all routed in one day. If you would know why-out of resentment to our friend* in Argyll-street. Yet I have hopes given me of having it restored with interest, some time or other. Ah! that some time or other is a great deceiver. "Coriolanus" has not yet appeared upon the stage, from the little dirty jealousy of Tullus+-I mean of him who was desired to act Tullus-towards him who can alone act Coriolanus. Indeed, the first has entirely jockeyed the last off the stage for this season; but I believe he will return on him next season, like a giant in his wrath. Let us have a little more patience, Paterson; nay, let us be cheerful. At last all will be well; at least all will be over-here, I mean: God forbid it should be so hereafter! But, as sure as there is a God, that will not be so. § Now that I am prating of myself, know that, after fourteen or fifteen years, the "Castle of Indolence" comes abroad in a fortnight. It will certainly travel as far as Barbadoes. You have an apartment in it, as a night-pensioner, which you may remember I filled up for you during our delightful party at North Haw. Will ever these days return again? Do not you remember your eating the raw fish that was never caught? All our friends are pretty much in statu quo, except it be poor Mr. Lyttelton. He has had the severest trial a humane, tender heart can have :¶ but the old physician Time will at last close up his wounds, though there must always remain an inward smarting. Mitchel** is in the House for Aberdeenshire, and has spoken modestly well: I hope he will be in something else soon. None deserves better: true friendship and humanity dwell in his heart. Gray is working hard at passing his accounts. I spoke to him about that affair. If he gives you any trouble about it, even that of dunning, I shall think * George, afterwards Lord Lyttelton. † Garrick. + Quin. § It is pleasing to see the last expressions of the poet's confidence, that the form of the soul is eternal; that great spirits perish not with the body. There may be worthless vessels, and there may be vessels fitted for destruction; but of all that Heaven has endowed with feelings to enjoy it, nothing shall be lost, and the King of heaven shall raise it up again at the last day. The "Castle of Indolence" is the finest poem of the kind in any language,-worthy of the ripened taste of Thomson, and of a polished age. The death of his Lucy. ** Sir Andrew Mitchel of Thainstoun. of it strangely; but I dare say he is too friendly to do it. He values himself justly upon being friendly to his old friends, and you are among the oldest. Symmer is at last tired of quality, and is going to take a semi-country house at Hammersmith. I am sorry that honest sensible Warrender (who is in town) seems to be stunted in church-preferment. He ought to be a tall cedar in the house of the Lord. If he is not so at last, it will add more fuel to my indignation, that burns already too intensely, and throbs towards an eruption. Peter Murdoch is in town, tutor to Admiral Vernon's son; and is in good hopes of another living in Suffolk, that country of tranquillity, where he will then burrow himself in a wife, and be happy. Good-natured, obliging Millar is as usual. Though the doctor* increases in his business, he does not decrease in spleen; but there is a certain kind of spleen that is both humane and agreeable, like Jacques's in the play. I sometimes have a touch of it.-But I must break off this chat with you about our friends, which, were I to indulge it, would be endless. As for politics, we are, I believe, upon the brink of a peace. The French at present are vapouring in the siege of Maestricht; at the same time they are mortally sick in their marine, and through all the vitals of France. It is a pity we cannot continue the war a little longer, and put their agonizing trade quite to death. This siege, I take it, they mean as their last flourish in the war. May your health, which never failed you yet, still continue, till you have scraped together enough to return home, and live in some snug corner, as happy as the Corycius senex, in Virgil's fourth Georgic, whom I recommend both to you and myself as a perfect model of the truest happy life Believe me to be ever most sincerely and affectionately Yours, &c., JAMES THOMSON. * Doctor Armstrong.-Armstrong was a worthy man, a good physician, and perhaps one of the best scientific didactic poets in the world, as appears from his poem on the Art of preserving Health. Thomson has described his absent moods in the "Castle of Indolence," in the sixtieth stanza. When the good Doctor was with the British army in Flanders, as surgeon or physician, he was taken prisoner one day, taking what he called "a stroll beyond the lines." III. SPECIMENS OF THE SECOND EDITION OF THE "SEASONS," MDCCXXXVIII. In the "Seasons" published in 1738, the following paragraph occupied the space between verses 135-169 of "Spring." But in the edition of 1744, Thomson transferred it to "Summer," and it now stands as verses 287-317. By comparing them together, the reader will discover many improvements in style and expression. I. ALL NATURE FULL OF LIFE. THESE are not idle philosophic dreams : Full NATURE Swarms with life. The' unfaithful fen Of pestilence. Through subterranean cells, Where searching sunbeams never found a way, Holds multitudes. But chief the forest-boughs, And all so fine adjusted, that the loss Of the least species would disturb the whole. Intensely bended heard, from the choice cate, The freshest viands, and the brightest wines, He'd turn abhorrent, and, in dead of night, When Silence sleeps o'er all, be stunn'd with noise. II. DESCRIPTION OF THE TORRID ZONE, AND OF A CITY COVERED THUS far transported by my country's love, The citron, orange, and pomegranate, drink A cooling juice contain ! Peaceful beneath Leans the huge elephant; and in his shade And oft amid their aromatic groves, * See this sentence amplified in verses 884-890 of "Summer" in the present edition. + See verses 860-875. § See verses 716-732. See verses 637-668. But other views await; where heaven above Glows like an arch of brass; and, all below, The brown-burnt earth a mass of iron lies; Of fruits, and flowers, and every verdure spoilt; Barren and bare, a joyless, weary waste; Thin-cottaged; and, in time of trying need, Abandon'd by the vanish'd brook; like one Of fading fortune by his treacherous friend! Such are thy horrid deserts, Barca; such, Zaara, thy hot inhospitable sands; Continuous rising often with the blast, Till the sun sees no more; and unknit earth, Shook by the South into the darken'd air, Falls in new hilly kingdoms o'er the waste! Hence late exposed (if distant Fame says true) A smother'd city from the sandy wave Emergent rose; with olive-fields around, Fresh woods, reclining herds, and silent flocks, Amusing all and incorrupted seen. For by the nitrous penetrating salts, Mix'd copious with the sand, pierced and preserved, Its posture fixes, and its colour keeps. Aghast and trembling, though they know not why. With ivory staves, and in their awful robes |