into a great height, may make a noble figure, and a louder noise; but, after all, they would run more smoothly, quietly, and plentifully, in their own natural course upon the ground. The consideration of this would make me very well contented with the possession only of that quiet which Cowley calls the companion of obscurity. But whoever has the Muses too for his companions, can never be idle enough to be uneasy. Thus, sir, you see I would flatter myself into a good opinion of my own way of living. Plutarch just now told me, that it is in human life as in a game at tables, where a man may wish for the highest cast; but, if his chance be otherwise, he is even to play it as well as he can, and to make the best of it. I am your, &c. LETTER XXIX. Duchess Dowager of Somerset to Mrs.-. 1754. I AM Sorry, good Mrs. to find that your illness seems rather to increase than diminish; yet the disposition of mind with which you receive this painful dispensation, seems to convert your sufferings into a blessing: while you resign to the will of God in so patient a manner, this disease seems only the chastisement of a wise and merciful Being, who chasteneth not for his own pleasure, but for your profit. Were I not convinced of this great truth, I fear I must long since have sunk under the burden of sorrow, which God saw fit to wean my foolish heart from this vain world, and shew me how little all the grandeur and riches of it avail to happiness. He gave me a son*, who promised all that the fondest wishes of the fondest parents could hope: an honour to his family, an ornament to his country; with a heart early attached to all the duties of religion and society, with the advantage of strong and uninterrupted health, joined to a form, which, when he came into Italy, made him more generally known by the name of the "English Angel" than by that of his family. I know, this account may look like a mother's fondness; perhaps it was too • Lord viscount Beauchamp. much so once; but, alas! it now only serves to shew the uncertainty and frailty of all human dependence. This justly beloved child was snatched from us before we could hear of his illness; that fatal disease, the small-pox, seized him at Bologna, and carried him off the evening of his birth-day †, on which he had completed nineteen years. Two posts before, I had a letter from him, written with all the life and innocent cheerfulness inherent to his nature; the next but one came from his afflicted governor ‡, to acquaint his unhappy father that he had lost the most dutiful and best of sons, the pride and hope of his declining age. He bore the stroke like a wise man and a Christian, but never forgot, nor ceased to sigh for it. A long series of pain and infirmity, which was daily gaining ground, shewed me. the sword which appeared suspended over my head by an almost cobwebthread long before it dropped §. As to my bodily pains, I bless God, they are by no means insupportable at present; I rather suffer a languid state of weakness, which wastes my flesh and consumes my spirits by a gentle decay, than any frightful suffering, and am spending those remains of nature which were almost exhausted in continued care and anxiety for the sufferings of a person dearer to me than myself. My daughter, who is very good to me, has sent me her youngest son, just turned of four years old, to amuse me in my solitude, because he is a great favourite of mine, and shews a great deal of his uncle's disposition, and some faint likeness of his person. It is high time to release you from so long a letter; but there are some subjects on which my tears and pen know not how to stop when they begin to flow. I am, dear madam, your, &c. : my You have most agreeably increased obligations and it was very kind and ingenuous to inform me somewhat of yourself, as, in the generous freedom of your spirit, you broke through the little vulgarity of fashion, and wrote to one whom you never saw, and to one who has been long out of the world. Your invitation is exceedingly engaging. The simplicity of your manner of life, and your regular hours, to me are luxuries. And how well do you set forth your entertainment in the names of Mr. Hawkins Browne and the author of Clarissa; and, if I am not mistaken, in those of Miss Carter and Miss Talbot ‡ ! what a bill of fare! yet old Barzillai, though invited by David to the highest elegancies of life, held it vain to go to Jerusalem, when he could no longer hear the voice of singing men and singing women. Frailties also are troublesome in company-except in Frith-street, where they are carried into the arms of humanity. In spring, therefore, perhaps I may quit my solitude here, and venture abroad with a hundred infirmities upon my head; and sacrifice my vanity to one so benevolent as Mr. Duncombe. . . . I have not met with Dodsley's two last volumes, and have hitherto missed the pleasure of seeing the "Ode to Health §." Though head-achs and sickness make me fearful of reading much, yet I will haste to see it; it will particularly suit me: I will seek it, as I • Author of "Grongar-hill," "The Ruins of Rome," and "The Fleece."- Mr. Dyer was the second son of Robert Dyer, esq. of Aberglasney in Carmarthenshire, a solicitor of great capacity and note: he finished his school-studies at Westminster, under Dr. Friend, from whence he was called away to be instructed in his father's profession; but disliking the law, and his father soon after dying, he settled himself with Mr. Richardson, painter, in Lincoln's-inn-fields, being food of the art of drawing from his childhood, and his imagination glowing and strong. He afterwards travelled into Italy for improve ment, and at Rome formed the plan of his poem on its "ruins." At his return, ill health, his love of books, solitude, and reflection, induced him to enter into orders. He died in 1758, aged 58. t Near Horncastle in Lincolnshire. A mistake probably for Miss Mukso, after wards Mrs. Chapone. By Mr, J. Duncombe, seek health, which, alas! I I have read none of the Connoisseurs -no papers reach this lonely place. know not how the world goes-but with Mr. Hughes, as an author, I am well acquainted, and am glad that we are to have a fulier account of the life of so beautiful a poet.