But soon as approaching the land,

That goddess-like woman he view'd,
The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbru'd.
I saw him both sicken and die,

And the moment the monster expir'd
Heard shouts that ascended the sky,

From thousands with rapture inspir'd.

Awaking, how could I but muse,

At what such a dream should betide?

But soon my ear caught the glad news

Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide--
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves,
For the hatred she ever has shown
To the black-sceptred rulers of Slaves,
Resolves to have none of her own,

LETTER XCI.

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Weston, March 29, 1788.

I rejoice that you have so successfully performed so long a journey without the aid of hoofs or wheels. I do not know that a journey on foot exposes a man to more disasters than a carriage or a horse; perhaps it may be the safer way of travelling, but the novelty of it impressed me with some anxiety on your account.

It seems almost incredible to myself, that my company should be at all desirable to you, or to any man. I know so little of the world as it goes at present, and labour generally under such a depression of spirits, especially at those times. when I could wish to be most cheerful, that my own share in every conversation appears to me to be the most insipid thing imaginable. But you say you found it otherwise, and I will not for my own sake doubt your sincerity, de gustibus non est disputandum, and since such is yours, I shall leave you in quiet possession of it, wishing indeed both its continuance and increase. I shall not find a properer place in which to say, accept of Mrs. Unwin's acknowledgments, as well as mine, for the kindness of your expressions on this subject, and be assured of an undissembling welcome at all times, when it shall suit you to give us your company at Weston. As to her, she is one of the sincerest of the human race, and if she receives you with the appearance of pleasure, it is because she feels it. Her behaviour on such occasions is with her an affair of conscience, and she dares no more look a falsehood than utter one.

It is almost time to tell you, that I have received the books safe; they have not suffered the least detriment by the way, and I am much obliged to you for them, If my Translation should be a little delayed in consequence of this favour of yours, you must take the blame on yourself. It is impossible not to read the notes

of

of a Commentator so learned, so judicious, and of so fine a taste as Dr. Clarke, having him at one's elbow. Though he has been but few hours under my roof I have already peeped at him, and find that he will be instar omnium to me. They are such Notes exactly as I wanted. A translator of Homer should ever have somebody at hand to say, "that's a beauty," least he should slumber where his author does not, not only depreciating, by such inadvertency, the work of his original, but depriving perhaps his own of an embellishment which wanted only to be noticed.

If you hear Ballads sung in the streets on the hardships of the Negroes in the islands, they are probably mine. It must be an honour to any man to have given a stroke to that chain, however feeble. I fear however that the attempt will fail, The tidings which have lately reached me from London concerning it, are not the most encouraging. While the matter slept, or was but slightly adverted to, the English only had their share of shame in common with other nations on account of it. But since it has been canvassed and searched to the bottom, since the public attention has been rivetted to the horrible scheme, we can no longer plead either that we did not know it, or did not think of it. Woe be to us if we refuse the poor captives the redress, to which they have so clear a right, and prove ourselves in the sight of God and men, indifferent to all considerations but those of gain.

Adieu,

W. C.

LETTER

LETTER XCII.

To Lady HESKETH,

MY DEAREST COUSIN,

The Lodge, March 31, 1788.

Mrs. Throckmorton has promised to write to

me. I beg that as often as you shall see her, you will give her a smart pinch, and say, "have you written to my Cousin ?" I build all my hopes of her performance on this expedient, and for so doing these my Letters, not patent, shall be your sufficient warrant. You are thus to give her the question till she shall answer, Yes. I have written one more Song, and sent it. It is called the Morning Dream, and may be sung to the tune of Tweed-Side, or any other tune that will suit it, for I am not nice on that subject. I would have copied it for you, had I not almost filled my sheet without it, but now, my dear, you must stay till the sweet sirens of London shall bring it to you, or if that happy day should never arrive, I hereby acknowledge myself your debtor to that amount. I shall now probably cease to sing of tortured Negroes, a theme which never pleased me, but which in the hope of doing them some little service, I was not unwilling to handle.

If any thing could have raised Miss More to a higher place in my opinion than she possessed before, it could only be your information that after all, she, and not Mr. Wilberforce, is author of

that

that volume. How comes it to pass, that she, being a woman, writes with a force and energy, and a correctness hitherto arrogated by the men, and not very frequently displayed even by the men themselves! Adieu.

LETTER XCIII.

W, C.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

Weston, May 8, 1788.

Alas! my Library-I must now give

it up for a lost thing for ever. The only consolation belonging to the circumstance is, or seems to be, that no such loss did ever befall any other man, or can ever befall me again, As far as books are concerned I am

Totus teres atq rotundus,

and may set fortune at defiance.

Those books which had been

my Father's, had, most of them, his arms on the inside cover, but the rest no mark, neither his name nor mine. I could mourn for them like Sancho for his Dapple, but it would avail me nothing.

You will oblige me much by sending me Crazy Kate. A gentleman last winter promised me both her, and the Lace-maker, but he went to London, that place in which, as in the grave, "all things are forgotten," and I have never seen either of them.

I begin