"Redcliff-hill, Feb. 22, 1796.

My dear Sir,

It is my duty and business to thank God for all his dispensations, and to
believe them the best possible; but, indeed, I think I should have been
more thankful, if he had made me a journeyman shoemaker, instead of an
author by trade. I have left my friends: I have left plenty; I have left
that ease which would have secured a literary immortality, and have
enabled me to give the public, works conceived in moments of inspiration,
and polished with leisurely solicitude, and alas! for what have I left
them? for--who deserted me in the hour of distress, and for a scheme of
virtue impracticable and romantic! So I am forced to write for bread!
write the flights of poetic enthusiasm, when every minute I am hearing a
groan from my wife. Groans, and complaints, and sickness! The present
hour I am in a quick-set hedge of embarrassment, and whichever way I
turn, a thorn runs into me! The future is cloud, and thick darkness!
Poverty, perhaps, and the thin faces of them that want bread, looking up
to me! Nor is this all. My happiest moments for composition are broken in
upon by the reflection that I must make haste. I am too late! I am
already months behind! I have received my pay beforehand! Oh, wayward and
desultory spirit of genius! Ill canst thou brook a taskmaster! The
tenderest touch from the hand of obligation, wounds thee like a scourge
of scorpions.

I have been composing in the fields this morning, and came home to write
down the first rude sheet of my preface, when I heard that your man had
brought a note from you. I have not seen it, but I guess its contents. I
am writing as fast as I can. Depend on it you shall not be out of pocket
for me! I feel what I owe you, and independently of this, I love you as a