brother. It is
without a date, but it must have been written before the publication of
Collins's Odes in 1747, and before the appearance of Dodsley's
Museum,[4] as it is evident the Ode to a Lady on the Death of Colonel
Ross, which was inserted in that work, was not then in print.

  "DEAR TOM,

  "You will wonder to see my name in an advertisement next week, so
  I thought I would apprise you of it. The case was this. Collins
  met me in Surrey, at Guildford races, when I wrote out for him my
  odes, and he likewise communicated some of his to me; and being
  both in very high spirits, we took courage, resolved to join our
  forces, and to publish them immediately. I flatter myself that I
  shall lose no honor by this publication, because I believe these
  odes, as they now stand, are infinitely the best things I ever
  wrote. You will see a very pretty one of Collins's, on the Death
  of Colonel Ross before Tournay. It is addressed to a lady who was
  Ross's intimate acquaintance, and who, by the way, is Miss Bett
  Goddard. Collins is not to publish the odes unless he gets ten
  guineas for them. I returned from Milford last night, where I left
  Collins with my mother and sister, and he sets out to-day for
  London. I must now tell you, that I have sent him your imitation
  of Horace's Blandusian Fountain, to be printed amongst ours, and
  which you shall own or not, as you think proper. I would not have
  done this without your consent, but because I think it very
  poetically and correctly done, and will get you honour. You will
  let me know what the Oxford critics say. Adieu, dear Tom,

  "I am your most affectionate brother,
  "J. WARTON."

Like so many of Collins's projects this was not executed; but the reason
of its failure is unknown.

On the death of Thomson, in August, 1748, Collins wrote an ode to his
memory, which is no less remarkable for its beauty as a composition,
than for its pathetic tenderness as a memorial of a friend.

The Poet's pecuniary difficulties were removed in 1749, by the death of
his maternal uncle, Lieutenant-Colonel Edmund Martyn, who, after
bequeathing legacies to some other relations, ordered the residue of his
real and personal estate to be divided between his nephew William
Collins, and his nieces Elizabeth and Anne Collins, and appointed the
said Elizabeth his executrix, who proved her uncle's will on the 30th of
May, 1749. Collins's share was, it is said, about two thousand pounds;
and, as has been already observed, the money came most opportunely: a
greater calamity even than poverty, however, shortly afterwards
counterbalanced his good fortune; but the assertion of the writer in the
Gentleman's Magazine, that his mental aberration arose from his having
squandered this legacy, appears to be unfounded.

One, and but one, letter of Collins's has ever been printed; nor has a
careful inquiry after others been successful. It is of peculiar
interest, as it proves that he wrote an Ode on the Music of the Grecian
Theatre, but which is unfortunately lost. The honour to which he
alludes was the setting his Ode on the Passions to music.

  "TO DR. WILLIAM HAYES, PROFESSOR OF MUSIC, OXFORD.

  "SIR,

  "MR. BLACKSTONE of Winchester some time since informed me of the
  honour you had done me at Oxford last summer; for which I return
  you my sincere thanks. I have another more perfect copy of the
  ode; which, had I known your obliging design, I would have
  communicated to you. Inform me by a line, if you should think one
  of my better judgment acceptable. In such case I could send you
  one written on a nobler subject; and which, though I have been
  persuaded to bring it forth in London, I think more calculated for
  an audience in the university. The subject is the Music of the
  Grecian Theatre; in which I have, I hope naturally, introduced the
  various characters with which the chorus was concerned, as
  Е’dipus, Medea, Electra, Orestes, etc. etc. The composition too is
  probably more correct, as I have chosen the ancient tragedies for
  my models, and only copied the most affecting passages in them.

  "In the mean time, you would greatly oblige me by sending the
  score of the last. If you can get it written, I will readily
  answer the expense. If you send it with a copy or two of the ode
  (as printed at Oxford) to Mr. Clarke, at Winchester, he will
  forward it to me here. I am, Sir,

  "With great respect,
  "Your obliged humble servant,
  "WILLIAM COLLINS.

  "Chichester, Sussex, November 8, 1750."

  "P. S. Mr. Clarke past some days here while Mr. Worgan was with
  me; from whose friendship, I hope, he will receive some
  advantage."

Soon after this period, the disease which had long threatened to destroy
Collins's intellects assumed a more decided character; but for some time
the unhappy poet was the only person who was sensible of the approaching
calamity. A visit to France was tried in vain; and when Johnson called
upon him, on his return, an incident occurred which proves that Collins
wisely sought for consolation against the coming wreck of his faculties,
from a higher and more certain source than mere human aid. Johnson says,
"he paid him a visit at Islington, where he was then waiting for his
sister, whom he had directed to meet him: there was then nothing of
disorder discernible in his mind by any but himself; but he had
withdrawn from study, and travelled with no other book than an English
Testament, such as children carry to the school: when his friend took
it into his hand, out of curiosity to see what companion a man of
letters had chosen, 'I have but one book,' said Collins, 'but that is
the best.'"

To this circumstance Hayley beautifully alludes in his epitaph on him:

  He, "in reviving reason's lucid hours,
  Sought on _one_ book his troubled mind to rest,
  And rightly deem'd the Book of God the best."

A journey to Bath proved as useless as the one to France; and in 1754,
he went to Oxford for change of air and amusement, where he stayed a
month. It was on this occasion that a friend, whose account of him will
be given at length, saw him in a distressing state of restraint under
the walls of Merton College. From the paucity of information respecting
Collins, the following letters are extremely valuable; and though the
statements are those of his friends, they may be received without
suspicion of partiality, because they are free from the high colouring
by which friendship sometimes perverts truth.

