In the affair of face-painting, I am precisely

I return you thanks for a Let

ter so warm with the intelligence of the celebrity of John Gilpin. I little thought, when I mounted him upon my Pegasus, that he would become so famous. I have learned also, from Mr. Newton, that he is equally renowned in Scotland, and that a lady there had undertaken to write a second part, on the subject of Mrs. Gilpin's return to London; but not succeeding in it as she wished, she dropped it. He tells me likewise, that the head-master of St. Paul's school (who he is I know not) has conceived, in consequence of the entertainment that John has afforded him, a ve

hement desire to write to me. Let us hope he will alter his mind; for should we even exchange civilities on the occasion, Tirocinium will spoil all. The great estimation however, in which this knight of the stone-bottles is held, may turn out a circumstance propitious to the volume, of which his history will make a part. Those events, that prove the prelude to our greatest success, are often apparently trivial in themselves, and such as seemed to promise nothing. The disappointment that Horace mentions, is reversed -We design a mug, and it proves a hogshead. It is a little hard, that I alone should be unfurnished with a printed copy of this facetious story. When you visit London next, you must buy the most elegant impression of it, and bring it with you. I thank you also for writing to Johnson. I likewise wrote to him myself. Your Letter and mine together, have operated to admiration. There needs nothing more, but that the effect be lasting, and the whole will soon be printed. We now draw towards the middle of the fifth book of the Task. The man, Johnson, is like unto some vicious horses, that I have known. They would not budge, 'till they were spurred, and, when they were spurred, they would kick.So did he

His temper was somewhat disconcerted; but his was quickened, and I was contented.

pace

I was very much pleased with the following sentence in Mr. Newton's last" I am perfectly "satisfied with the propriety of your proceeding as "to the publication. "Now therefore we are friends again. Now he once more inquires after the work, which, 'till he had disburthened himself of this acknowledgment, neither he nor I, in any of our Letters to each other, ever mentioned. Some side-wind has wafted to him a report of those reasons, by which I justified my conduct. I never made a secret of them. Both your Mother and I have studiously deposited them with those, who we thought were most likely to transmit them to him. They wanted only an hearing, which once obtained, their solidity and cogency were such, that they were sure to prevail.

You mention I formerly knew the man you mention, but his elder brother much better. We were school-fellows, and he was one of a club of seven Westminster men, to which I belonged, who dined together every Thursday. Should it please God to give me ability to perform the poet's part to some purpose, many whom I once called friends, but who have since treated me with a most magnificent indifference,

will be ready to take me by the hand again, and some, whom I never held in that estimation, will like——————, (who was but a boy, when I left London) boast of a connexion with me, which they never had. Had 1 the virtues, and graces, and accomplishments of St. Paul himself, I might have them at Olney, and nobody would care a button about me, yourself and one or two more excepted. Fame begets favour, and one talent, if it be rubbed a little bright by use and practice, will procure a man more friends than a thousand virtues. Dr. Johnson, (I believe) in the life of one of our poets, says, that he retired from the world flattering himself, that he should be regretted. the world never missed him. I think his observation upon it is, that the vacancy made by the retreat of any individual, is soon filled up; that a man may always be obscure, if he chuses to be so; and that he, who neglects the world, will be by the world neglected.

But

Your Mother and I walked yesterday in the Wilderness. As we entered the gate, a glimpse of something white, contained in a little hole in the gate-post, caught my eye. I looked again, and discovered a bird's nest, with two tiny eggs in it. By and by they will be fledged, and tailed, and get wing

feathers, and fly. My case is somewhat similar to that of the parent bird. My nest is in a little nook. Here I brood, and hatch, and in due time my progeny takes wing and whistles.

We wait for the time of your coming with pleasant expectations.

I write in a nook, that I call

my Boudoir. It is a summer-house not much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door of which opens into the garden, that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honey-suckles, and the window into my neighbour's orchard. It formerly served an apothecary, now dead, as a smoking room; and under my feet is a trap door, which once covered a hole in the ground,