I quitted my hold. I had no sooner done so, than my dislike of exertion returned the prospect of sitting with pen in hand for several hours, without being able to wring out a single sentence, glared upon my imagination: Ivanhoe looked uncommonly fascinating the paper seemed good, the type clear: the eulogium pronounced upon it the preceding evening by a lady, who exclaimed in surprise, "What! not read Ivanhoe?" rose upon my recollection, and rung in my ear: with a desperate resolution I seized the book, and plunged into all its fascination. There was an end at once to letterwriting; and since that time, various circumstances, joined to the unpleasant remembrance of my former failure, have prevented me from resuming the pen, till the present moment. Having, to use the common phrase, broken the ice, I begin to relish my project. I seem to myself to enjoy the gentle exercise of the faculties which it demands: "Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute," said a French lady (I may be mistaken in the sex), and I really think I shall find it so. Already, a number of advantages figure before my imagination: videlicet, what with composing, blotting out, and copying, I

shall have regular employment for two or three hours in the day; I shall improve my faculties, and possibly become a more profound and consistent thinker; and I shall attain facility in the art of composition. It is possible my letters, when collected together, may make a book: a book, in modern times, is often productive both of profit and of fame; mine may prove what others have proved before it; and should the result be otherwise, it will be no great matter. I shall not be left worse than I am, either in pocket or reputation. Thus, it appears that I am sure to obtain some advantages, and cannot incur any risks-a dilemma in which I am excessively fond of being placed.

As to your part of the affair-the reading of the letters-I hope it will not prove intolerably burdensome, since I shall regularly transmit them to you as they are written. A manuscript volume of letters might alarm you into a nervous fever, but a single sheet may prove only a gentle soporific. By this arrangement, I shall at the same time serve my own purposes. In writing a book, the object to be attained is rather too distant for a man of indolent habits, or one acting under no strong feeling, no very

sanguine hopes of success: it is a great object, indeed, but he appears to make no progress towards it, and he is apt to give way to indifference or despondency. By breaking my work into letters, to be regularly transmitted to a friend, I shall have a succession of objects -of less importance, to be sure-but objects within my reach, or towards which my advances will be sufficiently perceptible. This method, by the way, of accomplishing an important end by means of a succession of subordinate objects, which allure us forward by their proximity, and by the ease with which they promise to be attained, may be made a powerful instrument of good. Why is it that a boy makes a progress more rapidly, and with less mental oppression, in certain kinds of knowledge (languages, for instance), than a man of mature age? It is partly because the boy is led on by a series of objects near at hand; he is influenced, not by the distant prospect of mastering the language, but by the immediate desire of avoiding the castigation consequent on neglect, or of surpassing some rival stripling of the same class; he has every day a fresh object, or a continually renewed

motive: while the man, having in sight only the distant good to which a single step is no perceptible approach, is apt to be disheartened by a perpetual reference of his efforts to his ultimate aim, by slow progress and disappointed expectation.

If I expect you to read my letters, I shall most assuredly not impose upon you the task of criticising them. A man must have made but a slight acquaintance with human nature, not to be aware that criticism is of little use to the writer for whose benefit it is so kindly intended. Should it even be received with a proper spirit of gratitude and humility, it can do no more, generally speaking, than prune a few redundancies, or correct a few oversights, such as little affect the substantial merits or demerits of the composition. These are necessarily impressions of the qualities of the author's mind, and it is impossible that any criticism should infuse new power into his intellect. The friendly critic, besides, runs risks to which I really cannot think of exposing you: his remarks are generally received with coldness, if not with strong marks of offended pride; notwithstanding the feeble smile which

attempts to express that they are acceptable, they are tacitly felt as personal offences; and they inevitably lower the talents and judgment of the critic in the estimation of the writer. In reflecting on myself, indeed, I cannot help thinking that I am free from this weakness, and could receive your animadversions with pleasure and with profit; but yet, when I look around, and see my neighbours all infected with the foible, it is impossible to resist the conclusion, that my own apparent freedom from it is one of the illusions of self-love. Such being the case, it would be wrong to expose you to these evils. I therefore ask for no criticism, no censure, no panegyric. The tax I intend to levy upon you is simply the postage of the letters; and since I may be too indolent to make copies, my only request is, that you would manfully resist any inclination which you may feel for consigning them to the flames.

Farewell.

F. R.