intend to sketch away; although, in all probability, the multitude, the beauty, and the splendour of the objects, will choke our good intentions.
One conquest I have gained over myself. Of all my unfinished poetical works, I shall take with me none but the "Tasso," of which I have the best hopes. If I could only know what you are now saying to "Iphigenia," your remarks might be some guide to me in my present labours; for the plan of "Tasso" is very similar, the subject still more confined, and in its several parts will be even still more elaborately finished. Still, I cannot tell as yet what it will eventually prove. What already exists of it must be destroyed. It is, perhaps, somewhat tediously drawn out ; and neither the characters nor the plot, nor the tone of it, are at all in harmony with my present views.
In making a clearance I have fallen upon some of your letters; and, in reading them over, I have just lighted upon a reproach, that in my letters I contradict myself. It may be so, but I was not aware of it; for, as soon as I have written a letter, I immediately send it off. I must, however, confess that nothing seems to me more likely, for I have lately been tossed about by mighty spirits; and, therefore, it is quite natural if at times I know not where I am standing.
A story is told of a skipper, who, overtaken at sea by a stormy night, determined to steer for port. His little boy, who in the dark was crouching by him, asked him, "What silly light is that which I see,—at one time above us, and at another below us?" His father promised to explain it to him some other day; and then he told him that it was the beacon of the lighthouse, which to the eye, now raised, now depressed, by the wild waves, appeared accordingly, sometimes above, and sometimes below. I, too, am steering on a passion-tossed sea for the harbour; and if I can only manage to hold steadily in my eye the
