TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. MY DEAR FRIEND, Feb. 7, 1785. usual, was not long since discoursing with that eloquence which is so peculiar to himself, on the many providential interpositions that had taken place in his favour. "He had wished for many We live in a state of such uninterrupted retire-things (he said) which, at the time when he formed ment, in which incidents worthy to be recorded those wishes, seemed distant and improbable, some occur so seldom, that I always sit down to write of them indeed impossible. Among other wishes with a discouraging conviction that I have nothing that he had indulged, one was, that he might be to say. The event commonly justifies the presage. connected with men of genius and ability—and in For when I have filled my sheet, I find that I have my connexion with this worthy gentleman (said said nothing. Be it known to you, however, that he, turning to me,) that wish, I am sure, is amply I may now at least communicate a piece of intelli- gratified." You may suppose that I felt the sweat gence to which you will not be altogether indif- gush out upon my forehead, when I heard this ferent, that I have received, and returned to John- speech; and if you do, you will not be at all misson, the two first proof sheets of my new publica- taken. So much was I delighted with the delication. The business was despatched indeed a cy of that incense. fortnight ago, since when I have heard from him Thus far I proceeded easily enough; and here no further. From such a beginning however II laid down my pen, and spent some minutes in venture to prognosticate the progress, and in due recollection, endeavouring to find some subject, time the conclusion, of the matter. with which I might fill the little blank that remains. But none presents itself. Farewell, therefore, and remember those who are mindful of you! Present our love to all your comfortable fireside, and believe me ever most affectionately yours, W. C. In the last Gentleman's Magazine my Poplar Field appears. I have accordingly sent up two pieces more, a Latin translation of it, which you have never seen, and another on a Rose-bud, the neck of which I inadvertently broke, which, whether you have seen or not, I know not. As fast as Nichols prints off the poems I send him, I send him new ones. My remittance usually consists pronounce the in as an ŋ. of two; and he publishes one of them at a time. hold with that practice, though educated in it. I I may indeed furnish him at this rate, without should therefore utter it just as I do the Latin putting myself to any great inconvenience. For word filio, taking the quantity for my guide. my last supply was transmitted to him in August, and is but now exhausted. They that read Greek with the accents would TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. I communicate the following anecdote at your mother's instance, who will suffer no part of my praise to be sunk in oblivion. A certain Lord has hired a house at Clifton, in our neighbourhood, I THANK you for your letter. It made me laugh, for a hunting seat. There he lives at present and there are not many things capable of being with his wife and daughter. They are an exem- contained within the dimensions of a letter, for plary family in some respects, and (I believe) an which I see cause to be more thankful. I was amiable one in all. The Reverend Mr. Jones, pleased too to see my opinion of his Lordship's the curate of that parish, who often dines with nonchalance upon a subject that you had so much them by invitation on a Sunday, recommended my at heart, completely verified. I do not know that volume to their reading; and his Lordship, after the eye of a nobleman was ever dissected. I can having perused a part of it, expressed to the said not help supposing however that, were that organ, Mr. Jones an ardent desire to be acquainted with as it exists in the head of such a personage, to be the author, from motives which my great modesty accurately examined, it would be found to differ will not suffer me to particularize. Mr. Jones, materially in its construction from the eye of a however, like a wise man, informed his Lordship, commoner; so very different is the view that men that for certain special reasons and causes I had in an elevated, and in an humble station, have oʻ declined going into company for many years, and the same object. What appears great, sublime, that therefore he must not hope for my acquaint-beautiful, and important, to you and to me, when ance. His Lordship most civilly subjoined, that submitted to the notice of my lord, or his grace, he was sorry for it. "And is that all?" say you. and submitted too with the utmost humility, is Now were I to hear you say so, I should look either too minute to be visible at all, or if seen, foolish and say "Yes."-But having you at a seems trivial, and of no account. My supposition distance, I snap my fingers at you, and say,-"No, therefore seems not altogether chimerical. that is not all."