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narrow part of Holborn which

You must buy for me, if you please, a Cuckow Clock; and now I
will tell you where they are sold, which, Londoner as you are,
it is possible you may not know. They are sold, Lam informed,
at more houses than one, in that
leads into Broad St. Giles'. It seems they are well-going clocks
and cheap, which are the two best recommendations of any clock.
They are made in Germany, and such numbers of them are annually
imported, that they are become even a considerable article of

commerce.

I return you many thanks for Boswell's Tour. I read it to Mrs. Unwin after supper, and we find it amusing. There is much trash in it, as there must always be in every narrative that relates indiscriminately all that passed. But now and then the Doctor speaks like an oracle, and that makes amends for all. Sir John was a coxcomb, and Boswell is not less a coxcomb, though of a another kind. I fancy Johnson made coxcombs of all his friends, and they in return made him a coxcomb; for, with reverence be it spoken, such he certainly was, and flattered as he was, he was sure to be so.

Thanks for your invitation to London, but unless London can come to me, I fear we shall never meet. I was sure that you would love my friend, when you should once be well acquainted with him; and equally sure that he would take kindly to you.

Now for Homer.

W. C.

LETTER

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1

AMICO MIO,

LETTER CXII.

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr.

The Lodge, June 20, 1789.

I am truly sorry that it must be so long be-
My Cousin in her last

fore we can have an opportunity to meet.
Letter but one, inspired me with other expectations, expressing a
purpose, if the matter could be so contrived, of bringing you with
her; I was willing to believe that you had consulted together on
the subject, and found it feasible. A month was formerly a trifle
in my account, but at my present age I give it all its importance,
and grudge, that so many months should yet pass in which I have not
even a glimpse of those I love; and of whom, the course of nature
considered, I must ere long, take leave for ever-But I shall live
till August.

Many thanks for the Cuckow, which arrived perfectly safe and goes well, to the amusement and amazement of all who hear it. Hannah lies awake to hear it; and I am not sure that we have not others in the house that admire his music as much as she.

Having read both Hawkins and Boswell, I now think myself almost as much a master of Johnson's character as if I had known him personally; and cannot but regret, that our Bards of other UU 2

times

times found no such Biographers as these. They have both been ridiculed, and the Wits have had their laugh; but such an history of Milton or Shakspeare, as they have given of Johnson—Oh, how desirable!

W. C.

LETTER CXIII.

To Mrs. THROCKMORTON.

July 18, 1789.

Many thanks, my dear Madam, for

your extract from George's Letter! I retain but little Italian; yet that little was so forcibly mustered by the consciousness that I was myself the subject, that I presently became master of it. I have always said that George is a Poet, and I am never in his company but I discover proofs of it; and the delicate address, by which he has managed his complimentary mention of me, convinces me of it still more than ever. Here are a thousand Poets of us who have impudence enough to write for the public; but amongst the modest men, who are by diffidence restrained from such an enterprize, are those who would eclipse us all. I wish that George would make the experiment: I would bind on his laurels with my own hand.

Your Gardener has gone after his wife; but having neglected

to

to take his lyre, alias fiddle, with him, has not yet brought home his Eurydice. Your clock in the hall has stopped; and (strange to tell!) it stopped at sight of the Watch-maker. For he only looked at it, and it has been motionless ever since. Mr. Gregson is gone, and the Hall is a desolation. Pray don't think any place pleasant, that you may find in your rambles, that we may see you the sooner. Your aviary is all in good health. I pass it every day, and often inquire at the lattice; the inhabitants of it send their duty, and wish for your return. I took notice of the inscription on your seal, and had we an artist here capable of furnishing me with another, you should read on mine "Encore une lettre."

Adieu..

W. C.

LETTER CXIV.

To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr.

The Lodge, July 23, 1789.

You do well, my dear Sir, to improve

your opportunity; to speak in the rural phrase, this

yours owing

time, and the sheaves you look for can never be yours unless you make that use of it. The colour of our whole life is generally such as the three or four first years, in which we are our own masters, make it. Then it is that we may be said to shape our own destiny, and to treasure up for ourselves a series of future successes or disappointments. Had I employed my time as wisely as you, in a situa

tion

tion very similar to yours, I had never been a Poet perhaps, but I might by this time have acquired a character of more importance in society; and a situation in which my friends would have been better pleased to see me. But three years mis-spent in an Attorney's office, were almost of course followed by several more equally mis-spent in the Temple; and the consequence has been, as the Italian Epitaph says, “Sto qui.”—The only use I can make of my

self now, at least the best, is to serve in terrorem to others, when occasion may happen to offer, that they may escape (so far as my admonitions can have any weight with them) my folly and my fate. When you feel yourself tempted to relax a little of the strictness of your present discipline, and to indulge in amusement incompatible with your future interests, think on your friend at Weston.

Having said this, I shall next, with my whole heart invite you hither, and assure you that I look forward to approaching August with great pleasure; because it promises me your company. After a little time (which we shall wish longer) spent with us, you will return invigorated to your studies, and pursue them with the more advantage. In the mean time you have lost little, in point of season by being confined to London. Incessant rains, and meadows under water, have given to the summer the air of winter, and the country has been deprived of half its beauties.

It is time to tell you that we are all well, and often make you

our

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