proud of during his liberty, the praises of his admirers. His genius
brought him gifts from princes, and some money from the booksellers:
it supported him even against his critics. During his confinement the
_Jerusalem Delivered_ was first published; though, to his grief, from
a surreptitious and mutilated copy. But it was followed by a storm of
applause; and if this was succeeded by as great a storm of objection and
controversy, still the healthier part of his faculties were roused, and
he exasperated his critics and astonished the world by shewing how coolly
and learnedly the poor, wild, imprisoned genius could discuss the most
intricate questions of poetry and philosophy. The disputes excited by his
poem are generally supposed to have done him harm; but the conclusion
appears to be ill founded. They diverted his thoughts, and made him
conscious of his powers and his fame. I doubt whether he would have
been better for entire approbation: it would have put him in a state of
elevation, unfit for what he had to endure. He had found his pen
his great solace, and he had never employed it so well. It would be
incredible what a heap of things he wrote in this complicated torment of
imprisonment, sickness, and "physic," if habit and mental activity had
not been sufficient to account for much greater wonders. His letters
to his friends and others would make a good-sized volume; those to his
critics, another; sonnets and odes, a third; and his Dialogues after
the manner of Plato, two more. Perhaps a good half of all he wrote was
written in this hospital of St. Anne; and he studied as well as composed,
and had to read all that was written at the time, _pro_ and _con_, in the
discussions about his _Jerusalem_, which, in the latest edition of his
works, amount to three out of six volumes octavo! Many of the occasions,
however, of his poems, as well as letters, are most painful to think
of, their object having been to exchange praise for money. And it is
distressing, in the letters, to see his other little wants, and the
fluctuations and moods of his mind. Now he is angry about some book not
restored, or some gift promised and delayed. Now he is in want of some
books to be lent him; now of some praise to comfort him; now of a little
fresh linen. He is very thankful for visits, for respectful letters, for
"sweetmeats;" and greatly puzzled to know what to do with the bad sonnets
and panegyrics that are sent him. They were sometimes too