-Mr. In two months I have corrected proof sheets to and then with his company in an evening, as the amount of ninety-three pages, and no more. who favours us now TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. My Dear friend, In other words, I have received three packets. | Nothing is quick enough for impatience, and I suppose that the impatience of an author has the quickest of all possible movements. It appears to April 30, 1785. me, however, that at this rate we shall not publish I RETURN you thanks for a letter so warm with till next autumn. Should you happen therefore the intelligence of the celebrity of John Gilpin. to pass Johnson's door, pop in your head as you I little thought, when I mounted him upon my go, and just insinuate to him, that, were his re- Pegasus, that he would become so famous. I have mittances rather more frequent, that frequency learned also, from Mr. Newton, that he is equally would be no inconvenience to me. I much ex-renowned in Scotland, and that a lady there had pected one this evening, a fortnight having now undertaken to write a second part, on the subject elapsed since the arrival of the last. But none of Mrs. Gilpin's return to London, but not succame, and I felt myself a little mortified. I took ceeding in it as she wished, she dropt it. He tells up the newspaper, however, and read it. There I me likewise, that the head master of St. Paul's found that the emperor and the Dutch are, after school (who he is I know not) has conceived, in all their negotiations, going to war. Such reflec- consequence of the entertainment that John has tions as these struck me. A great part of Europe afforded him, a vehement desire to write to me. is going to be involved in the greatest of all cala- Let us hope he will alter his mind; for should we mities-troops are in motion-artillery is drawn to- even exchange civilities on the occasion, Tiroci gether-cabinets are busied in contriving schemes nium will spoil all. The great estimation howof blood and devastation-thousands will perish, ever in which this knight of the stone-bottles is who are incapable of understanding the dispute; held, may turn out a circumstance propitious to and thousands, who, whatever the event may be, the volume of which his history will make a part. are little more interested in it than myself, will Those events that prove the prelude to our greatsuffer unspeakable hardships in the course of the est success, are often apparently trivial in themquarrel-Well! Mr. Poet, and how then? You'selves, and such as seemed to promise nothing. have composed certain verses, which you are de- The disappointment that Horace mentioned is resirous to see in print, and because the impression versed-We design a mug and it proves a hogsseems to be delayed, you are displeased, not to say head. It is a little hard that I alone should be dispirited-be ashamed of yourself! you live in a unfurnished with a printed copy of this facetious world in which your feelings may find worthier subjects-be concerned for the havoc of nations, and mourn over your retarded volume when you find a dearth of more important tragedies! You postpone certain topics of conference to our next meeting. When shall it take place? I do not wish for you just now, because the garden is a wilderness, and so is all the country around us. In May we shall have asparagus, and weather in which we may stroll to Weston; at least we may hope for it; therefore come in May; you will find us happy to receive you, and as much of your fair household as you can bring with you. We are very sorry for your uncle's indisposition. The approach of summer seems however to be in his favour, that season being of all remedies for the rheumatism I believe the most effectual. 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 than that the effect be lasting, and the whole will be soon 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 pace was quickened, and I was contented. 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 disburdened himself of this ac I thank you for your intelligence concerning the celebrity of John Gilpin. You may be sure that it was agreeable-but your own feelings on occasion of that article pleased me most of all. Well, knowledgment, neither he nor 1, in any of our my friend, be comforted! You had not an opportunity of saying publicly, "I know the author." But the author will say as much for you soon, and perhaps will feel in doing so a gratification equal to your own. In the affair of face-painting, I am precisely of your opinion. Adieu, W. C. letters to each other, ever mentioned. Some sidewind has wafted to him a report of those reasons by which I justified my conduct. I never made a secret of them, but 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 a hearing, which once obtained, their solidity and cogency were such that they summer-time, whether to my friends, or to the were sure to prevail. public. It is secure from all noise, and a refuge You mention I formerly knew the from all intrusion; for intruders sometimes trouble man you mention, but his elder brother much bet-me in the winter evenings at Olney. But (thanks ter. We