which were conjured up in the vain hope to escape from it.
"I cannot write to-day," becomes more and more the frequent exclamation. It is, I believe, one of those shadows which deepen on the mind as it approaches to its close. It is a new and a dreadful sensation to the poet when he first finds, that "his spirits do not come when he does call to them;" or that they will only come in one which makes him cry, "take any shape but that." It is a new sensation to be glad of any little return of power, and a most painful one.
Walter now rejoiced whenever he did a morning's work. Alas! the real was struggling with the ideal. After writing a few pages, he suddenly paused; and, pushing the papers aside, exclaimed, "What a mockery this is! I do not know myself what I write for. Money!—why should I make more than will hold this miserable alliance firm—just keep body and soul together? and sometimes I ask, is it worth even doing that? Fame!—alas! what would I now give to hope, to be-
