancy has her there she is--
Never fulsome, ever new,
There she steps! and tell me who
Has a Mistress so divine?
Be the palate ne'er so fine
She cannot sicken. Break the Mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;
Where she's tether'd to the heart.
Quickly break her prison string
And such joys as these she'll bring,
Let the winged fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.
I did not think this had been so long a Poem. I have another not so
long--but as it will more conveniently be copied on the other side I will
just put down here some observations on Caleb Williams by Hazlitt--I meant
to say St. Leon, for although he has mentioned all the Novels of Godwin
very freely I do not quote them, but this only on account of its being a
specimen of his usual abrupt manner, and fiery laconicism. He says of St.
Leon--
"He is a limb torn off society. In possession of eternal youth and
beauty he can feel no love; surrounded, tantalised, and tormented
with riches, he can do no good. The faces of Men pass before him as
in a speculum; but he is attached to them by no common tie of
sympathy or suffering. He is thrown back into himself and his own
thoughts. He lives in the solitude of his own breast--without wife
or child or friend or 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 everything to external observations and traditional
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 humorous 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 thund'rous;
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 that 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.
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 mourn for? it was tied
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.
Sweet little red-feet why did you die?
Why would you leave me--sweet dove why?
You lived alone on the forest tree.
Why pretty thing could you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and I gave you white peas.
Why not live sweetly as in the green trees?
Sunday [January 3].
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 Sherriff's officer. He tells me too of
abominable behaviour of Archer to Caroline Mathew--Archer 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 patronised 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
Bluebeardish--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 any 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 Millar--being a full, true, and tres
particular account of Miss M.'s ten Suitors--How the first tried the
effect of swearing; the second of stammering; the third of
whispering;--the fourth of sonnets--the fifth of Spanish leather
boots;--the sixth of flattering her body--the seventh of flattering her
mind--the eighth of flattering himself--the ninth stuck to the Mother--the
tenth kissed the Chambermaid and told her to tell her Mistress--But he was
soon discharged, his reading led him into an error; he could not sport the
Sir Lucius to any advantage. And now for this time I bid you good-bye--I
have been thinking of these sheets so long that I appear in closing them
to take my leave of you--but that is not it--I shall immediately as I send
this off begin my journal--when some days I shall write no more than 10
lines and others 10 times as much. Mrs. Dilke is knocking at the wall for
Tea is ready--I will tell you what sort of a tea it is and then bid you
Good-bye.
[January 4.]
This is Monday morning--nothing particular happened yesterday evening,
except that when the tray came up Mrs. Dilke and I had a battle with
celery stalks--she sends her love to you. I shall close this and send it
immediately to Haslam--remaining ever, My dearest brother and sister,
Your most affectionate Brother
JOHN.
LXXXI.--TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE.
Wentworth Place, Friday Morn [December 18, 1818].
My dear Woodhouse--I am greatly obliged to you. I must needs feel
flattered by making an impression on a set of ladies. I should be content
to do so by meretricious romance verse, if they alone, and not men, were
to judge. I should like very much to know those ladies--though look here,
Woodhouse--I have a new leaf to turn over: I must work; I must read; I
must write. I am unable to afford time for new acquaintances. I am
scarcely able to do my duty to those I have. Leave the matter to chance.
But do not forget to give my remembrances to your cousin.
Yours most sincerely
JOHN KEATS.
LXXXII.--TO MRS. REYNOLDS.
Wentworth Place, Tuesd. [December 22, 1818].
My dear Mrs. Reynolds--When I left you yesterday, 'twas with the
conviction that you thought I had received no previous invitation for
Christmas day: the truth is I had, and had accepted it under the
conviction that I should be in Hampshire at the time: else believe me I
should not have done so, but kept in Mind my old friends. I will not speak
of the proportion of pleasure I may receive at different Houses--that
never enters my head--you may take for a truth that I would have given up
even what I did see to be a greater pleasure, for the sake of old
acquaintanceship--time is nothing--two years are as long as twenty.
Yours faithfully
JOHN KEATS.
LXXXIII.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Wentworth Place, Tuesday [December 22, 1818].