were schoolfellows, and he was one of a to my Boudoir !) I can now hide myself from them. club of seven Westminster men, to which I be- A poet's retreat is sacred. They acknowledge the longed, who dined together every Thursday. Should truth of that proposition, and never presume to it please God to give me ability to perform the violate it. poet's part to some purpose, many whom I once The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you called friends, but who have since treated me with that I have ordered my volume to your door. My a most magnificent indifference, will be ready to bookseller is the most dilatory of all his fraternity, take me by the hand again, and some, whom I or you would have received it long since. It is never held in that estimation, will, like, (who more than a month since I returned him the last was but a boy when I left London) boast of a con- proof, and consequently since the printing was nexion with me which they never had. Had I the finished. I sent him the manuscript at the bevirtues, and graces, and accomplishments of St. ginning of last November, that he might publish Paul himself, I might have them at Olney, and while the town was full, and he will hit the exact nobody would care a button about me, yourself moment when it is entirely empty. Patience (you and one or two more excepted. Fame begets will perceive) is in no situation exempted from the favour, and one talent, if it be rubbed a little bright severest trials; a remark that may serve to comfort by use and practice, will procure a man more you under the numberless trials of your own.* 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. But 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 chooses to be so; and that he, who neglects the world, will be by the world neglected. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. MY DEAR WILLIAM, July 27, 1785. You and your party left me in a frame of mind that indisposed me much to company. I comYour mother and I walked yesterday in the forted myself with the hope that I should spend a wilderness. As we entered the gate, a glimpse of silent day, in which I should find abundant leisomething white, contained in a little hole in the sure to indulge sensations which, though of the gate-post, caught my eye. I looked again, and melancholy kind, I yet wished to nourish. But discovered a bird's nest, with two tiny eggs in it. that hope proved vain. In less than an hour after By and by they will be fledged, and tailed, and get your departure, Mr. made his appearance at wing-feathers, and fly. My case is somewhat simi- the green-house door. We were obliged to ask lar to that of the parent bird. My nest is a little him to dinner, and he dined with us. He is an nook. Here I brood and hatch, and in due time agreeable, sensible, well-bred young man, but with my progeny takes wing and whistles. all his recommendations, I felt that on that occasion I could have spared him. So much better are the absent, whom we love much, than the present whom we love a little. I have however made myself amends since, and nothing else having interfered, have sent many a thought after you. We wait for the time of your coming with pleasant expectation. Yours truly, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. MY DEAR FRIEND, June 25, 1785. You had been gone two days when a violent I WRITE in a nook that I call my Boudoir. It thunder-storm came over us. I was passing out is a summer-house not much bigger than a sedan of the parlour into the hall, with Mungo at my chair, the door of which opens into the garden, heels, when a flash seemed to fill the room with that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honey- fire. In the same instant came the clap, so that suckles, and the window into my neighbour's or- the explosion was (I suppose) perpendicular to chard. It formerly served an apothecary, now the roof. Mungo's courage upon the tremendous dead, as a smoking-room; and under my feet is a occasion constrained me to smile, in spite of the trap-door, which once covered a hole in the ground solemn impression that such an event never fails where he kept his bottles. At present however it to affect me with-the moment that he heard the is dedicated to sublimer uses. Having lined it thunder (which was like the burst of a great gun), with garden mats, and furnished it with a table and two chairs, here I write all that I write in the In this interval The Task was published. with a wrinkled forehead, and with eyes directed | fills my soul with ineffable love and joy. Will a to the ceiling, whence the sound seemed to pro- man tell me that I am deceived, that I ought not ceed, he barked; but he barked exactly in concert to love or rejoice in him for such a reason, bewith the thunder. It thundered once, and he cause a dream is merely a picture drawn upon barked once; and so precisely the very instant the imagination? I hold not with such divinity. when the thunder happened, that both sounds To love Christ is the greatest dignity of man, be seemed to begin and to end together. Some dogs that