ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING POEM, BY MAJOR ANDRÉ, WHEN HE WAS A YOUTH OF EIGHTEEN.

LETTER I.

Clapton, October 3, 1769.

From their agreeable excursion to Shrewsbury, my dearest friends are by this time returned to their thrice-beloved Lichfield. Once again have they beheld those fortunate spires, the constant witnesses of all their pains and pleasures. I can well conceive the emotions of joy which their first appearance, from the neighboring hills, excites after absence; they seem to welcome you home, and invite you to reiterate those hours of happiness, of which they are a species of monument. I shall have an eternal love and reverence for them. Never shall I forget the joy that danced in Honora's eyes, when she first showed them to me from Needwood Forest on our return with you from Buxton to Lichfield. I remember she called them the Ladies of the Valley—their lightness and elegance deserve the title. Oh, how I loved them from that instant! My enthusiasm concerning them is carried farther even than yours and Honora's, for every object that has a pyramidal form recalls them to my recollection, with a sensation that brings the tear of pleasure into my eyes.

How happy must you have been at Shrewsbury! only that you tell me, alas! that dear Honora was not so well as you wished during your stay there. I always hope the best. My impatient spirit rejects every obtruding idea which I have not fortitude to support. Dr. Darwin's skill and your tender care will remove that sad pain in her side, which makes writing troublesome and injurious to her; which robs her poor cher Jean[86] of those precious pages with which, he flatters himself, she would otherwise have indulged him. So your happiness at Shrewsbury scorned to be indebted to public amusements. Five virgins, united in the soft bonds of friendship! how I should have liked to have made the sixth! But you surprise me by such an absolute exclusion of the beaux. I certainly thought that when five wise virgins were watching at midnight, it must have been in expectation of the bridegroom's coming. We are at this instant five virgins, writing round the same table—my three sisters, Mr. Ewer, and myself. I beg no reflections injurious to the honor of poor cher Jean. My mother is gone to pay a visit, and has left us in possession of the old coach; but as for nags, we can boast only of two long-tails, and my sisters say they are sorry cattle, being no other than my friend Ewer and myself, who, to say the truth, have enormous pig-tails.

My dear Boissier is come to town; he has brought a little of the soldier with him, but he is the same honest, warm, intelligent friend I always found him. He sacrifices the town diversions, since I will not partake of them.

We are jealous of your correspondents, who are so numerous. Yet, write to the AndrÉs often, my dear Julia, for who are they that will value your letters quite so much as we value them?

The least scrap of a letter will be received with the greatest joy. Write, therefore, though it were only to give us the comfort of having a piece of paper which has recently passed through your hands; Honora will put in a little postscript, were it only to tell me that she is my very sincere friend, who will neither give me love nor comfort—very short, indeed, Honora, was thy last postscript! But I am too presumptuous; I will not scratch out, but I unsay. From the little there was I received more joy than I deserve. This cher Jean is an impertinent fellow, but he will grow discreet in time. You must consider him as a poor novice of eighteen, who, for all the sins he may commit, is sufficiently punished in the single evil of being one hundred and twenty miles from Lichfield.

My mother and sisters will go to Putney in a few days, to stay some time. We none of us like Clapton. I need not care, for I am all day long in town, but it is avoiding Scylla to fall into Charybdis. You paint to me the pleasant vale of Stow in the richest autumnal coloring. In return, I must tell you that my zephyrs are wafted through cracks in the wainscot; for murmuring streams I have dirty kennels; for bleating flocks, grunting pigs; and squalling cats for birds that incessantly warble. I have said something of this sort in my letter to Miss Spearman, and am twinged with the idea of these epistles being confronted, and that I shall recall to your memory the fat knight's love-letters to Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page.

Julia, perhaps thou fanciest I am merry—alas! But I do not wish to make you as doleful as myself; and besides, when I would express the tender feelings of my soul, I have no language which does them justice; if I had, I should regret that you could not have it fresher, and that whatever one communicates by letter must go such a roundabout way before it reaches one's correspondent—from the writer's heart, through his head, arm, hand, pen, ink, paper, over many a weary hill and dale, to the eye, head, and heart of the reader. I have often regretted our not possessing a sort of faculty which should enable our sensations, remarks, etc., to arise from their source in a sort of exaltations, and fall upon our paper in words and phrases properly adapted to express them, without passing through an imagination whose operations so often fail to second those of the heart. Then what a metamorphose should we see in people's style! How eloquent those who are truly attached! how stupid they who falsely profess affection! Perhaps the former had never been able to express half their regard; while the latter, by their flowers of rhetoric, had made us believe a thousand times more than they ever felt—but this is whimsical moralizing.

