(justly again) placed beneath our memorable friend. Mackintosh is the
writer, and also of the critique on the Staël. 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 à Dieu et mon bon
tempérament.