affection wrought in him how it may. will clap their tails close, and sneak into a corner, Adieu! May the blessing of God be upon you at such a time, but Mungo it seems is of a more all! It is your mother's heart's wish and mine. Yours ever, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. MY DEAR FRIEND, August 27, 1785. fearless family. A house at no great distance from ours was the mark to which the lightning was directed; it knocked down the chimney, split the building, and carried away the corner of the next house, in which lay a fellow drunk, and asleep upon his bed-it roused and terrified him, I was low in spirits yesterday, when your parand he promises to get drunk no more; but I have cel came and raised them. Every proof of attenscen a woful end of many such conversions. Ition and regard to a man who lives in a vinegar remember but one such storm at Olney since I have known the place; and I am glad that it did not happen two days sooner for the sake of the ladies, who would probably, one of them at least, have been alarmed by it. I have received, since you went, two very flattering letters of thanks, one from Mr. Bacon, and one from Mr. Barham, such as might make a lean poet plump, and an humble poet proud. But being myself neither lean nor humble, I know of no other effect they had, than that they pleased me; and I communicate the intelligence to you, not without an assured hope that you will be pleased also. We ones that I had before. are now going to walk, and thus far I have writ bottle is welcome from his friends on the outside of it—accordingly your books were welcome (you must not forget by the way that I want the original, of which you have sent me the translation only) and the ruffles from Miss Shuttleworth most welcome. I am covetous, if ever man was, of living in the remembrance of absentees whom I highly value and esteem, and consequently felt myself much gratified by her very obliging present. I have had more comfort, far more comfort, in the connexions that I have formed within the last twenty years, than in the more numerous Memorandum-The latter are almost all Un ten before I have received your letter. Friday.-wins or Unwinisms. I must now be as compact as possible. When I You are entitled to my thanks also for the fabegan, I designed four sides, but my packet being cetious engravings of John Gilpin. A serious transformed into two single epistles, I can conse-poem is like a swan, it flies heavily, and never far, quently afford you but three. I have filled a large but a jest has the wings of a swallow, that never sheet with animadversions upon Pope. I am tire, and that carry it into every nook and corproceeding in my translation-" Velis et remis, ner. I am perfectly a stranger however to the omnibus nervis”—as Hudibras has it; and if God reception that my volume meets with, and I begive me health and ability, will put it into your lieve in respect of my nonchalance upon that subhands when I see you next. Mr. -h has just ject, if authors would but copy so fair an examleft us. He has read my book, and, as if fearful ple, am a most exemplary character. I must tell that I had overlooked some of them myself, has you nevertheless, that although the laurels that I pointed out to me all its beauties. I do assure gain at Olney will never minister much to my you the man has a very acute discernment, and a pride, I have acquired some. The Rev. Mr. taste that I have no fault to find with. I hope S- is my admirer, and thinks my second that you are of the same opinion. volume superior to my first. It ought to be so. Be not sorry that your love of Christ was ex- If we do not improve by practice, then nothing cited in you by a picture. Could a dog or cat can mend us; and a man has no more cause to be suggest to me the thought, that Christ is precious, mortified at being told that he has excelled himI would not despise that thought because a dog or self, than the elephant had, whose praise it was, cat suggested it. The meanness of the instru- that he was the greatest elephant in the world, ment can not debase the nobleness of the princi- himself excepted. If it be fair to judge of a book ple. He that kneels before a picture of Christ, is by an extract, I do not wonder that you were sʊ an idolater. But he in whose heart the sight of a little edified by Johnson's Journal. It is even picture kindles a warm remembrance of the Sa- more ridiculous than was poor ——————'s of flatuviour's sufferings, must be a Christian. Suppose lent memory. The portion of it given to us in that I dream as Gardiner did, that Christ walks this day's paper contains not one sentiment worth before me, that he turns and smiles upon me, and one farthing; except the last, in which he re solves to bind himself with no more unbidden give more than you gave me this morning. When obligations. Poor man! one would think, that I came down to breakfast, and found upon the to pray for his dead wife, and to pinch himself table a letter franked by my uncle, and when with church fasts, had been almost the whole of opening that frank I found that