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LETTER XCIV.

From the Rev. Mr. Allport to Sylvaticus.

MY DEAR

Chippenham Vicarage.

I HAVE delayed writing in reply to your last, in order to be able to make up my mind on two or three points, which I could not do till I found how a few other circumstances would turn up here. I could have written you immediately to state what I would have you do in regard to your publishing; but for your own satisfaction I wish to have good grounds to back my opinion. My advice is, do every thing you can to get the MS. in your own hands, and take the publication upon yourself. I would be answerable for the immediate payment of the £11. to K-, and I hope ere long to have sufficient to enable you to go to press yourself. I have £50. in hand for you, besides what you have had, and £5. I now send you. This last week I have formed a kind of committee on your behalf, of which Archdeacon Fisher will be an agent. 1

have a statement, and extracts, and an appeal coming out of press, of which I return the proof sheet corrected to-day, under their management, for the express purpose of the benefit of the author of the RM, to relieve his necessities, to assist him in bringing forward unpublished works, to procure him some necessary and suitable books, and in the hope of saving him from the recurrence of the distress and misery he has endured.

It has been my endeavour to put your case in its full light, and to place your merits upon their proper grounds. Several friends warmly interested in your behalf, have undertaken to circulate the statement in their respective circles, and to do their utmost to serve you. It is my purpose also to send copies of the statement to my bookseller in London, Seeley; to booksellers in Monmouth, Gloucester, Ross, Abergavenny, and others to whom I am known; and through friends to those in Worcester, Birmingham, and York: and I shortly hope to be able to complete every thing that can be done for you, and to raise something that shall afford some compensation for your past toil, disappointment, and sufferings. Many copies of the RM

have been sold here and at Bath lately; and as the latter fills, on the com

O MY FRIEND,

LETTER XC.

L Cottage.

THE bitterness of misery again is mine, and the cup of unutterable anguish overflows! Month after month has past away, but neither letter nor money have 1 been able to obtain from that deceiver K. since my return to L. Surely a decree has gone forth against me, that nothing which I do shall prosper; that no attempt of mine to gain an honourable maintenance for myself and family shall succeed! I have lost all confidence in Heaven, and seem marked out as an object for the shafts of Divine displeasure! One only last resource is left me on earth, and that is death! Yes, my friend, a speedy death! that I may escape the slow pangs of dying by hunger, and the still more excruciating agonies of seeing my little family perish with want before my eyes!

To whom can I appeal for pity? No one in this county, however blest with power, authority, and riches, has ever bestowed one single smile of

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he feel the gripe of hard-hearted parish officers ? must he be driven forth at his tender years to earn a scanty crust by the sweat of his brow? he whom I had hoped to live to see blest with learning and talent? he whom I so tenderly doated on? O, that those whom I love should suffer for my misfortunes; that I should be compelled to entail yet deeper afflictions upon them! Surely the measure of my sufferings must be full! O, that I could speak to you but for one short hour! It cannot be,

Mine is no romantic passion, that hurries me to the blood-drenched precipice of suicide. No it is misery, deep, lasting misery, beyond the darkness of which I see no dawning ray, no hope of relief but in the grave! I may say with Ossian, "Why dost thou awake me, O gale? It seems to say, I am covered with the drops of heaven. The time of my fading is near, and the blast that shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come; he that saw me in my beauty shall come: his eyes shall search the field, but they will not find me." I can write no more. My child! my mother! I am wild, lost! God have mercy on me! what, O, what shall I do! Adieu, adieu !

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