But I must look on him as
one of the most extraordinary persons of the age. Montgomery's book [1] I
have not much hope from, and the society with the affected name [2] has
been laboring at it for these twenty years, and made few converts. I
think it was injudicious to mix stories, avowedly colored by fiction,
with the sad, true statements from the parliamentary records, etc. But I
wish the little negroes all the good that can come from it. I battered
my brains (not buttered them,--but it is a bad _a_) for a few verses
for them, but I could make nothing of it. You have been luckier. But
Blake's are the flower of the set, you will, I am sure, agree; though
some of Montgomery's at the end are pretty, but the Dream awkwardly
paraphrased from B.
With the exception of an Epilogue for a Private Theatrical, I have
written nothing new for near six months. It is in vain to spur me on. I
must wait. I cannot write without a genial impulse, and I have none. 'T
is barren all and dearth. No matter; life is something without
scribbling. I have got rid of my bad spirits, and hold up pretty well
this rain-damned May.
So we have lost another poet. [3] I never much relished his Lordship's
mind, and shall be sorry if the Greeks have cause to miss him. He was to
me offensive, and I never can make out his real _power_, which his
admirers talk of.
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