viewed in this light, seems not so wonderful as to refuse all explanation, except such as, in a melancholy moment, you have given to it. And I am so convinced that the little boy's destiny had no influence at all in hastening the death of his tutors elect, that where 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 Í conscious of the same fitness for another and better state that I believe them to have been both endowed with. In that case, I, perhaps, might die too, but if I should, it would not be on account of that connection. Neither, 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.

I have not touched Homer to-day. Yesterday was one of my terrible seasons, and when I arose this morning I found that I had not sufficiently recovered myself to engage in such an occupation. Having letters to write, I the more willingly gave myself a dispensation. Good night.

W. C.

LETTER LXIV.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Weston, Dec. 9, 1786.

We had just begun to enjoy 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.

I find myself here situated exactly to my mind. Weston is one of the prettiest villages in England, and the walks about it at all seasons of the year delightful. I know that you will rejoice with me in the change that we have made, and for which I am altogether indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a change as great as, to compare metropolitan things with rural, from St. Giles to Grosvenor-Square. Our house is in all respects commodious, and in some degree elegant; and I cannot give you a better idea of that which we have left, than by telling you the present candidates for it are a publi can and a shoemaker.

W. C,

LETTER LXV.

To Lady HESKETH.

Weston, Dec. 21, 1786. Your welcome letter, my be

loved 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 re

lieved me from a thousand distressing apprehensions on your account.

The dew of your intelligence has refreshed my poetical laurels. Á 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.

I have already invited the good Padre in general terms, and he shall positively dine here next week, whether he will or not. I do not at all suspect that his kindness to Protestants has any thing insidious in it, any more than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for me with a view for my conversion. He would find that 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.

$ 2

LETTER LXVI.

To Lady HESKETH.

The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787.

I have had a little nervous fe

'ver lately, my dear, that has somewhat abridged mý sleep; and though I find myself better to-day than I have been since it seized me, yet I feel my head lightish, and not in the best order for writing: you will find me, therefore, perhaps, not only less alert in my manner than I usually am when my spirits are good, but rather shorter. I will, however, proceed to scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then will do as I know you would bid me do were you here, shut up my desk, and take a walk.

The good General tells me, that in the eight first books which I have sent him, he still finds alterations and amendments necessary, of which I myself am equally persuaded; and he asks my leave to lay them before an intimate friend of his, of whom he gives a character that bespeaks him highly deserving such a trust. To this I have no objection, desiring only to make the translation as perfect as I can make it: if God grant me life and health, I would spare no labour to secure that point. The General's letter is extremely kind, and, both for matter and manner, like all the rest of his dealings with his cousin the poet.

I had a letter, also, yesterday, from Mr. Smith, member for Nottingham. Though we never saw each other, he writes to me in the most friendly terms, and interests himself much in my Homer, and in the success of my subscription. Speaking on this latter subject, he says, that my poems are read by hundreds who know nothing of my proposals, and makes no doubt that they would subscribe if they did. I have myself always thought them imperfectly, or rather insufficiently announced.

I could pity the poor woman who has been weak enough to claim my song. Such pilferings are sure to be detected. I wrote it I know not how long, but I suppose four years ago. The rose in question was a rose given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and the incident that suggested the subject occurred in the room in which you slept at the vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining-room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to London, I gave him a copy of it, which he undertook to convey to Nichols, the printer of the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it to a Mrs. C, who begged to copy it, and promised to send it to the printer's by her servant. Three or four months afterwards, and when I had concluded it was lost, I saw it in the Gentleman's Magazine, with my signature, W. C. 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,

W. C.