“* * * * has received the portrait safe; and, in answer, the only remark she makes upon it is, ’indeed it is like’—­and again, ’indeed it is like.’  With her the likeness ‘covered a multitude of sins;’ for I happen to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and stern,—­even black as the mood in which my mind was scorching last July, when I sat for it.  All the others of me, like most portraits whatsoever, are, of course, more agreeable than nature.

“Redde the Ed. Review of Rogers.  He is ranked highly; but where he should be.  There is a summary view of us all—­Moore and me among the rest; and both (the first justly) praised—­though, by implication (justly again) placed beneath our memorable friend.  Mackintosh is the writer, and also of the critique on the Stael.  His grand essay on Burke, I hear, is for the next number.  But I know nothing of the Edinburgh, or of any other Review, but from rumour; and I have long ceased—­indeed, I could not, in justice, complain of any, even though I were to rate poetry, in general, and my rhymes in particular, more highly than I really do.  To withdraw myself from myself (oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all; and publishing is also the continuance of the same object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else recoils upon itself.  If I valued fame, I should flatter received opinions, which have gathered strength by time, and will yet wear longer than any living works to the contrary.  But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not give the lie to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may.  If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

“All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise,—­in which, from the description, I see nothing very tempting.  My restlessness tells me I have something within that ‘passeth show.’  It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celestial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; but I see no such horror in a ‘dreamless sleep,’ and I have no conception of any existence which duration would not render tiresome.  How else ’fell the angels,’ even according to your creed?  They were immortal, heavenly, and happy as their apostate Abdiel is now by his treachery.  Time must decide; and eternity won’t be the less agreeable or more horrible because one did not expect it.  In the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably patient under certain evils—­grace a Dieu et mon bon temperament.

“Sunday, 28th.

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“Monday, 29th.

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“Tuesday, 30th.

“Two days missed in my log-book;—­hiatus haud deflendus.  They were as little worth recollection as the rest; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from notching them.