less without it. Praise I find affects us as money does. The more a man gets of it, with the more vigilance he watches over and preserves it. Such at least is its effect on me, and you may assure yourself that I will never lose a mite of it for want of care. I have already invited the good Padre in general terms, and he shall positively dine here next week, whether he will or not. I do not at all suspect, that his kindness to Protestants has any thing insidious in it, any more than I suspect, that he transcribes Homer for me with a view for my conversion. He would find me a tough piece of business I can tell him, for when I had no religion at all, I had yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much more now! I should have sent you a longer letter, but was obliged to devote my last evening to the melancholy employment of composing a Latin inscription for the tomb-stone of poor William, two copies of which I wrote out and enclosed, one to Henry Thornton, and one to Mr. Newton. Homer stands by me biting his thumbs, 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 CCXXXVII. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. MY DEAR FRIEND, Weston, Jan. 3, 1787. You wish to hear from me at any calm interval of epic frenzy. An interval presents itself, but, whether calm or not, is perhaps doubtful. Is it possible for a man to be calm, who for three weeks past has been perpetually occupied in slaughter: letting out one man's bowels, smiting another through the gullet, transfixing the liver of another, and lodging an arrow in the buttock of a fourth? Read the thirteenth book of the Iliad, and you will find such amusing incidents as these the subject of it, the sole subject. In order to interest myself in it, and to catch the spirit of it, I had need discard all humanity. It is woful work; and were the best poet in the world to give us at this day such a list of killed and wounded, he would not escape universal censure, to the praise of a more enlightened age be it spoken. I have waded through much blood, and through much more I must wade, before I shall have finished. I determine in the mean time to account it all very sublime, and for two reasons.--- First, because all the learned think so, and secondly, because I am to translate it. But were I an indifferent by-stander perhaps I should venture to wish, that Homer had applied his wonderful powers to a less disgusting subject. He has in the Odyssey, and I long to get at it. I have not the good fortune to meet with any of these fine things, that you say are printed in my praise. But I learn from certain advertisements in the Morning Herald, that I make a conspicuous figure in the entertainments of Free-Mason's Hall. I learn also, that my volumes are out of print, and that a third edition is soon to be published. But if I am not gratified with the sight of odes composed to my honor and glory, I have at least been tickled with some douceurs of a very flattering nature by the post. A lady unknown addresses the best of men-an unknown gentleman has read my inimitable poems, and invites me to his seat in Hampshire-another incognito gives me hopes of a memorial in his garden, and a Welsh attorney sends me his verses to revise, and obligingly asks Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, If you find me a little vain hereafter, my friend, you must excuse it in consideration of these powerful incentives, especially the latter; for surely the poet who can charm an attorney, especially a Welsh one, must be at least an Orpheus, if not something greater. Mrs. Unwin is as much delighted as myself with our present situation. But it is a sort of April-weather life that we lead in this world. A little sunshine is generally the prelude to a storm. Hardly had we begun to enjoy the change, when the death of her son cast a gloom upon every thing. He was a most exemplary man; of your order; learned, polite, and amiable. The father of lovely children, and the husband of a wife (very much like dear Mrs. Bagot) who adored him. Adieu, my friend! Your affectionate W. C. LETTER CCXXXVIII. 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. བ 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 spare no labour to secure that point. The General's letter is extremely 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 |