My sisters Penserosas were dispersed on their arrival in town, by the joy of seeing Louisa and their dear little brother Billy again, our kind and excellent Uncle Giradot, and Uncle Lewis AndrÉ. I was glad to see them, but they complained, not without reason, of the gloom upon my countenance. Billy wept for joy that we were returned, while poor cher Jean was ready to weep for sorrow. Louisa is grown still handsomer since we left her. Our sisters, Mary and Anne, knowing your partiality to beauty, are afraid that, when they introduce her to you, she will put their noses out of joint. Billy is not old enough for me to be afraid of in the rival-way, else I should keep him aloof, for his heart is formed of those affectionate materials so dear to the ingenuous taste of Julia and her Honora.

I sympathize in your resentment against the canonical dons who stumpify the heads of those good green[87] people, beneath whose friendly shade so many of your happiest hours have glided away—but they defy them; let them stumpify as much as they please, time will repair the mischief; their verdant arms will again extend and invite you to their shelter.

The evenings grow long. I hope your conversation round the fire will sometimes fall on the AndrÉs; it will be a great comfort that they are remembered. We chink our glasses to your healths at every meal. "Here's to our Lichfieldian friends," says Nanny. "Oh-h!" says Mary. "With all my soul, say I." "Allons!" cries my mother—and the draught seems nectar. The libation made, we begin our uncloying theme, and so beguile the gloomy evening.

Mr. and Mrs. Seward will accept my most affectionate respects. My male friend at Lichfield will join in your conversation on the AndrÉs. Among the numerous good qualities he is possessed of, he certainly has gratitude, and then he can not forget those who so sincerely love and esteem him. I, in particular, shall always recall with pleasure the happy hours I have passed in his company. My friendship for him, and for your family, has diffused itself, like the precious ointment from Aaron's beard, on everything which surrounds you; therefore I beg you would give my amities to the whole town. Persuade Honora to forgive the length and ardor of the enclosed, and believe me truly,

Your affectionate and faithful friend,
J. AndrÉ.

LETTER II.

London, October 19, 1769.

From the midst of books, papers, bills, and other implements of gain, let me lift up my drowsy head awhile to converse with dear Julia. And first, as I know she has a fervent wish to see me a quill-driver, I must tell her that I begin, as people are wont to do, to look upon my future profession with great partiality. I no longer see it in so disadvantageous a light. Instead of figuring a merchant as a middle-aged man, with a bob-wig, a rough beard, in snuff-colored clothes, grasping a guinea in his red hand, I conceive a comely young man, with a tolerable pig-tail, wielding a pen with all the noble fierceness of the Duke of Marlborough brandishing a truncheon upon a sign-post, surrounded with types and emblems, and canopied with cornucopias that disembogue their stores upon his head; Mercuries reclined upon bales of goods; Genii playing with pens, ink, and paper; while in perspective, his gorgeous vessels, "launched on the bosom of the silver Thames," are wafting to distant lands the produce of this commercial nation. Thus all the mercantile glories crowd on my fancy, emblazoned in the most refulgent coloring of an ardent imagination. Borne on her soaring pinions, I wing my flight to the time when Heaven shall have crowned my labors with success and opulence. I see sumptuous palaces rising to receive me. I see orphans, and widows, and painters, and fiddlers, and poets, and builders, protected and encouraged; and when the fabric is pretty nearly finished by my shattered pericranium, I cast my eyes around and find John AndrÉ by a small coal-fire, in a gloomy compting-house in Warnford Court, nothing so little as what he has been making himself, and in all probability never to be much more than he is at present. But oh, my dear Honora! it is for thy sake only I wish for wealth. You say she was somewhat better at the time you wrote last. I must flatter myself that she will soon be without any remains of this threatening disease.

It is seven o'clock. You and Honora, with two or three more select friends, are now probably encircling your dressing-room fireplace. What would I not give to enlarge that circle! The idea of a clean hearth, and a snug circle round it, formed by a few sincere friends, transports me. You seem combined together against the inclemency of the weather, the hurry, bustle, ceremony, censoriousness, and envy of the world. The purity, the warmth, the kindly influence of fire, to all for whom it is kindled, is a good emblem of the friendship of such amiable minds as Julia's and her Honora's. Since I can not be there in reality, pray imagine me with you; admit me to your conversaziones; think how I wish for the blessing of joining them!—and be persuaded that I take part in all your pleasures, in the dear hope that e'er it be very long your blazing hearth will burn again for me. Pray keep me a place; let the poker, tongs, or shovel, represent me; but you have Dutch tiles, which are infinitely better; so let Moses, or Aaron, or Balaam's ass, be my representative.

