"My dearest Davies,

"Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in this
house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch. What can I
say, or think, or do? I received a letter from him the day before
yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come down
to me--I want a friend. Matthews's last letter was written on
_Friday_,--on Saturday he was not. In ability, who was like
Matthews? How did we all shrink before him? You do me but justice
in saying, I would have risked my paltry existence to have
preserved his. This very evening did I mean to write, inviting him,
as I invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. God forgive * *
* for his apathy! What will our poor Hobhouse feel? His letters
breathe but or Matthews. Come to me, Scrope, I am almost
desolate--left almost alone in the world--I had but you, and H.,
and M., and let me enjoy the survivors whilst I can. Poor M., in
his letter of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for
Cambridge[19], and a speedy journey to London. Write or come, but
come if you can, or one or both.

"Yours ever."

[Footnote 15: In many instances the mothers of illustrious poets have
had reason to be proud no less of the affection than of the glory of
their sons; and Tasso, Pope, Gray, and Cowper, are among these memorable
examples of filial tenderness. In the lesser poems of Tasso, there are
few things so beautiful as his description, in the Canzone to the
Metauro, of his first parting with his mother:--

"Me dal sen della madre empia fortuna