|| Lord-chancellor has been favourable to me. This living is 120l. per ann The other, called Kirkby, 110l. But my preferments came in this course: Calthorp in Leicestershire, (S0l. a year,) was given me by one Mr. Harper, in 1741. That I quitted in 1751 for a small living of 751. called Bletchford, ten miles from hence, and given me by lord chancellor, through Mr. Wray's interest. A year after, through the same interest, sir John Heathcote gave me this, and lately procured me Kirkby of lord-chancellor, without my solicitation. I was glad of this, on account of its nearness to me; though I think myself a loser by the exchange, through the expenses of the seal, dispensations, journeys, &c. and the charge of an old house, half of which I am going to pull down. More of myself (which your good-natured curiosity draws from me) is this: after having been an itinerant painter in my native country (S. Wales), and in Herefordshire, Worcestershire, &c. &c. I married, and settled in Leicestershire. My wife's name Shakespear, descended from a brother of was Ensor**, whose grandmother was a every-body's Shakespear. We have four In the Biographia Britannica, by Dr. Camp bell. shire. Sister of Mr. Strong Ensor, of Warwick children living; three are girls; the youngest a boy six years old. I had some brothers; have but one left. He is a clergyman*, lives at Marybone, and has such a house full of children as puts me in mind of a noted statue at Rome of the river Nile, on the arms, legs, and body of which are crawling, and climbing, ten or a dozen little boys and girls. Believe me to be, sir, your, &c. LETTER XXXI. From the same to the same. Coningsby, Jan. 31, 1757. the Dear sir, WANT of health was a cause of not writing, that gave me concern. I hope it happens but seldom; and that it was owing to what makes most people out of order-bad weather; the ill effects of which, here at least, are general. I think I never was so weather-sick deep snows forbid me air and exercise; and my best medicine is a friend's letter. You see how much I am obliged to you. Your son also I am obliged to: and I am under strong temptation-You are adding to my bill of fare. I feel your kind art in twisting and strengthening the silken cord, which probably, in the spring, will draw me to town; where, I have reason to flatter myself, I shall see, what I so much like and covet, two or three cheerful countenances, easy simplicity, and soft humanity; and, if a sweet female voice should come in, I am still able to hear the murmur of music, which I excessively love. Your good liking of those verses, "Have my friends in the town†," &c. should have been acknowledged in my last. I have a wicked memory: it is a great misfortune. Neither did I thank you for mentioning the new kind of • Now yeoman of his majesty's almonry. The reader will not be displeased to find this beautiful "Epistle" here at large: trumpet-but I never use any; for, putting my hand to my ear, I can give it such a form as will increase my hearing. Besides, cold bathing, frequent and moderate exercise, frequent frictions of my head and ears, warm feet, warm water with my wine, and supperless nights, have much abated my deafness. Mr. Dodsley indeed has the " Fleece." I did not think this a fit season for its publication; but my friend Mr. Wray overcame me; and though it has lain long "by" me, not much" before" me, it is now precipitated to the press, with such faults, as must be imputed to the air of a fenny country, where I have been, for the most part, above these five years, without health, without books, and without proper conversation. I say not this in any arrogant sensefor, God knows, I am far from despising either the peasant or the country par son. Good Mr. Edwards § was my particular friend; even Mr. Wray cannot lament him more than I do. How seasonable are your presents! they have an additional beauty in being new to me. Even the "Rambler" has not reached this place; nor have the beams of his "Sunday ||" ever shone upon me. You see what proofs I give you of being quite out of the world. Most expressive, I am afraid, is that one word of yours, fuimus. . I am, sir, your obliged humble servant. The swift, the intrepid avenger, Till sacred religion, or liberty, bleeds, Then mine be the deed and the danger! 4. Alas! what a folly, that wealth and domain We heap up in sin and in sorrow! Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain! Is not life to be over to-morrow? 5. Then glide on my moments, the few that I have, Of Turrick, in Buckinghamshire, author of the "Canons of Criticism," &c. He died about three weeks before the date of this letter (on a visit), at Mr. Richardson's, at Parson's Green. An allegorical paper so signed, written by the late excellent Mrs. Catherine Talbot. LETTER XXXII. Dear sir, Coningsby, March, 19, 1757. I, WHO want so many apologies myself, must be ashamed to read any from you! but I too have been ill; and my coughs have been so continual and violent, that I dreaded the posture of writing: yet, though it gives me shame, it gives me also pleasure to observe, that your apology and inclination to a correspondence with me, shew your warm benevolence; for we, in the country, who see nothing but earth and sky, who hear nothing but the inarticulate voices of beasts and birds, cannot correspond with you in town upon an equal footing: wanting bustle and news, we can furnish only trifles in exchange, and must always depend upon your generosity; therefore the calling any letter from Coningsby "agreeable" gives me a clear view of your benevolence. . . It is my wish,-forgive me,-that the gout may pay you many an annual visit. I would wish no such