TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.
The Lodge, March 30, 1792.
My dear Friend,—My mornings, ever since you went, have been given to my correspondents; this morning I have already written a long letter to Mr. Park, giving my opinion of his poem, which is a favourable one. I forget whether I showed it to you when you were here, and even whether I had then received it. He has genius and delicate taste; and, if he were not an engraver, might be one of our first hands in poetry.
W. C.
TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.
The Lodge, April 5, 1792.
You talk, my dear friend, as John Bunyan says, "like one that has the egg-shell still upon his head." You talk of the mighty favours that you have received from me, and forget entirely those for which I am indebted to you; but though you forget them, I shall not, nor ever think that I have requited you so long as any opportunity presents itself of rendering you the smallest service: small indeed is all that I can ever hope to render.
You now perceive, and sensibly, that not without reason I complained, as I use to do, of those tiresome rogues, the printers. Bless yourself that you have not two thick quartos to bring forth, as I had. My vexation was always much increased by this reflection—they are every day, and all day long, employed in printing for somebody, and why not for me? This was adding mortification to disappointment, so that I often lost all patience.
The suffrage of Dr. Robertson makes more than amends for the scurvy jest passed upon me by the wag unknown. I regard him not; nor, except for about two moments after I first heard of his doings, have I ever regarded him. I have somewhere a secret enemy; I know not for what cause he should be so, but he, I imagine, supposes that he has a cause: it is well, however, to have but one; and I will take all the care I can not to increase the number.
I have begun my notes, and am playing the commentator manfully. The worst of it is that I am anticipated in almost all my opportunities to shine by those who have gone before me.