But time calls me to Clapton. I quit you abruptly till to-morrow, when, if I do not tear the nonsense I have been writing, I may perhaps increase its quantity. Signora Cynthia is in clouded majesty. Silvered with her beams, I am about to jog to Clapton upon my own stumps; musing as I homeward plod my way—ah! need I name the subject of my contemplations?

Thursday.

I had a sweet walk home last night, and found the Claptonians, with their fair guest, a Miss Mourgue, very well. My sisters send their amitiÉs, and will write in a few days.

This morning I returned to town. It has been the finest day imaginable. A solemn mildness was diffused throughout the blue horizon; its light was clear and distinct rather than dazzling. The serene beams of the autumnal sun, gilded hills, variegated woods, glittering spires, ruminating herds, bounding flocks, all combined to enchant the eyes, expand the heart, and

"Chace all sorrow but despair."

In the midst of such a scene no lesser grief can prevent our sympathy with Nature. A calmness, a benevolent disposition seizes us with sweet, insinuating power. The very brute creation seems sensible of these beauties; there is a species of mild cheerfulness in the face of a lamb which I have but indifferently expressed in a corner of my paper, and a demure, contented look in an ox, which, in the fear of expressing still worse, I leave unattempted.

Business calls me away. I must dispatch my letter. Yet what does it contain?—no matter. You like anything better than news. Indeed, you never told me so; but I have an intuitive knowledge upon the subject, from the sympathy which I have constantly perceived in the taste of Julia and cher Jean. What is it to you or me—

If here in the city we have nothing but riot,
If the Spital-field weavers can't be kept quiet,
If the weather is fine, or the streets should be dirty,
Or if Mr. Dick Wilson died aged of thirty?

But if I was to hearken to the versifying grumbling I feel within me, I should fill my paper and not have room left to entreat that you would plead my cause to Honora more eloquently than the enclosed letter has the power of doing. Apropos of verses, you desire me to recollect my random description of the engaging appearance of the charming Mrs. ----. Here it is, at your service:

Then rustling and bustling the lady comes down,
With a flaming red face, and a broad yellow gown,
And a hobbling out-of-breath gait, and a frown.

This little French cousin of ours, Delarise, was my sister Mary's playfellow at Paris. His sprightliness engages my sisters extremely. Doubtless they talk much of him to you in their letters. How sorry I am to bid you adieu! Oh, let me not be forgot by the friends most dear to you at Lichfield! Lichfield! Ah! of what magic letters is that little word composed! How graceful it looks when it is written! Let nobody talk to me of its original meaning,[88] "The field of blood!" Oh, no such thing! It is the field of joy! "The beautiful city that lifts her fair head in the valley and says, I am, and there is none beside me!" Who says she is vain? Julia will not say so, nor yet Honora, and least of all their devoted

J. AndrÉ.

LETTER III.

Clapton, November 1, 1769.

My ears still ring with the sounds of "O Jack! O 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 colors? 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 that it may reasonably entertain of seeing you all again e'er the winter's dreary hours are past. Julia, my dear Julia, gild them with tidings of our beloved Honora! Oh, that you may be able 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 blessed in being able to place so well the purest passion of an ingenuous mind! How am I honored 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 fulfill thy blossoming promises.

The happy social circle—Julia, Honora, Miss S——n, Miss B——n, her brother, Mr. S——e, Mr. R——n, etc., etc.—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 favorite little Frenchman, so great a favorite; 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. O 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 epistle. 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 not apologize for talking in rapture of an higgler whom we met on our 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 anything; that he had plenty of nails, ropes, etc., 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 by forcing upon him a little pecuniary tribute. My benevolence will be the warmer, while I live, for the treasured remembrance of this higgler's countenance.

'I know you interest yourself in my destiny. I have now completely subdued my aversion to the profession 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 talk you set me in 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 as to give the enclosed to Honora; it will speak to her. And do you say everything 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 don't let them take Honora's corner of the sheet.

Adieu! May you all possess that cheerfulness 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 vapor of my imagination. Again, and yet again, adieu!

J. AndrÉ.