indication of what you really are, and of what I always believed you to be, with much pleasure. May you rise from the condition of an humble prosecutor, or witness, to the bench of judgment!

When your Letter arrived, it found me with the worst and most obstinate cold, that I ever caught. This was one reason, why it had not a speedier answer. Another is, that except Tuesday morning, there is none in the week in which I am not engaged in the last revisal of my translation; the revisal I mean of my proof-sheets. To this business I give myself with an assiduity and attention truly admirable, and set an example, which if other poets could be apprised of, they would do well to follow. Miscarriages in authorship (I am persuaded) are as often to be ascribed to want of pains-taking, as to want of ability.

Lady Hesketh, Mrs Unwin, and myself, often` mention you, and always in terms, that, though you would blush to hear them, you need not be ashamed of; at the same time wishing much that you could change our trio into a quartetto.

W. C.

VOL. 3

S

LETTER CXV.

To the Revd. WALTER BAGOT.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Weston, Dec. 1, 1790.

It is plain, that you under

stand trap, as we used to say at school: for you begin with accusing me of long silence, conscious yourself at the same time, that you have been half a year in my debt, or thereabout. But I will answer your accusations with a boast, with a boast of having intended many a day to write to you again, notwithstanding your long insolvency. Your Brother and Sister of Chicheley can both witness for me, that, weeks since, I testified such an intention, and if I did not execute it, it was not for want of good-will, but for want of leisure. When will you be able to glory of such designs, so liberal and magnificent, you, who have nothing to do by your own confession, but to grow fat and saucy? Add to all this, that I have had a violent cold, such as I never have but at the first approach of winter, and such as at that time I seldom escape. A fever accompanied it, and an incessant cough.

You measure the speed of printers, of my printer at least, rather by your own wishes than by any just standard. Mine (I believe) is as nimble a one as falls to the share of poets in general, though not nimble enough to satisfy either the author or his friends. I told you, my work would go to press in autumn, and so it did.

that

But it had been six weeks

in London, ere the press began to work upon it. About a month since, we began to print, and at the rate of nine sheets in a fortnight have proceeded to about the middle of the sixth Iliad. "No farther?"-you say. I answer-No, nor even so far, without much scolding on my part, both at the bookseller and the printer. But courage, my friend! Fair and softly, as we proceed. We shall find our way through at last; and in confirmation of this hope, while I write this, another sheet arrives. I expect to publish in the spring.

I love and thank you for the ardent desire you express to hear me bruited abroad, et per ora virûm volitantem. For your encouragement I will tell you, that I read, myself at least, with wonderful complacence what I have done; and if the world, when it shall appear, do not like it as well as I, we will both

say and swear with Fluellin, that it is an ass and a fool (look you!) and a prating coxcomb.

I felt no ambition of the laurel. Else, though vainly perhaps, I had friends who would have made a stir on my behalf on that occasion. I confess, that when I learned the new condition of the office, that odes were no longer required and that the salary was increased, I felt not the same dislike of it. But I could neither go to court, nor could I kiss hands, were it for a much more valuable consideration. Therefore never expect to hear that royal favours find out me!

I will send you a

Adieu, my dear old friend! mortuary copy soon, and in the mean time remain

Ever yours,

LETTER CXVI.

W. C.

To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr.

Weston, Dec. 18, 1790.

I perceive myself so flattered by the instances of illustrious success, mentioned in

your Letter, that I feel all the amiable modesty, for which I was once so famous, sensibly giving way to a spirit of vain glory.

The King's-college subscription makes me proud-the effect that my verses have had on your two young friends, the mathematicians, makes m proud, and I am, if possible, prouder still of the contents of the Letter that you inclosed.

You complained of being stupid, and sent me one of the cleverest Letters. I have not complained of being stupid, and sent you one of the dullest. But it is no matter. I never aim at any thing above the pitch of every day's scribble, when I write to those I love.

Homer proceeds my boy! We shall get through it in time, and (I hope) by the time appointed. We are now in the tenth Iliad. I expect the ladies every minute to breakfast. You have their best love. Mine attends the whole army of Donnes at Mattishall Green assembled. How happy should I find myself, were I but one of the party! My capering days are over. But do you caper for me, that you may give them some idea of the happiness I should feel were I in the midst of them!

W. C.