might be better liked by the public—"Toujours perdrix," said my friend—"Toujours perdrix,' you know, "ne vaut rien."—I am far from supposing that your compositions can be neglected or disapproved, on whatever subject; but perhaps "toujours Rossignols, toujours des chansons tristes ," may not be so well received as if you attempted, what you would certainly execute as successfully, a more cheerful style of composition. "Alas!" replied I, "Are grapes gathered from thorns, or figs from thistles?" Or can the effect cease, while the cause remains? You know that when in the Beech Woods of Hampshire, I first struck the chords of the melancholy lyre, its notes were never intended for the public ear! It was unaffected sorrows drew them forth: I wrote mournfully because I was unhappy—And I have unfortunately no reason yet, though nine years have since elapsed, to