it contained a lethis religion. I am sorry that he, who was so ter from you, I said within myself—'This is just manly an advocate for the cause of virtue in all as it should be. We are all grown young again, other places, was so childishly employed, and so and the days that I thought I should see no more, superstitiously too, in his closet. Had he studied are actually returned.' You perceive therefore his Bible more, to which by his own confession that you judged well when you conjectured that a he was in great part a stranger, he had known line from you would not be disagreeable to me. It better what use to make of his retired hours, and could not be otherwise than as in fact it proved, a had trifled less. His lucubrations of this sort most agreeable surprise, for I can truly boast of an have rather the appearance of religious dotage, affection for you, that neither years, nor interruptthan of any vigorous exertions towards God. It ed intercourse, have at all abated. I need only will be well if the publication prove not hurtful recollect how much I valued you once, and with in its effects, by exposing the best cause, already how much cause, immediately to feel a revival too much despised, to ridicule still more profane. of the same value: if that can be said to revive, On the other side of the same paper I find a long which at the most has only been dormant for string of aphorisms, and maxims, and rules for the want of employment. But I slander it when I say conduct of life, which, though they appear not with that it has slept. A thousand times have I rehis name, are so much in his manner, with the collected a thousand scenes, in which our two above-mentioned, that I suspect them for his. I selves have formed the whole of the drama, with have not read them all, but several of them I read the greatest pleasure; at times too, when I had no that were trivial enough: for the sake of one how-reason to suppose that I should ever hear from you ever I give him the rest-he advises never to ban-again. I have laughed with you at the Arabian ish hope entirely, because it is the cordial of life, Nights' Entertainments, which afforded us, as you although it be the greatest flatterer in the world. well know, a fund of merriment that deserves never Such a measure of hope as may not endanger my to be forgot. I have walked with you to Netley peace by disappointment I would wish to cherish Abbey, and have scrambled with you over hedges upon every subject, in which I am interested. in every direction, and many other feats we have But there lies the difficulty. A cure however, performed together, upon the field of my rememand the only one, for all the irregularities both of hope and fear, is found in submission to the will of God. Happy they that have it! This last sentence puts me in mind of your reference to Blair in a former letter, whom you there permitted to be your arbiter to adjust the respective claims of who or that. I do not rashly differ from so great a grammarian, nor do at any rate differ from him altogether-upon solemn occasions, as in prayer or preaching for instance, I would be strictly correct, and upon stately ones, for instance were I writing an epic poem, I would be so likewise, but not upon familiar occasions. God who heareth prayer, is right. Hector who saw Patroclus, is right. And the man that dresses me every day, is in my mind right also;-because the contrary would give an air of stiffness and pedantry to an expression, that in respect of the matter of it can not be too negligently made up. Adieu, my dear William! I have scribbled with all my might, which, breakfast-time excepted, has been my employment ever since I rose, and it is now past one. Yours, W. C. brance, and all within these few years. Should I say within this twelvemonth, I should not transgress the truth. The hours that I have spent with you were among the pleasantest of my former days, and are therefore chronicled in my mind so deeply as to feel no erasure. Neither do I forget my poor friend Sir Thomas. I should remember him indeed, at any rate, on account of his personal kindness to myself; but the last testimony that he gave of his regard for you endears him to me still more. With his uncommon understanding (for with many peculiarities he had more sense than any of his acquaintance,) and with his generous sensibilities, it was hardly possible that he should not distinguish you as he has done. As it was the last, so it was the best proof that he could give, of a judgment that never deceived him, when he would allow himself leisure to consult it. You say that you have often heard of me; that puzzles me. I can not imagine from what quarter, but it is no matter. I must tell you however, my cousin, that your information has been a little defective. That I am happy in my situation is true; I live, and have lived these twenty years, with Mrs. Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, during the far greater part of that time, it is under Providence owing that I live at all. But I do not account myself happy in having been for thirteen |