not say
_net profits_, but _returns_--from the writing trade, not amounting to
seven score pounds), yet, somehow or other, I manufacture a letter, and
part with it as reluctantly as if it were really a thing of price. But,
to drop the comparison, I have so much to do with writing, in the way of
labour and profession, that it is difficult to me to conceive how
anybody can take up a pen but from constraint. My writing-desk is to me
a place of punishment; and, as my penmanship sufficiently testifies. I
always bend over it with some degree of impatience. All this is said
that you may know the real cause of my silence, and not ascribe it in
any degree to slight or forgetfulness on my part, or an insensibility to
your worth and the value of your friendship.... As to my occupations,
they look little at the present age; but I live in hope of leaving
something behind me that by some minds will be valued.

I see no new books except by the merest accident. Of course your poem,
which I should have been pleased to read, has not found its way to me.
You inquire about old books: you might almost as well have asked for my
teeth as for any of mine. The only _modern_ books that I read are those
of Travels, or such as relate to matters of fact; and the only modern
books that I care for; but as to old ones, I am like yourself--scarcely
anything comes amiss to me. The little time I have to spare--the very
little, I may say--all goes that way. If, however, in the _line of your
profession_ you want any bulky old Commentaries on the Scriptures (such
as not twelve strong men of these degenerate days will venture--I do not
say to _read_, but to _lift_), I can, perhaps, as a special favour,
accommodate you.

I and mine will be happy to see you and yours here or anywhere; but I am
sorry the time you talk of is so distant: a year and a half is a long
time looking forward, though looking back ten times as much is as brief
as a dream. My writing is wholly illegible--at least I fear so; I had
better, therefore, release you.

Believe me, my dear Wrangham,
Your affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.[95]

59. _Poems of Edward Moxon_.

LETTER TO MOXON.

(Postmark) Dec. 8. 1826.

DEAR SIR,

It is some time since I received your little volume, for which I now
return you my thanks, and also for the obliging letter that accompanied
it.

Your poem I have read with no