My dear Haydon--Upon my Soul I never felt your going out of the room at
all--and believe me I never rhodomontade anywhere but in your Company--my
general Life in Society is silence. I feel in myself all the vices of a
Poet, irritability, love of effect and admiration--and influenced by such
devils I may at times say more ridiculous things than I am aware of--but I
will put a stop to that in a manner I have long resolved upon--I will buy
a gold ring and put it on my finger--and from that time a Man of superior
head shall never have occasion to pity me, or one of inferior Nunskull to
chuckle at me. I am certainly more for greatness in a shade than in the
open day--I am speaking as a mortal--I should say I value more the
privilege of seeing great things in loneliness than the fame of a Prophet.
Yet here I am sinning--so I will turn to a thing I have thought on more--I
mean your means till your picture be finished: not only now but for this
year and half have I thought of it. Believe me Haydon I have that sort of
fire in my heart that would sacrifice everything I have to your service--I
speak without any reserve--I know you would do so for me--I open my heart
to you in a few words. I will do this sooner than you shall be distressed:
but let me be the last stay--Ask the rich lovers of Art first--I'll tell
you why--I have a little money which may enable me to study, and to travel
for three or four years. I never expect to get anything by my Books: and
moreover I wish to avoid publishing--I admire Human Nature but I do not
like _Men_. I should like to compose things honourable to Man--but not
fingerable over by _Men_. So I am anxious to exist without troubling the
printer's devil or drawing upon Men's or Women's admiration--in which
great solitude I hope God will give me strength to rejoice. Try the long
purses--but do not sell your drawings or I shall consider it a breach of
friendship. I am sorry I was not at home when Salmon called. Do write and
let me know all your present whys and wherefores.
Yours most faithfully
JOHN KEATS.
LXXXIV.--TO JOHN TAYLOR.
Wentworth Place, [December 24, 1818].
My dear Taylor--Can you lend me L30 for a short time? Ten I want for
myself--and twenty for a friend--which will be repaid me by the middle of
next month. I shall go to Chichester on Wednesday and perhaps stay a
fortnight--I am afraid I shall not be able to dine with you before I
return. Remember me to Woodhouse.
Yours sincerely
JOHN KEATS.
LXXXV.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Wentworth Place, [December 27, 1818].
My dear Haydon--I had an engagement to-day--and it is so fine a morning
that I cannot put it off--I will be with you to-morrow--when we will thank
the Gods, though you have bad eyes and I am idle.
I regret more than anything the not being able to dine with you to-day. I
have had several movements that way--but then I should disappoint one who
has been my true friend. I will be with you to-morrow morning and stop all
day--we will hate the profane vulgar and make us Wings.
God bless you.
J. KEATS.
LXXXVI.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, Wednesday [December 30, 1818].
My dear Fanny--I am confined at Hampstead with a sore throat; but I do not
expect it will keep me above two or three days. I intended to have been in
Town yesterday but feel obliged to be careful a little while. I am in
general so careless of these trifles, that they tease me for Months, when
a few days' care is all that is necessary. I shall not neglect any chance
of an endeavour to let you return to School--nor to procure you a Visit to
Mrs. Dilke's which I have great fears about. Write me if you can find
time--and also get a few lines ready for George as the Post sails next
Wednesday.
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
LXXXVII.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Wentworth Place, Monday Aft. [January 4, 1819].
My dear Haydon--I have been out this morning, and did not therefore see
your note till this minute, or I would have gone to town directly--it is
now too late for to-day. I will be in town early to-morrow, and trust I
shall be able to lend you assistance noon or night. I was struck with the
improvement in the architectural part of your Picture--and, now I think on
it, I cannot help wondering you should have had it so poor, especially
after the Solomon. Excuse this dry bones of a note: for though my pen may
grow cold, I should be sorry my Life should freeze--
Your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
LXXXVIII.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Wentworth Place, [between January 7 and 14, 1819].
My dear Haydon--We are very unlucky--I should have stopped to dine with
you, but I knew I should not have been able to leave you in time for my
plaguy sore throat; which is getting well.
