your month or six weeks will not be like many that I have known, capable of being drawn out into any length whatever, and productive of nothing but disappointment.

I have done nothing since you went, except that I have composed the better half of a Sonnet to Romney; yet even this ought to bear an earlier date, for I began to be haunted with a desire to do it long before we came out of Sussex, and have daily attempted it ever since.

It would be well for the reading part of the world, if the writing part were, many of them, as dull as I am. Yet even this small produce, which my sterile intellect has hardly yielded at last, may serve to convince you that in point of spirits I am not worse.

In fact, I am a little better. The powders and the laudanum together have, for the present at least, abated the fever that consumes them; and in measure as the fever abates, I acquire a less discouraging view of things, and with it a little power to exert myself.

In the evenings I read Baker's Chronicle to Mrs. Unwin, having no other history, and hope in time to be as well versed in it, as his admirer Sir Roger de Coverly.

W. C.

LETTER

LETTER XLVIII.

To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr.

MY DEAREST JOHNNY,

Weston, Oct. 22, 1792.

Here am I with I know now not how

many Letters to answer, and no time to do it in. I exhort you, therefore, to set a proper value on this, as proving your priority in my attentions, though in other respects likely to be of little value.

You do well to sit for your picture, and give very sufficient reasons for doing it; you will also, I doubt not, take care that when future generations shall look at it, some spectator or other shall say, this is the picture of a good man, and a useful one.

And now God bless you, my dear Johnny. I proceed pretty much at the old rate; rising cheerless and distressed in the morning, and brightening a little as the day goes on.

Nothing done, my dearest Brother,

nor likely to be done at present; yet I purpose in a day or two to

make

make another attempt, to which, however, I shall address myself with fear and trembling, like a man, who having sprained his wrist, dreads to use it. I have not, indeed, like such a man, injured myself by any extraordinary exertion, but seem as much enfeebled as if I had. The consciousness that there is so much to do, and nothing done, is a burthen that I am not able to bear. Milton especially, is my grievance, and I might almost as well be haunted by his ghost, as goaded with such continual reproaches for neglecting him I will, therefore, begin; I will do my best; and if, after all, that best prove good for nothing, I will even send the notes, worthless as they are, that I have made already; a measure very disagreeable to myself, and to which nothing but necessity shall compel me. I shall rejoice to see those new samples of your biography, which you give me to expect.

Allons! courage!-Here comes something however; produced after a gestation as long as that of a pregnant woman. It is the debt long unpaid; the compliment due to Romney; and if it has your approbation, I will send it, or you may send it for me. I must premise, however, that I intended nothing less than a sonnet when I began. I know not why, but I said to myself, it shall not be a sonnet; accordingly I attempted it in one sort of measure, then in a second, then in a third, till I had made the trial in half a dozen different kinds of shorter verse, and behold it is a sonnet at last. The Fates would have it so.

To

To GEORGE ROMNEY, Esqr.

Romney! expert infallible to trace,
On chart or canvas, not the form alone,
And 'semblance, but, however, faintly shewn,
The mind's impression too on every face,
With strokes that time ought never to erase:
Thou hast so pencil'd mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The Artist shining with superior grace.

But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe
In thy incomparable work appear:
Well! I am satisfied, it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear

For in my looks what sorrow could'st thou see,
While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

;

LETTER L.

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

W. C.

Weston, Nov. 9, 1792.

I wish that I were as industrious, and

as much occupied as you, though in a different way; but it is not so with me. Mrs. Unwin's great debility (who is not yet able to

move

move without assistance) is of itself a hindrance such as would effectually disable me. Till she can work and read, and fill up her time as usual (all which is at present entirely out of her power) I may now and then find time to write a Letter, but I shall write nothing more. I cannot sit with my pen in my hand, and my books before me, while she is in effect in solitude, silent and looking at the fire. To this hindrance that other has been added, of which you are already aware, a want of spirits, such I have never known, when I was not absolutely laid by, since I commenced an author. How long I shall be continued in these uncomfortable circumstances is known only to Him, who, as he will, disposes of us all. I may yet be able, perhaps, to prepare the first book of the Paradise Lost for the press, before it will be wanted; and Johnson himself seems to think there will be no haste for the second. But poetry is my favourite employment, and all my poetical operations are in the mean time suspended; for while a work, to which I have bound myself, remains unaccomplished, I can do nothing else.

Johnson's plan of prefixing my phiz. to the new edition of my Pocms, is by no means a pleasant one to me; and so I told him in a Letter I sent him from Eartham, in which I assured him that my objections to it would not be easily surmounted. But if you judge that it may really have an effect in advancing the sale, I would not be so squeamish as to suffer the spirit of prudery to prevail in me

to