sound and fury, signifying
nothing.' It is pleasant in such a mood to turn one's thoughts to a good
man and a dear friend. I have, therefore, taken up the pen to write to
you. And, first, let me thank you (which I ought to have done long ago,
and should have done, but that I knew I had a licence from you to
procrastinate) for your most acceptable present of Coleridge's portrait,
welcome in itself, and more so as coming from you. It is as good a
resemblance as I expect to see of Coleridge, taking it all together, for
I consider C.'s as a face absolutely impracticable. Mrs. Wordsworth was
overjoyed at the sight of the print; Dorothy and I much pleased. We
think it excellent about the eyes and forehead, which are the finest
parts of C.'s face, and the general contour of the face is well given;
but, to my sister and me, it seems to fail sadly about the middle of the
face, particularly at the bottom of the nose. Mrs. W. feels this also;
and my sister so much, that, except when she covers the whole of the
middle of the face, it seems to her so entirely to alter the expression,
as rather to confound than revive in her mind the remembrance of the
original. We think, as far as mere likeness goes, Hazlitt's is better;
but the expression in Hazlitt's is quite dolorous and funereal; that in
this is much more pleasing, though certainly falling far below what one
would wish to see infused into a picture of C. Mrs. C. received a day or
two ago a letter from a friend who had letters from Malta, not from
Coleridge, but a Miss Stoddart, who is there with her brother. These
letters are of the date of the fifth of March, and speak of him as
looking well and quite well, and talking of coming home, but doubtful
whether by land or sea.

I have the pleasure to say, that I finished my poem about a fortnight
ago. I had looked forward to the day as a most happy one; and I was
indeed grateful to God for giving me life to complete the work, such as
it is. But it was not a happy day for me; I was dejected on many
accounts: when I looked back upon the performance, it seemed to have a
dead weight about it,--the reality so far short of the expectation. It
was the first long labour that I had finished; and the doubt whether I
should ever live to write The Recluse,' and the sense which I had of
this poem being so far below what I seemed capable of executing,
depressed me much; above all, many heavy thoughts of my poor departed
brother hung upon me, the