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LETTERS FOR THE PRESS.

LETTER I.

Resolution to turn Author-Various Subjects and SchemesProject of writing a Series of Letters-Advantages of the Plan-Friendly Criticism.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

It is now several weeks since you and I quitted the hospitable roof of our friend M: you to resume the bustle of active life, I to retire once more to my cottage and my books. You will recollect our conversation about indolence and ennui, and your strenuous exhortations that I should try to diversify the monotony of my existence, by devoting some portion of my time to literary composition. I was certainly struck with the force of your remarks, and, a few days after my return, I began to revolve in my mind how I could put your advice in practice. The difficulty was on what species of composition and on what sub

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ject to fix. First one thing and then another suggested itself, till I had run through the whole circle of the sciences. I thought of poetry, but that requires a peculiar cast of genius; and, although I was fond of making verses at seventeen, time has somewhat untuned my feelings, and left me little of that inclination to rhyme which once developed itself in odes, elegies, and sonnets. Besides, in the present day, we have poetry in excess: there are innumerable writers of pretty and even elegant verses, which few persons trouble themselves to read. To surpass even what is thus neglected would be extremely difficult, and I feel little disposition to write what would probably be perused by nobody but the author. Poetry, then, being put out of the question, I began to consider the other departments of literature and science. Political economy I found too difficult, metaphysics too dry, criticism threadbare, moral essays out of fashion. A comedy, a tragedy, a political pamphlet, a novel, a school-book, a tale, a history-all these by turns presented themselves to my mind, and were successively discarded, some as beyond my powers, and others as repugnant

to my taste. At length, a project flashed upon my imagination, flattering to my indolence. from its apparent facility. It was nothing more or less than to write a series of letters to yourself on any subjects which might happen to strike me. I resolved to have no plan, no shackles, no limits-to give way to my thoughts and feelings, to be grave when I liked, and witty when I could. This project entirely displaced another, which, of all that I had thought upon, seemed likely to be the favourite -and that was, to write a number of unconnected essays. In writing essays, however, there is a sort of formality and constraint. You scarcely know how to begin the subject. If you plunge into it at once, you seem abrupt; if you make a regular exordium, you grow tedious. In writing letters, on the contrary, you can never be at a loss, at least for the three first words: you at once secure the monosyllables, "My dear friend;" and when you have thus gained a footing, there is less difficulty in going on. Such were my ruminations as I sat on a bench in my garden, the freshness of spring breathing around me, and the sun illuminating with his parting beams that lively

prospect which you know too well for me to describe. I resolved to take that night to mature the plan of my first letter, and to begin the labour of composition the following morning. Next morning, accordingly, I commenced in good earnest; that is, I arranged my writing-desk, selected a proper sheet of paper, and pointed a fine clear quill. My constitutional indolence would proceed no farther: a sort of apathy stole over me: not an idea would distil from the end of my pen. I sat gazing at the fire, waiting for the inspiration necessary for my purpose: a thousand reveries flitted through my head, but it was all in vain, they refused to take a material shape: not a word would come; and at last, under the pretext that a book would suggest some ideas suitable to my design, I took up "Ivanhoe," which was fresh from my booksellers', and which I had destined for the entertainment of the afternoon. As I laid my hand on the first volume, all the consequences of what I was doing rushed on my mind: I clearly foresaw, that if I persisted, I should not be able to write a syllable the whole day, and in the manful resolution to adhere to my first purpose,

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