journey, the first of which is at no very great dis- will be every day growing more disagreeable, that tance from the last. you may enjoy the comforts of the lodge. You I lived longer at Olney than any where. There well know that the best house has a desolate apindeed I lived till mouldering walls and a totter-pearance unfurnished. This house accordingly, ing house warned me to depart. I have, accord- since it has been occupied by us and our meubles, ingly taken the hint, and two days since arrived, is as much superior to what it was when you saw or rather took up my abode at Weston. You it, as you can imagine. The parlour is even eleperhaps have never made the experiment, but I can gant. When I say that the parlour is elegant, I assure you that the confusion which attends a do not mean to insinuate that the study is not so. transmigration of this kind is infinite, and has a It is neat, warm, and silent, and a much better terrible effect in deranging the intellects. I have study than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an been obliged to renounce my Homer on the occa- incomparable translation of Homer. I think every sion, and though not for many days, I yet feel as day of those lines of Milton, and congratulate myif study and meditation, so long my confirmed self on having obtained, before I am quite superhabits, were on a sudden become impracticable, annuated, what he seems not to have hoped for and that I shall certainly find them so when I at- sooner. tempt them again. But in a scene so much quieter and pleasanter than that which I have just escaped from, in a house so much more commodious, and with furniture about me so much more For if it is not an hermitage, at least it is a much to my taste, I shall hope to recover my literary tendency again, when once the bustle of the occasion shall have subsided. "And may at length my weary age better thing, and you must always understand, my dear, that when poets talk of cottages, hermitages, and such like things, they mean a house with six How glad I should be to receive you under a sashes in front, two comfortable parlours, a smart roof, where you would find me so much more com- staircase, and three bed chambers of convenient fortably accommodated than at Olney! I know dimensions; in short, exactly such a house as your warmth of heart towards me, and am sure this. that you would rejoice in my joy. At present in- The Throckmortons continue the most obliging deed I have not had time for much self-gratulation, neighbours in the world. One morning last week, but have every reason to hope, nevertheless, that they both went with me to the cliffs-a scene, my in due time I shall derive considerable advantage dear, in which you would delight beyond measure, both in health and spirits, from the alteration made but which you can not visit except in the spring in my whereabout. or autumn. The heat of summer and the clinging dirt of winter would destroy you. What is called the cliff, is no cliff, nor at all like one, but a beautiful terrace, sloping gently down to the Ouse, and from the brow of which, though not lofty, you have a view of such a valley as makes that which you see from the hills near Olney, and which I have had the honour to celebrate, an affair of no consideration. I have now the the twelfth book of the Iliad in hand, having settled the eleven first books finally, as I think, or nearly so. The winter is the time, when I make the greatest riddance. Adieu my dear Walter. Let me hear from you, and Believe me ever yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston Lodge, Nov. 26, 1786. Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect that it confines me. I ramble daily, and every day change my ramble. Wherever I go, I find short grass It is my birthday, my beloved cousin, and I-de- under my feet, and when I have travelled perhaps termine to employ a part of it, that it may not be five miles, come home with shoes not at all too destitute of festivity, in writing to you. The dark dirty for a drawing room. I was pacing yesterthick fog that has obscured it, would have been a day under the elms, that surrounds the field in burthen to me at Olney, but here I have hardly which stands the great alcove, when lifting my attended to it, the neatness and snugness of our eyes I saw two black genteel figures bolt through abode compensate all the dreariness of the season, a hedge into the path where I was walking. You and whether the ways are wet or dry, our house guess already who they were, and that they could at least is always warm and commodious. O! for be nobody but our neighbours. They had seen you, my cousin, to partake these comforts with me from a hill at a distance, and had traversed a us! I will not begin already to tease you upon large turnip-field to get at me. You see therefore that subject, but Mrs. Unwin remembers to have my dear, that I am in some request. Alas! in heard from your own lips, that you hate London too much request with some people. The verses in the spring. Perhaps therefore by that time, of Cadwallader have found me