ways. If you will have satire; a remedy the age much wants, and which may be executed with a good design, a public spirit, and success, I need not mention to you the avarice, littleness, luxury, and stupidity of our men of fortune; the general barbarous contempt of Poetry-that noblest gift of Heaven! our venal bards as you have lashed them already, our lewd, low, spiteful writers; hornets of Parnassus, Operas, Masquerades, Fopperies, and a thousand things. You might make a glorious apostrophe to the drooping Genius of Britain-have Shakespeare and Milton in your eye, and invite to the pursuit of genuine poetry. I have written to Mr. Hill* after such a manner, as he cannot refuse me; so that I am almost certain of receiving another copy of verses from him every day. "Tis in the press. Millant has bought paper too-several people have their expectations raised-disappoint us not. Dyer‡ has very luckily, this same day, very handsomely excused himself. Notwithstanding of all your objections; I believe you could with a little trouble make Clio's verses § very pretty-lovely.

I have no time just now, to do justice to the two

* Aaron Hill-"next H-11 essay'd."

† John Millan (d. 1784), the publisher of Thomson's first poem, his "Winter." The " paper " which Millan had bought was for the second edition, now on the eve of publication.

John Dyer-Grongar-Hill Dyer.

"Clio must be allowed to be a most complete poetess, if she really wrote those poems that bear her name; but it has of late been so abused and scandalized, that I am informed she has lately changed it for that of Myra; and that a dapper Scotch ge tleman, the author of the two last poems in the Miscellany (and an admirer, as appears by the first copy) was the first that new-christened her."-The British Journal, Saturday, September 24, 1726. The author of the two last poems "2 was David Mallet.

schemes of your Poems, that you favoured me with. All that I shall say at this time is, that they are useful, noble, vast, amazing! Go on with an awakened mind. Faint not, neither weary. How wild you sing, while, I here, warble like a city linnet in a cage. If my beginning of "Summer" please you, I am sure it is good. I have writ more which I'll send you in due time. Let me not by any means want some of your "Excursion."* The idea of that poem strikes me vehemently. The next time I write to you it shall be at large. Neglect not my verses— my fame 'tis but one morning-walk, easily bestowed.

With my

devoted heart,

Your friend,

JAM: THOMSON.

P.S. Direct for me only at the Academy in &c.t This for security's sake I send you directly. My service to Mrs. Stirling.

DEAR MALLET,

No. III.

London, August the 11th, 1726.

BELIEVE me I have not hoped in vain. This last sheet of your "Excursion" thoroughly charms me. I cannot say whether there is more thought or fancy; simplicity or sublimity in it. There is a particular gentle, simple, unadorned majesty in your writings. They steal on one like the great revolutions of the Heavens, without noise. What I think may be corrected, I will not mention till you have once rough* A poem by Mallet so called.

+ In Little Tower Street, London.

writ the whole. I cannot entertain myself more than by reflecting on some of the many beauties.

And now th' illusive flame oft seen at eve

Glides o'er the lawn

This is an amusing circumstance, and finely expressed.

Onward she comes with silent steps and slow,

In her BROWN mantle wrapt

This equals any image our Milton gave us of the evening.

That fly with unreturning wing away.

To any one who thinks, this is very moving.

Or to the cypress grove at twilight shun'd

By passing swains

Here more is meant than meets the ear. All that about the breeze is a beautiful instance of strong natural simplicity. I shiver at it. You paint Ruin with a masterly hand.

Ghastful he sits and views with stedfast glare
The falling Bust; the Column gray with Moss.
This is such an attitude as I can never enough ad-
mire, and even be astonished at.

Save what the wind sighs, and the Wailing Owl
Screams solitary-

Charmingly dreary!

Where the sad spirit walks with shadowy feet
His wonted round, or lingers o'er his grave.

What dismal simplicity reigns through these two lines! They are equal to any ever Shakespeare wrote on the subject. Your Paraphrase from Job moves all the heart—your Reflections on pride and licentiousness, are full of the most spirit-thought.

Your character of Thirsis is finely selected and engaging. What you say of his humanity and charity, is particularly affecting; and to transcribe any of it and not the whole, would not be justice. Let me, however, mention that comprehensive compound epithet All-shun'd, as a beauty I have had too good reason to relish. Thank Heaven there was one exception.

The Mountain Shower, is simple wild nature!

He like the Vulgar fell

Can anything be more moving, than that a great man should fall like the vulgar! This is a thought which charms one the more, the more one thinks on it. I know where you had it, a meritorious theft! I have still much more to say; and it is with reluctance I quit the subject. If you write well I would almost venture to say that I have a good taste; at least, I am greatly pleased.

Prythee make no apology for your friendly sincerity, know you not that it is not in your power to disoblige me? Why did you not object against my method, with regard to "Summer," when I first gave you an account of it. I told you then expressly that I resolved to contract the season into a day. The uniform appearances of nature in summer easily. allow of it. But not to dispute which of the schemes is most preferable, I am so far advanced, having writ three parts of four, that I cannot without the most painful labour alter mine. Let me tell you besides that we entirely agree from the noonday retreat to the evening. I have already written of shade and gloom, and woodland spirits &c., exactly as you hint, more than a week ago. Verdure and flowers belong to the Spring; and fruits to the Autumn; and therefore not to be anticipated. I design towards the end

of my poem to take one short glance of corn fields, ripe for the sickle, as the limit of my performance. I thank you heartily for your hint about personizing of Inspiration, it strikes me. Next post I will send you a sheet or two more.

You have, I flatter myself, writ a good deal more of your "Excursion," you will not fail to entertain me with it. You have a noble field before you, go on as you have begun, and distant praise, from worth unborn, shall be thine. Mr. Aikman did me the honour of a visit yesternight, he speaks with great warmth and expectation of your poem, and remembers you kindly. We were in the Tavern and drunk your health. His reflections on my writings are very good; but he does not in them, regard the turn of my genius enough, should I alter my way I would write poorly, I must choose what appears to me the most significant epithet, or I cannot with any heart proceed.

Your's entirely,

JAMES THOMSON.

No. IV.

DEAR MALLET,

London, 2 August, 1726

AFTER a tedious silence I had yours. Far from defending these two lines in my translation, I damn them to the lowest depth of the poetical Tophet, prepared of old for Mitchell, Morrice, Rook, Cooke, Beckingham, and a long &c. Wherever I have evidence, or think I have evidence, which is the same thing, I'll be as obstinate as all the mules in Persia.

I have racked my brain about the common blessing of the sun you say is forgot, as much as ever