"For inspiration round his head,
The goddess Want her pinions spread,"
he drew his table towards him, and began to write.
The scene of his labours, and his own appearance, were much changed since his first lodging in London. Still, there was an air of careless discomfort in his room; nothing was in its place; books, foils, papers, and clothes, were scattered together, and a female mask lay beside his inkstand. He was fashionably dressed; but looked, as was really the case, as if he had not been in bed the previous night. His face was worn, and one red flush burnt on each cheek; though even that could scarcely animate the sunk and heavy eye. After a few minutes passed, first in writing, then in erasing what he had written, "It is of no use," said he, flinging down the pen, "I am not worth a single phrase; alas! I want motive—the mere necessity of exertion is not enough. Would that I could dream as I once dreamed! that I could still think fame the glorious reality I once held a whole life's