at last. you may be glad to escape from a scene which I am charmed with your account of our little cousin at Kensington. If the world does not spoil him hereafter, he will be a valuable man. Good night, and may God bless thee, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1786. I SENT you, my dear, a melancholy letter, and I do not know that I shall now send you one very unlike it. Not that any thing occurs in consequence of our late loss more afflictive than was to be expected, but the mind does not perfectly recover its tone after a shock like that which has been felt so lately. This I observe, that though my experience has long since taught me, that this world that he lived the life, and died the death of a Christian. The consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathematical conclusion, that therefore he is happy. So farewell my friend Unwin! The first man for whom I conceived a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, and for whom I can not but still continue to feel a friendship, though I shall see thee with these eyes no W. C. more. TO ROBERT SMITH, ESQ. MY DEAR SIR, We have indeed suffered a great loss by the is a world of shadows, and that it is the more death of our friend Unwin; and the shock that prudent, as well as the more Christian course attended it was the more severe, as till within a to possess the comforts that we find in it, as if we few hours of his decease there seemed to be no possessed them not, it is no easy matter to reduce very alarming symptoms. All the account that this doctrine into practice. We forget that that we received from Mr. Henry Thornton, who actGod who gave them, may, when he pleases, take ed like a true friend on the occasion, and with a them away; and that perhaps it may please him tenderness toward all concerned, that does him to take them at a time when we least expect, or great honour, encouraged our hopes of his recoveare least disposed to part from them. Thus it has ry; and Mrs. Unwin herself found him on her arhappened in the present case. There never was rival at Winchester so cheerful, and in appearance a moment in Unwin's life, when there seemed to so likely to live, that her letter also seemed to probe more urgent want of him than the moment in mise us all that we could wish on the subject. But which he died. He had attained to an age when, if an unexpected turn in his distemper, which sudthey are at any time useful, men become useful to denly seized his bowels, dashed all our hopes, and their families, their friends, and the world. His par- deprived us almost immediately of a man whom we ish began to feel, and to be sensible of the advantages must ever regret. His mind having been from his of his ministry. The clergy around him were infancy deeply tinctured with religious sentiments, many of them awed by his example. His chil- he was always impressed with a sense of the imdren were thriving under his own tuition and man-portance of the great change of all; and on foragement, and his eldest boy is likely to feel his loss mer occasions, when at any time he found himself severely, being by his years in some respect quali- indisposed, was consequently subject to distressing fied to understand the value of such a parent; by alarms and apprehensions. But in this last inhis literary proficiency too clever for a schoolboy, stance, his mind was from the first composed and and too young at the same time for the university. The removal of a man in the prime of life of such a character, and with such connexions, seems to make a void in society that can never be filled. God seemed to have made him just what he was, that he might be a blessing to others, and when the influence of his character and abilities began to be felt, removed him. These are mysteries, my dear, that we can not contemplate without astonishment, but which will nevertheless be explained hereafter, and must in the mean time be revered in silence. It is well for his mother, that she has spent her life in the practice of an habitual acquiescence in the dispensations of Providence, else I know that this stroke would have been heavier, after all that she has suffered upon another account, than she could have borne. She derives, as she well may, great consolation from the thought • Lord Cowper. easy; his fears were taken away, and succeeded by such a resignation as warrants us in saying, " that God made all his bed in his sickness." I believe it is always thus, where the heart, though upright toward God, as Unwin's assuredly was, is yet troubled with the fear of death. When death indeed comes, he is either welcome, or at least has lost his sting. I have known many such instances, and his mother, from the moment that she learned with what tranquillity he was favoured in his illness, for that very reason expected that it would be his last. Yet not with so much certainty, but that the favourable accounts of him at length, in a great measure, superseded that persuasion. She begs me to assure you, my dear sir, how sensible she is, as well as myself, of the kindness of your