his biographer, 'enough survives to attest
his industry, and to enable us to appreciate his powers. There are
some loose leaves and fragments of small poems, mostly on the usual
subjects of love and scenery, and in the form of odes, sonnets,
elegies, &c.; all serious, none personal or satirical. And besides
these slight things, there is a completed poem on Dreaming, in blank
verse, about 1800 lines long. The first page is dated Edinburgh, May
4, 1791, the last Edinburgh, 25th June 1791; from which I presume that
we are to hold it to have been all written in these fifty-three
days--a fact which accounts for the absence of high poetry, though
there be a number of poetical conceptions and flowing sentences. Then
there is a translation into blank verse of the third book of the
_Argonauticon_ of Apollonius Rhodius. The other books are lost, but he
translated the whole poem, extending to about 6000 lines.... And I may
mention here, though it happens to be in prose, that of two plays,
one, a tragedy, survives. It has no title, but is complete in all its
other parts.... He was fond of parodying the _Odes_ of Horace, with
applications to modern incidents and people, and did it very
successfully. The _Otium Divos_ was long remembered. Notwithstanding
this perseverance, and a decided poetical ambition, he was never
without misgivings as to his success. I have been informed, that he
once went so far as to leave a poem with a bookseller, to be
published, and fled to the country; and that, finding some obstacle
had occurred, he returned, recovered the manuscript, rejoicing that he
had been saved, and never renewed so perilous an experiment.

'There may be some who would like to see these compositions, or
specimens of them, both on their own account, and that the friends of
the many poets his criticism has offended might have an opportunity of
retaliation, and of shewing, by the critic's own productions, how
little, in their opinion, he was worthy to sit in judgment on others.
But I cannot indulge them. Since Jeffrey, though fond of playing with
verses privately, never delivered himself up to the public as the
author of any, I cannot think that it would be right in any one else
to exhibit him in this capacity. I may acknowledge, however, that, so
far as I can judge, the publication of such of his poetical attempts
as remain, though it might shew his industry and ambition, would not
give him the poetical wreath, and of course would no