so? No circumstance whatever was permitted to exempt the inhabitants of Weston. The old as well as the young, and the pregnant as well as they who had only themselves within them, have been inoculated. Were I asked who is the most arbitrary sovereign on earth? I should answer, neither the King of France, nor the Grand Signior, but an Overseer of the Poor in England. I am as heretofore occupied with Homer: my present occupation is the revisal of all I have done, viz. of the first fifteen Books. I stand amazed at my own increasing dexterity in the business, being verily persuaded that as far as I have gone, I have improved the Work to double its former value. That you may begin the new year, and end it in all health and happiness, and many more when the present shall have been long an old one, is the ardent wish of Mrs. Unwin, and of yours, my dearest Coz. most cordially. LETTER LXXXII. W. C. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 19, 1788. When I have prose enough to fill my paper, which is always the case when I write to you, I cannot my heart to give a third part of it to verse. Yet this I must find in do, do, or I must make my pacquets more costly than worshipful, by doubling the postage upon you, which I should hold to be unreasonable. See then, the true reason why I did not send you that same scribblement till you desired it. The thought which naturally presents itself to me on all such occasions is this, Is not your Cousin coming? Why are you impatient? Will it not be time enough to shew her your fine things when she arrives? Fine things indeed I have few. He who has Homer to transcribe may well be contented to do little else. As when an Ass being harnessed with ropes to a sand cart, drags with hanging ears his heavy burthen, neither filling the long echoing streets with his harmonious bray, nor throwing up his heels behind, frolicksome and airy, as Asses less engaged are wont to do; so I, satisfied to find myself indispensibly obliged to render into the best possible English metre, eight and forty Greek Books, of which the two finest Poems in the world consist, account it quite sufficient if I may at last achieve that labour, and seldom allow myself those pretty little vagaries in which I should otherwise delight, and of which if I should live long enough, I intend hereafter to enjoy my fill. This is the reason, my dear Cousin, if I may be permitted to call you so in the same breath with which I have uttered this truly heroic comparison; this is the reason why I produce at present but few occasional Poems, and the preceding reason is that which may may account satisfactorily enough for my withholding the very few that I do produce. A thought sometimes strikes me before I rise; if it runs readily into verse, and I can finish it before breakfast, it is well; otherwise it dies, and is forgotten; for all the subsequent hours are devoted to Homer. The day before yesterday, I saw, for the first time, Bunbury's new Print, The Propagation of a Lie. Mr. Throckmorton sent it for the amusement of our party. Bunbury sells humour by the yard, and is I suppose the first vender of it who ever did so. He cannot therefore be said to have humour without measure (pardon a pun, my dear, from a man who has not made one before these forty years) though he may certainly be said to be immeasurably droll. The original thought is good, and the exemplification of it in those very expressive figures, admirable. A Poem on the same subject, displaying all that is displayed in those attitudes, and in those features, (for faces they can hardly be called) would be most excellent. The affinity of the two arts, viz. Verse and Painting, has been often observed; possibly the happiest illustration of it would be found, if some Poet would ally himself to some Draftsman, as Bunbury, and undertake to write every thing he should draw. Then let a Musician be admitted of the party. He should compose the said poem, adapting notes to it exactly accommodated to the theme; so should the sister arts be proved to be indeed sisters, and the world would die of laughing. LETTER LXXXIII. To Lady HESKETH. W.C. MY DEAREST COUSIN, The Lodge, Jan. 30, 1788. It is a fortnight since I heard from you, that is to say, a week longer than you have accustomed me to wait for a Letter. I do not forget that you have recommended it to me, on occasions somewhat similar, to banish all anxiety, and to ascribe your silence only to the interruptions of company. Good advice, my dear, but not easily taken by a man circumstanced as I am. I have learned in the school of adversity, a school from which I have no expectation that I shall ever be dismissed, to apprehend the worst, and have ever found it the only course in which I can indulge myself without the least danger of incurring a disappointment. This kind of experience, continued through many years, has given me such an habitual biass to the gloomy side of every thing, that I never have a moment's case on any subject to which I am not indifferent. How then can I be easy when I am left afloat upon a sea of endless conjectures, of which you furnish the VOL. I. N N the occasion. Write, I beseech you, and do not forget that I am now a battered actor upon this turbulent stage. That what little vigour of mind I ever had, of the self-supporting kind I mean, has long since been broken, and that though I can bear nothing well, yet any thing better than a state of ignorance concerning your welfare. I have spent hours in the night leaning upon my elbow, and wondering what your silence means. I intreat you once more to put an end to these speculations, which cost me more animal spirits than I can spare; if you cannot without great trouble to yourself, which in your situation may very possibly be the case, contrive opportunities of writing so frequently as usual, only say it, and I am content. I will wait, if you desire it, as long for every Letter, but then let them arrive at the period once fixed, exactly at the time, for my patience will not hold out an hour beyond it. LETTER LXXXIV. To Lady HESKETH. W. C. The Lodge, Feb. 1, 1788. Pardon me, my dearest Cousin, the mournful ditty that I sent you last. every thing through a medium that distresses me, to an insupportable degree, and that Letter was written in one of them; A fog that |