mimes never composed by me,
without even a contradictory aspect. I suppose the root of this report
is my loan to the manager of my Turkish drawings for his dresses, to
which he was more welcome than to my name. I suppose the real author
will soon own it, as it has succeeded; if not, Job be my model, and
Lethe my beverage!

"* * * * has received the portrait safe; and, in answer, the only remark
she makes upon it is, 'indeed it is like'--and again, 'indeed it is
like.' With her the likeness 'covered a multitude of sins;' for I happen
to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and
stern,--even black as the mood in which my mind was scorching last July,
when I sat for it. All the others of me, like most portraits
whatsoever, are, of course, more agreeable than nature.

"Redde the Ed. Review of Rogers. He is ranked highly; but where he
should be. There is a summary view of us all--_Moore_ and _me_ among the
rest; and both (the _first_ justly) praised--though, by implication
(justly again) placed beneath our memorable friend. Mackintosh is the
writer, and also of the critique on the Stael. His grand essay on Burke,
I hear, is for the next number. But I know nothing of the Edinburgh, or
of any other Review, but from rumour; and I have long ceased--indeed, I
could not, in justice, complain of any, even though I were to rate
poetry, in general, and my rhymes in particular, more highly than I
really do. To withdraw _myself_ from _myself_ (oh that cursed
selfishness!) has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in
scribbling at all; and publishing is also the continuance of the same
object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else recoils upon
itself. If I valued fame, I should flatter received opinions, which have
gathered strength by time, and will yet wear longer than any living
works to the contrary. But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not
give the lie to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may. If I am a
fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty
of his self-approved wisdom.

"All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up
to a passport to Paradise,--in which, from the description, I see
nothing very tempting. My restlessness tells me I have something within
that 'passeth show.' It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark
of celestial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; but
I see no such horror in a 'dreamle