LETTER LXXXII.

To the Revd. JOHN NEWTON.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Christmas Eve, 1784.

I am neither Mede nor

Persian, neither am I the son of any such, but was born at Great Berkhamsted, in Hartfordshire, and yet I can neither find a new title for my book, nor please myself with any addition to the old one. I am however willing to hope, that, when the volume shall cast itself at your feet, you will be in some measure reconciled to the name it bears, especially when you shall find it justified both by the exordium of the poem, and by the conclusion. But enough, as you say with great truth, of a subject very unworthy of so much consideration.

Had I heard any anecdotes of poor dying, that would have bid fair to deserve your attention, I should have sent them. The little, that he is reported to have uttered of a spiritual import, was not very striking. That little however I can give you upon good authority. His brother asking him, how he found himself, he replied, "I am very composed, and think,

that I may safely believe myself entitled to a portion." The world has had much to say in his praise, and both prose and verse have been employed to celebrate him in the Northampton Mercury. But Christians (I suppose) have judged it best to be silent. If he ever drank at the fountain of life, he certainly drank also, and often too freely of certain other streams, which are not to be bought without money and without price. He had virtues that dazzled the natural eye, and failings that shocked the spiritual one.

But iste

The slice, which (you observe) has been taken from the top of the sheet, it lost, before I began to write; but being a part of the paper which is seldom used, I thought it would be pity to discard, or to degrade to meaner purposes, the fair and ample remnant, on account of so immaterial a de

fect. I therefore have destined it to be the vehicle of a Letter, which you will accept as entire, though a lawyer perhaps would, without much difficulty, prove it to be but a fragment. The best recompence I can make you for writing without a frank, is to propose it to you to take your revenge by returning an answer under the same predicament; and the best reason I can give for doing it is, the occasion following. In my last I recommended it to you to procure franks for the conveyance of Tirocinium, dated on a day therein mentioned, and the earliest, which at that time I could venture to appoint. It has happened, however, that the poem is finished a month sooner than I expected, and two-thirds of it are at this time fairly transcribed; an accident, to which the riders of a Parnassian steed are liable, who never know, before they mount him, at what rate he will chuse to travel. If he be indisposed to dispatch, it is impossible to accelerate his pace; if otherwise, equally impossible to stop him. Therefore my errand to you at this time, is to cancel the former assignation, and to inform you, that by whatever means you please, and as soon as you please, the piece in question will be ready to attend you; for without exerting any ex

etting any extraordinary diligence, I shall have completed the transcript in a week.

The critics will never know, that four lines of it were composed, while I had a dose of ipecacuanha on my stomach, in short, that I was delivered of the emetic and the verses in the same moment. Knew they this, they would at least allow me to be a poet of singular industry, and confess that I lose no time. I have heard of poets, who have found cathartics of sovereign use, when they had occasion to be particularly brilliant. Dryden always used them, and in commemoration of it, Bayes in the Rehearsal is made to inform the audience that in a poetical emergency, he always had recourse to stewed prunes. But I am the only poet who has dared to reverse the prescription, and whose enterprize, having succeeded to admiration, warrants him to recommend an emetic to all future bards, as the most infallible means of producing a fluent and easy versification.

My love to all your family.

LETTER LXXXIV.

To the Revd. WILLIAM UNWIN.

MY DEAR WILLIAM,

Olney, Jan. 15, 1785.

Your Letters are always wel

come. You can always either find something to say, or can amuse me and yourself with a sociable and friendly way of saying nothing. I never found, that a Letter was the more easily written, because the writing of it had been long delayed. On the contrary, experience has taught me to answer soon, that I may do it without difficulty. It is in vain to wait for an accumulation of materials in a situation such as your's and mine, productive of few events. At the end of our expectations we shall find ourselves as poor as at the beginning.

I can hardly tell you with any certainty of information; upon what terms Mr. Newton and I may be supposed to stand at present. A month (I believe) has passed, since I heard from him. But my friseur, having been in London in the course of this week, whence he returned last night, and having called at Hoxton, brought me his love and an ex