tled in the metropolis, and studied at the British
Museum, amid all the stores of knowledge and art, his imagination
delighted to expatiate in its future prospects. In a letter to a
friend he has thus chronicled his feelings:

"I would not only be a great antiquary, but a refined thinker; I would
not only discover antiquities, but would, by explaining their use,
render them useful. Such vast funds of knowledge lie hid in the
antiquated remains of the earlier ages; these I would bring forth, and
set in their true light."

Poor Strutt, at the close of life, was returning to his own first and
natural energies, in producing a work of the imagination. He had made
considerable progress in one, and the early parts which he had
finished bear the stamp of genius; it is entitled "Queenhoo-hall, a
Romance of ancient times," full of the picturesque manners, and
costume, and characters of the age, in which he was so conversant;
with many lyrical pieces, which often are full of poetic feeling--but
he was called off from the work to prepare a more laborious one.
"Queenhoo-hall" remained a heap of fragments at his death; except the
first volume, and was filled up by a stranger hand. The stranger was
Sir Walter Scott, and "Queenhoo-hall" was the origin of that glorious
series of romances where antiquarianism has taken the shape of
imagination.

Writing on the calamities attached to literature, I must notice one of
a more recondite nature, yet perhaps few literary agonies are more
keenly felt. I would not excite an undue sympathy for a class of
writers who are usually considered as drudges; but the present case
claims our sympathy.

There are men of letters, who, early in life, have formed some
favourite plan of literary labour, which they have unremittingly
pursued, till, sometimes near the close of life, they either discover
their inability to terminate it, or begin to depreciate their own
constant labour. The literary architect has grown gray over his
edifice; and, as if the black wand of enchantment had waved over it,
the colonnades become interminable, the pillars seem to want a
foundation, and all the rich materials he had collected together, lie
before him in all the disorder of ruins. It may be urged that the
reward of literary labour, like the consolations of virtue, must be
drawn with all their sweetness from itself; or, that if the author be
incompetent, he must pay the price of his incapacity. This may be
Stoicism, but