and swears, that if I do not leave off directly, he will choak me with bristly Greek, that shall stick in my throat for ever. W. C. LETTER LXVI. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787. I have had a little nervous fever lately, my dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep, and though I find myself better to day than I have been since it seized me, yet I feel my head lightish, and not in the best order for writing; you will find me therefore perhaps not only less alert in my manner than I usually am when my spirits are good, but rather shorter. I will however proceed to scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then will do as I know you would bid me do were you here, shut up my desk, and take a walk. The good General tells me, that in the eight first Books which I have sent him, he still finds alterations and amendments necessary, of which I myself am equally persuaded; and he asks my leave to lay them before an intimate friend of his, of whom he gives a character that bespeaks him highly deserving such a trust. To this I have no objection, desiring only to make the Translation as perfect as I can make it; if God grant me life and health, I would would spare no labour to secure that point. The General's letter is extremly kind, and both for matter and manner, like all the rest of his dealings, with his Cousin the Poet. I had a Letter, also yesterday, from Mr. Smith, member for Nottingham. Though we never saw each other, he writes to me in the most friendly terms, and interests himself much in my Homer, and in the success of my subscription. Speaking on this latter subject, he says, that my Poems are read by hundreds who know nothing of my proposals, and makes no doubt that they would subscribe, if they did. I have myself always thought them imperfectly, or rather insufficiently announced. I could pity the poor Woman who has been weak enough to claim my Song. Such pilferings are sure to be detected. I wrote it, I know not how long, but I suppose four years ago. The Rose in question, was a Rose given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and the incident that suggested the subject occurred in the room in which you slept at the Vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to London, I gave him a copy of it, which he undertook to convey to Nichols, the Printer of the Gentleman's Magazine. He shewed it to a Mrs. C, who begged to copy it, and promised to send it to the Printer's by her servant. Three or four months afterwards, and when I had concluded it was lost, I saw it in the Gentleman's Magazine, with my signature, W. C. Poor Simpleton! She will find now, perhaps, that the Rose had a thorn, and that she has pricked her fingers with it. Adieu! my beloved Cousin. W. C. LETTER LXVII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 8th, 1787. I have been so much indisposed with the fever that I told you had seized me, my nights during the whole week may be said to have been almost sleepless. The consequence has been, that except the translation of about thirty lines at the conclusion of the 13th Book, I have been forced to abandon Homer entirely. This was a sensible mortification to me, as you may suppose, and felt the more, because my spirits of course failing with my strength, I seemed to have peculiar need of my old amusement; it seemed hard therefore to be forced to resign it just when I wanted it most. But Homer's battles cannot be fought by a man who does not sleep well, and who has not some little degree of animation in the day time. ever, quite contrary to my expectations, the tirely, and I slept quietly, soundly, and long. that it return not, I shall soon find myself in a condition to proceed. I walk constantly, that is to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together; for at these times I keep her continually employed, and Last night, howfever left me enIf it please God never suffer her to be absent from me many minutes. She gives me all her time, and all her attention, and forgets that there is another object in the world. Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams as every body else does, that is to say, according to her own experience. She has had no extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts them only the ordinary operations of the fancy. Mine are of a texture that will not suffer me to ascribe them to so inadequate a cause, or to any cause but the operation of an exterior agency. I have a mind, my dear, (and to you I will venture to boast of it) as free from superstition as any man living, neither do I give heed to dreams in general as predictive, though particular dreams I believe to be so. Some very sensible persons, and I suppose Mrs. Carter among them, will acknowledge that in old times God spoke by dreams, but affirm with much boldness, that he has since ceased to do so. If you ask them why? They answer, because he has now revealed his will in the Scripture, and there is no longer any need that he should instruct or admonish us by dreams. I grant that with respect to doctrines and precepts, he has left us in want of nothing; but has he thereby precluded himself in any of the operations of his Providence? Surely not. It is perfectly a different consideration; and the same need that there ever was of his interference in this way, there is still and ever must be, while man continues blind and fallible, and a creature beset with dangers, which he can neither foresee foresee nor obviate. His operations however of this kind are, I allow, very rare; and as to the generality of dreams, they are made of such stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, that though I believe them all to be the manufacture of others, not our own, I account it not a farthing matter who manufactures them. So much for dreams. My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to leave me. It is altogether of the nervous kind, and attended, now and then, with much dejection. A young gentleman called here yesterday, who came six miles out of his way to see me. He was on a journey to London from Glasgow, having just left the University there. He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of some of the Scotch Professors for my two Volumes. His name is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, you will derive more pleasure from this incident than I can at present, therefore I send it. Adieu, W. C. DEAR SIR, LETTER LXVIII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, July 24th, 1787. This is the first time I have written these six months, and nothing but the constraint of obligation could induce |