inquiries. She suffers this stroke, not with more patience than submission than I expected, for I never knew her hurried by any affliction into the loss of either, but in appearance, at least, and at vinced that the little boy's destiny had no influence present, with less injury to her health than I ap- at all in hastening the death of his tutors elect, prehended. She observed to me, after reading your kind letter, that though it was a proof of the greatness of her loss, it yet afforded her pleasure, though a melancholy one, to see how much her son had been loved and valued by such a person as yourself... that were it not impossible on more accounts than one that I should be able to serve him in that capacity, I would without the least fear of dying a moment the sooner, offer myself to that office; I would even do it, were I conscious of the same fitness for another and a better state, that I believe Mrs. Unwin wrote to her daughter-in-law, to them to have been both endowed with. In that invite her and the family hither, hoping that a case, I perhaps might die too, but if I should, it change of scene, and a situation so pleasant as would not be on account of that connexion. Neithis, may be of service to her, but we have not yet received her answer. I have good hope however that, great as her affliction must be, she will yet be able to support it, for she well knows whither to resort for consolation. ther, my dear, had your interference in the business any thing to do with the catastrophe. Your whole conduct in it must have been acceptable in the sight of God, as it was directed by principles of the purest benevolence. The virtues and amiable qualities of our friends I have not touched Homer to-day. Yesterday are the things for which we most wish to keep them, was one of my terrible seasons, and when I arose but they are on the other hand the very things, this morning I found that I had not sufficiently rethat in particular ought to reconcile us to their de-covered myself to engage in such an occupation. parture. We find ourselves sometimes connected Having letters to write, I the more willingly gave with, and engaged in affection too, to a person of myself a dispensation.-Good night. whose readiness and fitness for another life we can not have the highest opinion. The death of such men has a bitterness in it, both to themselves and survivors, which, thank God! is not to be found in the death of Unwin. I know, my dear sir, how much you valued him, and I know also how much he valued you. With respect to him, all is well; and of you, if I should survive you, which perhaps is not very probable, I shall say the same. In the mean time, believe me with the warmest wishes for your health and happiness, and with Mrs. Unwin's affectionate respects, Yours, my dear sir, Most faithfully, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Yours ever, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ MY DEAR FRIEND, Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. WE had just begun to employ the pleasantness of our new situation, to find at least as much comfort in it as the season of the year would permit, when affliction found us out in our retreat, and the news reached us of the death of Mr, Unwin. He had taken a western tour with Mr. Henry Thornton, and in his return, at Winchester, was seized with a putrid fever, which sent him to his grave. He is gone to it, however, though young, as fit for it as age itself could have made him. Regretted indeed, and always to be regretted by those who knew him, for he had every thing that makes a man valuable both in his principles and in his manners, but leaving still this consolation to his surviving friends, that he was desirable in this world chiefly because he was so well prepared for a better. Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. I AM perfectly sure that you are mistaken, though I do not wonder at it, considering the singular nature of the event, in the judgment that you form of poor Unwin's death, as it affects the interest of I find myself here situated exactly to my mind. his intended pupil. When a tutor was wanted for Weston is one of the prettiest villages in England, him, you sought out the wisest and best man for and the walks about it, at all seasons of the year the office within the circle of your connexions. It delightful. I know that you will rejoice with me pleased God to take him home to himself. Men in the change that we have made, and for which I eminently wise and good are very apt to die, be-am altogether indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a cause they are fit to do so. You found in Unwin change as great as (to compare metropolitan things a man worthy to succeed him; and He, in whose with rural) from St. Giles's to Grosvenor-square. hands are the issues of life and death, seeing no Our house is in all respects commodious, and in doubt that Unwin was ripe for a removal into a some degree elegant; and I can not give you a better state, removed him also. The matter view-better idea of that which we have left, than by telled