etween 30 and 40 years since, G. published the
Poet's Fate, in which were two very harmless lines about Mr. Rogers, but
Mr. R. not quite approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent
edition 1801. But G. has been worryting about them ever since; if I have
heard him once, I have heard him a hundred times express a remorse
proportiond to a consciousness of having been guilty of an atrocious
libel. As the devil would have it, a fool they call _Barker_, in his
Parriana has quoted the identical two lines as they stood in some
obscure edition anterior to 1801, and the withers of poor G. are again
wrung. His letter is a gem--with his poor blind eyes it has been
laboured out at six sittings. The history of the couplet is in page 3 of
this irregular production, in which every variety of shape and size that
Letters can be twisted into, is to be found. Do _shew_ his part of it to
Mr. R. some day. If he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so
queerly character'd of a contrite sinner. G. was born I verily think
without original sin, but chuses to have a conscience, as every
Christian Gentleman should have. His dear old face is insusceptible of
the twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive of being suspected
of that ugly appearance. When he makes a compliment, he thinks he has
given an affront. A name is personality. But shew (no hurry) this unique
recantation to Mr. R. 'Tis like a dirty pocket handkerchief muck'd with
tears of some indigent Magdalen. There is the impress of sincerity in
every pot-hook and hanger. And then the gilt frame to such a pauper
picture! It should go into the Museum. I am heartily sorry my Devil does
not answer. We must try it a little longer, and after all I think I must
insist on taking a portion of the loss upon myself. It is too much you
should lose by two adventures. You do not say how your general business
goes on, and I should very much like to talk over it with you here. Come
when the weather will possibly let you. I want to see the Wordsworths,
but I do not much like to be all night away. It is dull enough to be
here together, but it is duller to leave Mary; in short it is painful,
and in a flying visit I should hardly catch them. I have no beds for
them, if they came down, and but a sort of a house to receive them in,
yet I shall regret their departure unseen. I feel cramped and straiten'd
every way. Where are they?

We have heard from Emma but once, and that a month ago, and a