“This is a delightful country. If you come to see it, and to claim the estate, bring all the papers and memorials you can collect; and share a pleasant apartment, and one of the finest prospects in the world, in the house where I was born. I design to try this fine air some months longer. We have a fine shady wood near the lake, where I can ride in the cool all the day, and enjoy the singing of a multitude of birds. But this, though sweet, does not come up to the singing of my dear friends in England. There I meet them in spirit several hours in the day.”[[441]]
The ensuing letter, kindly lent by the Rev. Dr. Knowles, of Tunbridge Wells, has not before been published. It was addressed to “Mr. Power, Druggist, in Broadmead, Bristol, Angleterre.”
“Nyon, June 20, 1778.
“Dear Sir,—A journey and my constant rides have hindered me acknowledging sooner the favour of your observations and criticisms, which I received some time ago. If I had my little publications here, to turn to the pages you quote, I would immediately make notes, and alter or rectify what you object to, as a preparation for a more correct edition, should the work be ever reprinted. I wish all my friends had taken as much pains about my works as you have, Sir; they would by this time be more correct. Accept my sincere thanks for the favour; and, if I live to see England again, we shall (please God) talk the matter over fully.
“I am obliged to you for your caution about preaching. I have followed it, and have not yet preached in this country, though I believe I shall soon venture again upon it, but with care and in a sparing manner. I hope at least the Lord will give me grace so to do.
“I heartily rejoice that Mrs. Power has been carried safely, a second time, through the danger of child-bearing. May she and the two fruits of her body live to the glory of God, and to your comfort! Remember me kindly to her; and give my blessing to my god-son, whose will, I hope, you continue to break with the wisdom, patience, and steadiness which become a parent.
“I sent your mother a few lines by Mr. Ireland. I hope she received them; but I shall never get an answer, if what he writes me is true. Is she dead indeed? Sometimes I hope it is a rumour without foundation; and yet his account that she died at Bath, where your letter mentions she was gone, makes me fear he was well-informed. If she is no more, you have lost a tender mother, and I a kind friend; but the Lord will make up all our losses, and has already made them up by giving us His Son. May we receive Him, and with Him all that is excellent among the living and the dead! As she has been for many years a woman of sorrow,—a true Hannah—wading almost constantly through a sea of temptations, they may have followed her to the last, and she may have escaped out of many tribulations, as the saints mentioned in the Revelation. A line about it, and about your welfare, and that of my god-son, will greatly oblige, dear Sir, your obedient and already obliged servant,
J. Fletcher.
“My love to your brother, when you see him.”
The next letter, written to Mr. Ireland, contains a sylvan scene worthy of being painted:—