Volume 2 — LETTER III.

Clapton, Nov. 1, 1769.

My ears still ring with the sounds of Oh Jack! Oh Jack! How do the dear Lichfieldians?—What do they say?—What are they about?—What did you do while you were with them?—Have patience, said I, good people!—and began my story, which they devoured with as much joyful avidity as Adam did Gabriel’s tidings of heaven—My mother and sisters are all very well, and delighted with their little Frenchman, who is a very agreeable lad.

Surely you applaud the fortitude with which I left you!—Did I not come off with flying colours?—It was a great effort, for, alas! this recreant heart did not second the smiling courage of the countenance; nor is it yet as it ought to be, from the hopes it may reasonably entertain of seeing you all again ere the winter’s dreary hours are past.—Julia, my dear Julia, gild them with tidings of our beloved Honora!—Oh that you may be enabled to tell me that she regains her health, and her charming vivacity!—Your sympathizing heart partakes all the joys and pains of your friends.—Never can I forget its kind offices, which were of such moment to my peace!—Mine is formed for friendship, and I am blest in being able to place so well the purest passion of an ingenuous mind!—How am I honoured in Mr and Mrs Seward’s attachment to me!—Charming were the anticipations which beguiled the long tracts of hill, and dale, and plain, that divide London from Lichfield!—With what delight my eager eyes drank their first view of the dear spires!—What rapture did I not feel on entering your gates!—in flying up the hall steps!—in rushing into the dining-room!—in meeting the gladdened eyes of dear Julia and her enchanting friend!—That instant convinced me of the truth of Rousseau’s observation, “that there are moments worth ages.”—Shall not those moments return? Ah Julia! the cold hand of absence is heavy upon the heart of your poor Cher Jean—He is forced to hammer into it perpetually every consoling argument that the magic wand of Hope can conjure up; viz. that every moment of industrious absence advances his journey, you know whither.—I may sometimes make excursions to Lichfield, and bask in the light of my Honora’s eyes!—Sustain me, Hope!—nothing on my part shall be wanting which may induce thee to fulfil thy blossoming promises.

The happy social circle, Julia, Honora, Miss S—n, Miss B—n, her brother, Mr S—e, Mr R—n, &c. are now, perhaps, enlivening your dressing-room, the dear blue region, as Honora calls it, with the sensible observation, the tasteful criticism, or the elegant song;—dreading the iron-tongue of the nine o’clock bell, which disperses the beings, whom friendship and kindred virtues had drawn together.—My imagination attaches itself to all, even the inanimate objects which surround Honora and her Julia;—that have beheld their graces and virtues expand and ripen;—my dear Honora’s, from their infant bud.

The sleepy Claptonian train are gone to bed, somewhat wearied with their excursion to Enfield, whither they have this day carried their favourite little Frenchman;—so great a favourite, the parting was quite tragical. I walked hither from town, as usual, to-night—no hour of the twenty-four is so precious to me as that devoted to this solitary walk.—Oh, my friend! I am far from possessing the patient frame of mind which I so continually invoke!—Why is Lichfield an hundred and twenty miles from me?—There is no moderation in the distance! Fifty or sixty miles had been a great deal too much, but then, there would have been less opposition from authority to my frequent visits—I conjure you, supply the want of these blessings by frequent letters—I must not, will not ask them of Honora, since the use of the pen is forbid to her declining health;—I will content myself, as usual, with a postscript from her in your epistles.—My sisters are charmed with the packet which arrived yesterday, and which they will answer soon.

As yet I have said nothing of our journey. We met an entertaining Irish gentleman at Dunchurch, and, being fellow-sufferers in cold and hunger, joined interests, ordered four horses, and stuffed three in a chaise. It is not to you I need apologize, for talking in raptures of an higler whom we met on the road. His cart had passed us, and was at a considerable distance, when, looking back, he perceived that our chaise had stopped, and that the driver seemed mending something. He ran up to him, and with a face full of honest anxiety, pity, good-nature, and every sweet affection under Heaven, asked him if we wanted any thing; that he had plenty of nails, ropes, &c. in his cart.—That wretch of a postillion made no other reply than, “We want nothing, master.” From the same impulse the good Irishman, Mr Till, and myself thrust our heads instantly out of the chaise, and tried to recompense to the honest creature this surly reply, by every kind and grateful acknowledgment, and by forcing upon him a little pecuniary tribute. My benevolence will be the warmer while I live, for the treasured remembrance of this higler’s countenance.

I know you interest yourself in my destiny—I have now compleatly subdued my aversion to the profes-p psion of a merchant, and hope in time to acquire an inclination for it—Yet, God forbid I should ever love what I am to make the object of my attention!—that vile trash, which I care not for, but only as it may be the future means of procuring the blessing of my soul—Thus all my mercantile calculations go to the tune of dear Honora.—When an impertinent consciousness whispers in my ear, that I am not of the right stuff for a merchant, I draw my Honora’s picture from my bosom, and the sight of that dear talisman so inspirits my industry, that no toil appears oppressive.

The poetic task you set me is a sad method—my head and heart are too full of other matters to be engrossed by a draggle-tailed wench of the Heliconian puddle. I am going to try my interest in Parliament—How you stare!—it is to procure a frank.—Be so good to give the enclosed to Honora;—it will speak to her—and do you say every thing that is kind for me to every other distinguished friend of the dressing-room circle—encourage them in their obliging desire of scribbling in your letters, but do not let them take Honora’s corner of the sheet.

Adieu!—May you all possess that chearfulness denied to your Cher Jean. I fear it hurts my mother to see my musing moods;—but I can neither help nor overcome them.—The near hopes of another excursion to Lichfield, could alone disperse every gloomy vapour of my imagination.—Again, and yet again, Adieu!

J. Andre.