I shall have a little trouble in procuring the Money and a great ordeal to
go through--no trouble indeed to any one else--or ordeal either. I mean I
shall have to go to town some thrice, and stand in the Bank an hour or
two--to me worse than anything in Dante--I should have less chance with
the people around me than Orpheus had with the Stones. I have been writing
a little now and then lately: but nothing to speak of--being discontented
and as it were moulting. Yet I do not think I shall ever come to the rope
or the Pistol, for after a day or two's melancholy, although I smoke more
and more my own insufficiency--I see by little and little more of what is
to be done, and how it is to be done, should I ever be able to do it. On
my soul, there should be some reward for that continual _agonie
ennuyeuse_. I was thinking of going into Hampshire for a few days. I have
been delaying it longer than I intended. You shall see me soon; and do not
be at all anxious, for _this_ time I really will do, what I never did
before in my life, business in good time, and properly.--With respect to
the Bond--it may be a satisfaction to you to let me have it: but as you
love me do not let there be any mention of interest, although we are
mortal men--and bind ourselves for fear of death.
Yours for ever
JOHN KEATS.
LXXXIX.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.
Wentworth Place, [January 1819].
My dear Haydon--My throat has not suffered me yet to expose myself to the
night air: however I have been to town in the day time--have had several
interviews with my guardian--have written him rather a plain-spoken
Letter--which has had its effect; and he now seems inclined to put no
stumbling-block in my way: so that I see a good prospect of performing my
promise. What I should have lent you ere this if I could have got it, was
belonging to poor Tom--and the difficulty is whether I am to inherit it
before my Sister is of age; a period of six years. Should it be so I must
incontinently take to Corduroy Trousers. But I am nearly confident 'tis
all a Bam. I shall see you soon--but do let me have a line to-day or
to-morrow concerning your health and spirits.
Your sincere friend
JOHN KEATS.
XC.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, [January 1819].
My dear Fanny--I send this to Walthamstow for fear you should not be at
Pancras Lane when I call to-morrow--before going into Hampshire for a few
days--I will not be more I assure you--You may think how disappointed I
am in not being able to see you more and spend more time with you than I
do--but how can it be helped? The thought is a continual vexation to
me--and often hinders me from reading and composing--Write to me as often
as you can--and believe me,
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
XCI.--TO FANNY KEATS.
Wentworth Place, Feb{y.} [11, 1819]. Thursday.
My dear Fanny--Your Letter to me at Bedhampton hurt me very much,--What
objection can there be to your receiving a Letter from me? At Bedhampton I
was unwell and did not go out of the Garden Gate but twice or thrice
during the fortnight I was there--Since I came back I have been taking
care of myself--I have been obliged to do so, and am now in hopes that by
this care I shall get rid of a sore throat which has haunted me at
intervals nearly a twelvemonth. I had always a presentiment of not being
able to succeed in persuading Mr. Abbey to let you remain longer at
School--I am very sorry that he will not consent. I recommend you to keep
up all that you know and to learn more by yourself however little. The
time will come when you will be more pleased with Life--look forward to
that time and, though it may appear a trifle be careful not to let the
idle and retired Life you lead fix any awkward habit or behaviour on
you--whether you sit or walk endeavour to let it be in a seemly and if
possible a graceful manner. We have been very little together: but you
have not the less been with me in thought. You have no one in the world
besides me who would sacrifice anything for you--I feel myself the only
Protector you have. In all your little troubles think of me with the
thought that there is at least one person in England who if he could would
help you out of them--I live in hopes of being able to make you happy.--I
should not perhaps write in this manner, if it were not for the fear of
not being able to see you often or long together. I am in hopes Mr. Abbey
will not object any more to your receiving a letter now and then from me.
How unreasonable! I want a few more lines from you for George--there are
some young Men, acquaintances of a Schoolfellow of mine, going out to
Birkbeck's at the latter end of this Month--I am in expectation every day
of hearing from George--I begin to fear his last letters miscarried. I
shall be in town to-morrow--if you should not be in town, I shall send
this little parcel by the Walthamstow Coach--I think you will like
Goldsmith--Write me soon--
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN ----.
Mrs. Dilke has not been very well--she is gone a walk to town to-day for
exercise.
XCII.--TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS.
Sunday Morn{g.} February 14, [1819].