haps
because I seemed to need little support, yet that is not her nature,
which is generous and kind. She thinks I have been imprudent, trusting
men so far. Perhaps so--but what could I do? I must sell my books to
some one, and these folks gave me the largest price; if they had kept
their ground I could have brought myself round fast enough by the plan
of 14th December. I now view matters at the very worst, and suppose that
my all must go to supply the deficiencies of Constable. I fear it must
be so. His connections with Hurst and Robinson have been so intimate
that they must be largely involved. This is the worst of the concern;
our own is comparatively plain sailing.

Poor Gillies called yesterday to tell me he was in extremity. God knows
I had every cause to have returned him the same answer. I must think his
situation worse than mine, as through his incoherent, miserable tale, I
could see that he had exhausted each access to credit, and yet fondly
imagines that, bereft of all his accustomed indulgences, he can work
with a literary zeal unknown to his happier days. I hope he may labour
enough to gain the mere support of his family. For myself, the magic
wand of the Unknown is shivered in his grasp. He must henceforth be
termed the Too-well-known. The feast of fancy is over with the feeling
of independence. I can no longer have the delight of waking in the
morning with bright ideas in my mind, haste to commit them to paper, and
count them monthly, as the means of planting such groves, and purchasing
such wastes; replacing my dreams of fiction by other prospective visions
of walks by

"Fountain heads, and pathless groves
Places which pale passion loves."[77]

[Sidenote: Footnote to page 44 in the original MS.:--"Turn back to page
41 and 42. I turned the page accidentally, and the partner of a bankrupt
concern ought not to waste two leaves of paper."]

This cannot be; but I may work substantial husbandry, work history, and
such concerns. They will not be received with the same enthusiasm; at
least I much doubt the general knowledge that an author must write for
his bread, at least for improving his pittance, degrades him and his
productions in the public eye. He falls into the second-rate rank of
estimation:

"While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,
The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road."[78]

It is a bitter thought; but if tears start at it, let them flow. I am so
much