thing, were you a younger man, or did you not discover such a resignation as will ever preserve a relish for an useful life; and useful always is the life of every good man. So that I cannot imagine how so many of the wise and virtuous Romans, &c. could, in any circumstance, approve of LETTER XXXIII. Dear sir, Coningsby, Aug. 1, 1757. Alas! Ir grieves me that I cannot keep pace The most agreeable parcel is at last sent me. I have run over the "Horace." I will next walk over it. After that, I will crawl over it—not so much to criticise, as to be luxurious over it; for it seems very correct. Since Mr. Strahan has carried his translation* so far, it would be a great pity if age, or sickness, or the backwardness of his friends, should prevent the finishing of it. Ah! the swallows-happy those who fly about Soho! But my wings are not only grown weak; they are even losing their feathers. I am afraid I shall never make one among them, though your invitations are most provokingly agreeable. I am so weak, and so much in pain, that this letter cannot be tiresomely long.. Believe me to be, &c. LETTER XXXIV. Dear sir, combe. Worcester, July 10, 1758. self-killing. But my thoughts grow Rev. Mr. Meadowcourt to Mr. Dunover-grave-it is no wonder, for I am now confined by illness-yet I can taste pleasure-and am rejoiced to hear, that the merits of my generous friend, your son, are so well taken notice of by our humane archbishop. I have been at Canterbury; it is an agreeable city, in a very pleasant country. I AM very much obliged to you for remembering a person who has been so long out of sight, and for giving me so Of" the Eneid." + Prebendary of Worcester. On May 29, and Fellow of Merton-college) was drinking the 1716, as this gentleman (then Bachelor of Arts, king's and other loyal healths at the Constitution-club at Oxford, in company with several sub-proctor, whom Mr. M. requested to drink officers of the army, they were visited by the king George's health with them. For these termed,) Mr. M. was put (by the proctor) into "affronting and improper words," (as they were the "black book," and was sentenced to be kept back from his degree of Master of Arts for two years. Nor could he then obtain it, (as he refused publicly to acknowledge the heinous ness of his crime, and the lenity of his sentence) but by pleading his majesty's act of grace. On the same day, in the year 1719, Mr. M. again distinguished himself, by complaining to the vice-chancellor of a seditious sermon, preached acceptable a token of your remembrance as the first volume of your "Horace." To the dishonour of this place, there are no booksellers, and but few readers of books here. Most of the clergy, especially the incumbents on cushions in a cathedral, have finished their studies before they are lifted into preferment. Worldly cares or worldly enjoyments, too active or too passive a life, often lead them too far astray from literary pursuits. I am glad to find the bishop of Kildare* mentioned among your friends, as I am sure that his friendship must yield you the highest satisfaction. Every good and agreeable quality meet together in his character, without the least mixture of any thing bad. Nothing is wanting in him but better health, which is sometimes in such a state as to occasion extreme pain to himself, and no less concern to all who know him. The account you have heard of my being much addicted to the peripatetic sect is a true account. But it is in winter, and in the cool seasons, that I, venture on walks of any considerable length. He who travels on foot has an opportunity of wandering from hill to hill, from stream to stream, and from one rich valley to another; of dwelling on lovely landscapes and delicious scenes; and of seeing numberless objects and numberless places, which are inaccessible to the horseman, and never were seen by any one whirled through the country in the state-prison of a coach. For these and other reamany sons, I choose to make use of my own legs, and prefer the wholesome exercise of walking to all the modes of conveyance which effeminacy and luxury can invent. If I live to take another philosophical journey on foot to London, Mr. Duncombe, in Frith-street, may depend on hearing me knock at his door. before the university, by Mr. Warton, professor of poetry. The vice-chancellor, who had at first refused to take cognizance of it, being commanded by the lords justices to proceed against the preacher, the affair ended with Mr. Warton's deposing upon oath that "he had lost his notes." For an abstract of the sermon, see Amherst's "Terræ filius," numb. 15. A stall at Worcester was, some years after, the reward of Mr Meadowcourt's loyalty. He died in 1760. • Dr. Fletcher. He died at Dublin in 1761. His two younger brothers were successively deans of Kildare. My place of residence, during the summer months, is almost twenty miles from hence, in reductâ valle, Qua pinus ingens albaque populus Umbram hospitalem consociare amant ramis. Here my days pass away in peace, undisturbed by ambition and envy, not altogether devoted to solitude, nor too often interrupted by social visits. I rejoice here in the works of my hands, which are constantly employed in forming a wood into walks, in nursing a thicket of shrubs, and in adding the improvements of art to those of nature in a most delightful situation †. Was it not for such amusements as these, accompanied with the entertainments of books, I should probably be found at the foot of Parnasus, courting the Muses, and catching at some of the poetical spirit which is still indulged to you. May it long be indulged to you, and be ever attended with satisfaction and success! These are not the compliments, but the sincere wishes, of, dear sir, your most obliged and faithful humble servant. I can give you but a bad account of any thing I have published of late years. Mr. Sandby, bookseller, in Fleet-street, may, perhaps, have reason to give you a worse. |