And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

A draw'r, it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd

With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the lady's use,
A draw'r impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the top-most chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there.
Puss with delight beyond expression,
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease ere long,
And lull'd by her own hum-drum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclin'd,
The Chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impell'd,

But all unconscious whom it held.

Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss)

"Was ever Cat attended thus!
"The open draw'r was left I see
"Merely to prove a nest for me,
"For soon as I was well compos'd,

Then came the maid, and it was clos'd:

"How

"How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet,

"Oh what a delicate retreat!

"I will resign myself to rest

"Till Sol, declining in the West,

"Shall call to supper; when, no doubt, "Susan will come and let me out."

The evening came, the Sun descended,
And Puss remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day)
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
The evening grey again ensued,

And Puss came into mind no more
Than if entomb'd the day before.

With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presag'd approaching doom,

Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,

Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.

That night, by chance, the Poet watching,

Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said—" What's that?”
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.
Yet by his ear directed, guess'd,
Something imprison'd in the chest,

And

And doubtful what, with prudent care,
Resolv'd it should continue there.

At length a voice, which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,

Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the draw'rs explore,
The lowest first, and without stop,
The rest in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth, well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,

We seek it, ere it come to light,

In ev'ry cranny but the right.

Fourth skipp'd the Cat; not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cur'd of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for her place of rest
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stept the Poet into bed
With this reflection in his head.

VOL. I.

LL

MORAL.

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence!
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around, in all that's done,
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn, in school of tribulation,
The folly of his expectation.

LETTER LXXVI.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

Nov. 16, 1787:

I thank you for the solicitude that

you express on the subject of my present studies. The work is undoubtedly long and laborious, but it has an end, and proceeding leisurely, with a due attention to the use of air and exercise, it is possible that I may live to finish it. Assure yourself of one thing, that though to a bystander it may seem an occupation surpassing the powers of a constitution, never very athletic, and, at present, not a little the worse for wear, I can invent for myself no employment that does not exhaust my spirits more. I will not pretend to account for this, I will only say, that it is not the language of pre

dilection

dilection for a favorite amusement, but that the fact is really so. I have even found that those plaything avocations which one may execute almost without any attention, fatigue me, and wear me away, while such as engage me much, and attach me closely, are rather serviceable to me than otherwise.

W. C.

LETTER LXXVII.

To Lady HESKETH.

The Lodge, Nov. 27, 1787.

It is the part of wisdom, my dearest

in my Uncle's

Cousin, to sit down contented under the demands of necessity, because they are such. I am sensible that you cannot, present infirm state, and of which it is not possible to expect any considerable amendment, indulge either us, or yourself, with a journey to Weston. Yourself, I say, both because I know it will give you pleasure to see Causidice mi* once more, especially in the comfortable abode where you have placed him, and because after so long an imprisonment in London, you, who love the country, and have a taste for it, would of course be glad to return to it. For my own part, to me it is ever new, and though I have now been an inhabitant of this village a twelvemonth, and have during the half of that time been at liberty to expatiate, and to make discoveries, I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks, which you

*The Apellation which Sir Thomas Hesketh used to give him in jest, when he was of the Temple.