shall stand chronicled in my remembrance as the most melancholy that I have ever known, except the weeks that I spent at Eartham; and such it has been principally, because being engaged to Milton, I felt myself no longer free for any other engagement. That illfated Work, impracticable in itself, has made every thing else impracticable. * I am very Pindaric, and obliged to be so by the hurry of the hour. My friends are come down to breakfast. Now I know that you are safe, I treat you, as you see, with a philosophical indifference, not acknowledging your kind and immediate answer to anxious enquiries, till it suits my own convenience. I have learned however from my late solicitude, that not only you, but yours, interest me to a degree, that should any thing happen to either of you, would be very inconsistent with my peace. Sometimes I thought that you were extremely ill, and once or twice, that some Tragedy reached my ear concerning little Tom, "Oh, vana How liable are we to a thousand impositions, mentes hominum!" you were dead. As often and and how indebted to honest old Time, who never fails to undeceive us! Whatever you had in prospect you acted kindly by me not to make me partaker of your expectations, for I have a spirit, if not so sanguine as yours, yet that would have waited for your coming with anxious impatience, and have been dismally mortified by the disappointment. Had you come, and come without notice too, you would not have surprized us more, than (as the matter was managed) we were surprized at the arrival of your Picture. It reached us in the evening, after the shutters were closed, at a time when a chaise might actually have brought you without giving us the least previous intimation. Then it was, that Samuel, with his cheerful countenance, appeared at the study door, and with a voice as cheerful as his looks, exclaimed, "Mr. Hayley is come Madam!” We both started, and in the same moment cried, "Mr. Hayley come! And where is he?" The next moment corrected our mistake, and finding Mary's voice grow suddenly tremulous, I turned, and saw her weeping. are so. I do nothing, notwithstanding all your exhortations: my idleness is proof against them all, or to speak more truly my difficulties Something indeed I do. I play at push-pin with Homer every morning before breakfast, fingering and polishing, as Paris did his armour. I have lately had a Letter from Dublin on that subject, which has pleased me. W. C, LETTER LETTER LVI. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esqr. MY DEAREST HAYLEY, So. Weston, Jan, 29, 1793. I truly sympathize with you under your weight of sorrow for the loss of our good Samaritan. But be not broken-hearted, my Friend! remember the loss of those we love, is the condition on which we live ourselves; and that he who chuses his friends wisely from among the excellent of the earth, has a sure ground to hope, concerning them, when they die, that a merciful God has made them far happier than they could be here; and that we shall join them soon again. This is solid comfort, could we but avail ourselves of it; but I confess the difficulty of doing Sorrow is like the deaf Adder, 66 that hears not the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely;" and I feel so much myself for the death of Austin, that my own chief consolation is, that I had never seen him. Live yourself, I beseech you, for I have seen so much of you, that I can by no means spare you; and I will live as long as it shall please God to permit me; I know you set some value on me, therefore let that promise comfort you! and give us not reason to say, like David's servants,-"We know that it would. have pleased thee more if all we had died, than this one, for whom thou art inconsolable." You have still Romney, and Carwardine, and Guy, and me, my poor Mary, and I know not how many beP side; VOL. II. side; as many, I suppose, as ever had an opportunity of spending a day with you. He who has the most friends must necessarily lose the most, and he whose friends are numerous as yours, may the better spare a part of them. It is a changing transient scene: yet a little while, and this poor dream of life will be over with all of us—The living, and they who live unhappy, they are indeed subjects of sorrow. Adieu, my beloved Friend. Ever yours. LETTER LVII. W. C, To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Feb. 5, 1793. In this last revisal of my work (the Homer) I have made a number of small improvements, and am now more convinced than ever, having exercised a cooler judgment upon it, than before I could, that the Translation will make its way. There must be time for the conquest of vehement and long-rooted prejudice; but without much self-partiality, I believe, that the conquest will be made; and am certain, that I should be of the same opinion, were the work another man's. I shall soon have finished the Odyssey, and when I have, will send the corrected. copy of both to Johnson. LETTER LVIII. To Lady HESKETH. Weston, Feb. 10, 1793. My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry; In vain has it been, that I have made several attempts to write, since I came from Sussex; unless more comfortable days arrive than I have the confidence to look for, there is an end of all writing with me. I have no spirits: when the Rose came, I was obliged to prepare for his coming by a nightly dose of Laudanumtwelve drops suffice; but without them, I am devoured by melancholy. A propos of the Rose! His Wife in her political notions is the exact counterpart of yourself-loyal in the extreme. Therefore, if you find her thus inclined, when you become acquainted with her, you must not place her resemblance of yourself to the account of her admiration of you, for she is your likeness ready made. In fact, we are all of one mind about government matters, and notwithstanding your opinion, the Rose is himself a Whig, and I am a Whig, and you, my dear, are a Tory, and all the Tories nowa-days call all the Whigs Republicans. How the Deuce you came to be a Tory is best known to yourself: you have to answer for this novelty P 2 |