time of sickness, at which time whatever charms he might have himself, my own must necessarily lose much of their effect on him.

When I write to you, my dear, what I have already related to the General, I am always fearful least I should tell you that for news with which you are well acquainted. For once however I will venture.—On Wednesday last I received from Johnson the MSS. copy of a specimen that I had sent to the General, and inclosed in the same cover, Notes upon it by an unknown Critic. Johnson in a short Letter recommended him to me as a man of unquestionable learning and ability. On perusal and consideration of his remarks I found him such, and having nothing so much at heart as to give all possible security to yourself and the General that my Work shall not come forth unfinished, I answered Johnson, "that I would gladly submit my мss. to his friend." He is, in truth, a very clever fellow, perfectly a stranger to me, and one who I promise you will not spare for severity of animadversion where he shall find occasion. It is impossible for you, my dearest Cousin, to express a wish that I do not equally feel a wish to gratify. You are desirous that Maty should see a book of my Homer, and for that reason if Maty will see a book of it he shall be welcome, although time is likely to be precious, and consequently any delay that is not absolutely necessary, as much as possible to be avoided. I am now revising the Iliad; it is a business that will cost me four

months

The

months, perhaps five, for I compare the very words as I go, and if much alteration should occur, must transcribe the whole. first Book I have almost transcribed already. To these five months Johnson says, that nine more must be added for Printing, and upon my own experience I will venture to assure you, that the tardiness of Printers will make those nine months twelve. There is danger therefore that my subscribers may think, that I make them wait too long, and that they who know me not may suspect a bubble. How glad I shall be to read it over in an evening, book by book, as fast as I settle the copy, to you, and to Mrs. Unwin! She has been my touchstone always, and without reference to her taste and judgment I have printed nothing. With one of you at each elbow I should think myself the happiest of all Poets.

The General and I having broken the ice are upon the most comfortable terms of correspondence, He writes very affectionately to me, and I say every thing to him that comes uppermost. I could not write frequently to any creature living upon any other terms than those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, which make him less active than he was. I am sorry to hear that he has any such. Alas! Alas! he was young when I saw him only twenty years ago.

I have the most affectionate Letter imaginable from Colman, who writes to me like a brother. The Chancellor is yet dumb.

May

May God have you in his keeping, my beloved Cousin.

you that I am impatient to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the last post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormenting Specimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a Letter on Monday, that would distress and alarm him; I sent him another yesterday that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologized very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures, and his friend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison of me with the original, so that I doubt not we shall jog on merrily together, and now my dear let me tell you once more that your kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both. I shall see you again—I shall hear your voice, we shall take walks together; I will shew you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse, and its banks, every thing that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of

those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk not of an inn, mention it not for your life. We have never had so many visitors but we could casily accommodate them all, though we have received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or beginning of June, because before that time my greenhouse will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. When the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor with mats, and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will make you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention the country will not be in complete beauty. And I will tell

you what you shall find at your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my Hares, and in which lodges Puss at present. But he poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand, stands a cupboard, the work of the same Author. transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table which I also made, but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became paralytic ; it serves no purpose now but of ornament, and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end of this superb vestibule you will find the door of the parlour into which I will

It was once a dove-cage, but I

conduct

conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Unwin (unless we should meet her before) and where we will be as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my Cousin, to the Swan at Newport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney.

My dear, I have told Homer what you say about Casks and Urns, and have asked him whether he is sure that it is a Cask in which Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is a Cask, and that it will never be any thing better than a Cask to Eternity. So if the God is content with it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too.

It must be I suppose a fortnight or thereabout, since I wrote last, I feel myself so alert and so ready to write again. Be that as it may, here I come. We talk of nobody but you; what we will do with you, when we get you; where you shall walk, where you shall sleep, in short every thing that bears