The first of the letters in question was printed in the Gentleman's
Magazine:

  "Jan. 20, 1781.

  "MR. URBAN,

  "WILLIAM COLLINS, the poet, I was intimately acquainted with, from
  the time that he came to reside at Oxford. He was the son of a
  tradesman in the city of Chichester, I think a hatter; and being
  sent very young to Winchester school, was soon distinguished for
  his early proficiency, and his turn for elegant composition. About
  the year 1740, he came off from that seminary first upon roll,[5]
  and was entered a commoner of Queen's college. There, no vacancy
  offering for New College, he remained a year or two, and then was
  chosen demy of Magdalen college; where, I think, he took a degree.
  As he brought with him, for so the whole turn of his conversation
  discovered, too high an opinion of his school acquisitions, and a
  sovereign contempt for all academic studies and discipline, he
  never looked with any complacency on his situation in the
  university, but was always complaining of the dulness of a college
  life. In short, he threw up his demyship, and, going to London,
  commenced a man of the town, spending his time in all the
  dissipation of Ranelagh, Vauxhall, and the playhouses; and was
  romantic enough to suppose that his superior abilities would draw
  the attention of the great world, by means of whom he was to make
  his fortune.

  "In this pleasurable way of life he soon wasted his little
  property, and a considerable legacy left him by a maternal uncle,
  a colonel in the army, to whom the nephew made a visit in
  Flanders during the war. While on his tour he wrote several
  entertaining letters to his Oxford friends, some of which I saw.
  In London I met him often, and remember he lodged in a little
  house with a Miss Bundy, at the corner of King's-square-court,
  Soho, now a warehouse, for a long time together. When poverty
  overtook him, poor man, he had too much sensibility of temper to
  bear with misfortunes, and so fell into a most deplorable state of
  mind. How he got down to Oxford, I do not know; but I myself saw
  him under Merton wall, in a very affecting situation, struggling,
  and conveyed by force, in the arms of two or three men, towards
  the parish of St. Clement, in which was a house that took in such
  unhappy objects: and I always understood, that not long after he
  died in confinement; but when, or where, or where he was buried, I
  never knew.

  "Thus was lost to the world this unfortunate person, in the prime
  of life, without availing himself of fine abilities, which,
  properly improved, must have raised him to the top of any
  profession, and have rendered him a blessing to his friends, and
  an ornament to his country.

  "Without books, or steadiness and resolution to consult them if he
  had been possessed of any, he was always planning schemes for
  elaborate publications, which were carried no further than the
  drawing up proposals for subscriptions, some of which were
  published; and in particular, as far as I remember, one for 'a
  History of the Darker Ages.'

  "He was passionately fond of music; good-natured and affable; warm
  in his friendships, and visionary in his pursuits; and, as long as
  I knew him, very temperate in his eating and drinking. He was of
  moderate stature, of a light and clear complexion, with gray eyes,
  so very weak at times as hardly to bear a candle in the room; and
  often raising within him apprehensions of blindness.

  "With an anecdote respecting him, while he was at Magdalen
  College, I shall close my letter. It happened one afternoon, at a
  tea visit, that several intelligent friends were assembled at his
  rooms to enjoy each other's conversation, when in comes a member
  of a certain college,[6] as remarkable at that time for his brutal
  disposition as for his good scholarship; who, though he met with a
  circle of the most peaceable people in the world, was determined
  to quarrel; and, though no man said a word, lifted up his foot and
  kicked the tea-table, and all its contents, to the other side of
  the room. Our poet, though of a warm temper, was so confounded at
  the unexpected downfall, and so astonished at the unmerited
  insult, that he took no notice of the aggressor, but getting up
  from his chair calmly, he began picking up the slices of bread and
  butter, and the fragments of his china, repeating very mildly,

    Invenias etiam disjecti membra poetæ.

  "I am your very humble servant,
  "V."

The next letter was found among the papers of Mr. William Hymers, of
Queen's College, Oxford, who was preparing a new edition of the works of
the poet for publication, when death prevented the completion of his
design.

  "Hill Street, Richmond in Surrey, July, 1783.

  "SIR,

  "Your favour of the 30th June I did not receive till yesterday.
  The person who has the care of my house in Bond Street, expecting
  me there every day, did not send it to Richmond, or I would have
  answered sooner. As you express a wish to know every particular,
  however trifling, relating to Mr. William Collins, I will
  endeavour, so far as can be done by a letter, to satisfy you.
  There are many little anecdotes, which tell well enough in
  conversation, but would be tiresome for you to read, or me to
  write, so shall pass them over. I had formerly several scraps of
  his poetry, which were suddenly written on particular occasions.
  These I lent among our acquaintance, who were never civil enough
  to return them; and being then engaged in extensive business, I
  forgot to ask for them, and they are lost: all I have remaining of
  his are about twenty lines, which would require a little history
  to be understood, being written on trifling subjects. I have a few
  of his letters, the subjects of which are chiefly on business, but
  I think there are in them some flights, which strongly mark his
  character; for which reason I preserved them. There are so few of
  his intimates now living, that I believe I am the only one who can
  give a true account of his family and connexions. The principal
  part of what I write is from my own knowledge, or what I have
  heard from his nearest relations.

  "His father was not the manufacturer of hats, but the vender. He
  lived in a genteel style at Chichester; and, I think, filled the
  office of mayor more than once; he was pompous in his manner; but,
  at his death, he left his affairs rather embarrassed. Colonel
  Martyn, his