to turn one’s thoughts to a good man and a dear friend.  I have, therefore, taken up the pen to write to you.  And, first, let me thank you (which I ought to have done long ago, and should have done, but that I knew I had a licence from you to procrastinate) for your most acceptable present of Coleridge’s portrait, welcome in itself, and more so as coming from you.  It is as good a resemblance as I expect to see of Coleridge, taking it all together, for I consider C.’s as a face absolutely impracticable.  Mrs. Wordsworth was overjoyed at the sight of the print; Dorothy and I much pleased.  We think it excellent about the eyes and forehead, which are the finest parts of C.’s face, and the general contour of the face is well given; but, to my sister and me, it seems to fail sadly about the middle of the face, particularly at the bottom of the nose.  Mrs. W. feels this also; and my sister so much, that, except when she covers the whole of the middle of the face, it seems to her so entirely to alter the expression, as rather to confound than revive in her mind the remembrance of the original.  We think, as far as mere likeness goes, Hazlitt’s is better; but the expression in Hazlitt’s is quite dolorous and funereal; that in this is much more pleasing, though certainly falling far below what one would wish to see infused into a picture of C. Mrs. C. received a day or two ago a letter from a friend who had letters from Malta, not from Coleridge, but a Miss Stoddart, who is there with her brother.  These letters are of the date of the fifth of March, and speak of him as looking well and quite well, and talking of coming home, but doubtful whether by land or sea.

I have the pleasure to say, that I finished my poem about a fortnight ago.  I had looked forward to the day as a most happy one; and I was indeed grateful to God for giving me life to complete the work, such as it is.  But it was not a happy day for me; I was dejected on many accounts:  when I looked back upon the performance, it seemed to have a dead weight about it,—­the reality so far short of the expectation.  It was the first long labour that I had finished; and the doubt whether I should ever live to write The Recluse,’ and the sense which I had of this poem being so far below what I seemed capable of executing, depressed me much; above all, many heavy thoughts of my poor departed brother hung upon me, the joy which I should have had in showing him the manuscript, and a thousand other vain fancies and dreams.  I have spoken of this, because it was a state of feeling new to me, the occasion being new.  This work may be considered as a sort of portico to ’The Recluse,’ part of the same building, which I hope to be able, ere long, to begin with in earnest; and if I am permitted to bring it to a conclusion, and to write, further, a narrative poem of the epic kind, I shall consider the task of my life as over.  I ought to add, that I have the satisfaction of finding the present poem not quite of so alarming a length as I apprehended.