in this light seems not so wonderful as to refuse ing you the present candidates for it are a publiall explanation, except such as in a melancholy can and a shoemaker. moment you have given to it. And I am so con W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, Dec. 21, 1786. YOUR welcome letter, my beloved cousin, which ought by the date to have arrived on Sunday, being by some untoward accident delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, however, and has relieved me from a thousand distressing apprehensions on your account. The dew of your intelligence has refreshed my poetical laurels. A little praise now and then is very good for your hard-working poet, who is apt to grow languid, and perhaps careless without it. Praise I find affects us as money does. The more a man gets of it, with the more vigilance he watches over and preserves it. Such at least is its effect on me, and you may assure yourself that I will never lose a mite of it for want of care. he would not escape universal censure, to the praise of a more enlightened age be it spoken. I have waded through much blood, and through much more I must wade before I shall have finished. I determine in the mean time to account it all very sublime, and for two reasons.—First, because, all the learned think so, and secondly, because I am to translate it. But were I an indifferent by-stander, perhaps I should venture to wish, that Homer had applied his wonderful powers to a less disgusting subject. He has in the Odyssey, and I long to get at it." I have not the good fortune to meet with any of these fine things, that you say are printed in my praise. But I learn from certain advertisements in the Morning Herald, that I make a conspicuous figure in the entertainments of FreeMason's Hall. I learn also that my volumes are out of print, and that a third edition is soon to be I have already invited the good Padre in gene-published. But if I am not gratified with the ral terms, and he shall positively dine here next sight of odes composed to my honour and glory, I week, whether he will or not. I do not at all have at least been tickled with some douceurs of a suspect that his kindness to Protestants has any very flattering nature by the post. A lady unthing insidious in it, any more than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for me with a view for my conversion. He would find me a tough piece of business I can tell him; for when I had no religion at all, I had yet a terrible dread of the Pope How much more now! . I should have sent you a longer letter, but was obliged to devote my last evening to the melancholy employment of composing a Latin inscription for the tomb-stone of poor William, two copies of which I wrote out and enclosed, one to Henry Thornton, and one to Mr. Newton. Homer stands by me biting his thumbs, and swears that if I do not leave off directly, he will choak me with bristly Greek, that shall stick in my throat for ever. W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. known addresses the best of men-an unknown "Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, If you find me a little vain hereafter, my friend, Mrs. Unwin is as much delighted as myself with our present situation. But it is a sort of April weather life that we lead in this world. A little sunshine is generally the prelude to a storm. Hardly had we begun to enjoy the change, when the death of her son cast a gloom upon every You wish to hear thing. He was a most exe nplary man; of your val of epic frenzy. An interval presents itself, order; learned, polite, and amiable. The father but whether calm or not, is perhaps doubtful. Is of lovely children, and the husband of a wife (very much like dear Mrs. Bagot) who adored him. Adieu, my friend! Your affectionate W. C. MY DEAR FRIEND, Weston, Jan. 3, 1787. from me at any calm inter TO LADY HESKETH. it possible for a man to be calm, who for three weeks past has been perpetually occupied in slaughter; letting out one man's bowels, smiting another through the gullet, transfixing the liver of another, and lodging an arrow in the buttock of a fourth? Read the thirteenth book of the Iliad, and you will find such amusing incidents as these the subject of it, the sole subject. In order to in- I HAVE had a little nervous fever lately, my terest myself in it, and to catch the spirit of it, dear, that had somewhat abridged my sleep; and I had need discard all humanity. It is woful though I find myself better to-day than I have work; and were the best poet in the world to give been since it seized me, yet I feel my head lightish, us at this day such a list of killed and wounded, and not in the best order for writing. You will The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787. find me therefore perhaps not only less alert in sleepless. The consequence has been, that exmy manner than I usually am when my spirits cept the translation of about thirty lines at the are good, but rather shorter. I will however pro- conclusion of the thirteenth book, I have been ceed to scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and