that the sadness of this reflection touches your That source of sympathy heart as it does mine. between us is sacred, and inexhaustible. Fare well. LETTER I. MISS WESTON*. Lichfield, Oct. 29, 1784. I have lately been in the almost daily habit of contemplating a very melancholy spectacle. The great Johnson is here, labouring under the paroxysms of a disease, which must speedily be fatal. He shrinks from the consciousness with the extremest horror. It is by his repeatedly expressed desire that I visit him often: yet I am sure he neither does, nor ever did feel much regard for me; but he would fain escape, for a time, in any society, from the terrible idea of his approach * An intelligent friend of Miss Seward, residing, at the date of this correspondence, at Ludlow: since married to Mr Pennington, master of the ceremonies at Clifton, near Bristol. ing dissolution. I never would be awed by his sarcasms, or his frowns, into acquiescence with his general injustice to the merits of other writers; with his national, or party aversions; but I feel the truest compassion for his present sufferings, and fervently wish I had power to relieve them. A few days since I was to drink tea with him, by his request, at Mrs Porter's. When I went into the room, he was in deep but agitated slumber, in an arm-chair. Opening the door with that caution due to the sick, he did not awaken at my entrance. I stood by him several minutes, mournfully contemplating the temporary suspension of those vast intellectual powers, which must so soon, as to this world, be eternally quenched. Upon the servant entering to announce the arrival of a gentleman of the university, introduced by Mr White, he awoke with convulsive starts,but rising, with more alacrity than could have been expected, he said, "Come, my dear lady, let you and I attend these gentlemen in the study." He received them with more than usual complacence; but whimsically chose to get astride upon his chair-seat, with his face to its back, keeping a trotting motion as if on horseback; but, in this odd position, he poured forth streams of eloquence, illumined by frequent flashes of wit and humour, without any tincture of malignity. That amusing part of this conversation, which alluded to the learned Pig, and his demi-rational exhibitions, I' shall transmit to you hereafter. LETTER III. REV. T. S. WHALLEY. Lichfield, Nov. 7, 1784. Large is my debt to you, dear friend, for those exquisite, those living descriptions of the Alpine scenery, with which you have favoured me. You enable me to see their picturesque wonders without the fatigue and danger of the journey. I explore the Glaciers; I ascend Mount Blanc, and contemplate its varied sublimities with the most awakened enthusiasm. I walk with you to Vevay and Clarens. Why is not Clarens such a situation as might enable our imagination to indulge its deceptions; to make those believe, who actually visit that spot, that they tread in the steps of Julie, and St Preux, of Clara, and Wolmar? Ah! it is the vivid glow of these local interests that consti tutes the highest triumph of genius, after it has de livered an immortal work to the world. You exchange the magnificent landscapes of Savoy and Switzerland, for the softer environs of Avignon-but they include VAUCLUSE, whose interwoven recollections will recompense all the inferiority in point of scenery on the laurel-shaded Sorga, compared with that of the mighty Alps, with their stupendous cataracts, green lakes, vinecurtained mountains, and bloomy vallies.-Yes, the spirit of love and poetry will recompense their loss at that consecrated fountain," Clear as a mirror, as an ocean deep." The old literary Colossus has been some time in Lichfield. The extinction, in our sphere, of that mighty spirit approaches fast. A confirmed dropsy deluges the vital source. It is melancholy to observe with what terror he contemplates his approaching fate. The religion of Johnson was always deeply tinctured with that gloomy and servile superstition which marks his political opinions. He expresses these terrors, and justly calls them miserable, which thus shrink from the exchange of a diseased and painful existence, which gentler human beings consider as the all-recompensing reward of a well-spent life. Yet have not these humiliating terrors by any means subdued that malevolent and envious pride, and literary jealousy, * Johnson. which were ever the vices of his heart, and to which he perpetually sacrificed, and continues to sacrifice, the fidelity of representation, and the veracity of decision. His memory is considerably impaired, but his eloquence rolls on in its customary majestic torrent, when he speaks at all. My heart aches to see him labour for his breath, which he draws with great effort indeed. It is not improbable that this literary comet may set where it rose, and Lichfield receive his pale and stern remains. You will be kindly gratified to hear that I receive the highest encomiums upon my poem, LOUISA, by the first literary characters of the age. I inclose the beautiful eulogium with which it has been honoured from the pen of Mr Hayley. This eulogium appeared in several of the public prints. The fame of Lunardi's aerial tour must have reached you across the continent. Infinite seems the present rage "To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, But unless these adventurers can acquire the power of steering their buoyant bark, the experiment is as idle as it is dangerous. |