I that had for three days obliterated all the beauties of Weston, and a north-east wind, might possibly contribute not a little to the melancholy that indited it. But my mind is now easy; your Letter has made it so, and I feel myself as blithe as a bird in comparison. love you, my Cousin, and cannot suspect, either with or without cause, the least evil in which you may be concerned, without being greatly troubled. Oh trouble! the portion of all mortals-but mine in particular. Would I had never known thee, or could bid thee farewell for ever; for I meet thee at every turn, my pillows are stuffed with thee, my very roses smell of thee, and even my Cousin, who would cure me of all trouble, if she could, is sometimes innocently the cause of trouble to me. I now see the unreasonableness of my late trouble, and would, if I could, trust myself so far, promise never again to trouble either myself or you in the same manner, unless warranted by some more substantial ground of apprehension. What I said concerning Homer, my dear, was spoken, or rather written, merely under the influence of a certain jocularity that I felt at that moment. I am in reality so far from thinking myself an Ass, and my Translation a sand-cart, that I rather seem in my own account of the matter, one of those flaming Steeds harnessed to the chariot of Apollo, of which we read in the works of the antients. I have lately, I know not how, acquired a certain supe riority to myself in this business, and in this last revisal have elevated the expression to a degree far surpassing its former boast. A few evenings since I had an opportunity to try how far I might venture to expect such success of my labours as can alone repay them, by reading the first Book of my Iliad to a friend of ours. He dined with you once at Olney. His name is Greatheed, a man of letters, and of taste. He dined with us, and the evening proving dark and dirty, we persuaded him to take a bed. I entertained him as I tell you. He heard me with great attention, and with evident symptoms of the highest satisfaction, which when I had finished the exhibition, he put out of all doubt by expressions which I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. Unwin, while I was in another room, that he had never entered into the spirit of Homer before, nor had any thing like a due conception of his manner. This I have said, knowing that it will please you, will now say no more. and Adieu! my dear, will you never speak of coming to Weston your last, I have not yet forgotten the impression it made upon me, nor nor how sensibly I felt myself obliged by your unreserved and friendly communications. I will not apologize for my silence in the interim, because apprized as you are of my present occupation, the excuse that I might alledge will present itself to you of course, and to dilate it would therefore be waste of paper. upon You are in possession of the best security imaginable, for the due improvement of your time, which is a just sense of its value. Had I been, when at your age, as much affected by that important consideration, as I am at present, I should not have devoted, as I did, all the earliest part of my life to amusement only. I am now in the predicament into which the thoughtlessness of youth betrays nine-tenths of mankind, who never discover that the health and good spirits which generally accompany it, are in reality blessings only according to the use we make of them, till advanced years begin to threaten them with the loss of both. How much wiser would thousands have been, than now they ever will be, had a puny constitution, or some occasional infirmity, constrained them to devote those hours to study and reflection, which for want of some such check, they have given entirely to dissipation! I, therefore, account you happy, who, young as you are, need not to be informed that you cannot always be so, and who already know that the materials upon which age can alone build its comfort, should be brought together at an earlier period. You have indeed, losing a father, lost a friend, but you have not lost his instructions. His example example was not buried with him, but happily for you (happily because you are desirous to avail yourself of it) still lives in y our remembrance, and is cherished in your best affections. Your last Letter was dated from the house of a gentleman, who was, I believe, my school-fellow, for the Mr. C who lived at Watford, while I had any connexion with Hartfordshire, must have been the father of the present, and according to his age, and the state of his health, when I saw him last, must have been long dead. I never was acquainted with the family further than by report, which always spoke honorably of them, though in all my journies to and from my Father's, I must have passed the door. The circumstance however reminds me of the beautiful reflection. of Glaucus in the sixth Iliad; beautiful as well for the affecting nature of the observation, as for the justness of the comparison, and the incomparable simplicity of the expression. I feel that I shall not be satisfied without transcribing it, and yet perhaps my Greek may be difficult to decypher. Οι η περ Φυλλων γενεή, τοιήδε και ανδρων. Φυλλα τα μεν τ' ανεμος χαμάδις χεει, αλλα δε θ' υλη Ως ανδρων γενεη, η μεν φυεί, η δ' απολήγει. fore him! Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man whose Homer is always beWhat would I give that he were living now, and within my reach! I, of all men living, have the best excuse for indulg ing such a wish, unreasonable as it may seem, for I have no doubt that the fire of his eye, and the smile of his lips, would put me now and then in possession of his full meaning more effectually than any commentator. I return you many thanks for the Elegies which you sent me, both which I think deserving of much commendation. I should requite you but ill by sending you my mortuary Verses, neither at present can I prevail on myself to do it, having no frank, and being conscious that they are not worth carriage without one. I have one copy left, and that copy I will keep for you. W. C. LETTER LXXXVI. To Lady HESKeth. The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1788. I have now three Letters of yours, my dearest Cousin, before me, all written in the space of a week, and must be indeed insensible of kindness did I not feel yours on this occasion. I cannot describe to you, neither could you comprehend it if I should, the manner in which my mind is sometimes impressed with melancholy on particular subjects. Your late silence was such a subject. I heard, saw, and felt, a thousand terrible things, which had no real existence, and was haunted by them night and day till they at last extorted from me the doleful epistle which I have since wished had been burned before I sent it. But |