seductive eloquence of his style; and has said, that with whatever talent a man may be born, the art of writing is not easily obtained.  The existing manuscripts of ROUSSEAU display as many erasures as those of Ariosto or Petrarch; they show his eagerness to dash down his first thoughts, and the art by which he raised them to the impassioned style of his imagination.  The memoir of GIBBON was composed seven or nine times, and, after all, was left unfinished; and BUFFON tells us that he wrote his “Epoques de la Nature” eighteen times before it satisfied his taste.  BURNS’S anxiety in finishing his poems was great; “all my poetry,” said he, “is the effect of easy composition, but of laborious correction.”

POPE, when employed on the Iliad, found it not only occupy his thoughts by day, but haunting his dreams by night, and once wished himself hanged, to get rid of Homer:  and that he experienced often such literary agonies, witness his description of the depressions and elevations of genius: 

  Who pants for glory, finds but short repose;
  A breath revives him, or a breath o’erthrows!

When ROMNEY undertook to commence the first subject for the Shakspeare Gallery, in the rapture of enthusiasm, amidst the sublime and pathetic labouring in his whole mind, arose the terror of failure.  The subject chosen was “The Tempest;” and, as Hayley truly observes, it created many a tempest in the fluctuating spirits of Romney.  The vehement desire of that perfection which genius conceives, and cannot always execute, held a perpetual contest with that dejection of spirits which degrades the unhappy sufferer, and casts him, grovelling among the mean of his class.  In a national work, a man of genius pledges his honour to the world for its performance; but to redeem that pledge, there is a darkness in the uncertain issue, and he is risking his honour for ever.  By that work he will always be judged, for public failures are never forgotten, and it is not then a party, but the public itself, who become his adversaries.  With ROMNEY it was “a fever of the mad;” and his friends could scarcely inspire him with sufficient courage to proceed with his arduous picture, which exercised his imagination and his pencil for several years.  I have heard that he built a painting-room purposely for this picture; and never did an anchorite pour fourth a more fervent orison to Heaven, than Romney when this labour was complete.  He had a fine genius, with all its solitary feelings, but he was uneducated, and incompetent even to write a letter; yet on this occasion, relieved from his intense anxiety under so long a work, he wrote one of the most eloquent.  It is a document in the history of genius, and reveals all those feelings which are here too faintly described.[A] I once heard an amiable author, whose literary career has perhaps not answered the fond hopes of his youth, half in anger and in love, declare that he would retire to some solitude, where, if any one would follow him, he would found a new order—­the order of THE DISAPPOINTED.