"The wrathful skies

Gallowed the very wanderers of the dark,

And made them keep their caves: since I was man Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard!"

During six hours was I exposed on the box of the coach, the only outside passenger, without great coat or cloak to protect me from its unrelenting violence. The horses frequently could not be made to move against the terrible warfare of the raging elements. On our arrival at Honiton, we found mills blown down, houses unroofed, road-waggons upset; and further travelling was rendered utterly impracticable from the sudden overflowing of rivers and the falling of immense trees, while the lightning ran along the street like a torrent of fire. How I survived the bitterness of its fury, I know not: but we are all immortal till our hour is come, and then what shall save us?

I next visited Sidmouth, Exmouth, &c. where I found no friends to patronise the Muses; and on my arrival at Topsham I was so lame, as to be scarcely able to walk. The next day I crawled on to Exeter, which I reached with difficulty, and was there confined to my room nearly three

weeks. When I was again able to get out, I did not sell more than three copies in the whole city.

At Crediton, I drank tea and spent some hours with a clergyman of the name of Lightfoot, a particular college friend of Mr. Southey, some of whose letters he read to me, giving an interesting account of his being introduced at Court, and created Poet Laureate. He tells his friend that he did not dream of the high honour conferred upon him, which was first offered by the Prince Regent to Sir Walter Scott, who generously and strongly recommended Southey. Mr. Lightfoot informed me that this laurel-crowned chief of the bards in the outset of his poetical career, had many and great difficulties to struggle with, and numerous obstacles to overcome; but that by perseverance he conquered every thing, and at last achieved the sunny mountain of fame.

In the neighbourhood of Teignmouth, I became acquainted with Mr. R―, a young man of great professional talent and general knowledge, who introduced me by letter to Dr. Turton, well known in the literary world as a translator of Linnæus, and the author of many other scientific and valuable works. Being so near, I determined once more to visit Paington. I hired a horse, and with my new friend rode thither incog. I

cannot express to you, Frank, what were my feelings on visiting again, after so long an absence, the vicinity of my worthy and generous friends. I soon found that length of years had entirely obliterated all remembrance of my person from every inhabitant of the place, and I determined not to make myself known. Even my friend Metherel, with whom I sat some minutes in the bar of the inn, recognised me not. Learning that both himself and Mrs. M. were well, I was satisfied; and with a feeling of romantic pleasure, quitted the place without making myself known to any one.

From Totness I sailed down the river Dart, famed for the variety and pleasantness of the views on its banks; but the Spring was not far enough advanced to exhibit the usual beauties. The weather was likewise extremely boisterous, and the latter part of the voyage was not unattended with danger. At Dartmouth, during my stay, was held a convocation of dissenting ministers from different parts of the county, some of whom had seen my poem. One of them, Mr. W of NB, a friend of mine and a man of good sound sense, but who happening to be very poor was considered of little importance among them, told me how unfeelingly some of

this erudite assembly, who, risen from the counter and the cobbler's stall by their sanctified looks and long prayers to the assumption of scholars and gentlemen, had been sneering at my epic. "Dear me!" cried one of the chief of these tender-hearted saints, "it looks so, to see a man hawking about his own works. Besides, he should have come strongly recommended. How can be expect any countenance, running about in this way." Now it so happened, that I had actually presented a recommendatory letter to this very person, from the Rev. Mr. Dof P—, in Din D-shire.

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Oh," said another, with an attempt to be witty," it is the Pilgrimage of Childe -." "And what are his works," said a third, “ that they are thus hawked about? I am sure I would not give the lumber house room."

"Nor I either," added a fourth. "I was foolish enough to purchase a copy, and sat down with a friend, who is a very clever judge of poetical talent, to see if it really possessed any claim to merit. But our labour, as we expected, was in vain: we read through several pages, and could not possibly discover a single line of poetry, or any thing like it in the whole farrago of rubbish. And then to call it an epic! What

presumption! I question very much if the author, poor young man, knows what is meant by the term, any more than he understands the common rules of English grammar, which he has wofully violated. My brother minister, Mr. A. of Exeter, was very right when he declared he had never read such a mess of wild bombastic nonsense in all his life."

"Dear me and founded on the Scriptures too!" returned another of these godly worthies, "what a pity such stuff should be permitted to be published. I think the man ought to be taken up, really.—But I believe, gentlemen, that it is time we should attend divine worship. My bowels yearn with compassion for the poor dear heathen negroes abroad, and I hope we shall have a liberal contribution for them this evening."

Discerning, candid young men! I should presume to give them the advice of Apelles to the cobbler, Ne sutor ultra crepidam. I am of opinion that they are about as good judges of the merits or demerits of my poem, as a Jack Tar is of the difference between the Alaric of Scuderi, the Pucelle of Chapelain, or the Saxon Beowulf, and the classic strains of a Homer and a Virgil; or how far the Phedra of Racine, the Macbeth of

YOL. III,

B