shall esteem myself very lucky, and not repent sending you so
incorrect a narrative. I really have not time to look it over, and
am growing so drowsy, that you will, I hope, pardon all its errors,
when you consider that my pen writes in its sleep.



LETTER VII



SPA, July 6th.

From Utrecht to Bois le Duc nothing but sand and heath; no
inspiration, no whispering foliage, not even a grasshopper, to put
one in mind of Eclogues and Theocritus. "But why did you not fall
into one of your beloved slumbers, and dream of poetic mountains?
This was the very country to shut one's eyes upon without
disparagement." Why so I did, but the postillions and boatmen
obliged me to open them, as soon as they were closed. Four times was
I shoved, out of my visions, into leaky boats, and towed across as
many idle rivers. I thought there was no end of these tiresome
transits; and, when I reached my journey's end, was so completely
jaded that I almost believed Charon would be the next aquatic I
should have to deal with. The fair light of the morning (Tuesday,
July 4th) was scarcely sufficient to raise my spirits, and I had left
Bois le Duc a good way in arrears before I was thoroughly convinced
of my existence; when I looked through the blinds of the carriage,
and saw nothing but barren plains and mournful willows, banks clad
with rushes, and heifers so black and dismal that Proserpine herself