forced to abandon Homer entirely. This was a then will do as I know you would bid me do were sensible mortification to me, as you may suppose, you here, shut up my desk, and take a walk. and felt the more because, my spirits of course The good General tells me that in the eight failing with my strength, I seemed to have pecufirst books which I have sent him, he still finds liar need of my old amusement. It seemed hard alterations and amendments necessary, of which therefore to be forced to resign it just when I I myself am equally persuaded; and he asks my wanted it most. But Homer's battles can not be leave to lay them before an intimate friend of his, fought by a man who does not sleep well, and of whom he gives a character that bespeaks him who has not some little degree of animation in the highly deserving such a trust. To this I have no day time. Last night, however, quite contrary to objection, desiring only to make the translation as my expectations, the fever left me entirely, and I perfect as I can make it. If God grant me life slept quietly, soundly, and long. If it please God and health, I would spare no labour to secure that that it return not, I shall soon find myself in a point. The general's letter is extremely kind, condition to proceed. I walk constantly, that is and both for manner and matter like all the rest to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together; for at these of his dealings with his cousin the poet. times I keep her continually employed, and never I had a letter also yesterday from Mr. Smith, suffer her to be absent from me many minutes. member for Nottingham. Though we never saw She gives me all her time, and all her attention, each other, he writes to me in the most friendly and forgets that there is another object in the terms, and interests himself much in my Homer, world. and in the success of my subscription. Speaking Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams as on this latter subject, he says that my poems are every body else does, that is to say, according to read by hundreds, who know nothing of my pro- her own experience. She has had no extraordinaposals, and makes no doubt that they would sub-ry ones, and therefore accounts them only the orscribe, if they did. I have myself always thought dinary operations of the fancy. Mine are of a them imperfectly, or rather inefficiently an- texture that will not suffer me to ascribe them to nounced. so inadequate a cause, or to any cause but the I could pity the poor woman, who has been operation of an exterior agency. I have a mind, weak enough to claim my song. Such pilferings my dear, (and to you I will venture to boast of it) are sure to be detected. I wrote it, I know not as free from superstition as any man living, neither how long, but I suppose four years ago. The do I give heed to dreams in general as predictive, rose in question was a rose given to Lady Austen though particular dreams I believe to be so. Some by Mrs. Unwin, and the incident that suggested very sensible persons, and I suppose Mrs. Carter the subject occurred in the room in which you among them, will acknowledge that in old times slept at the vicarage, which Lady Austen made God spoke by dreams, but affirm with much boldher dining room. Some time since, Mr. Bull ness that he has since ceased to do so. If you ask going to London, I gave him a copy of it, which them why? They answer, because he has now he undertook to convey to Nichols, the printer of revealed his will in the Scripture, and there is no the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it to longer any need that he should instruct or admonish Mrs. C———————, who begged to copy it, and pro- us by dreams. I grant that with respect to docmised to send it to the printer's by her servant. trines and precepts he has left us in want of noThree or four months afterwards, and when I thing; but has he thereby precluded himself in had concluded it was lost, I saw it in the Gentle- any of the operations of his Providence? Surely man's Magazine, with my signature, W. C. not. It is perfectly a different consideration; and Poor simpleton! She will find now perhaps that the rose had a thorn, and that she has pricked her fingers with it. Adieu! my beloved cousin. TO LADY HESKETH. W. C. The Lodge, Jan. 18, 1787. I HAVE been so much indisposed with the fever that I told you had seized me, my nights during the whole week may be said to have been almost the same need that there ever was of his interference in this way, there is still, and ever must be, while man continues blind and fallible, and a creature beset with dangers which he can neither foresee nor obviate. His operations however of this kind are, I allow, very rare; and as to the generality of dreams, they are made of such stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, that though I believe them all to be the manufacture of others, not our own, I account it not a farthing-matter who manufactures them.. So much for dreams! My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems |