^* Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE this moment receiv'd the fa⯑vour of yours of the 8th inſtant; and will make you a true excuſe, (tho' per⯑haps no very good one) that I defer'd the troubling you with a letter, when I ſent back your Papers, in hopes of ſeeing you at Binfield before this time. If I had met with any fault in your performance, I ſhould freely now (as I have done too pre⯑ſumptuouſly in converſation with you) tell [2] you my opinion; which I have frequently ventur'd to give you, rather in compliance with your deſires, than that I could think it reaſonable. For I am not yet ſatisfied upon what grounds I can pretend to judge of Poetry, who never have been practis'd in the Art. There may poſſibly be ſome hap⯑py genius's, who may judge of ſome of the natural beauties of a Poem, as a man may of the proportions of a building, without having read Vitruvius, or knowing any thing of the rules of architecture: But this, tho' it may ſometimes be in the right, muſt be ſubject to many miſtakes, and is certainly but a ſuperficial knowledge; with⯑out entring into the art, the methods, and the particular excellencies of the whole compoſure, in all the parts of it.

Beſides my want of skill, I have another reaſon why I ought to ſuſpect my ſelf, by reaſon of the great affection I have for you, which might give too much biaſs, to be kind to every thing that comes from you; but after all, I muſt ſay (and I do it with an old-faſhion'd ſincerity.) that I en⯑tirely approve of your Tranſlation of thoſe Pieces of Homer, both as to the verſifica⯑tion and the true ſenſe that ſhines thro' the whole; nay I am confirmed in my former application to you, and give me leave to renew it upon this occaſion, that you [3] wou'd proceed in tranſlating that incompa⯑rable Poet, to make him ſpeak good En⯑gliſh, to dreſs his admirable characters in your proper, ſignificant, and expreſſive con⯑ceptions, and to make his works as uſeful and inſtructive to this degenerate age, as he was to our friend Horace, when he read him at Praeneſte, Qui, quid ſit pul⯑chrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non, &c. I break off with that quid non? with which I confeſs I am charm'd.

Upon the whole matter, I intreat you to ſend this preſently to be added to the Miſ⯑cellanies, and I hope it will come time enough for that purpoſe.

I have nothing to ſay of my Nephew B's obſervations, for he ſent them to me ſo late, that I had not time to conſider them; I dare ſay he endeavour'd very faithfully (tho' he told me very haſtily) to execute your commands.

All I can add is, that if your exceſs of mo⯑deſty ſhou'd hinder you from publiſhing this Eſſay, I ſhall only be ſorry that I have no more credit with you, to perſuade you to oblige the publick, and very particularly, dear Sir,

Mr. POPE to the Hon. J. C. Eſq

I Send you Dennis's remarks on the ^* Eſ⯑ſay, which equally abound in juſt Cri⯑ticiſms and fine Railleries: The few obſer⯑vations in my hand in the margins, are what a morning's leiſure permitted me to make, purely for your peruſal. For I am of opinion, that ſuch a Critic as you will find him by the latter part of his book, is but one way to be properly an⯑ſwer'd, and that way I wou'd not take after what he informs me in his preface, that he is at this time perſecuted by For⯑tune. This I knew not before; if I had, his name had been ſpar'd in the Eſſay, for that only reaſon. I can't conceive what ground he has for ſo exceſſive a re⯑ſentment; nor imagine how thoſe ^†three lines can be call'd a reflection on his Per⯑ſon, which only deſcribe him ſubject a little to Anger on ſome occaſions. I have heard of combatants ſo very furious, as to fall [5] down themſelves with that very blow which they deſign'd to lay heavy on their anta⯑goniſts. But if Mr. Dennis's rage proceeds only from a zeal to diſcourage young and unexperienc'd writers from ſcribling, he ſhou'd frighten us with his Verſe not Proſe: for I have often known, that when all the precepts in the world would not re⯑claim a ſinner, ſome very ſad example has done the buſineſs.^* Yet to give this man his due, he has objected to one or two lines with reaſon, and I will alter 'em in caſe of another edition; I will make my enemy do me a kindneſs where he meant an injury, and ſo ſerve inſtead of a friend. What he obſerves at the bottom of page 20th of his reflections, was objected to by yourſelf, and had been mended but for the haſte of the preſs: 'Tis right Hiber⯑nian, and I confeſs it what the Engliſh call a Bull in the expreſſion, tho' the ſenſe be manifeſt enough: Mr. Dennis's Bulls are ſeldom in the expreſſion, they are always in the ſenſe.

I ſhall certainly never make the leaſt reply to him, not only becauſe you adviſe me, but becauſe I have ever been of opi⯑nion, that if a book can't anſwer for itſelf [6] to the publick, 'tis to no ſort of purpoſe for its author to do it. If I am wrong in any ſentiment of that Eſſay, I proteſt ſin⯑cerely, I don't deſire all the world ſhould be deceiv'd (which wou'd be of very ill conſequence) meerly that I my ſelf may be thought right, which is of very little con⯑ſequence.) I'd be the firſt to recant, for the benefit of others, and the glory of my ſelf; for (as I take it) when a man owns himſelf to have been in an error, he does but tell you in other words, that he is wiſer than he was. But I have had an advan⯑tage by the publiſhing that book of D [...]s's, which otherwiſe I ſhould never have known: It has been the occaſion of ma⯑king me friends, and open abetters, of ſe⯑veral gentlemen of known ſenſe and wit; and of proving to me what I have till now doubted, that my writings are taken ſome notice of by the world in general, or I ſhould never be attack'd thus in par⯑ticular. I have read that 'twas a cuſtom among the Romans, while a General rode in triumph, to have common ſoldiers in the ſtreets that rail'd at him and reproach'd him; to put him in mind, that tho' his ſervices were in the main approved and rewarded, yet he had faults enough to keep him humble.

[7] You will ſee by this, that whoever ſets up for wit in theſe days, ought to have the conſtancy of a primitive Chriſtian, and be prepar'd to ſuffer martyrdom in the cauſe of it. But ſure this is the firſt time that a Wit was attack'd for his Religion, as you'll find I am moſt zealouſly in this treatiſe: and you know, Sir, what alarms I have had from the ^*oppoſite ſide on this account. Have I not reaſon to cry out, with the poor fellow in Virgil,

'Tis however my happineſs that you, Sir, are impartial,

The manner in which Mr. D. takes to pieces ſeveral particular lines, detach'd from their natural places, may ſhew how eaſy it is to a caviller to give a new ſenſe, or [8] a new nonſenſe to any thing. And in⯑deed his conſtructions are not more wreſt⯑ed from the genuine meaning, than theirs who objected to the heterodox parts, as they call'd 'em.

Our friend the Abbè is not of that ſort, who with the utmoſt candour and free⯑dom, has modeſtly told me what others thought, and ſhewn himſelf one (as he very well expreſſes it) rather of a Number than a Party. The only difference between us in relation to the Monks, is, that he thinks moſt ſorts of learning flouriſh'd a⯑mong 'em, and I am of opinion that only ſome ſort of learning was barely kept alive by 'em: he believes, that in the moſt na⯑tural and obvious ſenſe, that line (A ſecond deluge Learning over-run) will be under⯑ſtood of Learning in general; and I fancy 'twill be underſtood only (as 'tis meant) of polite Learning, Criticiſm, Poetry, &c. which is the only learning concern'd in the ſub⯑ject of the Eſſay. It is true, that the Monks did preſerve what learning there was, about Nicholas the Fifth's time; but thoſe who ſucceeded fell into the depth of Barba⯑riſm, or at leaſt ſtood at a ſtay while others roſe from thence, inſomuch that even Eraſ⯑mus and Reuchlin could hardly laugh them out of it. I am highly oblig'd to the Ab⯑bè's zeal in my commendation, and good⯑neſs [9] in not concealing what he thinks my error. And his teſtifying ſome eſteem for the book, juſt at a time when his brethren rais'd a clamour againſt it, is an inſtance of great generoſity and candor, which I ſhall ever acknowledge.

To the ſame.

IN your laſt you inform'd me of the miſtaken zeal of ſome people, who ſeem to make it no leſs their buſineſs to perſuade men they are erroneous, than Do⯑ctors do that they are ſick; only that they may magnify their own cure, and triumph over an imaginary diſtemper. The Simile objected to in my Eſſay,

plainly concludes at this ſecond line, where ſtands a full ſtop: and what follows (Mean⯑ly they ſeek, &c.) ſpeaks only of Wit, (which is meant by that bleſſing, and that ſun) for how can the ſun of faith be ſaid [10] to ſublime the ſouthern wits, and to ripen the genius's of northern climates? I fear theſe gentlemen underſtand grammar as little as they do criticiſm; and perhaps out of good nature to the Monks, are willing to take from 'em the cenſure of ignorance, and to have it to themſelves. The word They refers (as I am ſure I meant, and as I thought every one muſt have known) to thoſe critics there ſpoken of, who are par⯑tial to ſome particular ſett of writers, to the prejudice of all others. And the very ſimile it ſelf, if twice read, may convince them, that the cenſure here of damning, lies not on our Church at all, unleſs they call our Church one ſmall Sect: and the cautious words, (by each Man) manifeſtly ſhow it a general reflection on all ſuch (whoever they are) who entertain thoſe narrow and limited notions of the mercy of the Almighty; which the Reform'd mi⯑niſters and Presbyterians are as guilty of as any people living.

Yet after all, I promiſe you, Sir, if the alteration of a word or two will gratify any man of ſound faith tho' weak underſtand⯑ing, I will (tho' it were from no other principle than that of common good na⯑ture) comply with it. And if you pleaſe but to particularize the ſpot where their objection lies, for it is in a very narrow [11] compaſs) that ſtumbling-block, tho' it be but a little pebble, ſhall be removed out of their way. If the heat of theſe good diſputants (who, I am afraid, being bred up to wrangle in the ſchools, cannot get rid of the humor all their lives) ſhou'd pro⯑ceed ſo far as to perſonal reflections upon me, I aſſure you notwithſtanding I will do, or ſay nothing, however provok'd (for ſome people can no more provoke than oblige) that is unbecoming the character of a true Catholick. I will ſet before me the example of that great man, and great Saint Eraſmus; who in the midſt of ca⯑lumny proceeded with all the calmneſs of innocence, and the unrevenging ſpirit of primitive chriſtianity. However I wou'd adviſe them to ſuffer the mention of him to paſs unregarded, leſt I ſhould be forc'd to do that for his reputation which I wou'd never do for my own; I mean, to vindicate ſo great a light of our Church from the malice of paſt times, and the ig⯑norance of the preſent, in a language which may extend farther than that in which the Trifle about Criticiſm is written. I wiſh theſe gentlemen wou'd be contented with finding fault with me only, who will ſub⯑mit to 'em right or wrong, as far as I on⯑ly am concern'd; I have a greater regard to the quiet of mankind than to diſturb it [12] for things of ſo little conſequence as my credit and my ſenſe. A little humility can do a Poet no hurt, and a little Charity wou'd do a Prieſt none: For as St. Auſtin finely ſays, Ubi Charitas, ibi Humilitas; ubi Humilitas, ibi Pax.

To the ſame.

THE concern which you more than ſeem to be affected with for my reputation, by the ſeveral accounts you have ſo obligingly given of what reports and cenſures the holy Vandals have thought fit to paſs upon me, makes me deſirous of telling ſo good a friend my whole thoughts of this matter; and of letting before you in a clear light the true ſtate of it.

I have ever believ'd the beſt piece of ſervice one cou'd do to our religion, was openly to expreſs our deteſtation and ſcorn of all thoſe mean artifices and Piae fraudes, which it ſtands ſo little in need of, and which have laid it under ſo great a ſcan⯑dal among its enemies.

[13] Nothing has been ſo much a ſcarecrow to them, as that too peremptory and ſeem⯑ingly-uncharitable aſſertion of an utter Im⯑poſſibility of Salvation to all but ourſelves; invincible ignorance excepted, which in⯑deed ſome people define under ſo great li⯑mitations, and with ſuch excluſions, that it ſeems as if that word were rather in⯑vented as a ſalvo, or expedient, not to be thought too bold with the thunder-bolts of God (which are hurl'd about ſo freely on almoſt all mankind by the Hands of eccleſiaſticks) than as a real exception to almoſt-univerſal damnation. For, beſides the ſmall number of the truly faithful in our Church, we muſt again ſubdivide; the Janſeniſt is damned by the Jeſuit, the Jeſuit by the Janſeniſt, the Scotiſt by the Thomiſt, and ſo forth.

There may be errors I grant, but I can't think 'em of ſuch conſequence as to deſtroy utterly the charity of mankind; the very greateſt bond in which we are engag'd by God to one another. Therefore I own to you, I was glad of any opportunity to ex⯑preſs my diſlike of ſo ſhocking a ſentiment as thoſe of the religion I profeſs are com⯑monly charg'd with; and I hop'd, a ſlight inſinuation, introduc'd ſo eaſily by a ca⯑ſual ſimilitude only, cou'd never have gi⯑ven offence; but on the contrary muſt [14] needs have done good; in a nation and time, where we are the ſmaller party, and conſequently moſt miſrepreſented, and moſt in need of vindication.

For the ſame reaſon, I took occaſion to mention the Superſtition of ſome ages after the ſubverſion of the Roman Empire, which is too manifeſt a truth to be deny'd, and does in no ſort reflect upon the preſent profeſſors of our faith who are free from it. Our ſilence in theſe points may with ſome reaſon make our adverſaries think we allow and perſiſt in thoſe bigottries; which yet in reality all good and ſenſible Men deſpiſe, tho' they are perſuaded not to ſpeak againſt 'em; I can't tell why, ſince now 'tis no way the intereſt even of the worſt of our Prieſthood (as it might have been then) to have them ſmother'd in ſi⯑lence: For as the oppoſite Sects are now prevailing, 'tis too late to hinder our church from being ſlander'd; 'tis our buſineſs now to ſhow it is ſlander'd unjuſtly, and to vindicate ourſelves from being thought abettors of what they charge us with. This can't ſo well be brought about with ſerious faces; we muſt laugh with them at what deſerves it; and then we need not doubt of being clear'd, ev'n in their opi⯑nions.

[15] As to particulars: you cannot but have obſerv'd that at firſt the whole objection againſt the ſimile of wit and faith lay to the word They: When that was beyond contradiction removed (the very Grammar ſerving to confute 'em) then the objection lies againſt the Simile itſelf; or if that ſi⯑mile will not be objected to (ſenſe and common reaſon being indeed a little ſtub⯑born, and not apt to give way to every body) next the mention of Superſtition muſt become a crime (as if Religion and ſhe were ſiſters, or that it were a ſcandal upon the family of Chriſt, to ſay a word againſt the Devil's baſtard.) Afterwards, more miſchief is diſcover'd in a place that ſeem'd innocent at firſt, the two lines about Schiſ⯑matics, at the bottom of page 24. An or⯑dinary man wou'd imagine the author plainly declar'd againſt thoſe ſchiſmatics, for quitting the true faith out of contempt of the underſtanding of ſome few of its believers: But theſe believers are call'd Dull, and becauſe I ſay that thoſe Schiſ⯑matics think ſome believers dull, therefore theſe charitable interpreters of my mean⯑ing will have it, that I think all believers dull. I was telling lately Mr. [...] theſe objections: who aſſured me I had ſaid no⯑thing which a Catholick need to diſown, [16] and I have cauſe to know that gentle⯑man's fault (if he has any) is not want of zeal: He put a notion into my head, which I confeſs I can't but perfectly acquieſce in; that when a ſett of people are piqu'd at any truth which they think to their own diſadvantage, their method of re⯑venge on the truth-ſpeaker is to attack his reputation a By-way, and not openly to object to the place they are really gall'd by: What theſe therefore (in his opinion) are in earneſt angry at, is, that Eraſmus whom their tribe oppreſs'd and perſecuted ſhou'd be vindicated after an age of ob⯑loquy by one of their own people, willing to utter an honeſt truth in behalf of the dead, whom no man ſure will flatter, and to whom few will do juſtice. Others, you know, were as angry that I mention'd Mr. Walſh with honour; who as he never refuſed to any one of merit of any party the praiſe due to him, ſo honeſtly deſerv'd it from all others, tho' of ever ſo diffe⯑rent intereſts or ſentiments. May I be ever guilty of this ſort of liberty, and la⯑titude of principle! which gives us the hardineſs of ſpeaking well of thoſe whom envy oppreſſes ev'n after death. As I wou'd always ſpeak well of my living friends when they are abſent, nay becauſe [17] they are abſent; ſo would I much more of the dead, in that eternal abſence; and the rather becauſe I expect no thanks for it.

Thus, Sir, you ſee I do in my conſcience perſiſt in what I have written; yet in my friendſhip I will recant and alter what⯑ever you pleaſe, in caſe of a ſecond edi⯑tion (which I think the book will not ſo ſoon arrive at, for Tonſons's printer told me he drew off a thouſand copies in this firſt impreſſion, and I fancy a treatiſe of this nature, which not one gentleman in three⯑ſcore even of a liberal education can under⯑ſtand, can hardly exceed the vent of that number.) You ſhall find me a true Trojan in my faith, and friendſhip, in both which I will preſevere to the end.

To General . . . . . . . . upon his having tranſlated into French Verſe the Eſſay on Criticiſm.

IF I could as well expreſs, or (if you will allow me to ſay it) tranſlate the ſentiments of my heart, as you have done [18] thoſe of my head, in your excellent ver⯑ſion of my Eſſay; I ſhould not only ap⯑pear the beſt writer in the world, but what I much more deſire to be thought, the moſt your ſervant of any man living. 'Tis an advantage very rarely known, to receive at once a great honour and a great im⯑provement. This, Sir, you have afforded me, having at the ſame time made others take my ſenſe, and taught me to under⯑ſtand my own; if I may call that my own, which is indeed more properly yours: Your verſes are no more a tranſlation of mine, than Virgil's are of Homer, but are, like his, the juſteſt Imitation, and the nobleſt Com⯑mentary.

In putting me into a French dreſs, you have not only adorned my outſide, but mended my ſhape; and if I am now a good figure, I muſt conſider you have na⯑turaliz'd me into a country which is famous for making every man a fine gentleman. It is by your means, that (contrary to moſt young travellers) I am come back much better than I went out.

I cannot but wiſh we had a bill of com⯑merce for Tranſlation eſtabliſhed the next parliament; we could not fail of being gainers by that, nor of making our ſelves amends for all we have loſt by the war. Nay tho' we ſhould inſiſt upon the demo⯑liſhing [19] of Boileau's works; the French, as long as they have writers of your form; might have as good an Equivalent.

Upon the whole, I am really as proud, as our miniſters can be, of the terms I have gain'd from abroad; and I deſign, like them, to publiſh ſpeedily to the world the bene⯑fits accruing from them; for I cannot reſiſt the temptation of printing your admirable tranſlation here^*; to which if you will be ſo obliging to give me leave to prefix your name, it will be the only addition you can make to the honour already done me. I am,

The Hon. J. C. to Mr. POPE.

I AM very glad for the ſake of the Widow, and for the credit of the de⯑ceas'd, [20] that ^† Betterton's remains are fallen into ſuch hands as may render 'em repu⯑table to the one and beneficial to the other. Beſides the publick acquaintance I long had with that poor man, I alſo had a ſlender knowledge of his parts and capacity by private converſation, and ever thought it pity, he was neceſſitated by the ſtraitneſs of his fortune, to act (and eſpecially to his lateſt hours) an imaginary and fictitious part, who was capable of exhibiting a real one, with credit to himſelf and advantage to his neighbour.

I hope your health permitted you to ex⯑ecute your deſign of giving us an imitation of Pollio; I am ſatisfy'd 'twill be doubly Divine, and I ſhall long to ſee it. I ever thought church-muſick the moſt raviſhing of all harmonious compoſitions, and muſt alſo believe ſacred ſubjects, well handled, the moſt inſpiring of all Poetry.

But where hangs the Lock now? (tho' I know that rather than draw any juſt re⯑flection upon your ſelf, of the leaſt ſhadow of ill-nature, you would freely have ſup⯑preſt one of the beſt of Poems.) I hear no more of it—will it comee out in Lintot's [21] Miſcellany or not? I wrote to Lord Petre upon the ſubject of the Lock, ſome time ſince, but have as yet had no anſwer, nor indeed do I know when he'll be in Lon⯑don. I have ſince I ſaw you correſpond⯑ed with Mrs. W. I hope ſhe is now with her Aunt, and that her journey thither was ſomething facilitated by my writing to that Lady as preſſingly as poſſible, not to let any thing whatſoever obſtruct it. I ſent her obliging anſwer to the party it moſt concern'd; and when I hear Mrs. W. is certainly there, I will write again to my Lady, to urge as much as poſſible the ef⯑fecting the only thing that in my opinion can make her Niece eaſy. I have run out my extent of paper, and am,

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

IT is not only the diſpoſition I always have of converſing with you, that makes me ſo ſpeedily anſwer your oblig⯑ing letter, but the apprehenſion leſt your charitable intent of writing to my Lady A. [22] on Mrs. W's affair ſhould be fruſtrated, by the ſhort ſtay ſhe makes there. She went thither on the 25th with that mixture of expectation and anxiety, with which peo⯑ple uſually go into unknown or half-diſ⯑cover'd countries, utterly ignorant of the diſpoſitions of the inhabitants, and the treatment they are to meet with. The Unfortunate of all people are the moſt un⯑fit to be left alone; yet we ſee the world generally takes care they ſhall be ſo. Where⯑as if we took a conſiderate proſpect of human nature, the buſineſs and ſtudy of the happy and eaſy ſhou'd be to divert and humour, as well as comfort and pity, the diſtreſſed. I cannot therefore excuſe ſome near Allies of mine for their conduct of late towards this Lady, which has given me a great deal of anger as well as ſorrow. All I ſhall ſay to you of 'em at preſent is, that they have not been my relations theſe two months: The conſent of opinions in our minds is certainly a nearer tye than can be contracted by all the blood in our bodies; and I am proud of finding I have ſomething congenial with you. Will you permit me to confeſs to you, that all the favours and kind offices you have ſhown towards Me, have not ſo ſtrongly cement⯑ed me yours, as the diſcovery of that ge⯑nerous and manly compaſſion you mani⯑feſted [23] in the caſe of this unhappy Lady? I am afraid to inſinuate to you how much I eſteem you: Flatterers have taken up the ſtyle which was once peculiar to friends, and an honeſt man has now no way left to expreſs himſelf, beſides the common one of knaves: So that true friends now-a-days differ in their addreſs from flatterers, much as right maſtiffs do from ſp [...]niels, and ſhow themſelves by a dumb ſurly ſort of fidelity, rather than by their complaiſant and open kindneſs.—Will you never leave commending my Poetry? In fair truth, Sir, I like it but too well myſelf already—Expoſe me no more, I beg you, to the great danger of Vanity, (the rock of all men, but moſt of young men) and be kindly content for the future, when you wou'd pleaſe me throughly, to ſay only you like what I write.

Mr. STEELE to Mr. POPE.

I AM at a ſolitude, an houſe between Hampſtead and London wherein Sir Charles Sedley died. This circumſtance ſet [24] me a thinking and ruminating upon the employments in which Men of wit exer⯑ciſe themſelves. It was ſaid of Sir Charles, who breath'd his laſt in this room,

This was an happy talent to a man of the Town, but I dare ſay, without preſuming to make uncharitable conjectures on the author's preſent condition, he would ra⯑ther have had it ſaid of him that he had pray'd,

I have turn'd to every verſe and chap⯑ter, and think you have preſerv'd the ſub⯑lime heavenly ſpirit throughout the whole, eſpecially at—Hark a glad voice—and—The lamb with wolves ſhall graze—There is but one line which I think below the original,

You have expreſs'd it with a good and pious, but not with ſo exalted and poetical a ſpirit as the prophet. The Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces. If you agree with me in this, alter it by way of paraphraſe or otherwiſe, that when it comes into a volume it may be amended. Your Poem is already better than the Pollio. I am,

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

YOU have oblig'd me with a very kind letter, by which I find you ſhift the ſeene of your life from the town to the country, and enjoy that mix'd ſtate which wiſe men both delight in, and are quali⯑fy'd for. Methinks the Moraliſts and Phi⯑loſophers have generally run too much into extremes in commending intirely either ſolitude, or publick life. In the former, men for the moſt part grow uſeleſs by too much reſt, and in the latter are deſtroy'd by too much precipitation; as waters lying ſtill, putrify and are good for nothing, and [26] running violently on do but the more miſchief in their paſſage to others, and are ſwallow'd up and loſt the ſooner themſelves. Thoſe indeed who can be uſeful to all ſtates, ſhould be like gentle ſtreams, that not only glide thro' lonely valleys and foreſts amidſt the flocks and the ſhepherds, but viſit populous towns in their courſe, and are at once of ornament and ſervice to them. But there are another ſort of people who ſeem deſign'd for ſoli⯑tude, ſuch I mean as have more to hide than to ſhow: As for my own part, I am one of thoſe of whom Seneca ſays, Tam umbratiles ſunt, ut putent in turbido eſſe quic⯑quid in luce eſt. Some men like ſome pic⯑tures, are fitter for a corner than a full light; and I believe ſuch as have a natural bent to ſolitude (to carry on the former ſimilitude) are like waters which may be forc'd into fountains and exalted into a great height, may make a noble figure and a louder noiſe, but after all they would run more ſmoothly, quietly and plentiful⯑ly, in their own natural courſe upon the ground. The conſideration of this would ⁸ [27] make me very well contented with the poſſeſſion only of that Quiet which Cowley calls the Companion of obſcurity. But who⯑ever has the Muſes too for his companions, can never be idle enough to be uneaſy. Thus Sir, you ſee I would flatter myſelf into a good opinion of my own way of living. Plutarch juſt now told me, that 'tis in hu⯑man life as in a game at tables, where a man may wiſh for the higheſt caſt, but if his chance be otherwiſe, he is even to play it as well as he can, and to make the beſt of it. I am,

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

YOU formerly obſerv'd to me, that nothing made a more ridiculous figure in a man's life, than the diſparity we often find in him ſick and well: Thus one of an unfortunate conſtitution is perpetually exhibiting a miſerable example of the weak⯑neſs of his mind, and of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent opportunities of late to conſider myſelf in theſe diffe⯑rent views, and I hope have receiv'd ſome [28] advantage by it, if what Mr. Waller ſays be true, that

Then ſurely ſickneſs, contributing no leſs than old age to the ſhaking down this ſcaffolding of the body, may diſcover the inward ſtructure more plainly. Sickneſs is a ſort of early old age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly ſtate, and inſpires us with the thoughts of a future, better than a thouſand volumes of philoſophers and divines. It gives ſo warning a con⯑cuſſion to thoſe props of our vanity, our ſtrength and youth, that we think of for⯑tifying ourſelves within, when there is ſo little dependance upon our out-works. Youth at the very beſt is but a betrayer of human life in a gentler and ſmoother manner than age: 'Tis like a ſtream that nouriſhes a plant upon a bank, and cauſes it to flouriſh and bloſſom to the ſight, but at the ſame time is undermining it at the root in ſecret. My youth has dealt more fairly and openly with me, it has afforded ſeveral Proſpects of my danger, and given me an advantage not very common to young men, that the attractions of the [29] world have nor dazzled me very much; and I begin where moſt people end, with a full conviction of the emptineſs of all ſorts of ambition, and the unſatisfactory nature of all human pleaſures. When a ſmart fit of ſickneſs tells me this ſcurvy tenement of my body will fall in a little time, I am e'en as unconcern'd as was that honeſt Hibernian, who being in bed in the great ſtorm ſome years ago, and told the houſe would tumble over his head, made anſwer, What care I for the houſe? I am only a lodger. I fancy 'tis the beſt time to die when one is in the beſt hu⯑mour, and ſo exceſſively weak as I now am I may ſay with conſcience, that I am not at all uneaſy at the thought that ma⯑ny men whom I never had any eſteem for, are likely to enjoy this world after me. When I reflect what an inconſiderable little atome every ſingle man is, with reſpect to the whole creation, methinks 'tis a ſhame to be concern'd at the removal of ſuch a trivial animal as I am. The morning af⯑ter my Exit, the ſun will riſe as bright as ever, the flowers ſmell as ſweet, the plants ſpring as green, the world will proceed in its old courſe, people will laugh as hear⯑tily, and marry as faſt as they were us'd to do. The memory of man, (as it is ele⯑gantly expreſs'd in the wiſdom of Solomon) [30] paſſeth away as the remembrance of a gueſt that tarrieth but one day. There are rea⯑ſons enough, in the fourth chapter of the ſame book, to make any young man con⯑tented with the proſpect of death. For ho⯑nourable age is not that which ſtandeth in length of time, or is meaſured by number of years. But wiſdom is the gray hair to men, and an unſpotted life is old age. He was taken away ſpeedily, leſt wickedneſs ſhould alter his underſtanding, or deceit beguile his ſoul, &c. I am

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

I Was the other day in company with five or ſix men of ſome learning; where chancing to mention the famous verſes which the Emperor Adrian ſpoke on his death⯑bed, they were all agreed that 'twas a piece of Gaiety unworthy of that Prince in thoſe circumſtances. I could not but differ from this opinion: Methinks it was by no means a gay, but a very ſerious ſo⯑liloquy to his ſoul at the point of his de⯑parture; in which ſenſe I naturally took [31] the verſes at my firſt reading them when I was very young, and before I knew what interpretation the world generally put up⯑on them.

‘"Alas, my ſoul! thou pleaſing companion of this body, thou fleeting thing that art now deſerting it! whither art thou fly⯑ing? to what unknown Scene? all trem⯑bling, fearful, and penſive. Now what is become of thy former wit and humour? thou ſhalt jeſt and be gay no more."’

I confeſs I cannot apprehend where lies the trifling in all this? 'Tis the moſt natu⯑ral and obvious reflection imaginable to a dying man: and if we conſider the Empe⯑ror was a heathen, that doubt concern⯑ing the future fate of his ſoul will ſeem ſo far from being the effect of want of thought, that 'twas ſcarce reaſonable he ſhould think otherwiſe; not to mention that here is a plain confeſſion included of his belief in its immortality. The dimi⯑nutive epithets of vagula, blandula, and the [32] reſt, appear not to me as expreſſions of levity, but rather of endearment and con⯑cern; ſuch as we find in Catullus, and the authors of Hendeca-ſyllabi after him, where they are uſed to expreſs the utmoſt love and tenderneſs for their miſtreſſes.—If you think me right in my notion of the laſt words of Adrian, be pleaſed to inſert it in the Specta⯑tor, if not, to ſuppreſs it. I am

Mr. STEELE to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE read over your Temple of Fame twice, and cannot find any thing amiſs of weight enough to call a fault, but ſee in it a thouſand thouſand beauties. Mr. Addiſon ſhall ſee it to morrow: After his peruſal of it, I will let you know his thoughts. I deſire you would let me know whether you are at leiſure or not? I have a deſign which I ſhall open a month or two hence, with the aſſiſtance of the few like yourſelf. If your thoughts are unengaged, I ſhall explain myſelf further. I am

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

YOU oblige me by the indulgence you have ſhewn the Poem I ſent you, but will oblige me much more by the kind ſeve⯑rity I hope for from you. No errors are ſo trivial, but they deſerve to be mended; [34] but ſince you ſay you ſee nothing that may be call'd a fault, can you but think it ſo, that I have confined the attendance of ^*Guardian ſpirits to Heaven's favourites on⯑ly? I could point you to ſeveral, but 'tis my buſineſs to be informed of thoſe faults I do not know, and as for thoſe I do, not to talk of 'em, but to correct 'em. You ſpeak of that Poem in a ſtyle I neither merit, nor expect; but I aſſure you, if you freely mark or daſh out, I ſhall look upon your blots to be its greateſt beauties. I mean, if Mr. Addiſon and yourſelf ſhou'd like it in the whole; otherwiſe the trou⯑ble of correction is what I would not take, for I was really ſo diffident of it, as to let it lie by me theſe ^†two years, juſt as you now ſee it. I am afraid of nothing ſo much as to impoſe any thing on the world which is unworthy of its acceptance.

As to the laſt period of your letter, I ſhall be very ready and glad to contribute to any deſign that tends to the advantage of mankind, which I am ſure all yours do. I wiſh I had but as much capacity as leiſure, for I am perfectly idle: (a ſign I have not much capacity.)

[35] If you will entertain the beſt opinion of me, be pleaſed to think me your friend. Aſſure Mr. Addiſon of my moſt faithful ſervice, of every one's eſteem he muſt be aſſur'd already. I am

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

I AM ſorry you publiſh'd that notion about Adrian's Verſes as mine; ſhad I imagin'd you wou'd uſe my name, I ſhou'd have expreſs'd my ſentiments with more modeſty and diffidence. I only ſent it to have your opinion, and not to publiſh my own, which I diſtruſted. But I think the ſuppoſition you draw from the notion of Adrian's being addicted to Magick, is a little uncharitable, ‘("that he might fear no ſort of Deity, good or bad")’ ſince in the third verſe he plainly teſtifies his apprehen⯑ſion of a future ſtate, by being ſollicitous whither his ſoul was going? As to what you mention of his uſing gay and ludicrous expreſſions, I have owned my opinion to be that the expreſſions are not ſo, but [36] that diminutives are often in the Latin tongue uſed as marks of tenderneſs and concern.

Anima is no more than my ſoul, Ani⯑mula has the force of my dear ſoul. To ſay Virgo Bella is not half ſo endearing as Virguncula Bellula, and had Auguſtus only call'd Horace Lepidum Hominem, it had amounted to no more than that he thought him a pleaſant fellow: 'Twas the Homun⯑ciolum that expreſt the love and tenderneſs that great Emperor had for him. And per⯑haps I ſhould myſelf be much better pleas'd, if I were told you call'd me your little friend, than if you complimented me with the Title of a great Genius, or an Eminent hand (as Jacob does all his authors.) I am

Mr. POPE to . . . . . . . .

YOU have at length comply'd with the requeſt I have often made you, for you have ſhown me, I muſt confeſs, ſeveral of my faults in the ſight of thoſe letters. Upon a review of them, I find [37] many things that would give me ſhame, if I were not more deſirous to be thought honeſt than prudent: ſo many things freely thrown out, ſuch lengths of unreſerv'd friendſhip, thoughts juſt warm from the brain, without any poliſhing or dreſs, the very diſhabille of the underſtanding. You have prov'd yourſelf more tender of an⯑other's embryo's than the fondeſt mothers are of their own, for you have preſerv'd every thing that I miſcarry'd of. Since I know this, I ſhall in one reſpect be more afraid of writing to you than ever, at this careleſs rate, becauſe I ſee my evil works may again riſe in judgment againſt me: Yet in another reſpect I ſhall be leſs afraid, ſince this has given me ſuch a proof of the extreme indulgence you afford to my ſlighteſt thoughts. The reviſal of theſe let⯑ters has been a kind of examination of conſcience to me; ſo fairly and faithfully have I ſet down in 'em from time to time the true and undiſtinguiſh'd ſtate of my mind. But I find that theſe, which were intended as sketches of my friendſhip, give as imperfect images of it, as the little landſcapes we commonly ſee in black and white, do of a beautiful country; they can repreſent but a very ſmall part of it, and that depriv'd of the life and luſtre of nature. I perceive that the more I en⯑deavour'd [38] to render manifeſt the real affe⯑ction and value I ever had for you, I did but injure it by repreſenting leſs and leſs of it: as glaſſes which are deſign'd to make an object very clear, generally contract it. Yet as when people have a full idea of a thing, firſt, upon their own knowledge, the leaſt traces of it ſerve to refreſh the remembrance, and are not diſ⯑pleaſing on that ſcore: So I hope the fore⯑knowledge you had of my eſteem for you, is the reaſon that you do not diſlike my letters.

They will not be of any great ſervice (I find) in the deſign I mentioned to you: I believe I had better ſteal from a richer man, and plunder your letters, (which I have kept as carefully as I would Letters Patents, ſince they intitle me to what I more value than titles of honour.) You have ſome cauſe to apprehend this uſage from me, if what ſome ſay be true, that I am a great Borrower; however I have hitherto had the luck that none of my creditors have challeng'd me for it: and thoſe who ſay it are ſuch, whoſe writings no man ever borrow'd from, ſo have the leaſt reaſon to complain: Their works are granted on all hands to be but too much their own.—Another has been pleaſed to declare, that my Verſes are corrected by [39] other men: I verily believe theirs were ne⯑ver corrected by any man: But indeed, if mine have not, 'twas not my fault, I have endeavoured my utmoſt that they ſhould. But theſe things are only whiſpher'd, and I will not encroach upon Bays's province and pen Whiſpers, ſo haſten to conclude

Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL to Mr. POPE.

I Think a haſty ſcribble ſhows more what flows from the heart, than a let⯑ter after Balzac's manner in ſtudied phra⯑ſes; therefore I will tell you as faſt as I can, that I have received your favour of the 26th paſt, with your kind preſent of The Rape of the Lock. You have given me the trueſt ſatisfaction imaginable, not only in making good the juſt opinion I have ever had of your reach of thought, and my Idea of your comprehenſive genius; but likewiſe in that pleaſure I take as an Eng⯑gliſh Man to ſee the French, even Boileau himſelf in his Lutrin, outdone in your Poem: For you deſcend, leviore plectro, to all the nicer [40] touches, that your own obſervation and wit furniſh, on ſuch a ſubject as requires the fineſt ſtrokes, and the livelieſt imagination. But I muſt ſay no more (tho' I could a great deal) on what pleaſes me ſo much: and henceforth I hope you will never con⯑demn me of partiality, ſince I only ſwim with the ſtream, and approve what all men of good taſte (notwithſtanding the jarring of Parties) muſt and do univerſally ap⯑plaud. I now come to what is of vaſt mo⯑ment, I mean the preſervation of your health, and beg of you earneſtly to get out of all Tavern-company, and fly away tan⯑quam ex incendio. What a miſery it is for you to be deſtroyed by the fooliſh kindneſs ('tis all one whether real or pretended) of thoſe who are able to bear the Poiſon of bad Wine, and to engage you in ſo unequal a combat? As to Homer, by all I can learn your buſineſs is done; therefore come away and take a little time to breathe in the coun⯑try. I beg now for my own ſake, but much more for yours; methinks Mr. [...] has ſaid to you more than once,

Mr. POPE to Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL.

THough any thing you write is ſure to be a pleaſure to me, yet I muſt own your laſt letter made me uneaſy: You real⯑ly uſe a ſtyle of compliment, which I ex⯑pect as little as I deſerve it. I know 'tis a common opinion that a young ſcribler is as ill pleas'd to hear truth of a young Lady. From the moment one ſets up for an author, one muſt be treated as ceremoniouſly, that it is, as unfaithfully,

This proceeding, join'd to that natural va⯑nity which firſt makes a man an author, is certainly enough to render him a cox⯑comb for life. But I muſt grant it is but a juſt judgment upon Poets, that they whoſe chief pretence is Wit, ſhou'd be treated juſt as they themſelves treat Fools, that is, be cajol'd with praiſes. And I believe, Poets are the only poor fellows in the world whom any body will flatter.

[42] I would not be thought to ſay this, as if the obliging letter you ſent me deſerv'd this imputation, only it put me in mind of it; and I fancy one may apply to one's friend what Caeſar ſaid of his Wife. It was not ſufficient that he knew her to be chaſt, himſelf, but ſhe ſhou'd not be ſo much as ſuſpected by others.

As to the wonderful diſcoveries, and all the good news you are pleas'd to tell me of myſelf; I treat it as you who are in the Secret treat common news, groundleſs reports of things at a diſtance, which I who look into the true ſprings of the affair at home, in my own breaſt, know to have no foundation at all. For Fame tho' it be as Milton finely calls it, The laſt Infirmity of noble Minds, is ſcarce ſo ſtrong a temp⯑tation as to warrant our loſs of time here: It can never make us lie down contentedly on a death-bed (as ſome of the ancients are ſaid to have done with that thought.) You, Sir, have yourſelf taught me, that an eaſy ſituation at that hour, can proceed from no ambition leſs noble than that of an eternal felicity, which is unattainable by the ſtrongeſt endeavours of the Wit, but may be gain'd by the ſincere intentions of the Heart only. As in the next world, ſo in this, the only ſolid bleſſings are owing to the goodneſs of the mind, not the ex⯑tent [43] of the capacity: Friendſhip here is an emanation from the ſame ſource as Beati⯑tude there: the ſame benevolence and grate⯑ful diſpoſition that qualifies us for the one, if extended farther, makes us partakers of the other. The utmoſt point of my de⯑ſires in my preſent ſtate terminates in the ſociety and good-will of worthy men, which I look upon as no ill earneſt and fore-taſte of the ſociety and alliance of happy ſouls hereafter.

The continuance of your favours to me is what not only makes me happy; but cauſes me to ſet ſome value upon myſelf as a part of your care. The inſtances I daily meet with of theſe agreeable awake⯑nings of friendſhip, are of too pleaſing a nature not to be acknowledged whenever I think of you. I am,

To the ſame.

I Have been almoſt every day employ'd in following your advice, and amuſing my⯑ſelf in Painting, in which I am moſt parti⯑cularly [44] obliged to Mr. Jervas, who gives me daily inſtructions and examples. As to poeti⯑cal affairs, I am content at preſent to be a bare looker-on, and from a practitioner turn an admirer, which is (as the world goes) not very uſual. Cato was not ſo much the wonder of Rome in his days, as he is of Britain in ours; and tho' all the fooliſh induſtry poſſible has been uſed to make it thought a Party-play, yet what the au⯑thor once ſaid of another may the moſt properly in the world be apply'd to him, on this occaſion.:

The numerous and violent claps of the Whig-party on the one ſide of the theatre, were echo'd back by the Tories on the other; while the Author ſweated behind the ſcenes with concern, to find their applauſe proceeding more from the hand than the head. This was the caſe too of the Prologue-writer, who was clapp'd into a ſtanch Whig, at almoſt ev'ry two lines. I believe you have heard, that after all the applauſes of the oppoſite Faction, my Lord Bolingbroke ſent for Booth who play'd Cato, into the box, [45] between one of the acts, and preſented him with fifty guineas; in acknowledgment (as he expreſt it) for defending the cauſe of Liberty ſo well againſt a Perpetual Dic⯑tator. The Whigs are unwilling to be diſtanc'd this way, (as 'tis ſaid) and there⯑fore deſign a preſent to the ſame Cato very ſpeedily; in the mean time they are get⯑ting ready as good a Sentence as the for⯑mer on their ſide: So betwixt them, 'tis probable that Cato (as Dr. Garth expreſt it) may have ſomething to live upon, after he dies. I am

Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON.

I AM more joy'd at your return than I ſhould be at that of the Sun, ſo much as I wiſh for him this melancholy wet ſeaſon; but 'tis his fate too, like yours, to be diſpleaſing to Owls and obſcene animals, who cannot bear his luſtre. What put me in mind of theſe night-birds was John Dennis, whom I think you are beſt re⯑veng'd upon, as the Sun was in the fable [46] upon thoſe batts and beaſtly birds above⯑mention'd, only by Shining on. I am ſo far from eſteeming it any misfortune, that I congratulate you upon having your ſhare in that, which all the great men and all the good men that ever liv'd have had their part of, Envy and Calumny. To be uncenſur'd, and to be obſcure, is the ſame thing. You may conclude from what I here ſay, that 'twas never in my thoughts to have offer'd you my pen in any direct reply to ſuch a Critic, but only in ſome little raillery; not in defence of you, but in contempt of him.^* But indeed your opinion, that 'tis intirely to be neglected, would have been my own, had it been my own caſe: but I felt more warmth here than I did when firſt I ſaw his book a⯑gainſt myſelf, (tho' indeed in two minutes it made me heartily merry.) He has written againſt every thing the world has approv'd theſe many years: I apprehend but one danger from Dennis's diſliking our ſenſe, that it may make us think ſo very well of it, as to become proud and conceited, upon his diſapprobation.

[47] I muſt not here omit to do juſtice to Mr. [...], whoſe zeal in your concern is worthy a friend, and honourer of you. He writ to me in the moſt preſſing terms about it, tho' with that juſt contempt of the Cri⯑tic that he deſerves. I think in theſe days one honeſt man is oblig'd to acquaint an⯑other who are his friends; when ſo many miſchievous inſects are daily at work to make people of merit ſuſpicious of each other; that they may have the ſatisfaction of ſeeing them look'd upon no better than themſelves. I am

Mr. ADDISON to Mr. POPE.

I Was extreamly glad to receive a letter from you, but more ſo upon reading the contents of it. The ^*Work you men⯑tion will I dare ſay very ſufficiently recom⯑mend itſelf, when your name appears with the Propoſals: And if you think I can any way contribute to the forwarding of them, [48] you cannot lay a greater obligation upon me, than by employing me in ſuch an of⯑fice. As I have an ambition of having it known that you are my Friend, I ſhall be very proud of ſhowing it by this, or any other inſtance. I queſtion not but your Tranſlation will enrich our Tongue and do Honour to our Country: for I conclude of it already from thoſe performances with which you have obliged the publick. I would only have you conſider how it may moſt turn to your advantage. Excuſe my impertinence in this particular, which pro⯑ceeds from my zeal for your eaſe and hap⯑pineſs. The work wou'd coſt you a great deal of time, and unleſs you undertake it will I am afraid never be executed by any other, at leaſt I know none of this age that is equal to it beſides yourſelf.

I am at preſent wholly immerſed in coun⯑try buſineſs, and begin to take delight in it. I wiſh I might hope to ſee you here ſome⯑time, and will not deſpair of it, when you engage in a work that will require ſolitude and retirement. I am

Mr. ADDISON to Mr. POPE.

I Have receiv'd your letter, and am glad to find that you have laid ſo good a ſcheme for your great undertaking. I queſtion not but the Proſe will require as much care as the Poetry, but the variety will give your ſelf ſome relief, and more pleaſure to your readers.

You gave me leave once to take the liber⯑ty of a friend, in adviſing you not to con⯑tent your ſelf with one half of the Nation for your Admirers, when you might com⯑mand them all: If I might take the freedom to repeat it, I would on this occaſion. I think you are very happy that you are out of the Fray, and I hope all your undertak⯑ings will turn to the better account for it.

You ſee how I preſume on your friendſhip in taking all this freedom with you, but I already fancy that we have lived many years together, in an unreſerved converſation, and that we may do many more, is the ſin⯑cere wiſh of

Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON.

YOUR laſt is the more obliging, as it hints at ſome little niceties in my con⯑duct, which your candor and affection prompt you to recommend to me, and which (ſo trivial as things of this nature ſeem) are yet of no ſlight conſequence, to people whom every body talks of, and every body as he pleaſes. 'Tis a ſort of Tax that attends an eſtate in Parnaſſus, which is often rated much higher than in proportion to the ſmall poſſeſſion an author holds. For indeed an author who is once come upon the town, is enjoy'd without being thanked for the plea⯑ſure, and ſometimes ill-treated by thoſe very perſons that firſt debauch'd him. Yet to tell you the bottom of my heart, I am no way diſpleas'd that I have offended the violent of all Parties already; and at the ſame time I aſſure you conſcientiouſly, I feel not the leaſt malevolence or reſentment againſt any of thoſe who miſrepreſent me, or are diſſatisfied with me. This frame of mind is ſo eaſy, that I am perfectly content with my condition.

[51] As I hope and would flatter myſelf, that you know me and my thoughts ſo entirely as never to be miſtaken in either, ſo 'tis a pleaſure to me that you gueſs'd ſo right in regard to the Author of that Guardian you mentioned. But I am ſorry to find it has taken air that I have ſome hand in thoſe Papers, becauſe I write ſo very few as neither to deſerve the credit of ſuch a report with ſome people, nor the diſrepute of it with others. An honeſt Jacobite ſpoke to me the ſenſe or non⯑ſenſe of the weak part of his Party ve⯑ry fairly, that the good people took it ill of me, that I writ with Steele, tho' upon never ſo indifferent ſubjects—This I know you will laugh at as well as I do: yet I doubt not but many little ca⯑lumniators and perſons of ſower diſpoſi⯑tions will take occaſion hence to beſpatter me. I confeſs I ſcorn narrow ſouls, of all parties, and if I renounce my reaſon in religious matters, I'll hardly do it in any other.

I can't imagine whence it comes to paſs that the few Guardians I have written are ſo generally known for mine: that in par⯑ticular which you mention I never diſco⯑vered to any man but the publiſher, till ve⯑ry lately: yet almoſt every body I met told me of it.

[52] The true reaſon that Mr. Steele laid down the Paper, was a quarrel between him and Jacob Tonſon. He ſtood engaged to his bookſeller, in articles of penalty, for all the Guardians; and by deſiſting two days and altering the title of the paper to that of the Engliſhman, was quit of his obliga⯑tion: theſe papers being printed by Buck⯑ley.

As to his taking a more Politick turn, I cannot any way enter into that ſecret, nor have I been let into it, any more than into the reſt of his politicks. Tho' 'tis ſaid, he will take into theſe papers alſo ſeveral ſub⯑jects of the politick kind, as before: But I aſſure you as to myſelf, I have quite done with 'em, for the future. The little I have done, and the great reſpect I bear Mr. Steele as a Man of Wit, has rendered me a ſuſpected Whig to ſome of the Violent, but (as old Dryden ſaid before me) 'Tis not the Violent I deſign to pleaſe.

I generally employ the mornings in paint⯑ing with Mr. Jervas ^*; and the evenings in the converſation of ſuch, as I think can moſt improve my mind, of whatever Party or Denomination they are. I ever muſt ſet the higheſt value upon men of truly great, [53] that is honeſt Principles, with equal capa⯑cities. The beſt way I know of overco⯑ming Calumny and Miſconſtruction, is by a vigorous perſeverance in every thing we know to be right, and a total neglect of all that can enſue from it. 'Tis partly from this maxim that I depend upon your friendſhip, becauſe I believe it will do ju⯑ſtice to my intention in every thing; and give me leave to tell you, that (as the world goes) this is no ſmall aſſurance I repoſe in you. I am

To the ſame.

I Have been lying in wait for my own imagination, this week and more, and watching what thoughts came up in the whirl of the fancy, that were worth communicating to you in a letter. But I am at length convinc'd that my rambling head can produce nothing of that ſort; ſo I muſt e'en be contented with telling you the old ſtory, that I love you heartily. I have often found by experience, that na⯑ture [54] and truth, tho' never ſo low or vul⯑gar, are yet pleaſing when openly and artleſsly repreſented; it would be divert⯑ing to me, to read the very letters of an infant, could it write its innocent in⯑conſiſtencies and tautologies juſt as it thought 'em. This makes me hope a let⯑ter from me will not be unwelcome to you, when I am conſcious I write with more unreſervedneſs than ever man wrote, or perhaps talk'd to another. I truſt your good nature with the whole range of my follies, and really love you ſo well, that I would rather you ſhould pardon me than eſteem me, ſince one is an act of goodneſs and benevolence, the other a kind of con⯑ſtrained deference.

You can't wonder my thoughts are ſcarce conſiſtent, when I tell you how they are diſtracted. Ev'ry hour of my life, my mind is ſtrangely divided; this minute perhaps I am above the ſtars, with a thouſand ſy⯑ſtems round about me, looking forward into a vaſt Abyſs, and loſing my whole comprehenſion in the boundleſs ſpace of creation, in dialogues with W [...] and the Aſtronomers; the next moment I am below all trifles, groveling with T [...] in the very center of nonſenſe. Now I am recreated with the brisk ſallies and quick turns of wit, which Mr. Steele in his livelieſt [55] and freeſt humours darts about him; and now levelling my application to the inſig⯑nificant obſervations and quirks of Grammar of Mr. [...] and D [...]

Good God! What an incongruous ani⯑mal is Man? how unſettled is his beſt part, his Soul; and how changing and variable in his frame of Body? The conſtancy of the one ſhook by every Notion, the tempe⯑rament of the other affected by every blaſt of wind! What is man altogether, but one mighty Inconſiſtency! Sickneſs and Pain is the lot of one half of us; Doubt and Fear the portion of the other! What a buſtle we make about paſſing our time, when all our ſpace is but a point? What aims and am⯑bitions are crowded into this little inſtant of our life, which (as Shakeſpear finely words it) is Rounded with a Sleep? Our whole extent of Being no more, in the eyes of him who gave it, than a ſcarce perceptible moment of duration. Thoſe animals whoſe circle of living is limited to three or four hours, as the Naturaliſts aſſure us, are yet as long-lived and poſſeſs as wide a ſcene of action as man, if we conſider him with an eye to all Space, and all Eternity. Who knows what plots, what atchievements a mite may perform in his kingdom of a grain of duſt, within his l [...]e of ſome minutes? and of how much leſs [56] conſideration than even this, is the life of man in the ſight of that God, who is from Ever, and for Ever!

Who that thinks in this train, but muſt ſee the world and its contemptible gran⯑deurs leſſen before him at every thought? 'Tis enough to make one remain ſtupify'd, in a poize of inaction, void of all deſires, of all deſigns, of all friendſhips.

But we muſt return (thro' our very con⯑dition of being) to our narrow ſelves, and thoſe things that affect our ſelves: our paſ⯑ſions, our intereſts, flow in upon us, and unphiloſophize us into meer mortals. For my part, I never return ſo much into my⯑ſelf, as when I think of you, whoſe friend⯑ſhip is one of the beſt comforts I have for the inſignificancy of myſelf. I am

To the ſame.

YOur letter found me very buſy in my grand undertaking, to which I muſt wholly give myſelf up for ſome time, un⯑leſs when I ſnatch an hour to pleaſe my⯑ſelf with a diſtant converſation with you [57] and a few others, by writing. 'Tis no com⯑fortable proſpect to be reflecting, that ſo long a ſiege as that of Troy lies upon my hands, and the campagne above half over, before I have made any progreſs. Indeed the Greek fortification upon a nearer ap⯑proach does not appear ſo formidable as it did, and I am almoſt apt to flotter myſelf, that Homer ſecretly ſeems inclined to a cor⯑reſpondence with me, in letting me into a good part of his intentions. There are indeed, a ſort of underling auxiliars to the difficulty of a work, called Commentators and Critics, who wou'd frighten many peo⯑ple by their number and bulk, and perplex our progreſs under pretence of fortifying their author. Theſe lie very low in the trenches and ditches they themſelves have digged, encompaſſed with dirt of their own heaping up, but I think there may be found a method of coming at the main works by a more ſpeedy and gallant way than by mining under ground, that is, by uſing the Poetical Engines, Wings, and fly⯑ing over their heads.

While I am engag'd in the fight, I find you are concern'd how I ſhall be paid, and are ſollicitous that I may not have the ill fate of many diſcarded Generals, to be firſt envy'd and malign'd, then perhaps prais'd, and laſtly neglected. The former (the [58] conſtant attendant upon all great and lau⯑dable enterprizes) I have already experi⯑enc'd. Some have ſaid I am not a Maſter in the Greek, who either are ſo themſelves or are not: If they are not, they can't tell; and if they are, they can't without having catechized me. But if they can read (for I know ſome Critics can, and others cannot) there are fairly lying be⯑fore them, ſome ſpecimens of my tran⯑ſlation from this Author in the Miſcel⯑lanies, which they are heartily welcome to. I have met with as much malignity another way, ſome calling me a Tory, becauſe the heads of that party have been diſtinguiſhingly favourable to me; ſome a Whig, becauſe I have been favoured with yours, Mr. Congreve's, and Mr. Craggs his friendſhip, and of late with my Lord Hal⯑lifax's Patronage. How much more natu⯑ral a concluſion might be formed, by any good-natur'd man, that a perſon who has been well uſed by all ſides, has been offen⯑ſive to none. This miſerable age is ſo ſunk between animoſities of Party and thoſe of Religion, that I begin to fear, moſt men have politicks enough to make (thro' vio⯑lence) the beſt Scheme of Government a bad one; and faith enough to hinder their own Salvation. I hope for my own part, never to have more of either than is con⯑ſiſtent [59] with common juſtice and charity, and always as much as becomes a chriſtian and honeſt man. Tho' I find it an unfortunate thing to be bred a Papiſt here, where one is obnoxious to four parts in five as being ſo too much, and to the fifth part as being ſo too little; I ſhall yet be eaſy under both their miſtakes, and be what I more than ſeem to be, for I ſuffer for it. God is my witneſs, that I no more envy you Proteſtants your places and poſſeſſions, than I do our Prieſts their charity or learning. I am am⯑bitious of nothing but the good opinion of good men, on both ſides; for I know that one virtue of a free ſpirit is more worth, than all the virtues put together of all the narrow-ſoul'd people in the world. I am

The Reverend Dean BERKLEY to Mr. POPE.

AS I take Ingratitude to be a greater crime than Impertinence, I chuſe ra⯑ther to run the riſque of being thought guilty of the latter, than not to return [60] you my thanks for a very agreeable enter⯑tainment you juſt now gave me. I have accidentally met with your Rape of the Lock here, having never ſeen it before. Style, Painting, Judgment, Spirit, I had al⯑ready admired in others of your Writings; but in this I am charmed with the magic of your Invention, with all thoſe images, alluſions, and inexplicable beauties, which you raiſe ſo ſurprizingly, and at the ſame time ſo naturally, out of a trifle. And yet I cannot ſay that I was more pleaſed with the reading of it, than I am with the pretext it gives me to renew in your thoughts the remembrance of one who values no happi⯑neſs beyond the friendſhip of men of wit, learning and good nature.

I remember to have heard you mention ſome half-formed deſign of coming to Italy. What might we not expect from a Muſe that ſings ſo well in the bleak climate of England, if ſhe felt the ſame warm Sun, and breath'd the ſame Air with Virgil and Horace?

There are here an incredible number of Poets, that have all the inclination but want the genius, or perhaps the art, of the Ancients. Some among them who un⯑derſtand Engliſh, begin to reliſh our Au⯑thors; and I am informed that at Florence they have tranſlated Milton into Italian [61] Verſe. If one who knows ſo well how to write like the old Latin Poets, came among them, it wou'd probably be a means to re⯑trieve them from their cold, trivial conceits, to an imitation of their Predeceſſors.

As Merchants, Antiquaries, Men of Plea⯑ſure, &c. have all different views in travel⯑ling; I know not whether it might not be worth a Poet's while, to travel, in order to ſtore his mind with ſtrong Images of Nature.

Green fields and groves, flow'ry meadows and purling ſtreams, are no where in ſuch perfection as in England: But if you wou'd know lightſome days, warm ſuns, and blue skies, you muſt come to Italy; and to enable a man to deſcribe rocks and precipices, it is abſolutely neceſſary that he paſs the Alps.

You will eaſily perceive that it is ſelf-in⯑tereſt makes me ſo fond of giving advice to one who has no need of it. If you came into theſe parts, I ſhou'd fly to ſee you. I am here (by the favour of my good friend the Dean of St. Patrick's) in quality of Chaplain to the Earl of Peterborough; who about three months ſince left the greateſt part of his family in this town. God knows how long we ſhall ſtay here. I am

Mr. POPE to the Honour⯑able . . . . . . . .

THE Queſtion you ask in relation to Mr. Ad [...] and Philips, I ſhall an⯑ſwer in a few words. Mr. Philips did ex⯑preſs himſelf with much indignation againſt me one evening at Button's Coffee-houſe (as I was told) ſaying, That I was entered into a Cabal with Dean Swift and others to write againſt the Whig-Intereſt, and in par⯑ticular to undermine his own reputation, and that of his friends Steel and Addiſon. But Mr. Philips never open'd his lips to my face, on this or any like occaſion, tho' I was almoſt every night in the ſame room with him, nor ever offer'd me any indecorum. Mr. Addiſon came to me a night or two af⯑ter Philips had talk'd in this idle manner, and aſſur'd me of his disbelief of what had been ſaid, of the friendſhip we ſhou'd always maintain, and deſir'd I wou'd ſay nothing further of it. My Lord Hallifax did me the honour to ſtir in this matter, by ſpeaking to ſeveral people to obviate a falſe aſperſion, which might have done me no ſmall preju⯑dice with one Party. However Philips did all [63] he could, ſecretly to continue the report with the Hanover Club, and kept in his hands the Subſcriptions paid for me to him, as Secretary to that Club. The heads of it have ſince given him to underſtand, that they take it ill; but (upon the terms I ought to be with a man whom I think a ſcoundrel) I wou'd not even ask him for this money, but commiſſioned one of the Players, his equals, to receive it. This is the whole matter; but as to the ſecret grounds of Philips's malignity, they will make a very pleaſant Hiſtory when we meet. Mr. Congreve and ſome others have been much diverted with it, and moſt of the Gentlemen of the Hanover Club have made it the ſubject of their ridicule on their Secretary. It is to this management of Philips, that the world owes Mr. Gay's Paſtorals. The ingenious Author is extream⯑ly your ſervant, and would have comply'd with your kind invitation, but that he is juſt now appointed Secretary to my Lord Clarendon, in his Embaſſy to Hanover.

I am ſenſible of the zeal and friendſhip with which I am ſure you will always defend your friend in his abſence, from all thoſe little tales and calumnies, which a Man of any genius or merit is born to. I ſhall never complain while I am happy in ſuch noble defenders, and in ſuch con⯑temptible [64] opponents. May their envy and ill nature ever increaſe, to the glory and pleaſure of thoſe they wou'd injure; may they repreſent me what they will, as long as you think me what I am,

To the ſame.

YOU mention the account I gave you ſome time ago of the things which Philips ſaid in his fooliſhneſs; but I can't tell from any thing in your Letter, whe⯑ther you receiv'd a long one from me a⯑bout a fortnight ſince. It was principally intended to thank you for the laſt obliging favour you did me; and perhaps for that reaſon you paſs it in ſilence. I there launched into ſome account of my tem⯑poral affairs, and intend now to give you ſome hints of my ſpiritual. The conclu⯑ſion of your Letter draws this upon you, where you tell me, you pray'd for me: Your proceeding, Sir, is contrary to that of moſt other Friends, who never talk of praying for a Man after they have done [65] him a ſervice, but only when they will do him none. Nothing can be more kind than the hint you give me of the vanity of human Sciences, which I aſſure you I am daily more and more convine'd of; and indeed I have for ſome years paſt, look'd upon all of 'em no better than amuſements. To make them the ultimate end of our purſuit, is a miſerable and ſhort ambition, which will drop from us at ev'ry little diſ⯑appointments here, and even in caſe of no diſappointmentr here, will infallibly deſert us hereafter. The utmoſt fame they are capable of beſtowing, is never worth the pains they coſt us, and the time they loſe us. If you attain the top of your deſires that way, all thoſe who envy you will do you harm; and of thoſe who admire you, few will do you good. The unſucceſsful writers are your declared enemies, and pro⯑bably the ſucceſsful your ſecret ones: For thoſe hate not more to be excelled, than theſe to be rivalled. And at the upſhot, after a life of perpetual application, to re⯑flect that you have been doing nothing for yourſelf, and that the ſame or leſs In⯑duſtry might have gain'd you a Friendſhip that can never deceive or end, a ſatisfaction which praiſe cannot beſtow, nor vanity feel, and a glory which (tho' in one reſpect like ſame, not to be had 'till after death,) yet [66] ſhall be felt and enjoy'd to eternity. Theſe, dear Sir, are unfeignedly my ſentiments, whenever I think at all; for half the things that employ our heads deſerve not the name of thoughts they are only ſtronger dreams or impreſſions upon the imagination: Our ſchemes of government, our ſyſtems of phi⯑loſophy, our golden worlds of poetry, are all but ſo many ſhadowy images, and airy proſ⯑pects, which ariſe to us but ſo much the livelier and more frequent, as we are more o'ercaſt with the darkneſs, and diſturb'd with the fumes of human vanity.

The ſame thing that makes old men wil⯑ling to leave this world, makes me willing to leave poetry, long habit, and wearineſs of the ſame track. Homer will work a cure upon me; fifteen thouſand verſes are equivalent to fourſcore years, to make one old in Rhime: And I ſhou'd be ſorry and aſhamed, to go on jingling to the laſt ſtep, like a waggoner's horſe, in the ſame road, and ſo leave my Bells to the next ſilly ani⯑mal that will be proud of 'em. That man makes a mean figure in the eyes of reaſon, who is meaſuring ſyllables and coupling rhimes, when he ſhould be mending his own Soul, and ſecuring his own immortality. If I had not this opinion, I ſhould be unwor⯑thy even of thoſe ſmall and limited parts [67] which God has given me; and unworthy of the friendſhip of ſuch a man as you. I am

To the ſame.

I Have no better excuſe to offer you, that I have omitted a task naturally ſo plea⯑ſing to me as converſing upon paper with you; but that my time and eyes have been wholly employ'd upon Homer, whom I al⯑moſt fear I ſhall find but one way of imita⯑ting, which is, in his blindneſs. I am per⯑petually afflicted with headach's, that very much affect my ſight; and indeed ſince my coming hither I have ſcarce paſſed an hour agreeably, except that in which I read your letter. I would ſeriouſly have you think, you have no man who more truly knows to place a right value on your friendſhip, than he who leaſt deſerves it on all other ac⯑counts than his due ſenſe of it. But let me tell you, you can hardly gueſs what a task you undertake, when you profeſs your ſelf my friend; there are ſome Tories who will take you for a Whig, ſome Whigs [68] who will take you for a Tory, ſome Pro⯑teſtants who will eſteem you a rank Papiſt, and ſome Papiſts who will account you a Heretick.

I find by dear experience, we live in an age, where it is criminal to be moderate; and where no one man can be allowed to be juſt to all men. The notions of right and wrong are ſo far ſtrain'd, that perhaps to be in the right ſo very violently, may be of worſe conſequence than to be eaſily and quietly in the wrong. I really wiſh all men ſo well, that I am ſatisfied but few can wiſh me ſo; but if thoſe few are ſuch as tell me they do, I am content, for they are the beſt people I know: While you believe me what I profeſs as to Religion, I can bear any thing the Bigotted may ſay; while Mr. Congreve likes my poetry, I can endure Dennis and a thouſand more like him; while the moſt honeſt and moral of each party think me no ill man, I can eaſily ſupport it, tho' the moſt violent and mad of all parties roſe up to throw dirt at me.

I muſt expect an hundred attacks upon the publication of my Homer. Whoever in our times would be a profeſſor of learning above his fellows, ought at the very firſt to enter the world with the conſtancy and re⯑ſolution of a primitive Chriſtian, and be prepared to ſuffer all ſorts of publick Perſe⯑cution. [69] It is certainly to be lamented, that if any man does but endeavour to diſtin⯑guiſh himſelf, or gratify others by his ſtudies, he is immediately treated as a common ene⯑my, inſtead of being look'd upon as a com⯑mon friend; and aſſaulted as generally, as if his whole deſign were to prejudice the State, and ruin the publick. I will venture to ſay, no man ever roſe to any degree of perfe⯑ction in writing, but thro' obſtinacy and an inveterate reſolution againſt the ſtream of mankind: So that if the world has receiv'd any benefit from the labours of the Learned, it was in its own deſpite. For when firſt they eſſay their parts, all people in general are prejudiced againſt new beginners; and when they have got a little above contempt, then ſome particular perſons who were be⯑fore unfortunate in their own attempts, are ſworn foes to them, only becauſe they ſuc⯑ceed.—Upon the whole, one may ſay of the beſt writers, that they pay a ſevere fine for their fame, which it is always in the power of the moſt worthleſs part of mankind to levy upon them when they pleaſe.

To Mr. JERVAS.

I Am juſt enter'd upon the old way of life again, ſleep and muſing. It is my employment to revive the old of paſt ages to the preſent, as it is yours to tranſmit the young of the preſent, to the future. I am copying the great Maſter in one art, with the ſame love and diligence with which the Painter hereafter will copy you in another.

Thus I ſhould begin my Epiſtle to you, if it were a Dedicatory one. But as it is a friendly letter, you are to find nothing mentioned in your own praiſe but what only one in the world is witneſs to, your particular good-natur'd offices to me. What⯑ever mankind in general would allow you, that I am not to give you to your face; and if I were to do it in your abſence, the world would tell me I am too partial to be permit⯑ted to paſs any judgment of you.

So you ſee me cut out from any thing but common acknowledgments, or common diſcourſe. The firſt you wou'd take ill, tho' I told you but half what I ought; ſo in ſhort the laſt only remains.

[71] And as for the laſt, what can you expect from a man who has not talk'd theſe five days? who is withdrawing his thoughts as far as he can, from all the preſent world, its cuſtoms and its manners, to be fully poſ⯑ſeſt and abſorpt in the paſt? When people talk of going to Church, I think of Sacri⯑fices and Libations; when I ſee the parſon, I addreſs him as Chryſes prieſt of Apollo; and inſtead of the Lord's Prayer, I begin

While you in the world are concerned about the Proteſtant Succeſſion, I conſider only how Menelaus may recover Helen, and the Trojan war be put to a ſpeedy concluſion. I never inquire if the Queen be well or not, but heartily wiſh to be at Hector's fu⯑neral. The only things I regard in this life, are, whether my friends are well? whether my Tranſlation go well on? whether Den⯑nis be writing criticiſms? whether any body will anſwer him, ſince I don't? and whether Lintott be not yet broke?

To the ſame.

I Thank you for your good offices which are numberleſs. Homer advances ſo faſt, that he begins to look about for the orna⯑ments he is to appear in, like a modiſh mo⯑dern author,—

I have the greateſt proof in nature at preſent of the amuſing power of Poetry; for it takes me up ſo intirely, that I ſcarce ſee what paſſes under my noſe, and hear nothing that is ſaid about me. To fol⯑low Poetry as one ought, one muſt forget father and mother, and cleave to it alone. My Rêverie has been ſo deep, that I have ſcarce had an interval to think myſelf un⯑eaſy in the want of your company. I now and then juſt miſs you as I ſtep into bed; this minute indeed I want extremely to ſee you, the next I ſhall dream of nothing but the taking of Troy, or the recovery of Briſeis.

[73] I fancy no friendſhip is ſo likely to prove laſting as ours, becauſe I am pretty ſure there never was a friendſhip of ſo eaſy a nature. We neither of us demand any mighty things from each other; what Va⯑nity we have, expects its gratification from other people. It is not I, that am to tell you what an Artiſt you are, nor is it you that are to tell me what a Poet I am; but 'tis from the world abroad we hope (piouſly hope) to hear theſe things. At home we follow our buſineſs, when we have any; and think and talk moſt of each other when we have none. 'Tis not unlike the happy friendſhip of a ſtay'd man and his wife, who are ſeldom ſo fond as to hin⯑der the buſineſs of the houſe from going on all day, or ſo indolent as not to find conſolation in each other every evening. Thus well-meaning couples hold in amity to the laſt, by not expecting too much from human nature; while romantick friend⯑ſhips, like violent loves, begin with diſ⯑quiets, proceed to jealouſies, and conclude in animoſities. I have liv'd to ſee the fierce advancement, the ſudden turn, and the abrupt period, of three or four of theſe enormous friendſhips, and am perfectly con⯑vinced of the truth of a Maxim we once agreed in, That nothing hinders the con⯑ſtant agreement of people who live toge⯑ther, [74] but meer vanity; a ſecret inſiſting upon what they think their dignity or merit, and an inward expectation of ſuch an Over-meaſure of deference and regard, as anſwers to their own extravagant falſe ſcale; and which no body can pay, becauſe none but themſelves can tell, exactly, to what pitch it amounts.

Mr. POPE to EDWARD BLOUNT, Eſq

WHatever ſtudies on the one hand, or amuſements on the other, it ſhall be my fortune to fall into, I ſhall be equally incapable of forgetting you in any of 'em. The Task I undertook^*, tho' of weight enough in itſelf, has had a voluntary in⯑creaſe, by the inlarging my deſign of the Notes; and the neceſſity of conſulting a number of books has carry'd me to Ox⯑ford: But I fear, thro' my Lord Harcourt's and Dr. Clark's means, I ſhall be more con⯑verſant with the pleaſures and company of [75] the place, than with the Books and Manu⯑ſcripts of it.

I find ſtill more reaſon to complain of the negligence of the Geographers in their Maps of old Greece, ſince I look'd upon two or three more noted names in the publick libraries here. But with all the care I am capable of, I have ſome cauſe to fear the Engraver will prejudice me in a few ſitua⯑tions. I have been forced to write to him in ſo high a ſtyle, that were my epiſtle in⯑tercepted, it would raiſe no ſmall admira⯑tion in an ordinary man. There is ſcarce an order in it of leſs importance, than to remove ſuch and ſuch mountains, alter the courſe of ſuch and ſuch rivers, place a large city on ſuch a coaſt, and raze another in another country. I have ſet bounds to the ſea, and ſaid to the land, thus far ſhalt thou advance, and no further ^*. In the mean time, I who talk and command at this rate, am in danger of looſing my horſe, and ſtand in ſome fear of a country juſtice. To diſ⯑arm me indeed, may be but prudential, con⯑ſidering what armies I have at preſent on foot, and in my ſervice: A hundred thou⯑ſand Grecians are no contemptible body; for all that I can tell, they may be as for⯑midable [76] as four thouſand Prieſts; and they ſeem proper forces to ſend againſt thoſe in Barcelona. That ſiege deſerves as fine a poem as the Iliad, and the machining part of poetry would be the juſter in it, as they ſay the inhabitants expect Angels from hea⯑ven to their aſſiſtance. May I venture to ſay, who am a Papiſt, and to ſay to you who are a Papiſt, that nothing is more a⯑ſtoniſhing to me, than that people ſo greatly warm'd with a ſenſe of Liberty, ſhould be capable of harbouring ſuch weak Superſti⯑tion, and that ſo much bravery and ſo much folly can inhabit the ſame breaſts?

I could not but take a trip to London, on the death of the Queen, mov'd by the com⯑mon curioſity of mankind, who leave their own buſineſs to be looking upon other mens. I thank God, that as for myſelf, I am be⯑low all the accidents of State-changes by my circumſtances, and above them by my phi⯑loſophy. Common charity of man to man, and univerſal good will to all, are the points I have moſt at heart; and I am ſure thoſe are not to be broken for the ſake of any go⯑vernors, or government. I am willing to hope the beſt, and what I more wiſh than my own or any particular man's advance⯑ment, is, that this turn may put an end entirely to the diviſions of Whig and Tory; that the parties may love each other as [77] well as I love them both; or at leaſt hurt each other as little as I would either; and that our own people may live as quietly as we ſhall certainly let theirs; that is to ſay, that want of power itſelf in us may not be a ſurer prevention of harm, than want of will in them. I am ſure, if all Whigs and all Tories had the ſpirit of one Roman-Catholick that I know, it would be well for all Roman-Catholicks; and if all Roman-Catholicks had always had that ſpirit, it had been well for all others, and we had never been charged with ſo wicked a ſpirit as that of Perſecution.

I agree with you in my ſentiment of the ſtate of our nation ſince this change: I find myſelf juſt in the ſame ſituation of mind you deſcribe as your own, heartily wiſhing the good, that is the quiet of my country, and hoping a total end of all the unhappy diviſions of mankind by party-ſpirit, which at beſt is but the madneſs of many for the gain of a few.

Mr. JERVAS to Mr. POPE.

I Have a particular to tell you at this time, which pleaſes me ſo much, that you muſt expect a more than ordinary alacrity in every turn. You know I cou'd keep you in ſuſpenſe for twenty lines, but I will tell you directly that Mr. Addiſon and I have had a converſation, that it would have been worth your while to have been plac'd behind the wainſcot, or behind ſome half-length Picture to have heard. He aſſur'd me that he wou'd make uſe not only of his intereſt, but of his art, to do you ſome ſervice; he did not mean his Art of Poetry, but his Art at Court; and he is ſenſible that nothing can have a better air for himſelf, than moving in your favour, eſpecially ſince in⯑ſinuations were ſpread that he did not care you ſhould proſper too much as a Poet. He proteſts that it ſhall not be his fault, if there is not the beſt intelligence in the world, and the moſt hearty friendſhip, &c. He owns, he was afraid Dr. Swift might have carry'd you too far among the enemy during the heat of the animoſity, but now [79] all is ſafe, and you are eſcap'd even in his opinion. I promis'd in your name, like a good Godfather, not that you ſhould re⯑nounce the devil and all his works, but that you would be delighted to find him your friend merely for his own ſake; therefore prepare yourſelf for ſome civilities.

I have done Homer's head, ſhadow'd and heighten'd carefully; and I incloſe the out⯑line of the ſame ſize, that you may deter⯑mine whether you wou'd have it ſo large, or reduc'd to make room for a feuillage or laurel round the oval, or about the ſquare of the Buſto? perhaps there is ſomething more ſolemn in the Image itſelf, if I can get it well performed.

If I have been inſtrumenal in bringing you and Mr. Addiſon together with all ſin⯑cerity, I value myſelf upon it as an accept⯑able piece of ſervice to ſuch a one as I know you to be.

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I Am juſt arriv'd from Oxford, very well diverted and entertain'd there—all very honeſt fellows—much concern'd for [80] the Queen's death. No panegyricks ready yet for the King.

I admire your Whig-principles of Reſiſt⯑ance exceedingly, in the ſpirit of the Bar⯑celonians. I join in your wiſh for them. Mr. Addiſon's verſes on Liberty, in his let⯑ter from Italy, would be a good form of prayer in my opinion, O Liberty! thou Goddeſs heavenly bright! &c.

What you mention'd of the friendly office you endeavour'd to do betwixt Mr. Addiſon and me, deſerves acknowledg⯑ments on my part. You thoroughly know my regard to his character, and my pro⯑penſity to teſtify it by all ways in my power. You as thoroughly know the ſcandalous meanneſs of that proceeding which was uſed by Philips, to make a man I ſo highly value, ſuſpect my diſpoſitions toward him. But as, after all, Mr. Addi⯑ſon muſt be the judge in what regards him⯑ſelf, and has ſeem'd to be no very juſt one to me; ſo I muſt own to you I expect no⯑thing but civility from him, how much ſoever I wiſh for his friendſhip: And as for any offices of real kindneſs or ſervice which it is in his power to do me, I ſhould be aſhamed to receive 'em from any man who had no better opinion of my morals, than to think me a party-man; nor of my temper, than to believe me capable of ma⯑ligning, [81] or envying another's reputation as a Poet. So I leave it to Time to convince him as to bo [...]h, to ſhew him the ſhallow depths of thoſe half-witted creatures who miſ-inform'd him, and to prove that I am incapable of endeavouring to leſſen a perſon whom I would be proud to imitate, and therefore aſham'd to flatter. In a word, Mr. Addiſon is ſure of my reſpect at all times, and of my real friendſhip whenever he ſhall think fit to know me for what I am.

For all that paſs'd betwixt Dr. Swift and me, you know the whole (without reſerve) of our correſpondence: The engagements I had to him were ſuch as the actual ſer⯑vices he had done me, in relation to the ſubſcription for Homer, obliged me to. I muſt have leave to be grateful to him, and to any one who ſerves me, let him be never ſo obnoxious to any party: nor did the Tory-party ever put me to the hardſhip of asking this leave, which is the greateſt obligation I owe to it; and I expect no greater from the Whig-party than the ſame liberty.—A curſe on the word Party, which I have been forced to uſe ſo often in this period! I wiſh the preſent Reign may put an end to the diſtinction, that there may be no other for the future than that of honeſt and knave, fool and men of ſenſe; [82] theſe two ſorts muſt always be enemies, but for the reſt, may all People do as you and I, believe what they pleaſe and be friends.

Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON.

I Have been acquainted by one of my friends who omits no opportunities of gratifying me, that you have lately been pleas'd to ſpeak of me in a manner which nothing but the real reſpect I have for you can deſerve. May I hope that ſome late male⯑volencies have loſt their effect? Indeed it is neither for me, nor my enemies, to pretend to tell you whether I am your friend or not; but if you would judge by probabilities, I beg to know which of your poetical acquain⯑tance has ſo little Intereſt in pretending to be ſo? Methinks no man ſhould queſtion the real friendſhip of one who deſires no real ſervice: I am only to get as much from the Whigs, as I got by the Tories, that is to ſay, Civility; being neither ſo proud as to be in⯑ſenſible of any good office, nor ſo humble, as [83] not to dare heartily to deſpiſe any man who does me an injuſtice.

I will not value myſelf upon having ever guarded all the degrees of reſpect for you; for (to ſay the truth) all the world ſpeaks well of you, and I ſhould be under a neceſſity of doing the ſame, whether I cared for you or not.

As to what you have ſaid of me, I ſhall never believe that the Author of Cato can ſpeak one thing and think another. As a proof that I account you ſincere, I beg a favour of you: It is, that you would look over the two firſt books of my tranſlation of Homer, which are now in the hands of my Lord Halifax. I am ſenſible how much the reputation of any poetical work will depend upon the character you give it: 'tis therefore ſome evidence of the truſt I repoſe in your good will, when I give you this opportunity of ſpeaking ill of me with juſtice, and yet expect you will tell me your trueſt thoughts, at the ſame time that you tell others your moſt favourable ones.

I have a farther requeſt, which I muſt preſs with earneſtneſs. My Bookſeller is reprinting the Eſſay on Criticiſm, to which you have done too much honour in your Spectator of N^o. 253. The period in that paper, where you ſay, ‘"I have admitted ſome ſtrokes of ill nature into that Eſſay,"’ [84] is the only one I could wiſh omitted of all you have written: but I wou'd not deſire it ſhould be ſo, unleſs I had the merit of re⯑moving your objection: I beg you but to point out thoſe ſtrokes to me, and you may be aſſured they ſhall be treated without mercy.

Since we are upon proofs of ſincerity (which I am pretty confident will turn to the advantage of us both in each other's opinion) give me leave to name another paſſage in the ſame Spectator, which I wiſh you would alter It is where you mention an obſervation upon Homer's Verſes of Syſi⯑phus's Stone, ^* never having been made before by any of the Criticks: I happen'd to find the ſame in Dyoniſius of Halicarnaſſus's Treatiſe, [...], who treats very largely upon theſe Verſes. I know you will think fit to ſoften your Expreſſion, when you ſee the paſſage; which you muſt needs have read, tho it be ſince ſlipt out of your memory. I am with the utmoſt eſteem,

Mr. POPE to the Earl of HALIFAX.

I Am obliged to you both for the favours you have done me, and for thoſe you intend me. I diſtruſt neither your will nor your memory, when it is to do good: and if ever I become troubleſome or ſollicitous, it muſt not be out of expectation, but out of gratitude. Your Lordſhip may either cauſe me to live agreeably in the town, or contentedly in the country, which is really all the difference I ſet between an eaſy fortune and a ſmall one. It is indeed a high ſtrain of generoſity in you, to think of making me eaſy all my life, only be⯑cauſe I have been ſo happy as to divert you ſome few hours: But if I may have leave to add, it is becauſe you think me no enemy to my native country, there will appear a better reaſon; for I muſt of conſequence be very much, (as I ſincerely am)

My Lord, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. CONGREVE.

MEthinks when I write to you, I am making a confeſſion, I have got (I can't tell how) ſuch a cuſtom of throwing myſelf out upon paper without reſerve. You were not miſtaken in what you judg'd of my temper of mind when I writ laſt My faults will not be hid from you, and per⯑haps it is no diſpraiſe to me that they will not. The cleanneſs and purity of one's mind is never better prov'd, than in diſco⯑vering its own faults at firſt view: as when a Stream ſhows the dirt at its bottom, it ſhows alſo the tranſparency of the water.

My ſpleen was not occaſioned, how⯑ever, by any thing an ^*abuſive, angry Critick could write of me. I take very kindly your heroick manner of congra⯑tulation upon this ſcandal; for I think nothing more honourable, than to be in⯑volved in the ſame fate with all the great [87] and the good that ever lived; that is, to be envy'd and cenſur'd by bad writers.

You do no more than anſwer my ex⯑pectations of you, in declaring how well you take my freedom in ſometimes neg⯑lecting, as I do, to reply to your Letters ſo ſoon as I ought; thoſe who have a right taſte of the ſubſtantial part of friendſhip, can wave the ceremonial. A friend is the only one that will bear the omiſſion; and one may find who is not ſo, by the very trial of it.

As to any anxiety I have concerning the fate of my Homer, the care is over with me. The world muſt be the judge, and I ſhall be the firſt to conſent to the juſtice of its judg⯑ment, whatever it be. I am not ſo arrant an Author, as even to deſire, that if I am in the wrong, all mankind ſhould be ſo.

I am mightily pleas'd with a ſaying of Monſieur Tourreil: ‘"When a Man writes, he ought to animate himſelf with the thoughts of pleaſing all the world: but he is to renounce that deſire or hope, the very moment the Book goes out of his hands."’

I write this from Binfield, whither I came yeſterday, having paſt a few days in my way with my Lord Bolingbroke: I go to London in three days time, and will not fail to pay a viſit to Mr. M [...], whom I ſaw not long ſince at my Lord Halifax's. I hoped from [88] thence he had ſome hopes of advantage from the preſent adminiſtration: for few people (I think) but I, pay reſpects to great Men without any proſpects. I am in the faireſt way in the world of being not worth a groat, being born both a Papiſt and a Poet. This puts me in mind of reacknowledging your continued endeavours to enrich me: But I can tell you 'tis to no purpoſe, for without the Opes, Aequum animum mi ipſe parabo.

Mr. POPE to Mr. CONGREVE.

THE Farce of the What-d'ye-call it, has occaſioned many different ſpeculations in the town. Some look'd upon it as meer jeſt upon the tragic poets, others as a ſatire upon the late war. Mr. Cromwell hearing none of the words, and ſeeing the action to be tragical, was much aſtoniſhed to find the audience laugh; and ſays, the Prince and Princeſs muſt doubtleſs be under no leſs amazement on the ſame account. Several templers, and others of the more vociferous kind of criticks, went with a reſolution to hiſs, and confeſt they were forced to laugh ſo much, that they forgot the deſign they came with. The Court in general has in a [89] very particular manner come into the jeſt, and the three firſt Nights, (notwithſtanding two of them were court-nights) were diſtin⯑guiſh'd by very full audiences of the firſt quality. The common people of the pit and gallery receiv'd it at firſt with great gravity and ſedateneſs, ſome few with tears; but after the third day they alſo took the hint, and have ever ſince been very loud in their claps. There are ſtill ſome ſober men who cannot be of the general opinion, but the laughers are ſo much the majority, that one or two criticks ſeem determin'd to undeceive the town at their proper coſt, by writing grave diſſertations againſt it: To encourage them in which laudable deſign, it is reſolv'd a Preface ſhall be prefixt to the Farce, in vindication of the nature and dignity of this new way of writing.

Yeſterday Mr. Steele's affair was decided: I am ſorry I can be of no other opinion than yours, as to his whole carriage and writings of late. But certainly he has not only been puniſh'd by others, but ſuffer'd much even from his own party in the point of character, nor (I believe) receiv'd any amends in that of intereſt, as yet; whatever may be his Proſpects for the future.

This Gentleman, among a thouſand others, is a great inſtance of the fate of all who are carried away by party-ſpirit, of any ſide. I wiſh all violence may ſucceed [90] as ill; but am really amazed that ſo much of that ſower and pernicious quality ſhou'd be joined with ſo much natural good hu⯑mour as I think Mr. Steele is poſſeſs'd of.

To Mr. CONGREVE.

MR. Pope is going to Mr. Jervas's, where Mr. Addiſon is ſitting for his picture; in the mean time amidſt clouds of tobacco at a coffee-houſe I write this letter. There is a grand revolution at Will's, Morrice has quitted for a coffee-houſe in the city, and Titcomb is reſtor'd to the great joy of Cromwell, who was at a great loſs for a per⯑ſon to converſe with upon the fathers and church-hiſtory; the knowledge I gain from him, is intirely in painting and poetry; and Mr. Pope owes all his skill in aſtronomy to him and Mr. Whiſton, ſo celebrated of late for his diſcovery of the longitude in an extraordinary copy of Verſes.^* Mr. Rowe's Jane Gray is to be play'd in Eaſter-Week, when Mrs. Oldfield is to perſonate a character directly oppoſite to female nature; for what woman ever deſpis'd Sovereignty? You know Chaucer has a tale where a knight [91] ſaves his head, by diſcovering it was the thing which all women moſt covered. Mr. Pope's Homer is retarded by the great rains that have fallen of late, which cauſes the ſheets to be long a drying; this gives Mr. Lintot great uneaſineſs, who is now endea⯑vouring to corrupt the Curate of his pariſh to pray for fair weather, that his work may go on. There is a ſix-penny Criticiſm lately publiſh'd upon the Tragedy of the What-d'ye-call-it, wherein he with much judgment and learning calls me a blockhead, and Mr. Pope a knave. His grand charge is againſt the Pilgrims Progreſs being read, which he ſays is directly level'd at Cato's reading Plato; to back his cenſure, he goes on to tell you, that the Pilgrims Progreſs being mentioned to be the eighth edition, makes the reflection evident, the Tragedy of Cato having juſt eight times (as he quaintly ex⯑preſſes it) viſitéd the Preſs. He has alſo en⯑deavoured to ſhow, that every particular paſſage of the play alludes to ſome fine part of Tragedy, which he ſays I have injudi⯑ciouſly and profanely abuſed.^* Sir Samuel Garth's Poem upon my Lord Clare's houſe, I believe, will be publiſh'd in the Eaſter-week.

Thus far Mr. Gay—who has in his letter foreſtall'd all the ſubjects of diverſion; unleſs [92] it ſhou'd be one to you to ſay, that I ſit up till two a-clock over Burgundy and Cham⯑pagne; and am become ſo much a rake, that I ſhall be aſhamed in a ſhort time to be thought to do any ſort of buſineſs. I fear I muſt get the gout by drinking, purely for a faſhionable pretence to ſit ſtill long enough to tranſlate four books of Homer. I hope you'll by that time be up again, and I may ſucceed to the bed and couch of my prede⯑ceſſor: Pray cauſe the ſtuffing to be repaired, and the crutches ſhortened for me. The calamity of your gout is what all your friends, that is to ſay all that know you, muſt ſhare in; we deſire you in your turn to condole with us, who are under a perſe⯑cution, and much afflicted with a diſtemper which proves grievous to many poets, a Cri⯑ticiſm. We have indeed ſome relieving in⯑tervals of laughter, (as you know there are in ſome diſeaſes;) and it is the opinion of divers good gueſſers, that the laſt fit will not be more violent than advantageous; for poets aſſail'd by critics, are like men bitten by Tarantula's, they dance on ſo much the faſter.

Mr. Thomas Burnet hath play'd the pre⯑curſor to the coming of Homer, in a trea⯑tiſe called Homerides. He has ſince riſen very much in his criticiſms, and after aſ⯑ſaulting Homer, made a daring attack upon [93] the ^* What-d'ye-call-it, Yet is there not a proclamation iſſued for the burning of Homer and the Pope by the common hangman; nor is the What d'ye call-it yet ſilenc'd by the Lord Chamberlain. They ſhall ſurvive the conflagration of his father's works, and live after they and he are damned; (for that the B [...]p of S. already is ſo, is the opinion of Dr. Sacheverel and the Church of Rome.)

Mr. POPE to the Earl of B----.

IF your Mare could ſpeak, ſhe wou'd give you an account of the extraordinary company ſhe had on the road; which ſince ſhe cannot do, I will.

It was the enterprizing Mr. Lintott, the redoubtable rival of Mr. Tonſon, who moun⯑ted on a ſtonehorſe, (no diſagreeable compa⯑nion to your Lordſhip's mare) overtook me in Windſor-foreſt. He ſaid, he heard I de⯑ſign'd for Oxford, the ſeat of the muſes, and would, as my bookſeller, by all means, ac⯑company me thither.

I ask'd him where he got his horſe? He anſwered, he got it of his publiſher: ‘"For that rogue my printer, (ſaid he) diſap⯑pointed [94] me: I hoped to put him in good humour by a treat at the tavern, of a brown fricaſſee of rabbits which coſt two ſhillings, with two quarts of wine, be⯑ſides my converſation. I thought myſelf cockſure of his horſe, which he readily promiſed me, but ſaid, that Mr. Tonſon had juſt ſuch another deſign of going to Cambridge, expecting there the copy of a Comment upon the Revelations; and if Mr. Tonſon went, he was preingaged to attend him, being to have the printing of the ſaid copy."’

So in ſhort, I borrow'd this ſtonehorſe of my publiſher, which he had of Mr. Old⯑mixon for a debt; he lent me too the pret⯑ty boy you ſee after me; he was a ſmutty dog yeſterday, and coſt me near two hours to waſh the ink off his face: but the De⯑vil is a fair-condition'd Devil, and very forward in his catechiſe: if you have any more bags, he ſhall carry them.

I thought Mr. Lintott's civility not to be neglected, ſo gave the boy a ſmall bagg, containing three ſhirts and an Elvezir Vir⯑gil; and mounting in an inſtant proceeded on the road, with my man before, my courteous ſtationer beſide, and the aforeſaid Devil behind.

Mr. Lintott began in this manner. ‘"Now damn them! what if they ſhould put it into the news-paper, how you and I went [95] together to Oxford? why what would I care? If I ſhould go down into Suſſex, they would ſay I was gone to the ſpeaker. But what of that? if my ſon were but big enough to go on with the buſineſs, by G [...]d I would keep as good company as old Jacob."’

Hereupon I enquir'd of his ſon. ‘"The lad (ſays he) has fine parts, but is ſome⯑what ſickly, much as you are—I ſpare for nothing in his education at Weſtmin⯑ſter. Pray don't you think Weſtminſter to be the beſt ſchool in England? moſt of the late Miniſtry came out of it, ſo did many of this Miniſtry; I hope the boy will make his fortune."’

Don't you deſign to let him paſs a year at Oxford? ‘"To what purpoſe? (ſaid he) the Univerſities do but make Pedants, and I intend to breed him a man of Bu⯑ſineſs."’

As Mr. Lintott was talking, I obſerv'd he ſate uneaſy on his ſaddle, for which I expreſs'd ſome ſolicitude: Nothing, ſays he, I can bear it well enough; but ſince we have the day before us, methinks it would be very pleaſant for you to reſt a while un⯑der the Woods. When we were alighted, ‘"See here, what a mighty pretty Horace I have in my pocket: what if you amus'd yourſelf in turning an Ode, till we mount again? Lord! if you pleas'd, what a [96] clever Miſcellany might you make at lei⯑ſure hours."’ Perhaps I may, ſaid I, if we ride on; the motion is an aid to my fancy; a round trot very much awakens my ſpirits. Then jog on apace, and I'll think as hard as I can.

Silence enſu'd for a full hour; after which Mr. Lintott lugg'd the reins, ſtept ſhort, and broke out, ‘"Well, Sir, how far have you gone?"’ I anſwered ſeven miles. ‘"Z [...]ds, Sir, ſaid Lintott, I thought you had done ſeven ſtanza's. Oldſworth in a ramble round Wimbleton-hill, would tranſlate a whole Ode in half this time. I'll ſay that for Oldſworth, (tho' I loſt by his Timothy's) he tranſlates an Ode of Horace the quickeſt of any man in England. I remember Dr. King would write verſes in a tavern three hours after he could n't ſpeak; and there's Sir Richard in that rumbling old Chariot of his, between Fleet-ditch and St. Giles's pound ſhall make you half a Job."’

Pray Mr. Lintott (ſaid I) now you talk of Tranſlators, what is your method of ma⯑naging them? ‘"Sir (reply'd he) thoſe are the ſaddeſt pack of rogues in the world: In a hungry fit, they'll ſwear they under⯑ſtand all the languages in the univerſe: I have known one of them take down a Greek book upon my counter and cry, Ay this is Hebrew, I muſt read it from the [97] latter end. By G [...]d I can never be ſure in theſe fellows, for I neither underſtand Greek, Latin, French nor Italian myſelf. But this is my way: I agree with them for ten ſhillings per ſheet, with a proviſo, that I will have their doings corrected by whom I pleaſe; ſo by one or other they are led at laſt to the true ſenſe of an author; my judgment giving the negative to all my Tranſlators."’ But how are you ſecure that thoſe correctors may not impoſe upon you? ‘"Why I get any civil gentleman, (eſpecially any Scotchman) that comes into my ſhop, to read the ori⯑ginal to me in Engliſh; by this I know whether my firſt Tranſlator be deficient, and whether my Corrector merits his money or no."’

‘"I'll tell you what happened to me laſt month: I bargain'd with S [...] for a new verſion of Lucretius to publiſh againſt Tonſon's; agreeing to pay the author ſo many ſhillings at his producing ſo many lines. He made a great progreſs in a very ſhort time, and I gave it to the cor⯑rector to compare with the Latin; but he went directly to Creech's tranſlation, and found it the ſame word for word, all but the firſt page. Now, what d'ye think I did? I arreſted the Tranſlator for a cheat; nay, and I ſtopt the Corrector's pay [98] too, upon this proof that he had made uſe of Creech inſtead of the original."’

Pray tell me next how you deal with the Critics. ‘"Sir (ſaid he) nothing more eaſy. I can ſilence the moſt formidable of them; the rich ones for a ſheet a piece of the blotted manuſcript, which coſts me no⯑thing. They'll go about with it to their acquaintance, and pretend they had it from the author, who ſubmitted to their correction: this has given ſome of them ſuch an air, that in time they come to be conſulted with, and dedicated too, as the top critics of the town—As for the poor Critics, I'll give you one inſtance of my management, by which you may gueſs at the reſt. A lean man that look'd like a good ſcholar, came to me t'other day; he turn'd over Homer, ſhook his head, ſhrugg'd up his ſhoulders, and piſh'd at every line of it; One would wonder (ſays he) at the ſtrange preſumption of men; Homer is no ſuch eaſy task, that every Stripling, every Verſiſier—he was going on when my Wife called to dinner: Sir, ſaid I, will you pleaſe to eat a piece of beef with me? Mr. Lintott, ſaid he, I am ſorry you ſhould be at the expence of this great book, I am really concern'd on your ac⯑count—Sir, I am much oblig'd to you: if you can dine upon a piece of beef, toge⯑ther with a ſlice of pudding—Mr. Lintott, [99] I do not ſay but Mr. Pope, if he would con⯑deſcend to adviſe with men of learning—Sir the pudding is upon the table, if you pleaſe to go in—My critic complies, he comes to a taſte of your poetry, and tells me in the ſame breath, that the Book is com⯑mendable, and the Pudding excellent."’

Now Sir (concluded Mr. Lintott) in re⯑turn to the frankneſs I have ſhown, pray tell me, ‘"Is it the opinion of your friends at Court, that my Lord L [...] will be brought to the Bar or not?"’ I told him I heard not, and I hoped it, my Lord being one I had particular obligations to. ‘"That may be (reply'd Mr. Lintott) but by G [...]d if he is not, I ſhall loſe the printing of a very good Trial."’

Theſe my Lord are a few traits by which you may diſcern the genius of my friend Mr. Lintott, which I have choſen for the ſubject of a letter. I dropt him as ſoon as I got to Oxford, and paid a viſit to my Lord Carlton at Middleton.

The converſations I enjoy here are not to be prejudiced by my pen, and the pleaſures from them only to be equal'd when I meet your Lordſhip. I hope in a few days to caſt myſelf from your horſe at your feet.

Dr. PARNELLE to Mr. POPE.

I Am writing you a long letter, but all the tediouſneſs I feel in it is, that it makes me during the time think more in⯑tently of my being far from you. I fancy if I were with you, I cou'd remove ſome of the uneaſineſs which you may have felt from the oppoſition of the world, and which you ſhould be aſhamed to feel, ſince it is but the teſtimony which one part of it gives you that your merit is unqueſtionable: What wou'd you have otherwiſe from ignorance, envy, or thoſe tempers which vie with you in your own way? I know this in mankind, that when our ambition is unable to attain its end, it is not only wearied, but exaſpe⯑rated too at the vanity of its labours; then we ſpeak ill of happier ſtudies, and ſighing condemn the excellence which we find above our reach.—

My ^* Zoilus which you us'd to write about, I finiſhed laſt ſpring, and left in town; I waited till I came up to ſend it you, but not arriving here before your book was out, [101] imagin'd it a loſt piece of labour. If you will ſtill have it, you need only write me word.

I have here ſeen the Firſt Book of Ho⯑mer, which came out at a time when it cou'd not but appear as a kind of ſetting up againſt you. My opinion is, that you may, if you pleaſe, give them thanks who writ it. Neither the numbers nor the ſpirit have an equal maſtery with yours; but what ſur⯑prizes me more is, that, a ſcholar being concern'd, there ſhould happen to be ſome miſtakes in the author's ſenſe; ſuch as put⯑ting the light of Pallas's eyes into the eyes of Achilles; making the taunt of Achilles to Agamemnon, (that he ſhould have ſpoils when Troy ſhould be taken) to be a cool and ſerious propoſal: the tranſlating what you call ablution by the word Offals, and ſo leav⯑ing Water out of the rite of Luſtration, &c. but you muſt have taken notice of all this before. I write not to inform you, but to ſhew I always have you at heart.

From a Letter of the Reverend Doctor BERKLEY, Dean of London-derry.

—Some days ago, three or four Gentle⯑men and myſelf exerting that right which [102] all readers pretend to over Authors, ſate in judgment upon the two new Tranſlations of the firſt Iliad. Without partiality to my country-men, I aſſure you they all gave the preference where it was due; being unani⯑mouſly of opinion, that yours was equally juſt to the ſenſe with Mr. [...]'s, and with⯑out compariſon more eaſy, more poetical, and more ſublime. But I will ſay no more on ſuch a thread-bare ſubject, as your late performance is at this time.

Extract from a Letter from Mr. GAY to Mr. POPE.

—I have juſt ſet down Sir Samuel Garth at the Opera. He bid me tell you, that eve⯑ry body is pleas'd with your Tranſlation, but a few at Button's; and that Sir Richard Steele told him, that Mr. Addiſon ſaid Tickel's tranſlation was the beſt that ever was in any language^*. He treated me with extream civility, and out of kindneſs gave me a [103] ſqueeze by the Sore finger.—I am inform'd that at Button's your character is made very free with as to morals, &c. and Mr. A [...] ſays, that your tranſlation and Tickel's are both very well done, but that the latter has more of Homer.

Extract from a Letter of Dr. ARBUTHNOT to Mr. POPE.

—I congratulate you upon Mr. Tickel's firſt Book. It does not indeed want its merit; but I was ſtrangely diſappointed in my expecta⯑tion of a Tranſlation nicely true to the ori⯑ginal; whereas in thoſe parts where the greateſt exactneſs ſeems to be demanded, he has been the leaſt careful, I mean the Hiſtory of ancient Ceremonies and Rites, &c. in which you have with great judgment been exact.

Mr. POPE to the Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Eſq

I Lay hold of the opportunity given me by my Lord Duke of Shrewsbury, to [104] aſſure you of the continuance of that eſteem and affection I have long borne you, and the memory of ſo many agreeable conver⯑ſations as we have paſſed together. I wiſh it were a compliment to ſay ſuch converſa⯑tions as are not to be found on this ſide of the Water: for the ſpirit of Diſſenſion is gone forth among us nor is it a won⯑der that Button's is no longer Button's when Old England is no longer Old England, that region of hoſpitality, ſociety, and good hu⯑mour. Party affects us all, even the wits, tho' they gain as little by politicks as they do by their wit. We talk much of fine ſenſe, refined ſenſe, and exalted ſenſe; but for uſe and happineſs give me a little com⯑mon ſenſe. I ſay this in regard to ſome gentlemen, profeſſed wits of our acquain⯑tance, who fancy they can make Poetry of conſequence at this time of day, in the midſt of this raging fit of Politicks. For they tell me, the buſy part of the nation are not more divided about Whig and Tory, than theſe idle fellows of the Feather about Mr. Tickel's and my Tranſlation. I (like the Tories) have the town in general, that is the mob, on my ſide; but 'tis uſual with the ſmaller Party to make up in induſtry what they want in number, and that's the caſe with the little Senate of Cato. How⯑ever, if our principles be well conſidered, I [105] muſt appear a brave Whig, and Mr. Tickel a rank Tory; I tranſlated Homer for the pub⯑lick in general, he to gratify the inordi⯑nate deſires of One man only. We have, it ſeems, a great Turk in Poetry, who can ne⯑ver bear a Brother on the throne; and has his Mutes too, a ſett of Nodders, Winkers, and Whiſperers, whoſe buſineſs is to ſtrangle all other offsprings of wit in their birth. The new Tranſlator of Homer is the hum⯑bleſt ſlave he has, that is to ſay, his firſt Miniſter; let him receive the honours he gives him, but receive them with fear and trembling: let him be proud of the ap⯑probation of his abſolute Lord; I appeal to the People, as my rightful judges and maſters; and if they are not inclined to condemn me, I fear no arbitrary high⯑flying proceedings from the ſmall Court⯑faction at Button's. But after all I have ſaid of this great Man, there is no rupture be⯑tween us: We are each of us ſo civil and obliging, that neither thinks he is obliged. And I for my part treat with him, as we do with the Grand Monarch; who has too many great qualities not to be reſpected, tho' we know he watches any occaſion to oppreſs us.

When I talk of Homer, I muſt not forget the early preſent you made me of Mon⯑ſieur de la Motte's Book. And I can't con⯑clude [106] this letter without telling you a me⯑lancholy piece of news which affects our very Entrails,—is dead, and Soupes are no more! You ſee I write in the old familiar way. ‘"This is not to the Miniſter, but to the Friend."’—However, it is ſome mark of uncommon regard to the Miniſter, that I ſteal an expreſſion from a Secretary of State.

Mr. POPE to Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL.

IT was one of the Enigma's of Pytha⯑goras, When the Winds riſe, worſhip the Echo. A modern Writer explains this to ſignify, ‘"When popular Tumults begin, retire to Solitudes, or ſuch places where Echo's are commonly found; Rocks, Woods, &c."’ I am rather of opinion it ſhould be interpreted, ‘"When Rumours increaſe, and when there is abundance of Noiſe and Clamour, be⯑lieve the ſecond Report."’ This I think agrees more exactly with the Echo, and is the more natural application of the Symbol. [107] However it be, either of theſe precepts is extreamly proper to be followed at this ſea⯑ſon; and I cannot but applaud your reſo⯑lution of continuing in what you call your Cave in the foreſt, this winter; and prefer⯑ring the noiſe of breaking Ice to that of breaking Stateſmen, the rage of Storms to that of Parties, and fury and ravage of Floods and Tempeſts to the precipitancy of ſome, and the ruins of others, which I fear will be our daily proſpect in London.

I ſincerely wiſh myſelf with you, to con⯑template the wonders of God in the firma⯑ment, rather than the madneſs of men on the earth. But I never had ſo much cauſe as now to complain of my poetical ſtar, that fixes me at this tumultuous time to attend the gingling of rhymes, and the meaſuring of ſyllables: To be almoſt the only trifler in the nation; and as ridiculous as the Poet in Petronius, who while all the reſt in the ſhip were either labouring or praying for life, was ſcratching his head in a little room, to write a fine deſcription of the tempeſt.

You tell me you like the ſound of no arms but thoſe of Achilles: for my part I like them as little as the others. I liſted myſelf in the battles of Homer, and I am no ſooner in war, but like moſt other folks, I wiſh myſelf out again.

[108] I heartily join with you in wiſhing Quiet to our native country; Quiet in the ſtate, which like charity in religion, is too much the perfection and happineſs of either, to be broken or violated on any pretence or proſpect whatſoever: Fire and ſword, and fire and faggot are equally my averſion. I can pray for oppoſite parties, and for op⯑poſite religions, with great ſincerity. I think to be a lover of one's Country is a glorious Elogy, but I do not think it ſo great an one, as to be a lover of Mankind.

Mr. J [...] and I ſometimes celebrate you under theſe denominations, and join your health with that of the whole world; a truly Catholick health; which far excels the poor narrow-ſpirited, ridiculous healths now in faſhion, to this Church, or that Church: Whatever our teachers may ſay, they muſt give us leave at leaſt to wiſh generouſly. Theſe, dear Sir, are my general diſpoſi⯑tions, but whenever I pray or wiſh for par⯑ticulars, you are one of the firſt in the thoughts and affections of

Sir W. TRUMBULL's Anſwer.

I Should be aſham'd of my long idleneſs, in not acknowledging your kind advice about Echo, and your moſt ingenious ex⯑planation of it, relating to Popular tumults; which I own to be very uſeful: and yet give me leave to tell you, that I keep my⯑ſelf to a ſhorter receipt of the ſame Pythago⯑ras, which is Silence; and this I ſhall ob⯑ſerve, if not the whole time of his diſcipline, yet at leaſt till Your return into this coun⯑try. I am oblig'd further to this method, by the moſt ſevere weather I ever felt; when tho' I keep as near by the fire as may be, yet gelidus concrevit frigore Sanguis: and often I apprehend the circulation of the blood begins to be ſtop'd. I have further great loſſes (to a poor farmer) of my poor Oxen—Intereunt pecudes, ſlant circumfuſa pruinis Corpora Magna Boum, &c.

Pray comfort me if you can, by telling me that your ſecond Volume of Homer is not frozen; for it muſt be expreſs'd very poetically to ſay now, that the Preſſes ſweat.

[110] I cannot forbear to add a piece of ar⯑tifice I have been guilty of, on occaſion of my being obliged to congratulate the birth⯑day of a friend of mine: When finding I had no materials of my own, I very frank⯑ly ſent him your imitation of Martial's Epi⯑gram on Antonius Primus ^*. This has been applauded ſo much, that I am in danger of commencing Poet, perhaps Laureat, (pray deſire my good friend Mr. Rowe to enter a Caveat) provided you will further increaſe my ſtock in this bank. In which proceed⯑ing I have laid the foundation of my eſtate, and as honeſtly as many others have begun theirs. But now being a little tender, as young beginners often are, I offer to you (for I have concealed the true author) whe⯑ther you will give me orders to declare who is the Father of this fine child, or not? Whatever you determine, my fingers, pen, and ink are ſo frozen, that I cannot thank you more at large. You will forgive this and all other faults of, Dear Sir,

To Mr. JERVAS in Ireland.

THO', as you rightly remark, I pay my Tax but once in half a Year, yet you ſhall ſee by this Letter upon the neck of my laſt, that I pay a double Tax, as we Non-Jurors ought to do. Your Ac⯑quaintance on this ſide the Sea are un⯑der terrible Apprehenſions, from your long ſtay in Ireland, that you may grow too Polite for them; for we think (ſince the great ſucceſs of ſo damn'd a Play as the Non-Juror) that Politeneſs is gone over the Water. But others are of opinion it has been longer among you, and was intro⯑duced much about the ſame time with Frogs, and with equal Succeſs Poor Poetry! the little that's left of it here longs to croſs the Seas, and leave Euſden in full and peaceable Poſſeſſion of the Britiſh Lau⯑rel: [112] And we begin to wiſh you had the ſinging of our Poets, as well as the croak⯑ing of our Frogs, to yourſelves in Saecula Saeculorum. It would be well in exchange, if Parnelle, and two or three more of your Swans, would come hither, eſpecially that Swan, who like a true modern one, does not ſing at all, Dr. Swift. I am (like the reſt of the World) a Sufferer by his Idle⯑neſs. Indeed I hate that any Man ſhould be idle, while I muſt tranſlate and comment: And I may the more ſincerely wiſh for good Poetry from others, becauſe I am become a perſon out of the queſtion; for a Tranſ⯑lator is no more a Poet, than a Taylor is a Man.

You are doubtleſs perſuaded of the Vali⯑dity of that famous Verſe,

but why would you make your Friends fon⯑der of you than they are? There's no man⯑ner of need of it—We begin to expect you no more than Anti-chriſt. A Man that hath abſented himſelf ſo long from his Friends, ought to be put into the Ga⯑zette.

Every Body here has great need of you. Many Faces have died for ever for want of your Pencil, and blooming Ladies have [113] wither'd in expecting your return. Even Frank and Betty (that conſtant Pair) can⯑not conſole themſelves for your Abſence; I fancy they will be forced to make their own Picture in a pretty Babe, before you come home: 'Twill be a noble Subject for a Fa⯑mily Piece. Come then, and having peopled Ireland with a World of beautiful Shadows, come to us, and ſee with that Eye (which, like the Eye of the World, creates Beauties by looking on them) ſee, I ſay, how Eng⯑land has altered the Airs of all its heads in your Abſence; and with what ſneaking City Artitudes our moſt celebrated Perſona⯑ges appear inthe meer mortal Works of our Painters.

Mr. Forteſcue is much yours; Gay com⯑memorates you; and laſtly (to climb by juſt ſteps and degrees) my Lord Burlington de⯑ſires you may be put in mind of him. His Gardens flouriſh, his Structures riſe, his Pictures arrive, and (what is far nobler and more valuable than all) his own good Qua⯑lities daily extend themſelves to all about him: Whereof, I the meaneſt (next to ſome Italian Chymiſts, Fidlers, Bricklayers, and Opera-makers) am a living Inſtance.

To the ſame.

IF I had not done my utmoſt to lead my Life ſo pleaſantly as to forget all Misfor⯑tunes, I ſhould tell you I reckoned your Abſence no ſmall one; but I hope you have alſo had many good and pleaſant Reaſons to forget your Friends on this ſide the World. If a wiſh could tranſport me to you, and your preſent Companions, I could do the ſame. Dr. Swift, I believe, is a very good Landlord, and a chearful Hoſt at his own Table; I ſuppoſe he has perfectly learnt himſelf, what he has taught ſo many others, Rupta non inſanire lagena. Elſe he would not make a proper Hoſt for your humble Servant, who (you know) tho' he drinks a Glaſs as ſeldom as any Man, contrives to break one as often. But 'tis a Conſolation to me, that I can do this, and many other Enormities, under my own Roof.

But that you and I are upon equal terms of all friendly Lazineſs, and haven take an inviolable Oath to each other, always to do what we will; I ſhould reproach you for ſo long a ſilence. The beſt amends you can make for ſaying nothing to me, is by ſaying [115] all the good you can of me, which is, that I heartily love and eſteem the Dean, and Dr. Parnelle.

Gay is yours and theirs. His Spirit is awakened very much in the Cauſe of the Dean, which has broke forth in a courageous Couplet or two upon Sir Richard Bl [...] He has printed it with his name to it, and brave⯑ly aſſigns no other Reaſon, than that the ſaid Sir Richard has abuſed Dr. Swift. I have alſo ſuffered in the like Cauſe, and ſhall ſuffer more; unleſs Parnelle ſends me his Zoilus and Bookworm (which the biſhop of Clogher, I hear, greatly extols) it will be ſhortly, Concurrere Bellum atque Virum.—I love you all as much as I deſpiſe moſt Wits in this dull Country. Ireland has turned the Tables upon England; and if I have no Poetical Friend in my own Nation, I'll be as proud as Scipio, and ſay, (ſince I am reduced to Skin and Bone) Ingrata pa⯑tria, ne oſſa quidem habeas.

To the ſame.

THAT you have not heard from me of late, aſcribe not to the uſual lazi⯑neſs of your Correſpondent, but to a ram⯑ble to Oxford, where your name is men⯑tioned with honour, even in a land flowing with Tories. I had the good fortune there to be often in the converſation of Doctor Clarke: He entertained me with ſeveral Drawings, and particularly with the origi⯑nal deſigns of Inigo Jones's Whitehall. I there ſaw and reverenced ſome of your firſt Pieces; which future Painters are to look upon as we Poets do on the Culex of Virgil, and Batrachom of Homer.

Having named this latter piece, give me leave to ask what is become of Dr. Parnelle and his Frogs? Oblitusque meorum, obliviſ⯑cendus & illis, might be Horace's wiſh, but will never be mine, while I have ſuch meo⯑rums as Dr. Parnelle and Dr. Swift. I hope the ſpring will reſtore you to us, and with you all the beauties and colours of nature. Not but I congratulate you on the pleaſure you muſt take in being admired in your own Country, which ſo ſeldom hap⯑pens to Prophets and Poets. But in this you [117] have the Advantage of Poets; you are Maſter of an Art that muſt proſper and grow rich, as long as people love, or are proud of themſelves, or their own perſons. However, you have ſtay'd long enough, me⯑thinks, to have painted all the numberleſs Hiſtories of old Ogygiae. If you have begun to be Hiſtorical, I recommend to your hand the ſtory which every pious Iriſhman ought to begin with, that of St. Patrick: To the end you may be obliged (as Dr. P. was, when he tranſlated the Batrachomuo⯑machia) to come into England to copy the Frogs, and ſuch other Vermine as were ne⯑ver ſeen in that land ſince the time of that Confeſſor.

I long to ſee you a Hiſtory Painter. You have already done enough for the Private, do ſomething for the Publick; and be not confined, like the reſt, to draw only ſuch ſilly ſtories as our own faces tell of us. The Ancients too expect you ſhould do them right; thoſe Statues from which you learned your beautiful and noble Ideas, demand it as a piece of Gratitude from you, to make them truly known to all nations, in the ac⯑count you intend to write of their Charac⯑ters. I hope you think more warmly than ever of that noble deſign.

As to your enquiry about your Houſe, when I come within the walls, they put [118] me in mind of thoſe of Carthage where your Friend, like the wandring Trojan,

For the ſpacious Manſion, like a Turkiſh Caravanſerah, entertains the Vagabond with only bare Lodging. I rule the Family very ill, keep bad Hours, and lend out your Pictures about the Town. See what it is to have a Poet in your Houſe! Frank in⯑deed does all he can in ſuch a Circumſtance, for conſidering he has a wild Beaſt in it, he conſtantly keeps the Door chain'd. Every time it is open'd, the Links rattle, the ruſty Hinges roar, the Houſe ſeems ſo ſenſible that you are its ſupport, that it is ready to drop in your Abſence; but I ſtill truſt my ſelf under its Roof, as depend⯑ing that Providence will preſerve ſo many Raphaels, Titian and Guido's, as are lodg'd in your Cabinet. Surely the Sins of one Poet can hardly be ſo heavy, as to bring an old Houſe over the Heads of ſo many Painters. In a word, your Houſe is fal⯑ling, but what of that? I am only a Lodger.

Mr. Secretary Craggs, to Mr. Pope.

LAST poſt brought me the favour of your letter of the 10th Aug. O. S. It would be taking too much upon me to de⯑cide, that 'twas a Witty one; I never pre⯑tend to more judgment than to know what pleaſes me, and can aſſure you, it was a very Agreeable one. The proof I can give you of my ſincerity in this Opinion, is, that I hope and deſire you would not ſtop at this, but continue more of them.

I am in a place where Pleaſure is con⯑tinually flowing. The Princes ſet the Ex⯑ample, and the Subjects follow at a diſtance. The Ladies are of all parties, by which means the converſation of the Men is very much ſoftened and faſhioned from thoſe blunt diſputes on Politicks, and rough Jeſts, we are ſo guilty of, while the Freedom of the Women takes away all Formality and Conſtraint. I muſt own, at the ſame time, theſe Beauties are a little too artificial for my Taſte; you have ſeen a French Picture, the Original is more painted, and ſuch a cruſt of Powder and eſſence in their Hair, that you can ſee no difference between [120] black and red. By diſuſing Stays, and in⯑dulging themſelves at a Table, they are run out of all Shape; but as to that, they may give a good reaſon, they prefer Conveni⯑ency to Parade, and are by this means as ready, as they are generally willing to be Charitable.

I am ſurpriz'd to find I have wrote ſo much Scandal; I fancy I am either ſetting up for a Wit, or imagine I muſt write in this Style to a Wit; I hope you'll prove a good natured one, and not only let me hear from you ſometimes, but forgive the ſmall Encouragement you meet with. If you'll compleat your favours, pray give my humble Services to Lords W [...]ck, St [...], and H [...]y. I have had my hopes and fears they would have abuſed me before this Time; I am ſure it is not my buſineſs to meddle with a neſt of Bees (I ſpeak only of the Honey.) I won't trouble my ſelf to finiſh finely, a true Compliment is better than a good one, and I can aſſure you without any, that I am very ſincerely,

The Rev^d Dean ^* BERKLEY, to Mr. POPE.

I Have long had it in my thoughts to trou⯑ble you with a Letter, but was diſcou⯑raged for want of ſomething that I could think worth ſending fifteen hundred Miles. Italy is ſuch an exhauſted Subject, that, I dare ſay, you'd eaſily forgive my ſaying nothing of it; and the imagination of a Poet is a thing ſo nice and delicate, that it is no eaſy matter to find out Images capable of giving Pleaſure to one of the few, who (in any Age) have come up to that Character. I am ne⯑vertheleſs lately returned from an Iſland, where I paſſed three or four Months, which, were it ſet out in its true Colours, might methinks amuſe you agreeably enough for a minute or two. The Iſland Inarime is an Epitome of the whole Earth, containing within the compaſs of eighteen Miles, a won⯑derful variety of Hills, Vales, ragged Rocks, fruitful Plains, and barren Mountains, all thrown together in a moſt romantic Confu⯑ſion. [122] The Air is in the hotteſt Seaſon con⯑ſtantly refreſhed by cool breezes from the Sea. The Vales produce excellent Wheat and Indian Corn, but are moſtly covered with Vineyards, intermixt with Fruit-trees. Beſides the common kinds, as Cherries, Apricots, Peaches, &c. they produce Oran⯑ges, Limes, Almonds, Pomegranates, Figs, Water Melons, and many other Fruits un⯑known to our Climates, which lie every where open to the Paſſenger. The Hills are the greater part covered to the top with Vines, ſome with Cheſnut Groves, and others with thickets of Myrtle and Lentiſcus. The Fields on the Northern ſide are divided by hedge-rows of Myrtle. Several Foun⯑tains and Rivulets add to the Beauty of this Landſcape, which is likewiſe ſet off by the variety of ſome barren Spots, and naked Rocks. But that which crowns the Scene, is a large Mountain, riſing out of the middle of the Iſland (once a terrible Volcano, by the Ancients called Mons Epomeus) its lower parts are adorned with Vines and other Fruits, the middle affords Paſture to flocks of Goats and Sheep, and the top is a ſandy pointed Rock, from which you have the fineſt Proſpect in the World, ſurveying at one view, beſides ſeveral pleaſant Iſlands lying at your Feet, a tract of Italy about three hundred Miles in length, from the Promontory of Antium, to [126] he Cape of Palinurus. The greater part of which hath been ſung by Homer and Virgil, as making a conſiderable part of the Travels and Adventures of their two Heroes. The Iſlands Caprea, Prochyta, and Parthe⯑nope, together with Cajeta, Cumae, Monte, Miſeno, the Habitations of Circe, the Syrens, and the Leſtrigones, the Bay of Naples, the Promontory of Minerva, and the whole Campagnia felice, make but a part of this noble Landſcape; which would demand an Imagination as warm, and numbers as flow⯑ing as your own, to deſcribe it. The Inha⯑bitants of this delicious Iſle, as they are without Riches and Honours, ſo are they without the Vices and Follies that attend them; and were they but as much ſtrangers to Revenge, as they are to Avarice or Am⯑bition, they might in fact anſwer the poeti⯑cal Notions of the Golden Age. But they have got, as an alloy to their Happineſs, an ill habit of murdering one another on flight Offences. We had an Inſtance of this the ſecond Night after our Arrival; a Youth of eighteen, being ſhot dead by our Door: And yet by the ſole ſecret of minding our own buſineſs, we found a means of living ſecurely among theſe dangerous People. Would you know how we paſs the time at Naples? Our chief Entertainment is the Devotion of our Neighbours. Beſides the [124] gayety of their Churches (where Folks go to ſee what they call una Bella Devotione (i. e.) a ſort of Religious Opera) they make Fire⯑works almoſt every Week out of Devotion; the Streets are often hung with Arras out of Devotion; and (what is ſtill more ſtrange) the Ladies invite Gentlemen to their Houſes, and treat them with Muſick and Sweetmeats, out of Devotion; in a word, were it not for this Devotion of its inhabitants, Naples would have little elſe to recommend it, be⯑ſide the Air and Situation. Learning is in no very thriving ſtate here, as indeed no where elſe in Italy. However, among many pretenders, ſome Men of taſte are to be met with. A Friend of mine told me not long ſince, that being to viſit Salvini at Florence, he found him reading your Homer. He liked the Notes extreamly, and could find no other fault with the Verſion, but that he thought it approached too near a Paraphraſe; which ſhews him not to be ſufficiently ac⯑quainted with our Language. I wiſh you Health to go on with that noble Work, and when you have that, I need not wiſh you Succeſs. You will do me the Juſtice to be⯑lieve, that whatever relates to your Welfare, is ſincerely wiſhed, by

Mr. Pope to . . .

THE old project of a Window in the boſom, to render the Soul of Man viſible, is what every honeſt friend has manifold reaſon to wiſh for; yet even that would not do in our caſe, while you are ſo far ſeparated from me, and ſo long. I be⯑gin to fear you'll die in Ireland, and that the Denunciation will be fulfilled upon you, Hibernus es, & in Hiberniam reverteris—I ſhou'd be apt to think you in Sancho's caſe; ſome Duke has made you Governor of an Iſland, or wet place, and you are ad⯑miniſtring Laws to the wild Iriſh. But I muſt own, when you talk of Building and Planting, you touch my String; and I am as apt to pardon you, as the Fellow that thought himſelf Jupiter would have par⯑don'd the other Madman who call'd him⯑ſelf his Brother Neptune. Alas Sir, do you know whom you talk to? One that had been a Poet, was degraded to a Tranſlator, and at laſt thro' meer dulneſs is turn'd an Architect. You know Martial's Cenſure—Praeconem facito, vel Architectum. However I have one way left, to plan, to elevate, and [124] to ſurprize (as Bays ſays.) The next you may expect to hear, is that I am in Debt.

The Hiſtory of my Tranſplantation and Settlement which you deſire, would require a Volume, were I to enumerate the many projects, difficulties, viciſſitudes, and vari⯑ous fates attending that important part of my Life: Much more ſhould I deſcribe the many Draughts, Elevations, Profiles, Per⯑ſpectives, &c. of every Palace and Garden propos'd, intended, and happily raiſed, by the ſtrength of that Faculty wherein all great Genius's excel, Imagination. At laſt, the Gods and Fate have fix'd me on the borders of the Thames, in the Diſtricts of Richmond and Twickenham. It is here I have paſſed an entire Year of my life, without any fix'd abode in London, or more than caſting a tranſitory glance (for a day or two at moſt in a Month) on the pomps of the Town. It is here I hope to receive you, Sir, return'd in triumph from Eternizing the Ireland of this Age. For you my Structures riſe; for you my Colonades extend their Wings; for you my Groves aſpire, and Roſes bloom. And to ſay truth, I hope Poſterity (which no doubt will be made acquainted with all theſe things) will look upon it as one of the principal Motives of my Architecture, that it was a Manſion prepar'd to receive you, againſt your own [127] ſhould fall to duſt, which is deſtin'd to be the Tomb of poor [...] and [...] and the immortal Monument of the Fidelity of two ſuch Servants, who have excell'd in Con⯑ſtancy the very Rats of your Family.

What more can I tell you of my ſelf? ſo much, and yet all put together ſo little, that I ſcarce care, or know, how to do it. But the very reaſons that are againſt putting it upon Paper, are as ſtrong for telling it you in Perſon; and I am uneaſy to be ſo long deny'd the ſatisfaction of it.

At preſent I conſider you bound in by the Iriſh Sea, like the Ghoſts in Virgil,

and I can't expreſs how I long to renew our old intercourſe and converſation, our morning Conferences in bed in the ſame Room, our evening Walks in the Park, our amuſing Voyages on the Water, our philo⯑ſophical Suppers, our Lectures, our Diſſer⯑tations, our Gravities, our Reveries, our Fooleries, our what not?—This awakens the memory of ſome of thoſe who have made a part in all theſe. Poor Parnelle, Garth, Rowe! You juſtly reprove me for not ſpeaking of the Death of the laſt: Parnelle was too much in my mind, to [128] whoſe Memory I am erecting the beſt Mo⯑nument I can. What he gave me to publiſh, was but a ſmall part of what he left behind him, but it was the beſt, and I will not make it worſe by enlarging it. I'd fain know if he be buried at Cheſter, or Dublin; and what care has been, or is to be taken for his Monument, &c. Yet I have not neglected my Devoirs to Mr. Rowe; I am writing this very day his Epitaph for Weſtminſter-Abbey—After theſe; the beſt natur'd of Men, Sir Samuel Garth, has left me in the trueſt concern for his loſs. His Death was very Heroical, and yet unaffected enough to have made a Saint, or a Philoſopher fa⯑mous: But ill Tongues, and worſe Hearts have branded even his laſt Moments, as wrongfully as they did his Life, with Irre⯑ligion. You muſt have heard many Tales on this Subject; but if ever there was a good Chriſtian, without knowing himſelf to be ſo, it was Dr. Garth.

^* Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

IT was certainly a great Satisfaction to me to ſee and converſe with a Man, whom in his Writings I had ſo long known with Pleaſure: But it was a high addition to it, to hear you, at our very firſt meeting, doing juſtice to your dead friend Mr. Dryden. I was not ſo happy as to know him; Virgilium tantum vidi—Had I been born early enough, I muſt have known and lov'd him: For I have been aſſur'd, not only by your ſelf, but by Mr. [2] Congreve and Sir William Trumbul, that his perſonal Qualities were as amiable as his Poetical, notwithſtanding the many libel⯑lous Miſrepreſentations of them, (againſt which the former of theſe Gentlemen has told me he will one day vindicate him^*.) I ſuppoſe thoſe Injuries were begun by the Violence of Party, but 'tis no doubt they were continu'd by Envy at his ſucceſs and fame: And thoſe Scriblers who attack'd him in his latter times, were only like Gnats in a Summer's Evening, which are never very troubleſome but in the fineſt and moſt glorious Seaſon; (for his Fire, like the Sun's, ſhin'd cleareſt towards its ſet⯑ting.)

You muſt not therefore imagine, that when you told me of my own Perfor⯑mances that they were above thoſe Cri⯑ticks, I was ſo vain as to believe it; and yet I may not be ſo humble as to think my ſelf quite below their Notice. For Critics, as they are Birds of Prey, have ever a na⯑tural Inclination to Carrion: And though ſuch poor Writers as I, are but Beggars, however no Beggar is ſo poor but he can keep a Cur, and no Author is ſo beggarly but he can keep a Critic. So I'm ſar from [3] thinking the Attacks of ſuch people either any honour or diſhonour, even to me, much leſs to Mr. Dryden. I think with you, that whatever leſſer Wits have riſen ſince his Death, are but like Stars appearing when the Sun is ſet, that twinkle only in his Abſence, and with the Rays they have borrowed from him. Our Wit (as you call it)is but Reflection or Imitation, there⯑fore ſcarce to be call'd ours. True Wit, I believe, may be defin'd Juſtneſs of Thought, and a Facility of Expreſſion; or (in the Midwives Phraſe) a perfect Conception, with an eaſy Delivery. However this is far from a compleat Definition; pray help me to a better, as I doubt not you can.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE been ſo buſy of late in cor⯑recting and tranſcribing ſome of my Madrigals, for a great Man or two who deſir'd to ſee them, that I have (with your Pardon) omitted to return you an Anſwer to your moſt ingenious Letter: So Scrib⯑lers to the Publick, like Bankers to the Pub⯑lick, are profuſe in their voluntary Loans [4] to it, whilſt they forget to pay their more private and particular, as more juſt Debts, to their beſt and neareſt Friends. How⯑ever, I hope, you who have as much Good-Nature as Good Senſe, (ſince they gene⯑rally are Companions) will have Patience with a Debtor, who you think has an In⯑clination to pay you his Obligations, if he had wherewithal ready about him; and in the mean time ſhould conſider when you have oblig'd me beyond my preſent Power of returning the Favour, that a Debtor may be an honeſt Man, if he but intends to be juſt when he is able, tho' late. But I ſhould be leſs juſt to you, the more I thought I could make a Re⯑turn to ſo much Profuſeneſs of Wit and Humanity together; which though they ſel⯑dom accompany each other, in other Men, are in you ſo equally met, I know not in which you moſt abound. But ſo much for my Opinion of you, which is, that your Wit and Ingenuity is equall'd by no⯑thing but your Judgment, or Modeſty; which (though it be to pleaſe my ſelf) I muſt no more offend, than I can do either right.

Therefore I will ſay no more now of them, than that your good Wit ne'er for⯑feited your good Judgment, but in your Partiality to me and mine; ſo that if it [5] were poſſible for a harden'd Scribler to be vainer than he is, what you write of me would make me more conceited, than what I ſcribble my ſelf; yet I muſt confeſs I ought to be more humbled by your Praiſe than exalted; which commends my little Senſe with ſo much more of yours, that I am diſparag'd and diſhearten'd by your Com⯑mendations; who give me an Example of your Wit in the firſt Part of your Letter, and a Definition of it in the laſt: to make writing well (that is, like you) more dif⯑ficult to me than ever it was before. Thus the more great and juſt your Example and Definition of Wit are, the leſs I am capa⯑ble to follow them. Then the beſt way of ſhewing my Judgment, after having ſeen how you write, is to leave off writing; and the beſt way to ſhew my Friendſhip to you, is to put an end to your Trouble, and to conclude

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

WHEN I write to you, I foreſee a long Letter, and ought to beg your [6] Patience beforehand; for if it proves the longeſt, it will be of courſe the worſt I have troubled you with. Yet to expreſs my Gratitude at large for your obliging Letter, is not more my Duty than my Intereſt; as ſome People will abundantly thank you for one Piece of Kindneſs, to put you in mind of beſtowing another. The more favourable you are to me, the more diſtinctly I ſee my Faults; Spots and Blemiſhes, you know, are never ſo plainly diſcover'd as in the brighteſt Sun⯑ſhine. Thus I am mortified by thoſe Com⯑mendations which were deſign'd to encou⯑rage me: for Praiſe to a young Wit, is like Rain to a tender Flower; if it be mode⯑rately beſtow'd, it chears and revives; but if too laviſhly, overcharges and depreſſes him. Moſt Men in years, as they are ge⯑nerally diſcouragers of Youth, are like old Trees, that being paſt Bearing themſelves, will ſuffer no young Plants to flouriſh be⯑neath them: But as if it were not enough to have out-done all your Coaevals in Wit, you will excel them in Good-Nature too. As for my ^agreen Eſſays, if you find any pleaſure in 'em, it muſt be ſuch as a Man naturally takes in obſerving the firſt Shoots and Buddings of a Tree which he [7] has rais'd himſelf: and 'tis impoſſible they ſhould be eſteem'd any otherwiſe, than as we value Fruits for being early, which ne⯑vertheleſs are the moſt inſipid, and the worſt of the Year. In a word, I muſt blame you for treating me with ſo much Compliment, which is at beſt but the Smoak of Friendſhip. I neither write, nor con⯑verſe with you, to gain your Praiſe, but your Affection. Be ſo much my Friend as to appear my Enemy, and tell me my Faults, if not as a young Man, at leaſt as an un⯑experienc'd Writer.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

YOUR Letter of the Twenty-fifth of March I have received, which was more welcome to me than any thing cou'd be out of the Country, tho' it were one's Rent due that Day: and I can find no fault with it, but that it charges me with Want of Sincerity, or Juſtice, for giving you your Due; who ſhou'd not let your Modeſty be ſo unjuſt to your Merit, as to reject [8] what is due to it, and call that Compliment which is ſo ſhort of your deſert, that it is rather degrading than exalting you. But if Compliment be the Smoak only of Friend⯑ſhip, (as you ſay) however you muſt allow there is no Smoak but there is ſome Fire; and as the Sacrifice of Incenſe offer'd to the Gods wou'd not have been half ſo ſweet to others, if it had not been for its Smoak; ſo Friendſhip, like Love, cannot be without ſome Incenſe, to perfume the Name it would praiſe and immortalize. But ſince you ſay you do not write to me to gain my Praiſe, but my Affection, pray how is it poſſible to have the one without the other? We muſt admire beſore we love. You affirm, you would have me ſo much your Friend as to appear your Enemy, and find out your Faults rather than your Perfections: But (my Friend) that would be ſo hard to do, that I who love no Difficulties, can't be perſuaded to it. Be⯑ſides, the Vanity of a Scribler is ſuch, that he will never part with his own Judgment to gratify another's; eſpecially when he muſt take pains to do it: And tho' I am proud to be of your Opinion, when you talk of any Thing, or Man but your ſelf, I cannot ſuffer you to murther your Fame, with your own hand, without oppoſing you; eſpecially when you ſay your laſt Let⯑ter [9] is the worſt (ſince the longeſt) you have favoured me with; which I therefore think the beſt, as the longeſt Life (if a good one) is the beſt, as it yields the more Variety and is more Exemplary; as a chearful Summer's Day, tho' longer than a dull one in the Winter, is leſs tedious and more entertain⯑ing: Therefore let but your Friendſhip be like your Letter, as laſting as it is agreeable, and it can never be tedious, but more ac⯑ceptable and obliging to

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE receiv'd yours of the Fifth, wherein your Modeſty refuſes the juſt Praiſes I give you, by which you lay claim to more, as a Biſhop gains his Biſhoprick, by ſaying he will not Epiſcopate: But I muſt confeſs, whilſt I diſpleaſe you by commend⯑ing you, I pleaſe my ſelf; juſt as Incenſe is ſweeter to the Offerer than the Deity to whom 'tis offered, by his being ſo much above it: For indeed, every Man partakes of the Praiſe he gives, when it is ſo juſtly given.

[10] As to my enquiry after your Intrigues with the Muſes, you may allow me to make it, ſince no old Man can give ſo young, ſo great, and able a Favourite of theirs, Jea⯑louſy. I am, in my Enquiry, like old Sir Bernard Gaſcoign, who us'd to ſay, That when he was grown too old to have his Viſits admitted alone by the Ladies, he always took along with him a young Man, to enſure his Welcome to them; who, had he come alone had been rejected, only becauſe his Viſits were not ſcandalous to them. So I am (like an old Rook, who is ruin'd by Gaming) forc'd to live on the good Fortune of the puſhing young Men, whoſe Fancies are ſo vigorous, that they enſure their Suc⯑ceſs in their Adventures with the Muſes, by their Strength of Imagination.

—Your Papers are ſafe in my Cuſtody (you may be ſure) from any one's Theft but my own; for 'tis as dangerous to truſt a Scribler with your Wit, as a Gameſter with the Cuſtody of your Money.—If you happen to come to Town, you will make it more difficult for me to leave it, who am, dear Mr. Pope,

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I Cannot contend with you. You muſt give me leave at once to wave all your Compliments, and to collect only this in general from 'em, that your Deſign is to encourage me. But I ſeparate from all the reſt that Paragraph or two, in which you make me ſo warm an Offer of your Friend⯑ſhip. Were I poſſeſs'd of That, it would put an end to all thoſe Speeches with which you now make me bluſh; and change them to wholeſome Advices, and free Sen⯑timents, which might make me wiſer and happier. I know 'tis the general Opinion, that Friendſhip is beſt contracted betwixt Perſons of equal Age: but I have ſo much Intereſt to be of another Mind, that you muſt pardon me if I cannot forbear telling you a few Notions of mine, in oppoſition to that Opinion.

In the firſt place 'tis obſervable, that the Love we bear to our Friends is generally cauſed by our finding the ſame Diſpoſitions in them, which we feel in our ſelves. This is but Self-love at the bottom: Whereas the Affection betwixt People of different Ages cannot well be ſuch, the Inclinations of ſuch [12] being commonly various. The Friendſhip of two young Men is often occaſioned by Love of Pleaſure or Voluptuouſneſs, each being deſirous, for his own ſake, of one to aſſiſt or incourage him in the Courſes he purſues; as that of two old Men is fre⯑quently on the ſcore of ſome Profit, Lucre, or Deſign upon others. Now, as a young Man who is leſs acquainted with the Ways of the World, has in all probability leſs of Intereſt; and an old Man who may be weary of himſelf, leſs of Self-love; ſo the Friendſhip between them is the more likely to be true, and unmix'd with too much Self⯑regard. One may add to this, that ſuch a Friendſhip is of greater Uſe and Advantage to both; for the old Man will grow more gay and agreeable to pleaſe the young one; and the young Man more diſcreet and pru⯑dent by the help of the old one: ſo it may prove a Cure of thoſe epidemical Diſeaſes of Age and Youth, Sourneſs and Madneſs. I hope you will not need many Arguments to convince you of the Poſſibility of this; One alone abundantly ſatisfies me, and con⯑vinces to the very Heart; which is, that I am, &c. ²⁸

Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

I Shou'd believe my ſelf happy in your good Opinion, but that you treat me ſo much in a Style of Compliment. It has been obſerv'd of Women, that they are more ſubject in their youth to be touch'd with Vanity than Men, on ac⯑count of their being generally treated this way; but the weakeſt Women are not more ſo than that weak Claſs of Men, who are thought to pique them⯑ſelves upon their Wit. The World is ne⯑ver wanting, when a Coxcomb is accom⯑pliſhing himſelf, to help to give him the finiſhing Stroke.

Every Man is apt to think his Neigh⯑bour overſtock'd with Vanity, yet I can⯑not but fancy, there are certain Times, when moſt people are in a diſpoſition of being inform'd; and 'tis incredible what a vaſt Good a little Truth might do, ſpo⯑ken in ſuch ſeaſons. A very ſmall Alms will do a great kindneſs, to people in ex⯑tream neceſſity.

[14] I could name an acquaintance of yours, who wou'd at this time think himſelf more oblig'd to you for the Information of his Faults, than the Confirmation of his Follies. If you would make thoſe the Subject of a Letter, it might be as long as I could wiſh your Letters always were.

I do not wonder you have hitherto found ſome difficulty (as you are pleas'd to ſay) in writing to me, ſince you have always choſen the Task of commending me: Take but the other way, and I dare ingage you will find none at all.

As for my Verſes which you praiſe ſo much, I may truly ſay they had never been the cauſe of any Vanity in me, ex⯑cept what they gave me when they firſt occaſion'd my acquaintance with you. But I have ſeveral times ſince been in danger of this Vice, as often I mean as I receiv'd any Letters from you.

'Tis certain, the greateſt magnifying Glaſſes in the World are a Man's own Eyes, when they look upon his own Per⯑ſon; yet even in thoſe, I cannot fancy my ſelf ſo extremely like Alexander the Great, as you wou'd perſuade me: If I muſt be like him, 'tis you will make me ſo, [15] by complimenting me into a better opinion of my ſelf than I deſerve: They made him think he was the Son of Jupiter, and you aſſure me I am a Man of Parts. But is this all you can ſay to my honour? You ſaid ten times as much before, when you call'd me your Friend. After having made me believe I poſſeſs'd a ſhare in your Af⯑fection, to treat me with Compliments and ſweet Sayings, is like the proceeding with poor Sancho 'Panca: They had perſuaded him that he enjoy'd a great Dominion, and then gave him nothing to ſubſiſt up⯑on but Wafers and Marmalade. In our Days, the greateſt obligation you can lay upon a Wit, is to make a Fool of him. For as when Madmen are found incurable, wiſe Men give them their Way, and pleaſe them as well as they can; ſo when thoſe incorrigible things, Poets, are once irreco⯑verably Be-Mus'd, the beſt way both to quiet them, and ſecure your ſelves from the effects of their Frenzy, is to feed their Vanity; (which indeed for the moſt part is all that is fed in a Poet.)

You may believe me, I could be hear⯑tily glad that all you ſay were as true, ap⯑ply'd to me, as it wou'd be to your ſelf, for ſeveral weighty Reaſons; but for none ſo much, as that I might be to you what you [16] deſerve; whereas I can now be no more, than is conſiſtent with the ſmall, tho' ut⯑moſt Capacity of,

Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

I HAVE now chang'd the Scene from the Town to the Country; from Will's Coffee-Houſe to Windſor Foreſt. I find no other difference than this, betwixt the com⯑mon Town-Wits, and the downright Coun⯑try Fools; that the firſt are pertly in the Wrong, with a little more Flouriſh and Gaiety, and the laſt neither in the Right nor the Wrong, but confirmed in a ſtupid, ſettled Medium betwixt both. However, methinks theſe are moſt in the Right, who quietly and eaſily reſign themſelves over to the gentle Reign of Dulneſs, which the Wits muſt do at laſt, tho' after a great deal of Noiſe, Pother, and Reſiſtance. Ours are a ſort of modeſt, inoffenſive People, who neither have Senſe, nor pretend to any, but enjoy a jovial Sort of Dulneſs. They are commonly known in the World by the Name of honeſt, civil Gentlemen. They live much as they ride, at random; a kind of hunting Life, purſuing with earneſtneſs and hazard, ſomething not worth the catching; never in the way, nor out of it. I can't but preſer Solitude to the Company of all theſe; for tho' a [18] Man's ſelf may poſſibly be the worſt Fel⯑low to converſe with in the world, yet one would think the Company of a Perſon whom we have the greateſt regard to, and affection for, could not be very un⯑pleaſant: As a Man in love with a Mi⯑ſtreſs, deſires no converſation but hers, ſo a Man in love with himſelf, (as moſt Men are) may be beſt pleaſed with his own. Beſides, if the trueſt and moſt uſeful Know⯑ledge, be the Knowledge of our ſelves, So⯑litude conducing moſt to make us look into our ſelves, ſhould be the moſt inſtructive State of Life. We ſee nothing more com⯑monly, than Men, who for the ſake of the circumſtantial Part, and meer outſide of Life, have been half their Days rambling out of their Nature, and ought to be ſent into Solitude to ſtudy themſelves over again. People are uſually ſpoil'd inſtead of being taught, at their coming into the World; whereas by being more converſant with Obſeurity, without any Pains, they would naturally follow what they were meant for. In a word, if a Man be a Coxcomb, So⯑litude is his beſt School; and if he be a Fool, it is his beſt Sanctuary.

Theſe are good Reaſons for my own Stay here, but I wiſh I could give you any for your coming hither, except that I earneſtly invite you. And yet I can't help [19] ſaying, I have ſuffered a great deal of diſ⯑content that you do not, tho' I ſo little merit that you ſhould.

I muſt complain of the ſhortneſs of your laſt: Thoſe who have moſt Wit, like thoſe who have moſt Money, are generally moſt ſparing of either.

Mr. WYCHERLEY's Anſwer.

YOURS of the 26th of October I have received, as I have always done yours, with no little Satisfaction, and am proud to diſcover by it, that you find fault with the ſhortneſs of mine, which I think the beſt Excuſe for it: And tho' they (as you ſay) who have moſt Wit or Money, are moſt ſparing of either; there are ſome who ap⯑pear Poor to be thought Rich, and are Poor, which is my Caſe: I cannot but rejoice, that you have undergone ſo much diſcontent for want of my company; but if you have a mind to puniſh me for my fault, (which I could not help) defer your coming to Town, and you will do it ef⯑fectually. But I know your Charity always exceeds your Revenge, ſo that I will not [20] deſpair of ſeeing you, who, in return to your inviting me to your Foreſt, invite you to my Foreſt, the Town; where the Beaſts that inhabit, tame or wild, of long Ears or Horns, purſue one another either out of Love or Hatred. You may have the Pleaſure to ſee one Pack of Blood⯑hounds purſue another Herd of Brutes, to bring each other to their Fall, which is their whole Sport: Or, if you affect a leſs bloody Chace, you may ſee a Pack of Spa⯑niels, called Lovers, in a hot purſuit of a two legg'd Vixen, who only flies the whole low'd Pack to be ſingled out by one Dog, who runs mute to catch her up the ſooner from the reſt, as they are making a Noiſe, to the Loſs of their Game. In fine, this is the Time for all ſorts of Sport in the Town, when thoſe of the Country ceaſe; there⯑fore leave your Foreſt of Beaſts, for ours of Brutes, call'd Men, who now in full Cry, (pack'd by the Court or Country) run down in the Houſe of Commons, a de⯑ſerted horned Beaſt of the Court, to the ſatisfaction of their Spectators: Beſides, (more for your Diverſion) you may ſee not only the two great Play-houſes of the Nation, thoſe of the Lords and Commons, in Diſpute with one another; but the two other Play-houſes in high Conteſt, becauſe the Members of one Houſe are remov'd [21] up to t'other, (as it is often done by the Court for Reaſons of State.) Inſomuch that the lower Houſes, I mean the Play-houſes, are going to act Tragedies on one another without Doors, and the Sovereign is put to it (as it often happens in the other two Houſes) to ſilence one or both, to keep Peace between them. Now I have told you all the News of the Town.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE receiv'd your kind Letter, with my Paper^* to Mr. Dryden corrected. I own you have made more of it by making it leſs, as the Dutch are ſaid to burn half the Spices they bring home to inhance the Price of the remainder, ſo to be greater Gainers by their Loſs, (which is indeed my Caſe now.) Well; you have prun'd my ſading Laurels of ſome ſuperfluous, ſapleſs, [22] and dead Branches, to make the remainder live the longer; thus like your Maſter Apollo, you are at once a Poet and a Phyſician.

Now, Sir, as to my impudent invitation of you to the Town, your Good-Nature was the firſt Cauſe of my confident requeſt; but excuſe me, I muſt I ſee ſay no more upon this Subject, ſince I find you a little too nice to be dealt freely with: tho' you have given me ſome Encouragement to hope, our Friendſhip tho' young might be without Shyneſs, or criminal Modeſty; for a Friend, like a Miſtreſs, tho' he is not to be mercenary to be true, yet ought not to refuſe a Friend's kindneſs becauſe it is ſmall or trivial: I have told you (I think) that a Spaniſh Lady ſaid to her poor, po⯑etical Gallant, that a Queen if ſhe lay with a Groom, would expect a mark of his kindneſs from him, tho' it were but his Curry-comb. But you and I will diſpute this Matter when I am ſo happy as to ſee you here; and perhaps 'tis the only Diſ⯑pute in which I might hope to have the better of you.

Now, Sir, to make you another excuſe for my boldneſs in inviting you to Town, I deſign'd to leave with you ſome more of my Papers, (ſince theſe return ſo much bet⯑ter out of your Hands than they went from mine) for I intended (as I told you formerly) [23] to ſpend a Month, or ſix Weeks this Sum⯑mer, near you in the Country; for you may be aſſured there is nothing I deſire ſo much, as an Improvement of your Friendſhip—

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I MUST lay a penance upon you, which is to deſire you to look over that damn'd Miſcellany of Madrigals of mine, to pick out (if poſſible) ſome that may be ſo al⯑ter'd that they may yet appear in Print again; I hope with better ſucceſs than they hitherto have done. I will give you my Reaſon for this Requeſt of mine, when I ſee you; which I am reſolv'd ſhall be when I have done here, and at the Bath, where I deſign to go, and afterwards to ſpend two Months (God willing) with you at Binfield, or near it—

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

BY yours of the laſt Month, you deſire me to ſelect, if poſſible, ſome Things from the ^†firſt Volume of your Miſcel⯑lanies, which may be alter'd ſo as to ap⯑pear again. I doubted your meaning in this; whether it was to pick out the beſt of thoſe Verſes, (as that on the Idleneſs of Buſineſs; on Ignorance; on Lazineſs, &c.) to make the Method and Numbers exact, and avoid Repetitions? For tho' (upon reading 'em on this occaſion) I believe they might receive ſuch an Alteration with advantage; yet they would not be chang'd ſo much, but any one would know 'em for the ſame at firſt ſight. Or if you mean to improve the worſt Pieces, which are ſuch as to render them very good, would require a great addition, and almoſt the entire new writing of them? Or, laſtly, if you mean the middle ſort, as the Songs and Love-Verſes? For theſe will need only to be ſhortned, to omit repetition; the Words remaining very little different from what they were before. Pray let me know [25] your mind in this, for I am utterly at a loſs. Yet I have try'd what I could do to ſome of the Songs, ^* and the Poems on Lazi⯑neſs and Ignorance, but can't (e'en in my own partial Judgment) think my altera⯑tions much to the purpoſe. So that I muſt needs deſire you would apply your Gare wholly at preſent, to thoſe which are yet unpubliſhed, of which there are more than enough to make a conſierable Volume, of full as good ones, nay, I verily believe, of better than any in Vol. I. which I could wiſh you would defer, at leaſt 'till you have finiſh'd theſe that are yet unprinted.

I ſend you a Sample of ſome few of theſe; namely; the Verſes to Mr. Waller in his old Age; your new ones on the Duke of Marlborough, and two others. I have done all that I thought could be of advantage to them: Some I have con⯑tracted, as we do Sun-beams, to improve their Energy and Force; ſome I have ta⯑ken quite away, as we take Branches from a Tree, to add to the Fruit; others I have entirely new expreſs'd, and turned more into Poetry. Donne (like one of his Suc⯑ceſſors) had infinitely more Wit than he wanted Verſification: for the great dealers [26] in Wit, like thoſe in Trade, take leaſt Pains to ſet off their Goods; while the Ha⯑berdaſhers of ſmall Wit, ſpare for no De⯑corations or Ornaments. You have com⯑miſſion'd me to paint your Shop, and I have done my beſt to bruſh you up like your Neighbours. But I can no more pre⯑tend to the Merit of the Production, than a Midwife to the Virtues and good Quali⯑ties of the Child ſhe helps into the Light.

The few Things I have entirely added, you will excuſe; you may take them law⯑fully for your own, becauſe they are no more than Sparks lighted up by your Fire; and you may omit them at laſt, if you think them but Squibs in your Triumphs.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE received yours of the 26th, as kind as it is ingenious, for which therefore I moſt heartily thank you: It would have been much more welcome to me, had it not inform'd me of your want of Health: But you who have a Mind ſo [27] vigorous, may well be contented with its crazy Habitation; ſince (you know) the old Similitude ſays, The Keenneſs of the Mind ſooneſt wears out the Body; as the ſharpeſt Sword ſooneſt deſtroys the Scabbard: So that (as I ſay) you muſt be ſatisfied with your apprehenſion of an uneaſy Life, (tho' I hope not a ſhort one;) notwithſtanding that generally you ſound Wits (tho' weak Bodies) are immortal hereafter, by that Genius which ſhortens your preſent Life to prolong that of the future. But I yet hope, your great, vigorous, and active Mind, will not be able to deſtroy your little, tender, and crazy Carcaſs.

Now to ſay ſomething to what you write, concerning the preſent epidemick Diſtem⯑per of the Mind and Age, Calumny; I know it is no more to be avoided (at one time or another of our Lives) than a Fever, or an Ague; and as often thoſe Diſtem⯑pers attend, or threaten the beſt Conſtitu⯑tions, from the worſt Air; ſo does that malignant Air of Calumny, ſooneſt attack the ſound and elevated in Mind, as Storms of Wind the talleſt and moſt fruitful Trees; whilſt the low and weak, for bowing and moving to and fro, are, by their Weakneſs, ſecure from the danger and violence of the Tempeſt. But ſo much for ſtinking Ru⯑mour, which weakeſt Minds are moſt afraid [28] of; as Iriſh-Men, tho' the naſtieſt of Man⯑kind, are moſt offended at a Fart.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I Receiv'd yours of the 9th yeſterday, which has (like the reſt of your Let⯑ters) at once pleas'd and inſtructed me; ſo that I aſſure you, you can no more write too much to your abſent Friends, than ſpeak too much to the preſent. This is a Truth that all Men own, who have either ſeen your Writings, or heard your Diſ⯑courſe; enough to make others ſhow their Judgment, in ceaſing to write or talk, eſ⯑pecially to you, or in your company. How⯑ever, I ſpeak or write to you, not to pleaſe you, but my ſelf; ſince I provoke your Anſwers; which, whilſt they humble me, give me vanity; tho' I am leſſen'd by you even when you commend me; ſince you commend my little Senſe with ſo much more of yours, that you put me out of Counte⯑nance, whilſt you would keep me in it. So that you have found a way (againſt the Cuſtom of great Wits) to ſhew even a great deal of Good-Nature with a great deal of good Senſe.

[29] I thank you for the Book you promis'd me, by which I find you would not only correct my Lines, but my Life.

As to the damn'd Verſes I entruſted you with, I hope you will let them undergo your Purgatory, to ſave them from other People's damning them; ſince the Criticks, who are generally the firſt damn'd in this Life, like the Damn'd below, never leave to bring thoſe above them under their own Circumſtances. I beg you to peruſe my Papers, and ſelect what you think beſt, or moſt tolerable, and look over them again; for I reſolve ſuddenly to print ſome of them, as a harden'd old Gameſter will (in ſpite of all former ill uſage by Fortune) puſh on an ill Hand, in expectation of re⯑covering himſelf; eſpecially, ſince I have ſuch a Croupier or Second to ſtand by me as Mr. Pope.

Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

MR. Englefyld being upon his Journey to London, tells me I muſt write to you by him, which I do, not more to comply with his deſire, than to gratify my own; tho' I did it ſo lately by the Meſ⯑ſenger you ſent hither: I take it too as an opportunity of ſending you the fair Copy of the Poem ^a on Dulneſs, which was not then finiſh'd, and which I ſhould not care to hazard by the common Poſt. Mr. Englefyld is ignorant of the Contents, and I hope your prudence will let him re⯑main ſo, for my ſake no leſs than your own: Since if you ſhould reveal any thing of this nature, it would be no wonder Re⯑ports ſhould be rais'd, and there are thoſe (I fear) who would be ready to improve them to my diſadvantage. I am ſorry you told the great Man, whom you met in the Court of Requeſts, that your Papers were in my hands: No Man alive ſhall ever know any ſuch thing from me; and [31] I give you this warning beſides, that tho' your ſelf ſhould ſay I had any way aſſi⯑ſted you, I am notwithſtanding reſolv'd to deny it.

The method of the Copy I ſend you is very different from what it was, and much more regular: For the better help of your Memory, I deſire you to compare it by the Figures in the Margin, anſwer⯑ing to the ſame in this Letter. The Poem is now divided into four Parts, mark'd with the literal Figures I. II. III. IV. The firſt contains the Praiſe of Dulneſs, and ſhews how upon ſeveral ſuppoſitions, it paſſes for 1. Religion. 2. Philoſophy. 3. Example. 4. Wit. And 5. The cauſe of Wit, and the end of it. The ſecond Part contains the Advantages of Dulneſs: 1ſt, In Buſi⯑neſs; and 2dly, at Court; where the Si⯑militudes of the Byaſs of a Bowl, and the Weights of a Clock, are directly tend⯑ing to illuſtrate thoſe advantages of Dul⯑neſs, tho' introduced before in a place where there was no mention made of them; (which was your only objection to my ad⯑ding them.) The third contains the Happi⯑neſs of Dulneſs in all Stations, and ſhews in a great many Particulars, that it is ſo fortunate, as to be eſteem'd ſome good Quality or other in all ſorts of People; that it is thought Quiet, Senſe, Caution, [32] Policy, Prudence, Majeſty, Valour, Cir⯑cumſpection, Honeſty, &c. The fourth Part I have wholly added, as a Climax which ſums up all the praiſe, advantage, and happineſs of Dulneſs in a few words, and ſtrengthens them all by the oppoſition of the diſgrace, diſadvantage, and unhappineſs of Wit, with which it concludes^b.

Tho' the whole be as ſhort again as at firſt, there is not one Thought omitted, but what is a Repetition of ſomething in your firſt Volume, or in this very Paper: Some Thoughts are contracted, where they ſeem'd encompaſs'd with too many words; and ſome new expreſs'd, or added, where I thought there wanted heightning, (as you'll ſee parti⯑cularly in the Simile of the Clock-Weights; ^c [33] and the Verſification throughout, is, I be⯑lieve ſuch, as no body can be ſhock'd at. The repeated Permiſſions you give me of dealing freely with you, will (I hope) ex⯑cuſe what I have done; for if I have not ſpar'd you when I thought Severity would do you a kindneſs, I have not mangled you where I thought there was no abſolute need of Amputation. As to Particulars, I can ſatisfy you better when we meet; in the mean time, pray write to me when you can, you cannot too often.

Mr. WYCHERLEY's Anſwer.

YOU may ſee by my Stile, I had the happineſs and ſatisfaction to receive yeſterday (by the hands of that Wagg, Mr. Englefyld) your extreme kind and obliging Letter of the 20th of this Month; which, like all the reſt of yours, did at once mor⯑tify me, and make me vain; ſince it tells me with ſo much more Wit, Senſe and Kindneſs than mine can expreſs, that my Letters are always welcome to you. So that even whilſt your Kindneſs invites me to write to you, your Wit and Judgment [34] forbids me; ſince I may return you a Let⯑ter, but never an Anſwer.

Now, as for my owning your aſſiſtance to me, in over-looking my unmuſical Num⯑bers, and harſher Senſe, and correcting them both, with your Genius, or Judg⯑ment; I muſt tell you I always own it, (in ſpite of your unpoetick Modeſty) who would do with your Friendſhip as your Charity; conceal your Bounty to magnify the Obligation; and even whilſt you lay on your Friend the Favour, acquit him of the Debt: But that ſhall not ſerve your turn; I will always own, 'tis my infallible Pope has, or would redeem me from a poetical Damning, the ſecond time; and ſave my Rhimes from being condemn'd to the Criticks Flames to all Eternity: But (by the Faith you proſeſs) you know your Works of Supererrogation, transfer'd upon an humble, acknowledging Sinner, may ſave even Him; having good Works enough of your own beſides, to enſure yours, and their Immortality.

And now for the pains you have taken to recommend my Dulneſs, by making it more methodical, I give you a thouſand thanks; ſince true and natural Dulneſs is ſhown more by its pretence to form and method, as the Sprightlineſs of Wit by its deſpiſing both. I thank you a thouſand [35] times for your repeated Invitations to come to Binfield:—You will find, it will be as hard for you to get quit of my merce⯑nary kindneſs to you, as it would for me to deſerve, or return yours; however, it ſhall be the Endeavour of my future Life, as it will be to demonſtrate my ſelf,

Mr. POPE's Reply.

THE Compliments you make me, in regard of any inconſiderable Service I could do you, are very unkind, and do but tell me in other words, that my Friend has ſo mean an opinion of me, as to think I expect acknowledgments for trifles; which upon my faith I ſhall equally take amiſs, whether made to my ſelf, or to any others. For God's ſake, (my dear Friend Wycherley) think better of me, and believe I deſire no ſort of Favour ſo much, as that of ſerving you, more conſiderably than I have yet been able to do.

I ſhall proceed in this manner, with ſome others of your Pieces; but ſince you [36] deſire I would not deface your Copy for the future, and only mark the Repetitions; I muſt, as ſoon as I've mark'd theſe, tran⯑ſcribe what is left on another Paper; and in that, blot, alter, and add all I can de⯑viſe, for their Improvement. For you are ſenſible, the Omiſſion of Repetitions is but one, and the eaſieſt Part, of yours and my Deſign; there remaining beſides to rectify the Method, to connect the Matter, and to mend the Expreſſion and Verſification. I will go next upon the ^*Poems of Solitude, on the Publick, and on the mixt Life: the Bill of Fare; the Praiſes of Avarice, and ſome others.

I muſt take ſome Notice of what you ſay, of ‘"My pains to make your Dulneſs methodical;"’ and of your hint, that ‘"The ſprightlineſs of Wit deſpiſes method."’ This is true enough, if by Wit you mean no more than Fancy or Conceit; but in the better notion of Wit, conſider'd as propriety, ſurely Method is not only neceſ⯑ſary for Perſpicuity and Harmony of parts, but gives beauty even to the minute and particular thoughts, which receive an ad⯑ditional advantage from thoſe which pre⯑cede or follow in their due place: Ac⯑cording [37] to a Simile Mr. Dryden us'd in converſation, of Feathers in the Crowns of the wild Indians, which they not only chuſe for the beauty of their Colours, but place them in ſuch a manner as to reflect a Luſtre on each other. I will not diſguiſe any of my Sentiments from you: To methodize in your Caſe, is full as neceſſary as to ſtrike out; otherwiſe you had better deſtroy the whole Frame, and reduce them into ſingle Thoughts in Proſe, like Rochfoucault, as I have more than once hinted to you.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE had yours of the 23d of this Inſtant, for which I give you many thanks, ſince I find by it, that even Abſence (the uſual bane of Love, or Friendſhip) can⯑not leſſen yours to more than mine. ^*As to your hearing of my being ill; I am glad [38] and ſorry for the report: In the firſt place, glad that it was not true; and in the next ſorry that it ſhou'd give you any diſtur⯑bance, or concern more than ordinary for me; for which, as well as your concern for my future well-being or life, I think my ſelf moſt eternally oblig'd to you; aſ⯑ſuring, your concern for either will make me more careful of both. Yet for your ſake I love this Life ſo well, that I ſhall the leſs think of the other; but 'tis in your power to enſure my Happineſs in one and the other, both by your society and good Example, ſo not only contribute to my fe⯑licity here, but hereaſter.

Now as to your Excuſe for the plain⯑neſs of your Style, or Letter, I muſt needs tell you, that Friendſhip is much more ac⯑ceptable to a true Friend than Wit, which is generally ſalſe Reaſoning; and a Friend's reprimand often ſhews more Friendſhip than his compliment: Nay Love, which is more than Friendſhip, is often ſeen, by our Friend's correction of our Follies or Crimes. Upon this Teſt of your Friendſhip I intend to put you when I return to London, and thence to you at Binfield, which I hope will be within a Month.

Next to the News of your good Health, I am pleas'd with the good News of your going to print ſome of your Poems, and [39] proud to be known by them to the Pub⯑lick for your Friend; who intend (perhaps the ſame way) to be reveng'd of you for your kindneſs; by taking your Name in vain in ſome of my future Madrigals: yet ſo as to let the World know, my love or eſteem for you are no more Poetick than my Talent in ſcribbling. But of all the Arts of Fiction, I deſire you to believe I want that of feigning Friendſhip, and that I am ſincerely,

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE receiv'd yours of the firſt of May. Your Paſtoral Muſe outſhines, in her modeſt and natural dreſs, all Apollo's Court-Ladies, in their more artful, labour'd, and coſtly Finery; therefore I am glad to find by your Letter, you deſign your Coun⯑try-beauty of a Muſe ſhall appear at Court and in Publick; to outſhine all the farded, lewd, confident, affected, Town-dowdies, who aim at being honour'd only to their Shame: But her artful Innocence (on the contrary) will gain more Honour as ſhe [40] becomes more publick; and in ſpite of Cuſtom will bring Modeſty again into Fa⯑ſhion, or at leaſt make her Siſter-rivals of this Age, bluſh for Spite, if not for Shame. As for my ſtale, antiquated, poetical Puſs, whom you would keep in countenance, by ſaying ſhe has once been tolerable, and wou'd yet paſs Muſter by a little licking over; it is true that (like moſt vain anti⯑quated Jades which have once been paſſa⯑ble) yet ſhe affects Youthfulneſs, in her Age, and wou'd ſtill gain a few Admirers, (who the more ſhe ſeeks, or labours for their liking, are but more her contemners.) Nevertheleſs, ſhe is reſolv'd henceforth to be ſo cautious as to appear very little more in the World, except it be as an attendant on your Muſe, or as a Foil, not a Rival to her Wit, or Fame: So that let your Country⯑gentlewoman appear when ſhe will in the World^*, my old worn-out Jade of a loſt Reputation, ſhall be her attendant into it, [41] to procure her Admirers; as an old Whore who can get no more Friends of her own, bawds for others, to make Sport or Plea⯑ſure yet, one way or other, for Mankind. I approve of your making Tonſon your Muſe's Introductor into the World, or Ma⯑ſter of the Ceremonies, who has been ſo long a Pimp, or Gentleman-Uſher to the Muſes.

I wiſh you good Fortune; ſince a Man with ſtore of Wit, as ſtore of Mony, with⯑out the help of good Fortune, will never be popular; but I wiſh you a great many Admirers, which will be ſome Credit to my Judgment as well as your Wit, who always thought you had a great deal, and am

Extract from two Letters of Mr. WYCHERLEY of May 18, and of July 28, 1708.

I HAVE made a damn'd Compliment in Verſe, upon the printing your Paſto⯑rals, which you ſhall ſee when you ſee me.—If you ſuffer my old Dowdy of a Muſe to wait upon your ſprightly Laſs [42] of the Plains, into the Company of the Town, 'twill be but like an old City-bawd's attending a young Country beauty to Town, to gain her Admirers, when paſt the Hopes of pleaſing the World herſelf.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I MUST thank you for a Book of your Miſcellanies, which Tonſon ſent me, I ſuppoſe by your Order; and all I can tell you of it is, that nothing has lately been better receiv'd by the Publick, than your part of it; you have only diſpleas'd the Criticks by pleaſing them too well; ha⯑ving not left them a Word to ſay for them⯑ſelves, againſt you and your performances; ſo that now your hand is in, you muſt per⯑ſevere, 'till my Propheſies of you be ful⯑fill'd. In earneſt, all the beſt Judges of good Senſe, or Poetry, are Admirers of yours; and like your Part of the Book ſo well, that the reſt is lik'd the worſe. This is true upon my word, without Compli⯑ment; ſo that your firſt Succeſs will make you for all your Life a Poet, in ſpite of your Wit; for a Poet's Succeſs at firſt, [43] like a Gameſter's Fortune at firſt, is like to make him a loſer at laſt, and to be undone by his good fortune and merit.

But hitherto your Miſcellanies have ſafe⯑ly run the Gantlet, through all the Coffee⯑houſes; which are now entertain'd with a whimſical new News-Paper, call'd, The Tatler, which I ſuppoſe you have ſeen. This is the neweſt thing I can tell you of, except it be of the Peace, which now (moſt People ſay) is drawing to ſuch a Concluſion, as all Europe is, or muſt be ſatisfy'd with; ſo Poverty, you ſee, which makes Peace in Weſtminſter-Hall, makes it likewiſe in the Camp or Field, throughout the World: Peace then be to you, and to me; who am now grown peaceful, and will have no Conteſt with any Man, but him who ſays he is more your Friend, or humble Servant, than

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I AM glad you receiv'd the ^* Miſcellany, if it were only to ſhow you that there [44] are as bad Poets in this Nation as your Servant. This modern Cuſtom of appear⯑ing in Miſcellanies, is very uſeful to the Poets, who, like other Thieves, eſcape by getting into a Crowd, and herd together like Banditti, ſafe only in their Multitude. Methinks Strada has given a good De⯑ſcription of theſe kind of Collections; Nullus hodiè mortalium aut naſcitur, aut moritur, aut praeliatur, aut ruſticatur, aut abit peregrè; aut redit, aut nubit; aut eſt, aut non eſt, (nam etiammortuis iſti canunt) cui non illi extemplò cudant Epicaedia, Genethliaca, Protreptica, Panegyrica, E⯑pithalamia, Vaticinia, Propemptica, Soteri⯑ca, Paraenetica, Naenias, Nugas. As to the ſucceſs which you ſay my part has met with, it is to be attributed to what you were pleas'd to ſay of me to the World; which you do well to call your Propheſy, ſince whatever is ſaid in my favour, muſt be a Prediction of things that are not yet; you, like a true Godfather, engage on my part for much more than ever I can perform. My Paſtoral Muſe, like other Country Girls, is but put out of Countenance, by what you Courtiers ſay to her; yet I hope you would not deceive me too far, as knowing that a young Scribler's Vanity needs no Re⯑cruits from abroad: for Nature, like an in⯑dulgent Mother, kindly takes care to ſup⯑ply [45] her Sons with as much of their own, as is neceſſary for their Satisfaction. If my Verſes ſhould meet with a few flying Com⯑mendations, Virgil has taught me that a young Author has not too much reaſon to be pleas'd with them, when he conſiders, that the natural conſequence of Praiſe, is Envy and Calumny.

When once a Man has appear'd as a Poet, he may give up his Pretenſions to all the rich and thriving Arts: Thoſe who have once made their court to thoſe Miſtreſſes without Portions, the Muſes, are never like to ſet up for Fortunes. But for my part, I ſhall be ſatisfy'd if I can loſe my Time agreeably this way, without loſing my re⯑putation: As for gaining any, I am as indifferent in the Matter as Falſtaffe was, and may ſay of Fame as he did of Honour, If it comes, it comes unlook'd for; and there's an end on't. I can be content with a bare ſaving Game, without being thought an Eminent Hand, (with which Title Jacob has graciouſly dignify'd his adventurers and vo⯑luntiers in Poetry.) Jacob creates Poets, as Kings ſometimes do Knights, not for their honour, but for money. Certainly he [46] ought to be eſteem'd a worker of Miracles, who is grown rich by Poetry.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

THE laſt I receiv'd from you, was dated the 22d of May. I take your charitable hint to me very kindly, where⯑in you do like a true Friend, and a true Chriſtian, and I ſhall endeavour to follow your Advice, as well as your Example.—As for your wiſhing to ſee your Friend an Hermit with you, I cannot be ſaid to leave the World, ſince I ſhall enjoy in your converſation, all that I can deſire of it; nay, can learn more from you alone, than from my long Experience of the great, or little Vulgar in it.

As to the Succeſs of your Poems in the late Miſcellany, I told you of in my laſt; (upon my word) I made you no Compli⯑ment, for you may be aſſur'd, that all ſorts of Readers like them, except they are [47] Writers too; but for them, (I muſt needs ſay) the more they like them, they ought to be the leſs pleas'd with 'em: So that you do not come off with a bare Saving Game (as you call it) but have gain'd ſo much Credit at firſt, that you muſt needs ſupport it to the laſt: Since you ſet up with ſo great a Stock of good Senſe, Judg⯑ment and Wit, that your Judgment enſures all that your Wit ventures at. The Salt of your Wit has been enough to give a re⯑liſh to the whole inſipid Hotch-Potch it is mingled ^† with; and you will make Jacob's Ladder raiſe you to Immortality, by which others are turn'd off ſhamefully, to their Damnation (for poetick Thieves as they are) who think to be ſav'd by others good Works, how faulty ſoever their own are: But the Coffee-houſe Wits, or rather Anti-Wits, the Critics, prove their Judg⯑ments by approving your Wit; and even the News-Mongers and Poets will own, you have more Invention than they; nay, the Detracters or the Envious, who never ſpeak well of any body, (not even of thoſe they think well of in their abſence) yet will give you (even in your abſence) their good Word; and the Criticks only hate you, [48] for being forc'd to ſpeak well of you whe⯑ther they will or no; and all this is true, upon the word of,

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

MY Letters, ſo much inferior to yours, can only make up their ſcarcity of Senſe by their number of Lines; which is like the Spaniards paying a debt of Gold with a load of braſs Money. But to be a Plain-dealer, I muſt tell you, I will revenge the raillery of your Letters upon mine, by printing them, (as Dennis did mine) without your know⯑ledge too, which wou'd be a revenge upon your Judgment, for the raillery of your Wit: For ſome dull Rogues (that is, the moſt in the World) might be ſuch Fools as to think what you ſaid of me, was in earneſt: It is not the firſt time, you great Wits have gain'd Reputation by their pa⯑radoxical or ironical Praiſes; your Forefa⯑thers have done it, Eraſmus and others.—For all Mankind who know me muſt con⯑feſs, he muſt be no ordinary Genius, or little Friend, who can find out any thing [49] to commend in me ſeriouſly; who have gi⯑ven no ſign of my Judgment, but my Opi⯑nion of yours, nor mark of my Wit, but my leaving off Writing, to the publick, now you are beginning, to ſhew the World, what you can do by yours; whoſe Wit is as ſpiritual as your Judgment infallible; in whoſe Judgment I have an implicit Faith, and ſhall always ſubſcribe to it to ſave my Works in this World, from the Flames and Damnation.—Pray preſent my moſt hum⯑ble Service to Sir W. Trumbull; for whom and whoſe Judgment I have ſo profound a reſpect, that his Example had almoſt made me marry, more than my Nephew's ill Carriage to me; having once reſolv'd to have reveng'd my ſelf upon him by my Marriage, but now am reſolv'd to make my revenge greater upon him by his Mar⯑riage.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE had yours of the 30th of the laſt Month, which is kinder than I de⯑ſire it ſhou'd be, ſince it tells me you cou'd be better pleas'd to be ſick again in Town [50] in my company, than to be well in the Country without it; and that you are more impatient to be depriv'd of Happineſs than of Health; yet, my dear Friend, ſet raillery or compliment aſide, I can bear your ab⯑ſence (which procures your Health and Eaſe) better than I can your company when you are in Pain; for I cannot ſee you ſo without being ſo too. Your love to the Country I do not doubt, nor do you (I hope) my love to it or you, ſince there I can en⯑joy your company without ſeeing you in Pain to give me Satisfaction and Pleaſure; there I can have you without Rivals or Di⯑ſturbers; without the C [...]s too civil, or the T [...]s too rude; without the Noiſe of the Loud, and the Cenſure of the Silent; and wou'd rather have you abuſe me there with the Truth, than at this diſtance with your Compliment: Since now, your buſi⯑neſs of a Friend and kindneſs to a Friend, is by finding fault with his Faults, and mending them by your obliging Severity. I hope (in point of your good nature) you will have no cruel Charity for thoſe Pa⯑pers of mine, you were ſo willing to be troubled with; which I take moſt infinite⯑ly kind of you, and ſhall acknowledge with gratitude, as long as I live. No Friend can do more for his Friend than preſerving his Reputation (nay not by preſerving his Life) [51] ſince by preſerving his Life he can only make him live about threeſcore or four⯑ſcore Years; but by preſerving his Reputa⯑tion, he can make him live as long as the World laſts; ſo ſave him from damning, when he is gone to the Devil: Therefore I pray condemn me in private, as the Thieves do their Accomplices in Newgate, to ſave them from condemnation by the Publick. Be moſt kindly unmerciful to my poetical Faults, and do with my Papers, as you Country-gentlemen do with your Trees, ſlaſh, cut, and lop-off the Excreſ⯑cencies and dead Parts of my wither'd Bays, that the little remainder may live the lon⯑ger, and increaſe the value of them, by di⯑miniſhing the number. I have troubled you with my Papers rather to give you Pain than Pleaſure, notwithſtanding your compliment, which ſays, you take the trou⯑ble kindly: Such is the generoſity to your Friends, that you take it kindly to be de⯑ſired by them to do them a kindneſs; and you think it done to you, when they give you an opportunity to do it to them. Wherefore you may be ſure to be troubled with my Letters out of Intereſt, if not Kindneſs; ſince mine to you will procure yours to me, ſo that I write to you more for my own ſake than yours; leſs to make you think I write well, than to learn from [52] you to write better. Thus you ſee Intereſt in my Kindneſs, which is like the Friend⯑ſhip of the World, rather to make a Friend than be a Friend; but I am yours, as a true Plain-dealer.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

IF I can but do part of my Buſineſs at Shrewsbury in a Fortnights time (which I propoſe to do) I will be ſoon after with you, and trouble you with my Company, for the remainder of the Summer: In the mean time I beg you to give your ſelf the pains of altering, or leaving out what you think ſuperfluous in my Papers, that I may endeavour to print ſuch a Number of them as you and I ſhall think fit, about Michaelmas next; in order to which (my dear Friend) I beg you to be ſo kind to me, as to be ſevere to them; that the Criticks may be leſs ſo; for I had rather be con⯑demn'd by my Friend in private, than ex⯑pos'd to my Foes in publick, the Criticks, or common Judges, who are made ſuch by having been old Offenders themſelves. Pray believe I have as much Faith in your Friend⯑ſhip [53] and Sincerity, as I have Deference to your Judgment; and as the beſt Mark of a Friend, is telling his Friend his Faults in private, ſo the next is concealing them from the publick, 'till they are fit to ap⯑pear; in the mean time I am not a little ſenſible of the great kindneſs you do me, in the trouble you take for me, in put⯑ting my Rhymes in Tune, ſince good Sounds ſet off often ill Senſe, as the Italian Songs, whoſe good Airs, with the worſt Words, or Meaning, make the beſt Muſick; ſo by your tuning my Welch Harp, my rough Senſe may be the leſs offenſive to the ni⯑cer Ears of thoſe Criticks, who deal more in Sound than Senſe. Pray then take Pity at once both of my Readers and me, in ſhortning my barren Abundance, and in⯑creaſing their Patience by it, as well as the Obligations I have to you; and ſince no Madrigaller can entertain the Head, un⯑leſs he pleaſes the Ear; and ſince the crowd⯑ed Opera's have left the beſt Comedies with the leaſt Audiences, 'tis a ſign Sound can prevail over Senſe; therefore ſoften my Words, and ſtrengthen my Senſe, and

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

YOU give me an account in your Letter, of the trouble you have un⯑dergone for me, in comparing my Papers you took down with you, with the old printed Volume, and with one another of that Bundle you have in your hands; amongſt which (you ſay) you find nume⯑rous ^* repetitions, of the ſame Thoughts and Subjects; all which I muſt confeſs my want of Memory has prevented me from imagining; as well as made me capable of committing them; ſince, of all Figures, that of Tautology, is the laſt I would uſe, or leaſt forgive my ſelf for; but ſeeing is believing; wherefore I will take ſome pains to examine and compare thoſe Papers in your hands, with one another, as well as with the former printed Copies or Books, of my damn'd Miſcellanies; all which (as bad a Memory as I have) with a little more pains and care, I think I can reme⯑dy; therefore I would not have you give [55] your ſelf more trouble about them, which may prevent the pleaſure you have, and may give the World, in Writing upon new Subjects of your own, whereby you will much better entertain your ſelf and others. Now as to your Remarks upon the whole Volume of my Papers; all that I deſire of you, is to mark in the Margin (with⯑out defacing the Copy at all) either any Repetition of Words, Matter, or Senſe, or any Thoughts, or Words too much re⯑peated; which if you will be ſo kind as to do for me; you will ſupply my want of Memory, with your good One, and my Deficiencies of Senſe, with the Infallibility of yours; which if you do, you will moſt infinitely oblige me, who almoſt repent the trouble I have given you, ſince ſo much. Now as to what you call Freedom with me, (which you deſire me to forgive) you may be aſſur'd I would not forgive you unleſs you did uſe it; for I am ſo far from thinking your Plainneſs a Fault, or an Of⯑fence to me, that I think it a Charity and an Obligation; which I ſhall always ac⯑knowledge, with all ſort of Gratitude to you for it, who am therefore

All the News I have to ſend you, is, that poor Mr. Betterton is going to make his Exit from the Stage of this World, the Gout being gotten up into his Head, and (as the Phyſicians ſay) will certainly carry him off ſuddenly.

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I AM ſorry you perſiſt to take ill my not accepting your Invitation, and to find (if I miſtake not) your Exception not unmixt with ſome Suſpicion. Be certain I ſhall moſt carefully obſerve your Re⯑queſt, not to croſs over, or deface the Copy of your Papers for the future, and only to mark in the Margin the Repetitions: But as this can ſerve no further than to get rid of thoſe Repetitions, and no way rectify the Method, nor connect the Matter, nor improve the Poetry in Expreſſion or Numbers, without further blotting, adding, and altering; ſo it really is my opinion, and deſire, that you ſhould take your Pa⯑pers out of my hands into your own; and that no Alterations may be made but when [57] both of us are preſent; when you may be ſatisfied with every Blot, as well as every Addition, and nothing be put upon the Papers, but what you ſhall give your own ſanction and aſſent to, at the ſame time.

Do not be ſo unjuſt, as to imagine from hence that I would decline any part of this Task: On the contrary you know, I have been at the pains of tranſcribing ſome Pieces, at once to comply with your deſire of not defacing the Copy, and yet to loſe no Time in proceeding upon the Correction. I will go on the ſame way if you pleaſe; tho' truly it is (as I have often told you) my ſincere opinion, that the greater part would make a much better Figure as Single Maxims and Reflections in Proſe, after the manner of your Favourite Rochefoucant, than in Verſe: ^* And this, when nothing more is done but marking the Repetitions in the Margin, will be an eaſy Task for your ſelf to proceed upon, notwithſtanding the bad Memory you com⯑plain of.

Mr. WALSH to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

I Return you the ^†Papers you favour'd me with, and had ſent them to you yeſterday morning, but that I thought to have brought them to you laſt night my ſelf. I have read them over ſeveral [59] times with great ſatisfaction. The Preface is very judicious and very learned; and the Verſes very tender and eaſy. The Author ſeems to have a particular Genius for that kind of Poetry, and a Judgment that much exceeds the years you told me he was of. He has taken very freely from the Ancients, but what he has mixt of his own with theirs, is no way inferior to what he has taken from them. 'Tis no flattery at all to ſay, that Virgil had written nothing ſo good at his AgeSixteen.. I ſhall take it as a favour if you will bring me acquainted with him; and if he will give himſelf the trouble any morning to call at my Houſe, I ſhall be very glad to read the Verſes over with him, and give him my opinion of the particulars more largely than I can well do in this Letter. I am, Sir,

Mr. WALSH to Mr. POPE.

I Receiv'd the favour of your Letter, and ſhall be very glad of the continuance of a correſpondence by which I am like to be ſo great a gainer. I hope when I have the happineſs of ſeeing you again in London, not only to read over the Verſes I have now of yours, but more that you have written ſince; for I make no doubt but any one who writes ſo well, muſt write more. Not that I think the moſt voluminous Poets al⯑ways the beſt, I believe the contrary is ra⯑ther true. I mention'd ſomewhat to you in London of a Paſtoral Comedy, which I ſhould be glad to hear you had thought upon ſince. I find Menage in his obſerva⯑tions upon Taſſo's Aminta, reckons up four⯑ſcore Paſtoral Plays in Italian: And in look⯑ing over my old Italian Books, I find a great many Paſtorals and Piſcatory Plays, which I ſuppoſe Menage reckons together. I find alſo by Menage, that Taſſo is not the firſt that writ in that kind, he mentioning an⯑other before him, which he himſelf had never ſeen, nor indeed have I. But as the Aminta, Paſtor Fido, and Filli di Sciro of Bonarelli are the three beſt, ſo I think there [61] is no diſpute but Aminta is the beſt of the three: Not but that the Diſcourſes in Pa⯑ſtor Fido are more entertaining and copious in ſeveral peoples opinion, tho' not ſo pro⯑per for Paſtoral; and the Fable of Bonarelli more ſurprizing. I do not remember many in other Languages, that have written in this kind with ſucceſs. Racan's Bergeries are much inferior to his Lyrick Poems; and the Spaniards are all too full of Conceits. Rapin will have the deſign of Paſtoral Plays to be taken from the Cyclops of Euripides. I am ſure there is nothing of this kind in Engliſh worth mentioning, and therefore you have that Field open to your ſelf. You ſee I write to you without any ſort of con⯑ſtraint or method, as things come into my head, and therefore pray uſe the ſame free⯑dom with me, who am, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. WALSH.

I Cannot omit the firſt opportunity of making you my acknowledgments for reviewing thoſe Papers of mine. You have no leſs right to correct me, than the ſame hand that rais'd a Tree has to prune it. I am convinc'd as well as you, that one may [62] correct too much; for in Poetry as in Paint⯑ing, a Man may lay Colours one upon an⯑other, till they ſtiffen and deaden the Piece. Beſides to beſtow heightning on every part is monſtrous: Some parts ought to be lower than the reſt; and nothing looks more ri⯑diculous, than a Work, where the Thoughts, however different in their own nature, ſeem all on a level: 'Tis like a Meadow newly mown, where Weeds, Graſs, and Flowers are all laid even, and appear undiſtinguiſh'd. I believe too that ſometimes our firſt Thoughts are the beſt, as the firſt ſqueez⯑ing of the Grapes makes the fineſt and richeſt Wine.

I have not attempted any thing of Paſto⯑ral Comedy, becauſe I think the Taſte of our Age will not reliſh a Poem of that ſort. People ſeek for what they call Wit, on all ſubjects, and in all places; not conſi⯑dering that Nature loves Truth ſo well, that it hardly ever admits of flouriſhing: Con⯑ceit is to Nature what Paint is to Beauty; it is not only needleſs, but impairs what it wou'd improve. There is a certain Majeſty in Simplicity which is far above all the Quaintneſs of Wit: inſomuch that the Cri⯑tics have excluded it from the loftieſt Poet⯑ry, as well as the loweſt, and forbid it to the Epic no leſs than the Paſtoral. I ſhou'd certainly diſpleaſe all thoſe who are charm'd [63] with Guarini and Bonarelli, and imitate Taſſo not only in the Simplicity of his Thoughts, but in that of the Fable too. If ſurpri⯑ſing ſhou'd have place in the ſtory of a Paſtoral Comedy, I believe it wou'd be more agreeable to Probability to make them the effects of Chance than of Deſign; Intrigue not being very con⯑ſiſtent with that Innocence, which ought to conſtitute a Shepherd's Character. There is nothing in all the Aminta (as I re⯑member) but happens by meer accident; unleſs it be the meeting of Aminta with Syl⯑via at the Fountain, which is the contrivance of Daphne, and even that is the moſt ſimple in the world: The contrary is obſervable in Paſtor Fido, where Coriſca is ſo perfect a Miſtreſs of Intrigue, that the Plot cou'd not have been brought to paſs without her. I am inclin'd to think the Paſtoral Come⯑dy has another diſadvantage, as to the Man⯑ners: Its general deſign is to make us in love with the Innocence of a rural Life, ſo that to introduce Shepherds of a vicious Chara⯑cter muſt in ſome meaſure debaſe it; and hence it may come to paſs, that even the virtuous Characters will not ſhine ſo much, for want of being oppos'd to their contra⯑ries.—Theſe Thoughts are purely my own, and therefore I have reaſon to doubt [64] them: but I hope your Judgment will ſet me right.

I wou'd beg your opinion too as to an⯑other point: It is how far the liberty of Borrowing may extend? I have defended it ſometimes by ſaying, that it ſeems not ſo much the Perfection of Senſe, to ſay things that have never been ſaid before, as to ex⯑preſs thoſe beſt that have been ſaid ofteneſt; and that Writers in the caſe of borrowing from others, are like Trees which of them⯑ſelves wou'd produce only one ſort of Fruit, but by being grafted upon others, may yield variety. A mutual commerce makes Poetry flouriſh; but then Poets like Mer⯑chants, ſhou'd repay with ſomething of their own what they take from others; not like Pyrates, make prize of all they meet. I de⯑ſire you to tell me ſincerely, if I have not ſtretch'd this Licence too far in theſe Pa⯑ſtorals? I hope to become a Critic by your Preceps, and a Poet by your Example. Since I have ſeen your Eclogues, I cannot be much pleas'd with my own; however you have not taken away all my Vanity, ſo long as you give me leave to profeſs my ſelf

Mr. WALSH to Mr. POPE.

I Had ſooner return'd you thanks for the favour of your Letter, but that I was in hopes of giving you an account at the ſame time of my Journey to Windſor; but I am now forc'd to put that quite off, being en⯑gag'd to go to my Corporation of Rich⯑mond in Yorkſhire. I think you are per⯑fectly in the right in your Notions of Paſtoral, but I am of opinion, that the re⯑dundancy of Wit you mention, tho' 'tis what pleaſes the common people, is not what ever pleaſes the beſt judges. Paſtor Fido indeed has had more admirers than Aminta; but I will venture to ſay, there is a great deal of difference between the admi⯑rers of one and the other. Coriſca, which is a Character generally admir'd by the ordinary judges, is intolerable in a Paſtorl; and Bo⯑narelli's fancy of making his Shepherdeſs in love with two men equally, is not to be defended, whatever pains he has taken to do it. As for what you ask of the Liberty of Borrowing; 'tis very evident the beſt Latin Poets have extended this very far; and none ſo far as Virgil, who is the beſt [66] of them. As for the Greek Poets, if we cannot trace them ſo plainly, 'tis perhaps becauſe we have none before them; 'tis evi⯑dent that moſt of them borrow'd from Ho⯑mer, and Homer has been accus'd of burn⯑ing thoſe that wrote before him, that his Thefts might not be diſcover'd. The beſt of the modern Poets in all Languages, are thoſe that have the neareſt copied the An⯑cients. Indeed in all the common Subjects of Poetry, the Thoughts are ſo obvious (at leaſt if they are natural) that whoever writes laſt, muſt write things like what have been ſaid before: But they may as well applaud the Ancients for the Arts of eat⯑ing and drinking, and accuſe the Moderns of having ſtol'n thoſe Inventions from them; it being evident in all ſuch caſes, that whoever live firſt, muſt firſt find them out. 'Tis true, indeed, when

when there is one or two bright Thoughts ſtol'n, and all the reſt is quite different from it, a Poem makes a very fooliſh figure: But when 'tis all melted down together, and the Gold of the Antients ſo mixt with that of the Moderns, that none can diſtin⯑guiſh the one from the other, I can never [67] find fault with it. I cannot however but own to you, that there are others of a dif⯑ferent opinion, and that I have ſhewn your Verſes to ſome who have made that obje⯑ction to them. I have ſo much Company round me while I write this, and ſuch a noiſe in my ears, that 'tis impoſſible I ſhould write any thing but Nonſenſe, ſo muſt break off abruptly. I am, Sir,

Mr. WALSH to Mr. POPE.

AT my return from the North I re⯑ceiv'd the favour of your Letter, which had lain there till then. Having been abſent about ſix weeks, I read over your Paſtorals again, with a great deal of pleaſure, and to judge the better read Vir⯑gil's Eclogues, and Spenſer's Calendar, at the ſame time; and I aſſure you I continue the ſame opinion I had always of them. By the little hints you take upon all occa⯑ſions to improve them, 'tis probable you [68] will make them yet better againſt Winter; tho' there is a mean to be kept even in that too, and a Man may correct his Verſes till he takes away the true Spirit of them; eſpecially if he ſubmits to the correction of ſome who paſs for great Critics, by me⯑chanical Rules, and never enter into the true Deſign and Genius of an Author. I have ſeen ſome of theſe that would hardly allow any one good Ode in Horace, who cry Virgil wants fancy, and that Homer is very incorrect. While they talk at this rate, one would think them above the com⯑mon rate of mortals; but generally they are great admirers of Ovid and Lucan; and when they write themſelves, we find out all the Myſtery. They ſcan their Verſes upon their Fingers; run after Conceits and glaring Thoughts; their Poems are all made up of Couplets, of which the firſt may be laſt, or the laſt firſt, without any ſort of prejudice to their Works; in which there is no Deſign, or Method, or any thing Natural or Juſt. For you are certainly in the right, that in all Writings whatſoever (not Poetry only) Nature is to be follow'd; and we ſhou'd be jealous of our ſelves for being ſond of Similes, Conceits, and what they call ſaying Fine Things. When we werein the North, my Lord Wharton ſhew'd [69] me a Letter he had receiv'd from a certain great ^*General in Spain; I told him I wou'd by all means have that General recall'd, and ſet to writing here at home, for it was im⯑poſſible that a Man with ſo much Wit as he ſhew'd, cou'd be fit to command an Army, or do any other Buſineſs. As for what you ſay of Expreſſion: 'tis indeed the ſame thing to Wit, as Dreſs is to Beau⯑ty; I have ſeen many Women over-dreſt, and ſeveral look better in a careleſs Night-gown, with their hair about their ears, than Mademoiſelle Spanheim dreſt for a Ball. I do not deſign to be in London till towards the Parliament: then I ſhall certainly be there; and hope by that time you will have finiſht your Paſtorals as you would have them appear in the world, and particularly the third of Autumn which I have not yet ſeen. Your laſt Eclogue be⯑ing upon the ſame Subject as that of mine on Mrs. Tempeſt's Death, I ſhou'd take it very kindly in you to give it a little turn, as if it were to the Memory of the ſame Lady, if they were not written for ſome particular Woman whom you wou'd make immortal. You may take occaſion to ſhew the difference between Poets Mi⯑ſtreſſes, and other Men's. I only hint this, [70] which you may either do, or let alone juſt as you think fit. I ſhall be very much pleas'd to ſee you again in Town, and to hear from you in the mean time. I am with very much eſteem,

Mr. POPE to Mr. WALSH.

AFter the Thoughts I have already ſent you on the ſubject of Engliſh Verſifi⯑cation, you deſire my opinion as to ſome farther particulars. There are indeed cer⯑tain Niceties, which tho' not much obſerved even by correct Verſifiers, I cannot but think deſerve to be better regarded.

1. It is not enough that nothing offends the Ear, but a good Poet will adapt the ve⯑ry Sounds, as well as Words, to the things he treats of. So that there is (if one may expreſs it ſo) a Style of Sound. As in de⯑ſcribing a gliding Stream, the Numbers ſhou'd run eaſy and ſlowing: in deſcribing a rough Torrent or Deluge, ſonorous and ſwel⯑ling, [71] and ſo of the reſt. This is evident every where in Homer and Virgil, and no where elſe that I know of to any obſervable degree. The following Examples will make this plain, which I have taken from Vida.

This, I think, is what very few obſerve in practice, and is undoubtedly of wonder⯑ful force in imprinting the image on the reader: We have one excellent Example of it in our Language, Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Caecilia's Day, entitled, Alexander's Feaſt.

2. Every nice Ear, muſt (I believe) have obſerv'd, that in any ſmooth Engliſh Verſe of ten ſyllables, there is naturally a Pauſe at the fourth, fifth, or ſixth ſyllable. It is [72] upon theſe the Ear reſts, and upon the ju⯑dicious Change and Management of which depends the Variety of Verſification. For example,

At the fifth. ‘Where-e'er thy Navy ‖ ſpreads her canvas Wings.’

At the fourth. ‘Homage to thee ‖ and Peace to all ſhe brings.’

At the ſixth. ‘Like Tracts of Leverets ‖ in Morning Snow.’

Now I fancy, that to preſerve an exact Harmony and Variety, the Pauſes of the 4th or 6th ſhou'd not be continu'd above three lines together, without the Interpo⯑ſition of another; elſe it will be apt to wea⯑ry the Ear with one continu'd Tone, at leaſt it does mine: That at the 5th runs quicker, and carries not quite ſo dead a weight, ſo tires not ſo much tho' it be continued longer.

3. Another nicety is in relation to Exple⯑tives, whether Words or Syllables, which are made uſe of purely to ſupply a vacan⯑cy: Do before Verbs plural is abſolutely ſuch; and it is not improbable but future Refiners may explode did and does in the ſame manner, which are almoſt always [73] uſed for the ſake of Rhime. The ſame Cauſe has occaſioned the promiſcuous uſe of You and Thou to the ſame Perſon, which can never ſound ſo graceful as either one or the other.

4. I would alſo object to the Irruption of Alexandrine Verſes of twelve ſyllables, which I think ſhould never be allow'd but when ſome remarkable Beauty or Propriety in them attones for the Liberty: Mr. Dryden has been too free of theſe, eſpecially in his latter Works. I am of the ſame opinion as to Triple Rhimes.

5. I could equally object to the Repetition of the ſame Rhimes within four or ſix lines of each other, as tireſome to the Ear thro' their Monotony.

6. Monoſyllable-Lines, unleſs very art⯑fully managed, are ſtiff, or languiſhing: but may be beautiful to expreſs Melancholy, Slowneſs, or labour.

7. To come to the Hiatus, or Gap be⯑tween two words which is caus'd by two Vowels opening on each other (upon which you deſire me to be particular) I think the rule in this caſe is either to uſe the Caeſura, or admit the Hiatus, juſt as the Ear is leaſt [74] ſhock'd by either: For the Caeſura ſome⯑times offends the Ear more than the Hiatus itſelf, and our language is naturally over⯑charg'd with Conſonants: As for example; If in this Verſe,

we ſhould ſay, to avoid the Hiatus,

The Hiatus which has the worſt effect, is when one word ends with the ſame Vowel that begins the following; and next to this, thoſe Vowels whoſe ſounds come neareſt to each other are moſt to be avoid⯑ed. O, A, or U, will bear a more full and graceful Sound than E, I, or Y. I know ſome people will think theſe Obſervations trivial, and therefore I am glad to corro⯑borate them by ſome great Authorities, which I have met with in Tully and Quin⯑tilian. In the fourth Book of Rhetoric to Herennius, are theſe words: Fugiemus cre⯑bras Vocalium concurſiones, quae vaſtam at⯑que hiantem reddunt orationem; ut hoc eſt, Baccae aeueae amaeniſſimae impendebant. And Quintilian l. 9. cap. 4. Vocalium concurſus cum accidit, hiat & interſiſtit, at quaſi la⯑borat oratio. Peſſimi longè quae eaſdem inter [75] ſe literas committunt, ſonabunt: Praecipuus tamen erit hiatus earum quae cavo aut patulo ore efſeruntur. Eplenior litera eſt, I angu⯑ſlior. But he goes on to reprove the ex⯑ceſs on the other hand of being too ſol⯑licitous in this matter, and ſays admirably, Ne [...]io an negligentia in hoc, aut ſolicitudo ſit pejor. So likewiſe Tully (Orator ad Brut.) Theopompum reprehendunt, quod eas literas tanto opere fugerit, etſi idem magiſter ejus Iſocrates: which laſt Author, as Turnebus on Quintilian obſerve, has hardly one Hia⯑tus in all his Works. Quintilian tells us that Tully and Demoſthenes did not much obſerve this Nicety, tho' Tully himſelf ſays in his Orator, Crebra iſta Vocum concurſio, quam magna ex parte vitioſam, fugit Demoſthenes. If I am not miſtaken, Malherbe of all the Moderns has been the moſt ſcrupulous in this point; and I think Menage in his Ob⯑ſervations upon him ſays, he has not one in his Poems. To conclude, I believe the Hia⯑tus ſhould be avoided with more care in Poetry than in Oratory; and I would con⯑ſtantly try to prevent it, unleſs where the cutting it off is more prejudicial to the Sound than the Hiatus itſelf. I am, &c. ⁴⁵

LETTER I.

I Send you the book of Rudiments of Drawing, which you were pleas'd to command, and think my ſelf oblig'd to inform you at the ſame time of one of the many excellencies you poſſeſs without knowing of 'em. You are but too good a Painter already; and no Picture of Raphael's was ever ſo beautiful, as that which you have form'd in a certain heart of my ac⯑quaintance. Indeed it was but juſt that the [77] fineſt lines in nature ſhou'd be drawn upon the moſt durable ground, and none cou'd ever be met with that wou'd ſo readily re⯑ceive, or ſo faithfully retain them, as this Heart. I may boldly ſay of it that you will not find its fellow in all the Parts of the Body in this book. But I muſt com⯑plain to you of my hand, which is an ar⯑rant traitor to my heart; for having been copying your picture from thence and from Kneller theſe three days, it has done all poſ⯑ſible injury to the fineſt Face that ever was made, and to the livelieſt Image that ever was drawn. I have imagination enough in your abſence, to trace ſome reſemblance of you; but I have been ſo long us'd to loſe my judgment at the ſight of you, that 'tis paſt my power to correct it by the life. Your Picture ſeems leaſt like when plac'd before your eyes, and contrary to all other pictures receives a manifeſt diſadvantage by being ſet in the faireſt Light in the world. The Painters are a very vain gene⯑ration, and have a long time pretended to rival Nature; but to own the truth to you, ſhe made ſuch a finiſh'd piece about three and twenty years ago, (I beg your pardon Madam, I proteſt I meant but two and twenty) that 'tis in vain for them any lon⯑ger to contend with her. I know You in⯑deed made one ſomething like it, betwixt [78] five and ſix years paſt: 'Twas a little girl, done with abundance of ſpirit and life; and wants nothing but time to be an ad⯑mirable piece: But not to flatter your work, I don't think 'twill ever come up to what your Father made. However I wou'd not diſcourage you; 'tis certain you have a ſtrange happineſs, in making fine things of a ſudden and at a ſtroke, with incredible eaſe and pleaſure.

LETTER II.

IT is too much a rule in this town, that when a Lady has once done a man a favour, he is to be rude to her ever after. It becomes our Sex to take upon us twice as much as yours allow us: By this me⯑thod I may write to you moſt impudent⯑ly, becauſe you once anſwer'd me modeſt⯑ly; and if you ſhou'd never do me that honour for the future, I am to think (like a true Coxcomb) that your ſilence gives conſent. Perhaps you wonder why this is addreſs'd to you rather than to Mrs. M [...] with whom I have the right of an old acquaintance, whereas you are a [79] fine Lady, have bright eyes, &c. Firſt Madam, I make choice of you rather than of your Mother, becauſe you are younger than your Mother. Secondly, becauſe I fancy you ſpell better, as having been at ſchool later. Thirdly, becauſe you have nothing to do but to write if you pleaſe, and poſſibly it may keep you from em⯑ploying your ſelf worſe: it may ſave ſome honeſt neighbouring Gentleman from three or four of your peſtilent glances. Caſt your eyes upon Paper, Madam, there you may look innocently: Men are ſeducing, books are dangerous, the amorous one's ſoften you, and the godly one's give you the ſpleen: If you look upon trees, they claſp in em⯑braces; birds and beaſts make love; the Sun is too warm for your blood, the Moon melts you into yielding and melancholy. Therefore I ſay once more, caſt your eyes upon Paper, and read only ſuch Letters as I write, which convey no darts, no flames, but proceed from Innocence of ſoul, and ſimplicity of heart. However, I can al⯑low you a Bonnet lin'd with green for your eyes, but take care you don't tarniſh it with ogling too fiercely: I am told, that hand you ſhade your ſelf with this ſhining weather, is tann'd pretty much, only with being carried over thoſe Eyes—thank God I am an hundred miles off from them— [80] Upon the whole I wou'd ſooner truſt your hand than your Eyes for doing me miſ⯑chief; and tho' I doubt not ſome part of the rancour and iniquity of your heart will drop into your pen, yet ſince it will not attack me on a ſudden and unprepar'd, ſince I may have time while I break open your letter to croſs my ſelf and ſay a Pater⯑noſter, I hope Providence will protect me from all you can attempt at this diſtance. Mr. B [...] tells me you are at this hour as handſome as an Angel, for my part I have forgot your face ſince two winters, I don't know whether you are tall or ſhort, nor call tell in any reſpect what ſort of creature you are, only that you are a very miſchie⯑vous one whom I ſhall ever pray to be defended from. But when Mr. B [...] ſends me word you have the ſmall-pox, a good many freckles, or are very pale, I will deſire him to give thanks for it in your Pa⯑riſh Church, which as ſoon as he ſhall inform me he has done I will make you a viſit at—without Armour: I will eat any thing you give me without ſuſpi⯑cion of poyſon, take you by the hand without gloves, nay venture to follow you into an arbour without calling the com⯑pany. This Madam is the top of my wiſhes, but how differently are our deſires inclined! You ſigh out, in the ardour of [81] your heart, Oh Play-houſes, Parks, Ope⯑ra's, Aſſemblies, London! I cry with rap⯑ture, Oh Woods, Gardens, Rookeries, Fiſh⯑ponds, Arbours! Mrs. Betty M [...]

LETTER III.
To a Lady, written on the oppoſite pages of a Letter to her Husband from Lady M.

THE Wits would ſay, that this muſt needs be a dull Letter, becauſe it is a marry'd one. I am afraid indeed you will find what Spirit there is muſt be on the ſide of the Wife, and the Husband's part as uſual will prove the dulleſt. What an unequal Pair are put together in this ſheet? in which tho' we ſin, it is you muſt do penance. When you look on both ſides of this paper, you may fancy that our words (according to a Scripture expreſſion) are as a Two-edg'd Sword, whereof Lady M. is the ſhining blade and I only the Handle. But I can't proceed without ſo far mortifying Sir Robert as to tell him, that ſhe writes this purely in obedience to [82] me, and that it is but one of thoſe honours a Husband receives for the ſake of his Wife.

It is making court ill to one fine Woman to ſhew her the regard we have for another; and yet I muſt own there is not a period of this Epiſtle but ſquints toward another over⯑againſt it. It will be in vain to diſſem⯑ble: Your penetrating Eyes cannot but diſco⯑ver how all the letters that compoſe theſe words lean forward after Lady M's letters, which ſeem to bend as much from mine, and fly from them as faſt as they are able. Ungrateful letters that they are! which give themſelves to another man in the very preſence of him who will yield to no mor⯑tal in knowing how to value them.

You will think I forget my ſelf, and am not writing to you; but let me tell you, 'tis you forget your ſelf in that thought, for you are almoſt the only Woman to whom one can ſafely addreſs the praiſes of another. Beſides can you imagine a Man of my importance ſo ſtupid, as to ſay fine things to you before your Husband? Let us ſee how far Lady M. her ſelf dares do any thing like it, with all the wit and addreſs ſhe is miſtreſs of. If Sir Robert can be ſo ignorant (now he is left to himſelf in the country) to imagine any ſuch matter, let him know from me, that here in town [83] every thing that Lady ſays, is taken for Satire. For my part, every body knows it is my conſtant practice to ſpeak Truth; and I never do it more than when I call my ſelf.

LETTER IV.
To a Lady in the Name of her Brother.

IF you have not a chaſte ear and a pure heart do not peruſe this Letter, for as Jeremy Taylor ſays in his holy living and dying, the firſt thing a Virgin ought to en⯑deavour, is to be ignorant of the diſtin⯑ction of Sexes.

It is in the confidence I have that you are thus innocent, that I endeavour to gra⯑tify your curioſity in a point in which I am ſenſible none but a Brother could do it with decency.

I ſhall entertain you with the moſt reign⯑ing Curioſity in the town, I mean a Perſon who is equally the toaſt of gentlemen and ladies, and is at preſent more univerſally admired than any of either Sex: You know [84] few proficients have a greater genius for Monſters than my ſelf; but I never taſted a monſter to that degree I have done this creature: It was not, like other monſters, produced in the Deſarts of Arabia, nor came from the country of the Great Mo⯑gul, but is the production of the joint-en⯑deavours of a Kentiſh Parſon and his Spouſe, who intended in the ſingleneſs of heart to have begot a chriſtian but of one ſex, and providence has ſent them one of two.

There are various opinions concerning this Creature about town, Mr. Cromwell obſerves that the Age is very licentious, and the preſent Reign very lewd and cor⯑rupt, in permitting a Lady by Authoriy (as appears by the printed bills) to expoſe her perſonal curioſities for a ſhilling.

Mr. P. looks upon it as a Prodigy portending ſome great Revolution in the State: to ſtrengthen which opinion he produces the following Prophecy of Noſtra⯑damus, which he explains politically.

[85] Mrs. N [...] admires what people won⯑der at ſo much? and ſays ſhe is juſt ſo her ſelf: The Ducheſs of S [...] is of the ſame opinion.

Among theſe various conjectures, that I might be informed of the truth, I took along with me a Phyſician and a Divine, the one to inſpect the ſtate of its Body, the other to examine that of its Mind: The perſons I made choice of were the in⯑genious Dr. P [...] and the reverend Mr. [...] We were no ſooner in the room but the Party came to us dreſt in that habit in which the Ladies affect an Hermophrodi⯑tical imitation of Men—your ſharp wit, my dear Siſter, will immediately conclude that I mean a Riding-habit.

I think it not material to inform you, whether the Doctor, the Divine, or my ſelf look'd firſt. The Prieſt you will ma⯑liciouſly fancy was in his nature moſt an Infidel, and doubted moſt of this Miracle: we therefore propos'd to him to take the ſureſt method of believing, ſeeing and feel⯑ing: He comply'd with both admonitions, and having taken a large pinch of ſnuff upon it, advis'd us with a nod, that we ſhould by no means regard it as a Female but as a Male, for by ſo doing we ſhould be guilty of leſs ſinfulneſs.

[86] The Doctor upon inſpection differ'd from this opinion, he wou'd by no means allow it a miracle, or at moſt a natural one: He ſaid upon the whole it was a woman; that whatever might give a handle to think otherwiſe, was a trifle, nothing being more common than for a child to be mark'd with that thing which the mother long'd for.

As for this Party's temper of mind, it appears to be a moſt even diſpoſition, par⯑taking of the good qualities of both ſexes: for ſhe is neither ſo inacceſſible as other Ladies, nor is he ſo impudent as other Gentlemen. Of how obliging and com⯑plaiſant a turn appears by this, that he tells the Ladies he has the Inclinations of a Gentleman, and that ſhe tells the Gentlemen ſhe has the Tendre of a La⯑dy. As a further proof of this affable diſ⯑poſition, he formerly receiv'd viſits of the fair ſex in their maſques, till an imperti⯑nent fellow in a female diſguiſe mingled with a party of ladies, and impudently overheard their improving Speculations.

Notwithſtanding this, ſhe civilly promi⯑ſed at my requeſt, that my two ſiſters ſhould be admitted privately whenever you wou'd do her the honour of your conſidera⯑tion.

[87] How agreeable ſoever this ſight has been to me, I aſſure you it cannot be ſo plea⯑ſing as the ſight of you in town, and what⯑ever you may ſee in the country, I dare affirm no man or woman can ſhew you the like.

I therefore earneſtly deſire you to make haſte to this place; for tho' indeed like moſt other brothers, I ſhould be ſorry you were married at my expence, yet I would by no means, like them, detain you in the country from your admirers, for you may believe me, no brother in the world ever lov'd a ſiſter as I do you.

LETTER V.

YOU are to underſtand, Madam, that my paſſion for your fair ſelf and your ſiſter, has been divided with the moſt won⯑derful regularity in the world. Even from my infancy I have been in love with one after the other of you, week by week, and my journey to Bath fell out in the three hundred ſeventy ſixth week of the Reign of my Sovereign Lady Sylvia. At the [88] preſent writing hereof it is the three hun⯑dred eighty ninth week of the Reign of your moſt Serene Majeſty, in whoſe ſervice I was liſted ſome weeks before I beheld your Siſter. This information will account for my writing to either of you hereafter, as either ſhall happen to be Queen-Regent at that time.

Pray tell your ſiſter, all the good qua⯑lities and virtuous inclinations ſhe has, never gave me ſo much pleaſure in her converſation, as that one vice of her ob⯑ſtinacy will give me mortification this month. Ratcliff commands her to the Bath, and ſhe refuſes! indeed if I were in Berk⯑ſhire I ſhould honour her for this obſtina⯑cy, and magniſy her no leſs for diſobedi⯑ence than we do the Barcelonians. But people change with the change of places (as we ſee of late) and virtues become vi⯑ces when they ceaſe to be for one's intereſt, with me, as with others.

Yet let me tell her, ſhe will never look ſo finely while ſhe is upon earth, as ſhe would here in the water. It is not here as in moſt other inſtances, for thoſe Ladies that would pleaſe extremely, muſt go out of their own element. She does not make half ſo good a figure on horſeback as Chri⯑ſtina Queen of Sweden; but were ſhe once ſeen in the Bath, no man wou'd part with [89] her for the beſt Mermaid in chriſtendom. You know I have ſeen you often, I perfectly know how you look in black and in white; I have experienc'd the utmoſt you can do in colours; but all your movements, all your graceful ſteps, deſerve not half the glory you might here attain, of a moving and eaſy behaviour in Buckram: Some⯑thing between ſwimming and walking, free enough, and more modeſtly-half-naked, than you can appear any where elſe. You have conquer'd enough already by land; ſhow your ambition, and vanquiſh alſo by water. We have no pretty Admirals on theſe Seas, but muſt ſtrike ſails to your white Flags, were they once hoiſted up. The Buckram I mention is a dreſs particu⯑larly uſeful at this time, when we are told the Princeſs is bringing over the faſhion of German Ruffs: You ought to uſe your ſelves to ſome degrees of ſtiffneſs beforehand. And when our Ladies chins have been tickled a-while with ſtarch'd muſlin and wire, they may poſſibly bear the bruſh of a German beard and whisker.

I cou'd tell you a delightful ſtory of Dr. P. but want room to diſplay it in all its ſhining circumſtances. He had heard it was an excellent cure for Love, to kiſs the Aunt of the perſon beloved, who is gene⯑rally of years and experience enough to [90] damp the fierceſt flame: he try'd this courſe in his paſſion, and kiſs'd Mrs. E [...] at Mr. D [...]'s, but he ſays it will not do, and that he loves you as much as ever.

LETTER VI.
To the ſame.

IF you ask how the waters agree with me, I muſt tell you, ſo very well, that I queſtion how you and I ſhould agree if we were in a room by our ſelves? Mrs. T. has honeſtly aſſured me, that but for ſome whims which ſhe can't entirely conquer, ſhe would go and ſee the world with me in man's cloaths. Even you, Madam, I fancy (if you wou'd not partake in our adventures) would wait our coming in at the evening with ſome impatience, and be well enough pleas'd to hear 'em by the fire-ſide. That would be better than reading Romances, unleſs Lady M. would be our Hiſtorian; for as ſhe is married, ſhe has probably lei⯑ſure hours in the night-time, to write or do what ſhe will in. What raiſes theſe deſires in me, is an acquaintance I am be⯑ginning [91] with my Lady Sandwich, who has all the ſpirit of the laſt age, and all the gay experience of a pleaſurable life. It were as ſcandalous an omiſſion to come to the Bath and not to ſee my Lady Sand⯑wich, as it had formerly been to have tra⯑vell'd to Rome without viſiting the Queen of Sweeden. She is, in a word, the beſt thing this Country has to boaſt of; and as ſhe has been all that a woman of ſpirit could be, ſo ſhe ſtill continues that eaſy and independent creature that a ſenſible woman always will be.

I muſt tell you a truth, which is not however much to my credit. I never thought ſo muſt of your ſelf and your ſiſter, as ſince I have been fourſcore miles diſtance from you. In the Foreſt I look'd upon you as good neighbours, at London as pretty kind of women, but here as divinities, angels, goddeſſes, or what you will. In the ſame manner I never knew at what a rate I valu'd your life, till you were upon the point of dying. If Mrs. T. and you will but fall very ſick every ſeaſon, I ſhall certainly die for you. Seriouſly I value you both ſo much that I eſteem others much the leſs for your ſakes; you have robb'd me of the pleaſure of eſteeming a thouſand pretty qualities in them, by ſhowing me ſo many finer in [92] your ſelves. There are but two things in the world which could make you indifferent to me, which I believe you are not capa⯑ble of, I mean Ill-nature and malice. I have ſeen enough of you not to overlook any Frailty you cou'd have, and nothing leſs than a Vice can make me like you leſs. I expect you ſhou'd diſcover by my con⯑duct towards you both, that this is true, and that therefore you ſhould pardon a thouſand things in me for that one diſ⯑poſition. Expect nothing from me but truths and freedom, and I ſhall always be thought by you what I always am,

LETTER VII.
To the ſame.

I Return'd home as ſlow and as contem⯑plative after I had parted from you, as my Lord—retir'd from the Court and Glory to his Country ſeat and Wife, a week ago. I found here a diſmal deſ⯑ponding letter from the ſon of another [93] great Courtier who expects the ſame fate, and who tells me the great one's of the earth will now take it very kindly of the mean one's, if they will favour them with a viſit by Day-light. With what Joy wou'd they lay down all their ſchemes of glory, did they but know you have the generoſity to drink their healths once a day, as ſoon as they are fallen? Thus the unhappy by the ſole merit of their misfortunes, become the care of heaven and you. I intended to have put this laſt into Verſe, but in this age of Ingratitude my beſt friends forſake me, I mean my rhymes.

I deſire Mrs. P [...] to ſtay her ſtomach with theſe half hundred Plays, till I can procure her a Romance big enough to ſatis⯑fy her great Soul with Adventures. As for Novels, I fear ſhe can depend upon none from me but That of my Life, which I am ſtill, as I have been, contriving all poſ⯑ſible methods to ſhorten, for the greater eaſe both of my Hiſtorian and the Reader. May ſhe believe all the paſſion and tender⯑neſs expreſs'd in theſe Romances to be but a faint image of what I bear her, and may you (who read nothing) take the ſame truth upon hearing it from me; you will both injure me very much, if you don't think me a truer friend than ever any ro⯑mantick [94] lover, or any imitator of their ſtyle could be.

The days of Beauty are as the days of Greatneſs, and as long as your Eyes make their ſunſhine, all the world are your ado⯑rers: I am one of thoſe unambitious peo⯑ple, who will love you forty years hence, when your eyes begin to twinkle in a re⯑tirement, for your own ſakes, and without the vanity which every one now will take to be thought

LETTER VIII.

YOU have ask'd me News a hundred times at the firſt word you ſpoke to me, which ſome would interpret as if you expected nothing better from my lips: And truly 'tis not a ſign two Lovers are to⯑gether, when they can be ſo impertinent as to enquire what the world does? All I mean by this is, that either you or I are not in love with the other: I leave you to gueſs which of the two is that ſtupid and inſenſible creature, ſo blind to the other's excellencies and charms?

[95] This then ſhall be a letter of News; and ſure if you did not think me the humbleſt creature in the world, you could never ima⯑gine a Poet could dwindle to a brother of Dawks and Dyer, from a rival of Tate and Brady.

The Earl of Oxford has behaved ſo bravely, that in this act at leaſt he might ſeem above Man, if he had not juſt now voided a Stone to prove him ſubject to hu⯑man infirmities. The utmoſt weight of affliction from princely power and popu⯑lar hatred, were almoſt worth bearing, for the glory of ſuch a dauntleſs conduct as he has ſhewn under it.

You may ſoon have your wiſh, to enjoy the gallant ſights of armies, incampments, ſtandards waving over your brother's corn⯑fields, and the pretty windings of the Thames about M [...] ſtain'd with the blood of men. Your barbarity, which I have heard ſo long exclaim'd againſt in town and coun⯑try, may have its fill of deſtruction. I would not add one circumſtance uſual in all deſcriptions of calamity, that of the many Rapes committed or to be commit⯑ted, upon thoſe unfortunate women that delight in war. But God forgive me—in this martial age, if I could, I would buy a regiment for your ſake and Mrs. P [...]'s and ſome others, whom I have [96] cauſe to fear no fair means will prevail upon.

Thoſe eyes that care not how much miſchief is done, or how great ſlaughter committed, ſo they have but a fine Show; thoſe very-female eyes will be infinitely de⯑lighted with the camp which is ſpeedily to be form'd in Hyde-Park. The tents are carried thither this morning, new regi⯑ments, with new cloths and furniture (far exceeding the late cloth and linnen deſign'd by his Grace for the ſoldiery) The ſight of ſo many gallant fellows, with all the pomp and glare of War yet undeform'd by Bat⯑tle, thoſe Scenes which England has for many years only beheld on Stages, may poſſibly invite your curioſity to this place.

Mrs. [...] expects the Pretender at her lodgings by Saturday ſe'nnight. She has bought a picture of Madam Maintenon to ſet her features by againſt that time. Three Prieſts of your acquaintance are very po⯑ſitive, by her intereſt to be his Father Con⯑feſſor.

By our lateſt accounts from Dukeſtreet, Weſtminſter, the converſion of T. G. Eſq is reported in a manner ſomewhat more particular: That upon the ſeizure of his Flanders-Mares, he ſeem'd more than ordi⯑narily diſturb'd for ſome hours, ſent for his ghoſtly father, and reſolv'd to bear his [97] loſs like a Chriſtian; till about the hours of ſeven or eight the coaches and horſes of ſeveral of the Nobility paſſing by the win⯑dow towards Hyde-Park, he could no lon⯑ger endure the diſapointment, but inſtant⯑ly went out, took the Oath of Abjuration, and recover'd his dear Horſes which car⯑ry'd him in triumph to the Ring. The poor diſtreſſed Roman Catholicks, now un⯑hors'd and un-charioted, cry out with the Pſalmiſt, ſome in Chariots and ſome in Hor⯑ſes, but we will invocate the name of the Lord.

LETTER IX.

I Will not deſcribe Bl [...] in particular, not to foreſtall your expectations before you ſee it: Only take a ſhort account, which I will hazard my little credit is no unjuſt one. I never ſaw ſo great a thing with ſo much littleneſs in it: I think the Architect built it entirely in compliance to the taſte of its Owners: For it is the moſt inhoſpitable thing imaginable, and the moſt ſelfiſh: it has, like their own hearts, no room for ſtrangers, and no reception for any perſon of ſuperior quality to them⯑ſelves. There are but two Apartments, for [98] the Maſter and Miſtreſs, below; and but two apartments above (very much infe⯑rior to them) in the whole Houſe. When you look upon the outſide, you'd think it large enough for a Prince; when you ſee the inſide, it is too little for a Subject; and has not conveniency to lodge a common family. It is a houſe of Entries and Paſſa⯑ges; among which there are three Viſta's through the whole, very uſeleſsly hand⯑ſome. There is what might have been a fine Gallery, but ſpoil'd by two Arches towards the End of it, which take away the ſight of ſeveral of the windows. There are two ordinary ſtair-caſes inſtead of one great one. The beſt things within the houſe, are the Hall, which is indeed noble and well-proportion'd; and the cellars and offices under-ground, which are the moſt commodious, and the beſt contrived of the whole. At the top of the Building are ſeveral Cupola's and little Turrets that have but an ill effect, and make the building look at once fini⯑cal and heavy. What ſeems of the beſt taſte, is that Front towards the gardens, which is not yet loaded with theſe tur⯑rets. The two Sides of the building are intirely ſpoil'd by two monſtrous bow-windows which ſtand juſt in the middle, inſtead of doors: And as if it were fatal [99] that ſome trifling littleneſs ſhould every where deſtroy the grandeur, there are in the chief front two ſemicircles of a lower ſtructure than the reſt, that cut off the arges, and look as it they were purpoſe⯑ly deſign'd to hide a loſtier and nobler piece of building, the top of which ap⯑pears above them. In a word, the whole is a moſt expenſive abſurdity; and the Duke of S [...] gave a true character of it, when he ſaid, it was a great Quarry of Stones above ground.

We paid a viſit to the ſpring where Roſamond bathed her ſelf, on a hill where remains only a piece of a wall of the old Palace of Henry the Second. We toaſted her ſhade in the cold water, not without a thought or two, ſcarce ſo cold as the liquor we drank it in. I dare not tell you what they were, and ſo haſten to conclude,

LETTER X.

YOU can't be ſurprized to find him a dull correſpondent whom you have known ſo long for a dull companion. And tho' I am pretty ſenſible, that it I have any wit, I may as well write to ſhow [100] it, as not; (becauſe any Lady that has once ſeen me, will naturally ask, what I can ſhow that is better?) yet I'll content my ſelf with giving you as plain a hiſtory of my pilgrimage, as Purchas himſelf, or as John Bunyan could do of his walk⯑ing through the wilderneſs of this world, &c.

Firſt then I went by water to Hamp⯑ton-Court, unattended by all but my own virtues; which were not of ſo modeſt a nature as to keep themſelves, or me, con⯑ceal'd: For I met the Prince with all his Ladies on horſeback, coming from hunt⯑ing. Mrs. B [...] and Mrs. L [...] took me into protection (contrary to the laws againſt harbouring Papiſts) and gave me a dinner, with ſomething I lik'd bet⯑ter, an opportunity of converſation with Mrs. H [...]. We all agreed that the life of a Maid of Honour, was of all things the moſt miſerable; and wiſh'd that every woman who envy'd it had a ſpecimen of it. To eat Weſtphalia-Ham in a morning, ride over hedges and ditches on borrow'd Hacks, come home in the heat of the day with a fever, and (what is worſe a hundred times) with a red mark in the forehead from an uneaſy hat; all this may qualify them to make excellent wives for Fox-hunters, and bear abundance of ruddy⯑complexion'd [101] children. As ſoon as they can wipe off the ſweat of the day, they muſt ſimper an hour and catch cold, in the Princeſs's apartment; from thence (as Shakeſpear has it) To dinner, with what appetite they may—and, after that, 'till midnight, walk, work, or think, which they pleaſe? I can eaſily believe, no lone⯑houſe in Wales, with a Mountain and a Rookery, is more contemplative than this Court; and as a proof of it I need only tell you, Mrs. L [...] walk'd all alone with me three or four Hours by moonlight, and we met no creature of any Quality but the King, who gave audience to the Vice-Chamberlain, all alone, under the garden wall.

In ſhort, I heard of no Ball, Aſſembly, Baſſet-Table, or any place where two or three were gathered together, except Ma⯑dam Kilmanſegg's, to which I had the honour to be invited, and the grace to ſtay away.

I was heartily tired, and poſted to B [...] Park; there we had an excellent Diſcourſe of Quackery: Dr. Shadwell was mention⯑ed with honour. Lady A walked a whole hour abroad without dying after it, at leaſt in the time I ſtay'd, tho' ſhe ſeemed to be fainting, and had convulſive motions ſeveral times in her head.

[102] This day I received a Letter with cer⯑tain advices were women were to be met with at Oxford. I defy them and all their works: I love no meat but Ortolans, and no women but you: tho' indeed that's no proper compariſon, but for fat Ducheſs's; for to love You, is as if one ſhould wiſh to eat Angels, or to drink Cherubim⯑broth.

I arriv'd in the foreſt by Tueſday noon, having fled from the face (I wiſh I could ſay the horned face) of Moles B [...], who dined in the mid-way thither. I paſt the reſt of the day in thoſe Woods where I have ſo often enjoyed a Book and a Friend. I made a Hymn as I paſſed thro', which ended with a ſigh that I will not tell you the meaning of.

Your Doctor is gone the way of all his patients, and was hard put to it how to diſpoſe of an eſtate miſerably unweildy, and ſplendidly unuſeful to him. Sir Sa⯑muel Garth ſays, that for Ratcliffe to leave a Library, was as if a Eunuch ſhould found a Seraglio. Dr. Sh [...] lately told a Lady he wonder'd ſhe could be alive after him: ſhe made anſwer; She wonder'd at it for two reaſons, becauſe Dr. Ratcliffe was dead, and becauſe Dr. Sh [...] was living. I am

LETTER XI.
To the Same.

NOthing could have more of that me⯑lancholy which once uſed to pleaſe me, than my laſt days journey; for after having paſs'd through my favorite Woods in the foreſt, with a thouſand Reveries of paſt pleaſures: I rid over hanging hills, whoſe tops were edg'd with groves, and whoſe feet water'd with winding ri⯑vers, liſtning to the falls of cataracts be⯑low, and the murmuring of the winds a⯑bove: The gloomy verdure of Stonor ſuc⯑ceeded to theſe; and then the ſhades of the evening overtook me. The Moon roſe in the cleareſt sky I ever ſaw, by whoſe ſolemn light I paced on ſlowly, without company, or any interruption to the range of my thoughts. About a mile before I reach'd Oxford, all the bells toll'd in different notes; the clocks of every col⯑lege anſwered one another; and ſounded forth (ſome in a deeper, ſome in a ſofter tone) that it was eleven at night. All this was no ill preparation to the life I have led ſince, among thoſe old walls, venera⯑ble galleries, ſtone portico's, ſtudious walks, [106] [...] [107] [...] [102] [...] [103] [...] [104] and ſolitary ſcenes of the Univerſity. I wanted nothing but a black gown and a ſalary, to be as meer a bookworm as any there. I conform'd myſelf to the College hours, was roll'd up in books, lay in one of the moſt antient, dusky parts of the U⯑niverſity, and was as dead to the world as any Hermit of the deſart. If any thing was alive or a wake in me, it was a little vanity; ſuch as even thoſe good men us'd to enter⯑tain, when the Monks of their own Order extoll'd their piety and abſtraction. For I found my ſelf receiv'd with a ſort of reſpect, which this idle part of mankind, the learn⯑ed, pay to their own ſpecies; who are as conſiderable here, as the buſy, the gay, and the ambitious are in your world.

Indeed I was treated in ſuch a manner, that I could not but ſometimes ask my ſelf in my mind, what College I was founder of, or what Library I had built? Methinks I do very ill to return to the world again, to leave the only place where I make a fi⯑gure, and from ſeeing my ſelf ſeated with dignity in the moſt conſpicuous ſhelves of a library: put myſelf into the abject po⯑ſture of lying at a Lady's feet in St. James's ſquare.

I will not deny, but that like Alexander, in the midſt of my glory I am wounded, and find myſelf a meer man. To tell you [105] from whence the dart comes, is to no pur⯑poſe, ſince neither of you will take the ten⯑der care to draw it out of my heart, and ſuck the poiſon with your lips.

Here, at my Lord H [...]'s, I ſee a creature nearer an angel than a woman, (tho' a woman be very near as good as an angel;) I think you have formerly heard me mention Mrs. T [...] as a credit to the Maker of Angels; ſhe is a relation of his Lordſhip's, and he gravely propos'd her to me for a Wife; being tender of her In⯑tereſts, and knowing (what is a ſhame to Providence) that ſhe is leſs indebted to Fortune than I. I told him 'twas what he could never have thought of, if it had not been his misfortune to be blind, and what I never could think of, while I had eyes to ſee both her and myſelf.

I muſt not conclude without telling you, that I will do the utmoſt in the affair you deſire. It would be an inexpreſſible joy to me if I could ſerve you, and I will always do all I can to give my ſelf pleaſure. I wiſh as well for you as for my ſelf; I am in love with you both as much as I am with my ſelf, for I find my ſelf moſt ſo with all three, when I leaſt ſuſpect it.

LETTER XII.
To Mrs. Arabella Fermor on her Marriage.

YOU are by this time ſatisfy'd how much the tenderneſs of one man of merit is to be prefer'd to the addreſſes of a thouſand. And, by this time, the Gen⯑tleman you have made choice of is ſenſible, how great is the joy of having all thoſe charms and good qualities which have pleas'd ſo many, now apply'd to pleaſe one only. It was but juſt, that the ſame Vir⯑tues which gave you reputation, ſhould give you happineſs; and I can wiſh you no greater, than that you may receive it in as high a degree your ſelf, as ſo much good humour muſt infallibly give it to your husband.

It may be expected perhaps, that one who has the title of Poet, ſhould ſay ſome⯑thing more polite on this occaſion: But I am really more a well-wiſher to your feli⯑city, than a celebrater of your beauty. Be⯑ſides, you are now a married woman, and in a way to be a great many better things than a fine Lady; ſuch as an excellent wife, a faithful friend, a tender parent, and at [107] laſt, as the conſequence of them all, a ſaint in heaven. You ought now to hear nothing but that, which was all you ever deſired to hear (whatever others may have ſpoken to you) I mean Truth: And it is with the ut⯑moſt that I aſſure you, no friend you have can more rejoice in any good that befalls you, is more ſincerely delighted with the proſpect of your future happineſs, or more unfeignedly deſires a long continuance of it. I beg you will think it but juſt, that a man who will certainly be ſpoken of as your admirer, after he is dead, may have the happineſs to be eſteem'd while he is living

LETTER XIII.

THE chief cauſe I have to repent my leaving the town, is the uncertainty I am in every day of your Siſter's ſtate of health I really expected by every poſt to have heard of her recovery, but on the contrary each letter has been a new awakening to my apprehenſions, and I have ever ſince ſuffer'd allarms up⯑on allarms on her account. No one can be more ſenſibly touch'd at this than I; [108] nor any danger of any I love cou'd af⯑fect me with more uneaſineſs (tho' as I never had a ſiſter I can't be quite ſo good a judge as you, how far humanity wou'd carry me) I have felt ſome weakneſſes of a tender kind, which I would not be free from, and I am glad to find my value for people ſo rightly plac'd, as to perceive them on this occaſion.

I cannot be ſo good a Chriſtian as to be willing (tho' no leſs than God ſhould or⯑der it) to reſign my own happineſs here for her's in another life. I do more than wiſh for her ſafety, for every wiſh I make I find immediately chang'd into a prayer, and a more fervent one than I had learn'd to make till now.

May her Life be longer and happier than perhaps her ſelf may deſire, that is, as long and as happy as your ſelf can wiſh: May her Beauty be as great as poſſible, that is, as it always was, or as yours is: but whatever ravages a mercileſs diſtem⯑per may commit, I dare promiſe her bold⯑ly, what few (if any) of her makers of viſits and complements dare to do; ſhe ſhall have one man as much her admirer as ever. As for your part, Madam, you have me ſo more than ever, ſince I have been a witneſs to the generous tenderneſs you have ſhewn upon this occaſion.

LETTER XIV.

IT is with infinite ſatisfaction I am made acquainted that your brother will at laſt prove your relation, and has en⯑tertain'd ſuch ſentiments as become him in your concern. I have been prepar'd for this by degrees, having ſeveral times receiv'd from Mrs. [...] that which is one of the greateſt pleaſures, the knowledge that others enter'd into my own ſentiments concerning you. I ever was of opinion that you wanted no more to be vindicated than to be known; and like Truth, cou'd ap⯑pear no where but you muſt conquer. As I have often condol'd with you in your adverſities, ſo I have a right which but few can pretend to, of congratulating on the proſpect of your better fortunes; and I hope for the future to have the concern I have felt for you overpaid in your felici⯑ties. Tho' you modeſtly ſay the world has left you, yet I verily believe it is com⯑ing to you again as faſt as it can: For to give the world its due, it is always very fond of Merit when 'tis paſt its power to oppoſe it. Therefore if you ſhould take it into favour again upon its repentance, and continue in it, you would be ſo far from [110] leading what is commonly call'd an un⯑ſettled life (and what you with too much unjuſt ſeverity call a vagabond Life) that the wiſe cou'd only look upon you as a Prince in a progreſs, who travels to gain the affections he has not, or to fix thoſe he already has; which he effectually does wherever he ſhews himſelf. But if you are reſolv'd in revenge to rob the world of ſo much example as you may afford it, I be⯑lieve your deſign will be vain; for even in a Monaſtery your devotions cannot carry you ſo far towards the next world as to make This loſe the ſight of you, but you'll be like a Star, that while it is fix'd to Hea⯑ven ſhines over all the Earth.

Whereſoever Providence ſhall diſpoſe of the moſt valuable thing I know, I ſhall ever follow you with my ſincereſt wiſhes, and my beſt thoughts will be perpetually waiting upon you, when you never hear of me or them. Your own guardian Angels cannot be more conſtant, nor more ſilent. I beg you will never ceaſe to think me your friend, that you may not be guilty of that which you never yet knew to commit, an Injuſtice. As I have hitherto been ſo in ſpite of the world, ſo hereafter, if it be poſſible you ſhou'd ever be more oppoſed, and more deſerted, I ſhould on⯑ly be ſo much the more

LETTER XV.

I Can ſay little to recommend the Let⯑ters I ſhall write to you, but that they will be the moſt impartial repreſentations of a free heart, and the trueſt copies you ever ſaw, tho' of a very mean original. Not a feature will be ſoften'd, or any ad⯑vantageous light employ'd to make the ug⯑ly thing a little leſs hideous: but you ſhall find it in all reſpects, moſt horribly like. You will do me an injuſtice if you look upon any thing I ſhall ſay from this in⯑ſtant, as a compliment, either to you or my ſelf: Whatever I write will be the real thought of that hour; and I know you'll no more expect it of me to perſe⯑vere till death in every ſentiment or no⯑tion I now ſet down, than you would ima⯑gine a man's face ſhould never change when once his picture was drawn.

The freedom I ſhall uſe in this manner of thinking aloud, may indeed prove me a fool; but it will prove me one of the beſt ſort of fools, the honeſt ones. And ſince what folly we have, will infallibly buoy up at one time or other in ſpight of all our art to keep it down; methinks 'tis almoſt fooliſh to take any pains to conceal it at [112] all, and almoſt knaviſh to do it from thoſe that are our friends. If Momus's project had taken, of having windows in our breaſts, I ſhou'd be for carrying it further, and making thoſe windows; caſements; that while a man ſhow'd his heart to all the world, he might do ſomething more for his friends, even give it them, and truſt it to their handling. I think I love you as well as King Herod did Herodias (tho' I never had ſo much as one dance with you) and would as freely give you my heart in a diſh, as he did another's head. But ſince Jupiter will not have it ſo, I muſt be con⯑tent to ſhew my taſte in life, as I do my taſte in painting, by loving to have as little drapery as poſſible. Not that I think every body naked altogether ſo fine a ſight as your ſelf and a few more would be; but becauſe 'tis good to uſe people to what they muſt be acquainted with; and there will certainly come ſome day of judgment or other, to uncover every ſoul of us. We ſhall then ſee that the Prues of this world ow'd all their fine figure only to their be⯑ing ſtrater-lac'd than the reſt; and that they are naturally as arrant Squabs as thoſe that never girded their loins at all.—But a particular reaſon that may engage you to write your thoughts the more free⯑ly to me, is, that I am confident no one [113] knows you better: for I find, when o⯑thers expreſs their thoughts of you, they fall very ſhort of mine, and I know at the ſame time theirs are ſuch as you would think ſufficient in your favour.

You may eaſily imagine how deſirous I muſt be of a correſpondence with a perſon, who had taught me long ago that it was as poſſible to eſteem at firſt ſight, as to love: and who has ſince ruin'd me for all the converſation of one ſex, and almoſt all the friendſhip of the other. I am but too ſenſible, thro' your means, that the com⯑pany of men wants a certain ſoftneſs to recommend it, and that of women wants every thing elſe. How often have I been quietly going to take poſſeſſion of that tranquillity and indolence I had ſo long found in the country; when one evening of your converſation has ſpoil'd me for a Soli⯑taire! Books have loſt their effect upon me, and I was convinced, ſince I ſaw you, that there is one alive wiſer than all the Sages: a plague of female wiſdom! it makes a man ten times more uneaſy than his own. What is very ſtrange, Virtue herſelf (when you have the dreſſing her) is too amiable for one's repoſe. You might have done a world of good in your time, if you had allow'd half the fine gentlemen who have ſeen you to have converſed with you; they [114] would have been ſtrangely bit, while they thought only to fall in love with a fair La⯑dy, and you had bewitch'd them with Reaſon and Virtue (two Beauties that the very Fops pretend to have no acquaintance with.)

The unhappy diſtance at which we cor⯑reſpond, removes a great many of thoſe reſtrictions and punctilious decorums, that oftentimes in nearer converſation prejudice truth, to ſave good breeding. I may now hear of my faults, and you of your good qualities, without a bluſh; we converſe upon ſuch unfortunate generous terms, as exclude the regards of fear, ſhame, or de⯑ſign, in either of us. And methinks it would be as paltry a part, to impoſe (even in a ſingle thought) upon each other in this ſtate of ſeparation, as for Spirits of a different ſphere who have ſo little inter⯑courſe with us, to employ that little (as ſome would make us think they do) in putting tricks and deluſions upon poor mortals.

Let me begin then, Madam, by asking you a queſtion, that may enable me to judge better of my own conduct than moſt inſtances of my Life. In what manner did I behave the laſt hour I ſaw you? What degree of concern did I diſcover when I felt a misfortune which I hope you will [115] never feel, that of parting from what one moſt eſteems? for if my parting looked but like that of your common acquaintance, I am the greateſt of all the hypocrites that ever decency made.

I never ſince paſs by your houſe but with the ſame ſort of melancholy that we feel upon ſeeing the Tomb of a friend, which only ſerves to put us in mind of what we have loſt. I reflect upon the circumſtances of your departure, which I was there a wit⯑neſs of (your behaviour in what I may call your laſt moments) and I indulge a gloo⯑my kind of pleaſure in thinking that thoſe laſt moments were given to me. I would fain imagine this was not accidental, but proceeded from a penetration which I know you have, in finding out the truth of people's ſentiments; and that you were willing, the laſt man that would have par⯑ted from you, ſhould be that laſt that did. I really look'd upon you juſt as the friends of Curtius might have done upon that Hero, at the inſtant when he was devoting him⯑ſelf to Glory, and running to be loſt out of generoſity. I was obliged to admire your reſolution, in as great a degree as I de⯑plored it; and had only to wiſh, that Hea⯑ven would reward ſo much Virtue as was to be taken from us, with all the felicities it could enjoy elſewhere!

LETTER XVI.

YOU will find me more troubleſome than ever Brutus did his Evil Genius; I ſhall meet you in more places than one, and often refreſh your memory before you arrive at your Philippi. Theſe ſhadows of me (my letters) will be haunting you from time to time, and putting you in mind of the man who has really ſuffer'd very much from you, and whom you have robb'd of the moſt valuable of his enjoy⯑ments, your converſation. The advantage of hearing your ſentiments by diſcovering mine, was what I always thought a great one, and even worth the riſque I generally run of manifeſting my own indiſcretion. You then rewarded my truſt in you the moment it was given, for you pleas'd or inform'd me the minute you anſwer'd. I muſt now be contented with more ſlow re⯑turns. However 'tis ſome pleaſure, that your thoughts upon Paper will be a more laſting poſſeſſion to me, and that I ſhall no longer have cauſe to complain of a loſs I have ſo often regretted, that of any [117] thing you ſaid, which I happen'd to forget. In earneſt, Madam, if I were to write to you as often as I think of you, it muſt be every day of my life. I attend you in ſpirit through all your ways, I fol⯑low you thro' every ſtage in books of tra⯑vels, and fear for you thro' whole folio's; you make me ſhrink at the paſt dangers of dead travellers; and if I read of a delight⯑ful proſpect, or agreeable place, I hope it yet ſubſiſts to pleaſe you. I enquire the roads, the amuſements, the company, of every town and country thro' which you paſs, with as much diligence, as if I were to ſet out next week to overtake you. In a word, no one can have you more conſtantly in mind, not even your guar⯑dian Angel (if you have one) and I am willing to indulge ſo much Popery, as to fancy ſome Being takes care of you who knows your value better than you do your ſelf: I am willing to think that Heaven never gave ſo much ſelf-neglect and reſolution to a woman, to occaſion her calamity, but am pious enough to believe thoſe qualities muſt be intended to con⯑duce to her benefit and her glory.

Your firſt ſhort letter only ſerves to ſhow me you are alive: it puts me in mind of the firſt Dove that return'd to [118] Noah, and juſt made him know it had found no reſt abroad.

There is nothing in it that pleaſes me, but when you tell me you had no Sea-ſickneſs. I beg your next may give me all the pleaſure it can, that is, tell me any that you receive. You can make no diſcoveries that will be half ſo valuable to me as thoſe of your own mind; Nothing that regards the States or Kingdoms you paſs through, will engage ſo much of my curioſity or concern, as what relates to your⯑ſelf: Your welfare, to ſay truth, is more at my heart than that of Chriſten⯑dom.

I am ſure I may defend the truth, though perhaps not the virtue, of this declaration. One is ignorant, or doubt⯑ful at beſt, of the merits of differing religions and governments: but private virtues one can be ſure of. I there⯑fore know what particular perſon has deſert enough to merit being happier than others, but not what nation de⯑ſerves to conquer or oppreſs another. You will ſay, I am not Publick-ſpiri⯑ted; let it be ſo, I may have too ma⯑ny tenderneſſes, particularly regards, or narrow views; but at the ſame time I am certain that whoever wants theſe, [119] can never have a Publick-ſpirit; for (as a friend of mine ſays) how is it poſſible for that man to love twen⯑ty thouſand people, who never loved one?

I communicated your letter to Mr. C [...] he thinks of you and talks of you as he ought, I mean as I do, and one always thinks that to be juſt as it ought. His health and mine are now ſo good, that we wiſh, with all our ſouls, you were a witneſs of it. We never meet but we lament over you: we pay a kind of weekly rites to your memory, where we ſtrow flow⯑ers of rhetorick, and offer ſuch liba⯑tions to your name as it would be pro⯑phane to call Toaſting. The Duke of B [...]m is ſometimes the High Prieſt of your praiſes; and upon the whole, I believe there are as few Men that are not ſorry at your departure, as Wo⯑men that are; for you know moſt of your Sex want good ſenſe, and there⯑fore muſt want generoſity: You have ſo much of both, that I am ſure you pardon them; for one cannot but for⯑give whatever one deſpiſes For my part I hate a great many women for your ſake; and undervalue all the reſt. 'Tis you are to blame, and may God revenge it upon you, with all [120] thoſe bleſſings and earthly proſperi⯑ties which the Divines tell us are the cauſe of our Perdition; for if he makes you happy in this world, I dare truſt your own virtue to do it in the other. I am,

To the Honourable Robert Digby.

I Had pleas'd myſelf ſooner in writing to you, but that I have been your Suc⯑ceſſor in a Fit of Sickneſs, and am not yet ſo much recovered, but that I have thoughts of uſing your ^*Phyſicians. They are as grave Perſons as any of the Faculty, and (like the Antients) carry their own Medicaments about with them. But in⯑deed the Moderns are ſuch Lovers of Rail⯑lery, that nothing is grave enough to eſcape them. Let 'em laugh, but People will ſtill have their Opinions: As they think our Doctors Aſſes to them, we'll think them Aſſes to our Doctors.

[122] I am glad you are ſo much in a better State of Health, as to follow me to jeſt about it. My Concern, when I heard of your Danger, was ſo very ſerious, that I almoſt take it ill Dr. Evans ſhould tell you of it, or you mention it. I tell you fairly, if you and a few more ſuch people were to leave the World, I would not give Six⯑pence to ſtay in it.

I am not ſo much concern'd as to the point, whether you are to live fat or lean: Moſt Men of Wit or Honeſty are uſually decreed to live very lean; ſo I am inclined to the opinion that 'tis decreed you ſhall: However be comforted, and reflect that you'll make the better Buſto for it.

'Tis ſomething particular in you, not to be ſatisfied with ſending me your own Books, but to make your Acquaintance continue the Frolick. Mr. Wharton forc'd me to take Gorboduc, which has ſince done me great Credit with ſeveral People, as it has done Dryden and Oldham ſome Diſ⯑kindneſs, in ſhewing there is as much dif⯑ference between their Gorboduc, and this, as between Queen Anne, and King George. It is truly a Scandal, that Men ſhould write with Contempt of a Piece which they never once ſaw, as thoſe two Poets did, who were ignorant even of the Sex, as well as Senſe, of Gorboduc.

[123] Adieu! I am going to forget you: This minute you took up all my mind, the next I ſhall think of nothing but the Terms of Agamemnon, and the Recovery of Bri⯑ſeis. I ſhall be Achilles's humble Servant theſe two Months (with the good Leave of all my Friends.) I have no Ambition ſo ſtrong at preſent, as that noble One of Sir Salathiel Lovel, Recorder of London, to furniſh out a decent and plentiful Execution, of Greeks and Trojans—It is not to be expreſt how heartily I wiſh the Death of all Homer's Heroes, one after another. The Lord preſerve me in the Day of Battle, which is juſt approaching! Dear Sir, join in your prayers for me, and know me to be always (whether I live, die, or am damn'd as a Poet.)

To the ſame.

TO convince you how little pain I give myſelf, in correſponding with Men of good Nature, and good Under⯑ſtanding, you ſee I omit to anſwer your Letters till a time, when another Man would be aſhamed to own he had received [124] them. If therefore you are ever moved on my Account by that Spirit, which I take to be as familiar to you as a Quotidian Ague, I mean the Spirit of Goodneſs, pray never ſtint it, in any fear of obliging me to a Civility beyond my natural Inclina⯑tion: I dare truſt you, Sir, not only with my Folly when I write, but with my Neg⯑ligence when I do not; and expect equally your Pardon for either.

If I knew how to entertain you thro' the reſt of this Paper, it ſhould be ſpotted and diverſified with Conceits all over; you ſhould be put out of Breath with Laughter at each Sentence, and pauſe at each Period, to look back over how much Wit you had paſs'd. But I have found by Experience, that People now a-days regard Writing as little as they do Preaching: The moſt we can hope is to be heard, juſt with Decency and Patience, once a Week, by Folks in the Country: Here in Town we hum over a Piece of fine Writing, and we whiſtle at a Sermon. The Stage is the only Place we ſeem alive at; there indeed we ſtare, and roar, and clap Hands for K. George and the Government. As for all other Virtues but this Loyalty, they are an obſolete Train, ſo ill-dreſs'd, that Men, Women, and Chil⯑dren, hiſs 'em out of all good Company. Humility knocks ſo ſneakingly at the Door, [125] that every Footman out-raps it, and makes it give way to the free Entrance of Pride, Prodigality, and Vain-glory.

My Lady Scudamore, from having ruſti⯑cated in your Company too long, really behaves herſelf ſcandalouſly among us: She pretends to open her Eyes for the Sake of ſeeing the Sun, and to ſleep becauſe it is Night; drinks Tea at nine in the Morn⯑ing, and is thought to have ſaid her Prayers before; talks without any manner of Shame of good Books, and has not ſeen Cibber's Play of the Non-juror. I rejoiced the other Day to ſee a Libel on her Toilette, which gives me ſome Hope that you have at leaſt a Taſte of Scandal left you, in Defect of all other Vices.

Upon the whole Matter, I heartily wiſh you well; but as I cannot entirely deſire the Ruin of all the Joys of this City, ſo all that remains is to wiſh you wou'd keep your Happineſs to your ſelves, that the happieſt here may not die with Envy at a Bliſs which they cannot attain to.

To the ſame.

YOU'LL think me very full of my ſelf, when after a long Silence (which [126] however to ſay Truth has rather been em⯑ploy'd to contemplate of you, than to for⯑get you) I begin to talk of my own Works. I find it is in the finiſhing a Book, as in concluding a Seſſion of Parliament, one al⯑ways thinks it will be very ſoon, and finds it very late. There are many unlook'd for Incidents to retard the clearing any publick Account, and ſo I ſee it is in mine. I have plagued myſelf, like great Miniſters, with undertaking too much for one Man, and with a Deſire of doing more than was ex⯑pected from me, have done leſs than I ought.

For having deſign'd four very laborious and uncommon ſorts of Indexes to Homer, I'm forc'd, for want of Time, to publiſh two only; the Deſign of which you will own to be pretty, tho' far from being fully executed. I've alſo been oblig'd to leave unfiniſh'd in my Desk the Heads of two Eſſays, one on the Theology and Morality of Homer, and another on the Oratory of Ho⯑mer and Virgil. So they muſt wait for fu⯑ture Editions, or periſh; and (one Way or other, no great Matter which) dabit Deus his quoque finem.

I think of you every Day, I aſſure you, even without ſuch good Memorials of you as your Siſters, with whom I ſometimes talk of you, and find it one of the moſt agree⯑able of all Subjects to them. My Lord [127] Digby muſt be perpetually remember'd by all who ever knew him, or knew his Chil⯑dren. There needs no more than an Ac⯑quaintance with your Family, to make all Elder Sons wiſh they had Fathers to their Lives-end.

I can't touch upon the Subject of filial Love, without putting you in mind of an old Woman, who has a ſincere, hearty, old-faſhion'd Reſpect for you, and con⯑ſtantly blames her Son for not having writ to you oftner, to tell you ſo.

I very much wiſh (but what ſignifies my wiſhing? my Lady Scudamore wiſhes, your Siſter's wiſh) that you were with us, to com⯑pare the beautiful Contraſt this Seaſon af⯑fords us, of the Town and the Country. No Ideas you could form in the Winter can make you imagine what Twickenham is (and what your Friend Mr. Johnſon of Twickenham is) in this warmer Seaſon. Our River glitters beneath an unclouded Sun, at the ſame time that its Banks re⯑tain the Verdure of Showers: Our Gardens are offering their firſt Noſegays; our Trees, like new Acquaintance brought happily together, are ſtretching their Arms to meet each other, and growing nearer and nearer every Hour: The Birds are paying their thankſgiving Songs for the new Habita⯑tions I have made 'em: My Building rites [128] high enough to attract the Eye and Curi⯑oſity of the Paſſenger from the River, where, upon beholding a Mixture of Beauty and Ruin, he enquires what Houſe is falling, or what Church is riſing? So little taſte have our common Tritons of Vitruvius; whatever Delight the true, unſeen, poeti⯑cal Gods of the River may take, in re⯑flecting on their Streams my Tuſcan Porti⯑cos, or Ionic Pilaſters.

But (to deſcend from all this Pomp of Style) the beſt Account I can give of what I am building, is, that it will afford me a few pleaſant Rooms for ſuch a Friend as yourſelf, or a cool Situation for an Hour or two for Lady Scudamore, when ſhe will do me the Honour (at this Publick Houſe on the Road) to drink her own Cyder.

The Moment I am writing this, I am ſurprized with the account of the Death of a Friend of mine; which makes all I have here been talking of, a meer Jeſt! Build⯑ings, Gardens, Writings, Pleaſures, Works, of whatever ſtuff Man can raiſe! none of them (God knows) capable of advanta⯑ging a Creature that is mortal, or of ſatiſ⯑fying a Soul that is immortal! Dear Sir, I am

To the ſame

YOUR kind Deſire to know the State of my Health had not been unſatiſ⯑fied of ſo long, had not that ill State been the Impediment. Nor ſhould I have ſeem'd an unconcern'd Party in the Joys of your Family, which I heard of from Lady Scu⯑damore, whoſe ſhort Eſchantillon of a Let⯑ter (of a quarter of a Page) I value as the ſhort Glimpſe of a Viſion afforded to ſome devout Hermit; for it includes (as thoſe Revelations do) a Promiſe of a better Life in the Elyſian Groves of Cirenceſter, whi⯑ther, I could almoſt ſay in the Style of a Sermon, the Lord bring us all, &c. Thi⯑ther may we tend, by various ways to one bliſsful Bower: Thither may Health, Peace, and good Humour, wait upon us as Aſſo⯑ciates: Thither may whole Cargoes of Nectar (Liquor of Life and Longaevity!) by Mortals call'd Sp [...]g-water, be con⯑vey'd, and there (as Milton has it) may we, like the Deities,

[130] When I ſpeak of Garlands, I ſhould not forget the green Veſtments and Scarfs which your Siſters promis'd to make for this Purpoſe: I expect you too in Green with a Hunting-horn by your Side and a green Hat, the Model of which you may take from Osborne's Deſcription of King James the Firſt.

What Words, what Numbers, what Oratory or what Poetry, can ſuffice, to ex⯑preſs how infinitely I eſteem, value, love and deſire you all, above all the great ones, the rich ones, and the vain ones of this Part of the World! above all the Jews, Jobbers, Bubblers, Subſcribers, Projectors, Directors, Governors, Treaſurers, &c. &c. &c. &c. in ſaecula ſoeculorum!

Turn your Eyes and Attention from this miſerable mercenary Period; and turn yourſelf, in a juſt Contempt of theſe Sons of Mammon, to the Contemplation of Books, Gardens, and Marriage. In which I now leave you, and return (Wretch that I am!) to Water-gruel and Palladio.

To the ſame.

YOUR Doctor is going to the Bath, and ſtays a Fortnight or more: Per⯑haps you would be comforted to have a Sight of him, whether you need him or not. I think him as good a Doctor as any for one that is ill, and a better Doctor than any for one that is well. He would do admirably for Mrs. Mary Digby: She need⯑ed only to follow his Hints, to be in eter⯑nal Buſineſs and Amuſement of Mind, and even as active as ſhe could deſire. But in⯑deed I fear ſhe would out-walk him: For (as Dean Swift obſerv'd to me the very firſt time I ſaw the Doctor) He is a Man that can do every thing but walk. His Brother, who is lately come into England, goes alſo to the Bath; and is a more extraordinary Man than he, worth your going thither on purpoſe to know him. The Spirit of Phi⯑lanthropy, ſo long dead to our World, is reviv'd in him: He is a Philoſopher all of Fire; ſo warmly, nay ſo wildly in the Right, that he ſorces all others about him to be ſo too, and draws them into his [132] own Vortex. He is a Star that looks as if it were all Fire, but is all Banignity, all gentle and beneficial Influence. If there be other Men in the World that would ſerve a Friend, yet he is the only one I believe that could make even an Enemy ſerve a Friend.

As all human Life is chequer'd and mix'd with Acquiſitions and Loſſes (though the latter are more certain and irremediable, than the former laſting or ſatisfactory) ſo at the time I have gain'd the Acquaintance of one worthy Man I have loſt another, a very eaſy, human, and gentlemanly Neighbour, Mr. Stonor. It's certain the Loſs of one of this Character puts us na⯑turally upon ſetting a greater Value on the ſew that are left, though the Degree of our Eſteem may be different. Nothing, ſays Seneca, is ſo melancholy a Circumſtance in human Life, or ſo ſoon reconciles us to to the Thought of our own Death, as the Reflection and Proſpect of one Friend af⯑ter another dropping round us! Who would ſtand alone, the ſole remaining Ruin, the laſt tottering Column of all the Fabrick of Friendſhip; once ſo large, ſeemingly ſo ſtrong, and yet ſo ſuddenly ſunk and buried?

To the ſame.

I Have belief enough in the goodneſs of your whole family, to think you will all be pleas'd that I am arriv'd in ſaftey at Twickenham; tho' 'tis a ſort of Earneſt, that you will be troubled again with me at Sher⯑borne, or Coleſhill; for however I may like One of your places, it may be in that as in liking One of your family; when one ſecs the reſt, one likes them all. Pray make my ſervices acceptable to them; I wiſh them all the happineſs they may want, and the con⯑tinuance of all the happineſs they have; and I take the latter to comprize a great deal more than the former. I muſt ſeparate Lady Scudamore from you, as I fear ſhe will do herſelf, before this letter reaches you: So I wiſh her a good journey, and I hope one day to try if ſhe lives as well as you do; tho' I much queſtion if ſhe can live as quiet⯑ly: I ſuſpect the Bells will be ringing at her arrival, and on her own and Miſs Scudamore's birthdays, and that all the Clergy in the County come to pay reſpects; both the Cler⯑gy and their Bells expecting from her. and [134] from the young Lady, further buſineſs, and further employment. Beſides all this, there dwells on the one ſide of her the Lord Coningsby, and on the other Mr. W [...] Yet I ſhall, when the Days and the Years come about, adventure upon all this for her ſake.

I beg my Lord Digby to think me a bet⯑ter Man than to content myſelf with thank⯑ing him in the common way. I am in as ſincere a ſenſe of the word, His Servant, as you are his Son, or he your Father.

I muſt in my turn inſiſt upon hearing how my laſt fellow-travellers got home from Clarendon, and deſire Mr. Philips to re⯑member me in his Cyder, and to tell Mr. W [...] that I am dead and buried.

I wiſh the young Ladies, whom I al⯑moſt robb'd of their good Name, a better Name in return (even that very name to each of them, which they like beſt for the ſake of the Man that bears it.)

To the ſame.

YOUR making a ſort of Apology for your not writing, is a very genteel reproof to me. I know I was to blame, but I know I did not intend to be ſo, and (what is the happieſt Knowledge in the World) I know you will forgive me: For ſure nothing is more ſatisfactory than to be certain of ſuch a Friend as will over⯑look one's Failings, ſince every ſuch in⯑ſtance is a Conviction of his Kindneſs.

If I am all my life to dwell in Inten⯑tions, and never to riſe to Actions, I have but too much need of that gentle diſpoſi⯑tion which I experience in you. But I hope better things of myſelf, and fully purpoſe to make you a viſit this ſummer at Sher⯑bourn. I'm told you are all upon removal very ſpeedily, and that Mrs. Mary Digly talks in a Letter to Lady Scudamore, of ſeeing my Lord Bathurſt's Wood in her way. How much I wiſh to be her Guide thro' that enchanted Foreſt, is not to be expreſt: I look upon myſelf as the Ma⯑gician appropriated to the place, without whom no mortal can penetrate into the Receſſes of thoſe ſacred Shades. I could paſs whole Days, in only deſcribing to [136] her the future, and as yet viſionary Beau⯑ties, that are to riſe in thoſe Scenes: The Palace that is to be built, the Pa⯑villions that are to glitter, the Colonnades that are to adorn them: Nay more, the meeting of the Thames and the Severn, which (when the noble Owner has finer Dreams than ordinary) are to be led into each other's Embraces thro' ſecret Caverns of not above twelve or fifteen Miles, till they riſe and openly celebrate their Mar⯑riage in the midſt of an immenſe Amphi⯑theatre, which is to be the Admiration of Poſterity a hundred Years hence. But till the deſtin'd time ſhall arrive that is to manifeſt theſe Wonders, Mrs. Digly muſt content herſelf with ſeeing what is at preſent no more than the fineſt Wood in England.

The Objects that attract this part of the world, are of a quite different Na⯑ture. Women of Quality are all turn'd Followers of the Camp in Hyde-Park this Year, whither all the Town reſort to magnificent Entertainments given by the Officers, &c. The Seythian Ladies that dwelt in the Waggons of War, were not more cloſely attached to the Luggage. The Matrons, like thoſe of Sparta, attend their Sons to the Field, to be the Witneſſes of their glorious Deeds; and the Maidens [137] with all their Charms diſplay'd, provoke the Spirit of the Soldiers: Tea and Coffee ſupply the place of Lacedemonian black Broth. This camp ſeems crowded with perpetual Victory, for every Sun that riſes in the Thunder of Cannon, ſets in the Muſick of Violins. Nothing is yet want⯑ing but the conſtant preſence of the Prin⯑ceſs, to repreſent the Mater Exercitus.

At Twickenham the World goes other⯑wiſe. There are certain old People who take up all my time, and will hardly allow me to keep any other Company. They were introduced here by a Man of their own ſort, who has made me perfectly rude to all my Contemporaries, and won't ſo much as ſuffer me to look upon 'em. The Perſon I complain of is the Biſhop of Ro⯑cheſter. Yet he allows me (form ſome⯑thing he has heard of your Character and that of your Family, as if you were of the old Sect of Moraliſts) to write three or four ſides of Paper to you, and to tell you (what theſe ſort of People never tell but with Truth, and religious Sincerity) that I am, and ever will be,

To the ſame.

THE ſame reaſon that hinder'd your writing, hinder'd mine, the pleaſing Expectation to ſee you in Town. Indeed ſince the willing Confinement I have lain under here with my Mother, (whom it is natural and reaſonable I ſhould rejoice with as well as grieve) I could the better bear your Abſenſe from London, for I could hardly have ſeen you there; and it would not have been quite reaſonable to have drawn you to a ſick Room hither from the firſt Embraces of your Friends. My Mother is now (I thank God) wonderſully recovered, tho' not ſo much as yet to ven⯑ture out of her Chamber, yet enough to enjoy a few particular Friends, when they have the good Nature to look upon her. I may recommend to you the Room we ſit in, upon one (and that a favourite) Ac⯑count, that it is the very warmeſt in the Houſe: We and our Fires will equally ſmile upon your Face, There is a Perſian Proverb that ſays, I think very prettily, The Converſation of a Friend brightens the [139] Eyes. This I take to be a Splendor ſtill more agreeable than the Fires you ſo de⯑lightfully deſcribe.

That you may long enjoy your own Fire-ſide, in the metaphorical Senſe, that is, all thoſe of your Family who make it pleaſing to ſit and ſpend whole wintry Months together, (a far more rational Delight, and better ſelt by an honeſt Heart than all the glaring Entertainments, nu⯑merous Lights and falſe Splendors, of an Aſſembly of empty Heads, aking Hearts, and falſe Faces) This is my ſincere Wiſh to you and yours.

You ſay you propoſe much Pleaſure in ſeeing ſome few Faces about Town of my Acquaintance, I gueſs you mean Mrs. Howara's and Mrs. Blount's. And I aſſure you, you ought to take as much Pleaſure in their Hearts, if they are what they ſometimes expreſs with regard to you.

Believe me, dear Sir, to you all, a very faithful Servant.

To the ſame.

I Was upon the point of taking a much greater Journey than to Bermudas, e⯑ven to That undiſcover'd Country, from whoſe Bourn no Traveller returns!

A Fever carry'd me on the high Gallop towards it for ſix or ſeven days—But here you have me now, and that's all I ſhall ſay of it: Since which time an impertinent Lameneſs kept me at home twice as long; as if Fate ſhould ſay (after the other dan⯑gerons Illneſs) ‘"You ſhall neither go into the other World, nor any where you like in this."’ Elſe who knows but I had been at Hom-lacy?

I conſpire in your Sentiments, emulate your Pleaſures, wiſh for your Company. You are all of one Heart and one Soul, as was ſaid of the Primitive Chriſtians: 'Tis like the Kingdom of the Juſt upon Earth; not a wicked Wretch to interrupt you; but a Set of trv'd, experienc'd Friends, and fel⯑low Comforters, who have ſeen Evil Men and Evil Days, and have by a ſuperior Rec⯑titude of Heart ſet yourſelves above them, [141] and reap your Reward. Why will you ever, of your own accord, end ſuch a Millenary Year in London? tranſmigrate (if I may ſo call it) into other Creatures, in that Scene of folly Militant, when you may reign for ever at Hom-lacy in Senſe and Reaſon Tri⯑umphant? I appeal to a Third Lady in your Family, whom I take to be the moſt In⯑nocent, and the leaſt warp'd by idle Faſhion and Cuſtom, of you all; I appeal to Her, if you are not every Soul of you better Peo⯑ple, better Companions, and happier, where you are? I deſire her Opinion under her Hand in your next Letter, I mean Miſs Scudamore's^††—I'm confident if ſhe would, or durſt ſpeak her Senſe, and em⯑ploy that Reaſoning which God has given her, to infuſe more thoughtfulneſs into you all; thoſe Arguments could not fail to put you to the bluſh, and keep you out of Town, like People ſenſible of your own Felicities. I am not without hopes, if She can detain a Parliament Man and a Lady of Quality from the World one Winter, that I may come upon you with ſuch irreſiſtable Argu⯑ments another Year, as may carry you all [142] with me to Bermudas, ^† the Seat of all Earthly Happineſs, and the new Jeruſalem of the Righteous.

Don't talk of the decay of the Year, the Seaſon is good where the People are ſo: 'Tis the beſt Time of the Year for a Pain⯑ter; there is more Variety of Colours in the Leaves, the Proſpects begin to open, thro' the thinner Woods, over the Vallies; and thro' the high Canopies of Trees to the higher Arch of Heaven: The Dews of the Morning impearl every Thorn, and ſcatter Diamonds on the verdant Mantle of the Earth. The Froſts are freſh and wholeſome: What wou'd ye have? The Moon ſhines too, tho' not for Lovers theſe cold Nights, but for Aſtronomers.

Have ye not Reflecting Teleſcopes ^* where⯑by ye may innocently magnify her Spots and Blemiſhes? Content yourſelves with them, and do not come to a Place where your own Eyes become Reflecting Tele⯑ſcopes, and where thoſe of all others are equally ſuch upon their Neighbours. Stay You at leaſt (for what I've ſaid before re⯑lates only to the Ladies, don't imagine I'll write about any Eyes but theirs) Stay, I [143] ſay, from that idle, buſy-looking Sanhe⯑drin, where Wiſdom or No Wiſdom is the Eternal Debate, not (as it lately was in Ireland) an Accidental one.

If after all, you will deſpiſe good Ad⯑vice, and reſolve to come to London; here you will find me, doing juſt the things I ſhould not, living where I ſhould not, and as worldly, as idle, in a Word as much an Anti-Bermudaniſt as any body. Dear Sir, make the Ladies know I am their Ser⯑vant, You know I am

To the Same.

I Have been above a month ſtrolling about in Buckinghamſhire and Oxfordſhire, from Garden to Garden, but ſtill returning to Lord Cobham's with freſh Satisfaction. I ſhould be ſorry to ſee my Lady Scudamore's, till it has had the full Advantage of Lord Bathurſt's Improvements; and then I will expect ſomething like the waters of Riskins, and the woods of Oakley together, which (without flattery) would be at leaſt as good as any thing in our World: For as to the [144] hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Paradiſe of Cyrus, and the Sharawaggis of of China, I have little or no Ideas of 'em, but I dare ſay Lord B [...]t has, becauſe they were certainly both very Great, and very Wild. I hope Mrs. Mary Digby is quite tired of his Lordſhip's Extravagante Bergerie; and that ſhe is juſt now ſitting, or rather inclining, on a Bank, fatigu'd with over much Dancing and Sing⯑ing at his unwearied Requeſt and Inſtigati⯑on. I know your love of Eaſe ſo well, that you might be in danger of being too Quiet to enjoy Quiet, and too Philoſophical to be a Philoſopher; were it not for the Ferment Lord B. will put you into. One of his Lord⯑ſhip's Maxims is, that a total Abſtinence from Intemperance or Buſineſs, is no more Philoſophy, than a total Compoſition of the Senſes is Repoſe; one muſt Feel enough of its Contrary to have a Reliſh of either. But after all, let your Temper work, and be as ſedate and contemplative as you will, I'll engage you ſhall be fit for his Lordſhip when you come to Town in the Winter. Folly will laugh you into all the Cuſtoms of the Company, here; nothing will be able to prevent your Converſion to her, but In⯑diſpoſition, which I hope will be far from you. I am telling the worſt that can come of you; for as to Vice, you are ſafe, but Folly is many an honeſt Man's, nay every [145] good-humour'd Man's Lot: Nay, it is the Seaſoning of Life; and Fools (in one Senſe) are the Salt of the Earth; a little is excel⯑lent, tho' indeed a whole Mouthful is juſtly call'd the Devil.

So much for your Diverſions next Winter, and for mine. I envy you much more at preſent, than I ſhall then; for if there be on Earth an Image of Paradiſe, it is in ſuch perfect Union and Society as you all poſſeſs. I wou'd have my innocent Envies and Wiſhes of your State known you all, which is far better than making you Com⯑pliments, for it is inward Approbation and Eſteem. My Lord Digby has in me a ſin⯑cere Servant, or would have, were there any occaſion for me to manifeſt it.

To the ſame.

I AM glad your Travels delighted you, improve you I am ſure they could not; you are not ſo much a Youth as that, tho' you run about with a King of ſixteen, and [146] (what makes him ſtill more a Child) a King of Frenchmen. My own time has been more melancholy, ſpent in an Attendance upon Death, which has ſeized one of our Family, my poor old Nurſe. My Mother is ſomething better, though at her advanc'd Age every Day is a Climacteric. There was join'd to this an Indiſpoſition of my own, which I ought to look upon as a ſlight one, compar'd with my Mother's (becauſe my Life is not of half the Conſequence to any Body, that her's is to me). All theſe Inci⯑dents have hinder'd my more ſpeedy Reply to your obliging Letter.

The Article you enquire of, is of as little Concern to me as you deſire it ſhou'd; namely the Railing Papers about the Odyſſey. If the Book has Merit, (and ſince you like it, it muſt) it will extinguiſh all ſuch naſty Scandal, as the Sun puts an end to ſtinks, meerly by coming out.

I wiſh I had nothing to trouble me more; an honeſt Mind is not in the power of any diſhoneſt one: To break it's Peace, there muſt be ſome Guilt or Conſciouſneſs, which is inconſiſtent with it's own Principles. Not but Malice and Injuſtice have their Day, like ſome poor ſhort-liv'd Vermine, that die of ſhooting their own Stings. Falſhood is Folly (ſays Homer), and Liars and Calumni⯑ators at laſt hurt none but themſelves, even [147] in this World: In the next, 'tis Charity to ſay, God have Mercy on them! They were the Devil's Vice-gerents upon Earth, who is the Father of Lies, and I fear has a Right to diſpoſe of his Children.

I've had an Occaſion to make theſe Re⯑flexions of late, more juſtly than from any thing that concerns my Writings, for it is one that concerns my Morals, and (which I ought to be as tender of as my own) the good Character of another very innocent Perſon, who I'm ſure ſhares your Friendſhip no leſs than I do. ***** No Creature has better natural Diſpoſitions, or would act more rightly, or reaſonably, in every Duty, did ſhe act by herſelf, or from herſelf: But you know it is the Misfortune of that Fa⯑mily to be governed like a Ship, I mean the Head guided by the Tail, and that by every Wind that blows in it.

To the ſame.

IT is now the Seaſon to wiſh you a good End of one Year, and a happy Beginning of another: but both theſe you know how to make yourſelf, by only continuing ſuch [148] a Life as you have been long accuſtomed to lead. As for Good Works, they are things I dare not name, either to thoſe that do them, or to thoſe that do them not; the firſt are too modeſt, and the latter too ſelfiſh, to bear the mention of what are become either too old faſhion'd or too private, to conſti⯑tute any Part of the Vanity or Reputation of the preſent Age. However, it were to be wiſh'd People would now and then look upon Good Works as they do upon old Wardrobes, meerly in caſe any of 'em ſhould by chance come into Faſhion again; as an⯑cient Fardingales revive in modern Hoop'd Petticoats (which may be properly compar'd to Charities, as they cover a Multitude of Sins).

They tell me that at [...] certain anti⯑quated Charities, and obſolete Devotions are yet ſubſiſting: That a thing called Chriſtian Chearfulneſs (not incompatible with Chriſt⯑mas Pyes and Plumb-broth) whereof frequent is the mention in old Sermons and Alma⯑nacks, is really kept alive and in Practice: That feeding the Hungry, and giving Alms to the Poor, do yet make a Part of good Houſe-keeping, in a Latitude not more re⯑mote from London than fourſcore Miles: And laſtly, that Prayers and Roaſt-beef actually make ſome People as happy, as a Whore and a Bottle. But here in Town [149] I aſſure you, Men, Women, and Children, I have done with theſe things. Charity not only begins, but ends, at home. Inſtead of the four Cardinal Virtues, now reign four Princely ones: We have Cunning for Pru⯑dence, Rapine for Juſtice, Time-ſerving for Fortitude, and Luxury for Temperance. Whatever you may fancy where you live in a State of Ignorance, and ſee nothing but Quiet, Religion, and Good Humour, the Caſe is juſt as I tell you where People under⯑ſtand the World, and know how to live with Credit and Glory.

I wiſh that Heaven would open the Eyes of Men, and make 'em ſenſible which of theſe is right: Whether upon a due Conviction, we are to quit Faction, and Gaming, and High-feeding and Whoring, and take to your Country Way? or you to leave Prayers, and Almſgiving, and Read⯑ing and Exerciſe, and come into our Mea⯑ſures? I wiſh (I ſay) that this Matter were as clear to all Men, as it is to

To EDWARD BLOUNT, Eſq

I Know of nothing that will be ſo Inte⯑reſſing to you at preſent, as ſome cir⯑cumſtances of the laſt Act of that eminent Comic Poet, and our Friend, Wycherley. He had often told me, as I doubt not he did all his Acquaintance, that he would marry as ſoon as his life was deſpair'd of. Accord⯑ingly a few days before his Death he un⯑derwent the Ceremony; and join'd together thoſe two Sacraments which wiſe Men ſay ſhould be the laſt we receive; for if you ob⯑ſerve, Matrimony is plac'd after Extreme [151] Unction in our Catechiſm, as a kind of Hint of the Order of Time in which they are to be taken. The old Man then lay down, ſatisfy'd in the Conſcience of having, by this one Act paid his juſt Debts, obliged a Woman who (he was told) had Merit, and ſhewn a heroic reſentment of the ill uſage of his next Heir. Some hundred pounds which he had with the Lady, diſcharg⯑ed thoſe Debts; a Jointure of four hundred a year made her a Recompence; and the Nephew he left to comfort himſelf as well as he could, with the miſerable Remains of a mortgaged Eſtate. I ſaw our Friend twice after this was done, leſs peeviſh in his Sickneſs than he uſed to be in his Health; neither much afraid of dying, nor (which in him had been more likely) much aſhamed of marrying. The Evening before he ex⯑pired, he called his young Wife to the bed⯑ſide, and earneſtly entreated her not to deny him one requeſt, the laſt he ſhould make. Upon her Aſſurances of conſenting to it, he told her, My Dear, it is only this; that you will never marry an old Man again. I can⯑not help remarking, that Sickneſs which often deſtroys both Wit and Wiſdom, yet ſeldom has power to remove that Talent which we call Humour: Mr Wycherley ſhew'd his, even in this laſt Compliment; tho' I think his requeſt a little hard; for [152] why ſhould he bar her from doubling her Jointure on the ſame eaſy Terms?

So trivial as theſe Circumſtances are, I ſhould not be diſpleas'd myſelf to know ſuch Trifles, when they concern or chara⯑cteriſe any eminent Perſon. The wiſeſt and wittieſt of Men are ſeldom wiſer or wittier than others in theſe ſober Moments. At leaſt, our Friend ended much in the Character he had lived in: And Horace's Rule for a Play, may as well be apply'd to him as a Playwright.

To the ſame.

I AM juſt return'd from the Country, whither Mr Rowe accompanied me, and paſs'd a Week in the Foreſt. I need not tell you how much a Man of his Turn entertain'd me; but I muſt acquaint you there is a Vi⯑vacity and Gaiety of Diſpoſition almoſt pe⯑culiar to him, which make it impoſſible to part from him without that uneaſineſs which [153] generally ſucceeds all our pleaſures. I have been juſt taking a ſolitary walk by moon⯑ſhine, full of reflections on the tranſitory na⯑ture of all human delights; and giving my Thoughts a looſe in the contemplation of thoſe Satisfactions which probably we may hereafter taſte in the Company of ſeparate Spirits, when we ſhall range the walks a⯑bove, and perhaps gaze on this World at as vaſt a diſtance as we now do on thoſe Worlds. The pleaſures we are to enjoy in that Converſation muſt undoubtedly be of a nobler kind, and (not unlikely) may pro⯑ceed from the Diſcoveries each ſhall commu⯑nicate to another, of God and of Nature; for the Happineſs of Minds can ſurely be nothing but Knowledge.

The higheſt Gratification we receive from Company is Mirth, which at the beſt is but a fluttering unquiet Motion, that beats about the breaſt for a few moments, and after leaves it void and empty.

Keeping good Company, even the beſt, is but a leſs ſhameful Art of loſing Time

What we here call Science and Study, are little better: The greater number of Arts to which we apply ourſelves are mere grop⯑ing in the Dark; and even the ſearch of our moſt important Concerns in a future being, is but a needleſs, anxious, and uncertain haſte to be knowing, ſooner than we can, [154] what without all this ſollicitude we ſhall know a little later. We are but Curious Impertinents in the caſe of Futurity. 'Tis not our buſineſs to be gueſſing what the State of Souls ſhall be, but to be doing what may make our own State happy; We cannot be Knowing, but we can be Virtuous.

If this be my Notion of a great part of that high Science, Divinity; you will be ſo civil as to imagine I lay no mighty Streſs up⯑on the reſt. Even of my darling Poetry I really make no other uſe, than Horſes of the Bells that gingle about their ears (tho' now and then they toſs their Heads as if they were proud of 'em) only to jogg on a little more merrily.

Your Obſervations on the narrow concep⯑tions of Mankind in the point of Friend⯑ſhip, confirm me in what I was ſo fortu⯑nate as at my firſt knowledge of you to hope, and ſince ſo amply to experience. Let me take ſo much decent Pride and Dignity upon me, as to tell you, that but for Opini⯑ons like theſe, which I diſcover'd in your Mind, I had never made the Trial I have done; which has ſucceeded ſo much to mine, and I believe not leſs to your Satisfaction: For if I know you right, your Pleaſure is greater in obliging me, than I can feel on my part, till it falls in my power to oblige you.

[155] Your Remark, that the Variety of opini⯑on in Politics or Religion is often rather a Gratification than Objection, to people who have Senſe enough to conſider the beau⯑tiful order of Nature in her Variations; makes me think you have not conſtrued Joannes Secundus wrong, in the Verſe which precedes that which you quote; Bene nota Fides, as I take it, does no way ſignify the Roman Catholic Religion, tho' Secundus was of it. I think it was generous thought, and one that flow'd from an exalted mind, that it was not improbable but God might be delighted with the various methods of worſhipping him, which divided the whole World. I am pretty ſure You and I ſhould no more make good Inquiſitors to the mo⯑dern Tyrants in Faith, than we could have been qualify'd for Lictors to Procruſtes, when he converted refractory Members with the Rack. In a word, I can only repeat to you what I think I have formerly ſaid; that I as little fear God will damn a Man who has Charity, as I hope that any Prieſt can ſave him without it.

To the ſame.

I Find that a real Concern is not only a Hindrance to Speaking, but to Writing too: The more time we give our ſelves to think over one's own, or a Friend's unhappi⯑neſs, the more unable we grow to expreſs the grief that proceeds from it. It is as natural to delay a Letter, at ſuch a Seaſon as this, as to retard a melancholy Viſit to a Perſon one cannot relieve. One is aſhamed in that Circumſtance, to pretend to entertain peo⯑ple with trifling, inſignificant affectations of Sorrow on the one hand, or unſeaſonable and forced Gayeties on the other. 'Tis a kind of profanation of things ſacred; to treat ſo ſolemn a matter as a generous vo⯑luntary Suffering, with Compliments or Heroic Gallantries. Such a Mind as your's has no need of being ſpirited up into Honour, or like a weak Woman, praiſed into an opinion of its own Virtue. 'Tis enough to do and ſuffer what we ought; and Men ſhould know, that the noble pow⯑er of Suffering bravely is as far above that of Enterprizing greatly, as an unblemiſh'd Conſcience and inflexible Reſolution are [162] above an accidental Flow of Spirits, or a ſud⯑den Tide of Blood. If the whole Religious Buſineſs of Mankind be included in Reſigna⯑tion to our Maker, and Charity to our Fel⯑low-Creatures; there are now ſome People who give us the Opportunity of affording as bright an Example in practiſing the one, as themſelves have given an infamous Inſtance of the Violation of the other. Whoever is really brave, has always this Comfort when he is oppreſt, that he knows himſelf to be ſuperior to thoſe who injure him: For the greateſt Power on Earth can no ſooner do him that Injury, but the brave Man can make himſelf greater by forgiving it.

If it were generous to ſeek for allevia⯑ting Conſolations in a Calamity of ſo much Glory, one might ſay that to be ruin'd thus in the Groſs, with a whole People, is but like periſhing in the General Conflagration, where nothing we can value is left behind us.

Methinks in our preſent Condition, the moſt heroic thing we are left capable of doing, is to endeavour to lighten each other's Load, and (oppreſt as we are) to ſuccour ſuch as are yet more oppreſt. If there are too many who cannot be aſſiſted but by what we cannot give, our Money; there are yet others who may be relieved by our Coun⯑ſel, by our Countenance, and even by our [163] Chearfulneſs. The Misfortunes of private Families, the Miſunderſtandings of People whom Diſtreſſes make ſuſpicious, the Cold⯑neſſes of Relations whom Change of Reli⯑gion may diſ unite, or the Neceſſities of half⯑ruin'd Eſtates render unkind to each other; theſe at leaſt may be ſoften'd in ſome de⯑grees, by a general well-manag'd Humanity among ourſelves, if all thoſe who have your Principles of Belief, had alſo your Senſe and Conduct. But indeed moſt of 'em have given lamentable ^* proofs of the contrary; and 'tis to be apprehended that they who want Senſe, are only religious thro' Weakneſs, and good-natur'd thro' Shame: Theſe are narrow-minded Creatures that never deal in Eſſentials; their Faith never looks be⯑yond Ceremonials, nor their Charity be⯑yond Relations. As poor as I am, I would gladly relieve any diſtreſſed, conſcientious French Refugee at this inſtant: what muſt my Concern then be, when I perceive ſo many Anxieties now tearing thoſe Hearts which I have deſired a place in, and Clouds of Melancholy riſing on thoſe Faces which I have long look'd upon with Affection? I begin already to feel both what ſome ap⯑prehend, and what others are yet too ſtu⯑pid [164] to apprehend. I grieve with the Old, for ſo many additional Inconveniences, and Chagrins, more than their ſmall Remain of Life ſeem'd deſtin'd to undergo; and with the Young, for ſo many of thoſe Gayeties and Pleaſures (the Portion of Youth) which they will by this means be depriv'd of. This brings into my mind one or other of thoſe I love beſt, and among them the Wi⯑dow and Fatherleſs, late of [...] As I am certain no People living had an earlier and truer Senſe of others Misfortunes, or a more generous Reſignation as to what might be their own; ſo I earneſtly wiſh, that what⯑ever part they muſt bear may be render'd as ſupportable to them, as it is in the power of any Friend to make it.

But I know you have prevented me in this Thought, as you always will in any thing that's good, or generous: I find by a Letter of your Lady's (which I have ſeen) that their Eaſe and Tranquility is part of your Care. I believe there's ſome Fatality in it, that you ſhould always, from time to time, be doing thoſe particular things that make me enamour'd of you.

I write this from Windſor Foreſt, of which I am come to take my laſt look. We here bid our Neighbours adieu, much as thoſe who go to be hang'd do their Fellow-Priſoners, who are condemn'd to follow [165] them a few weeks after. I parted from honeſt Mr. D [...] with tenderneſs; and from old Sir William Trumball as from a venerable Prophet, foretelling with lifted hands the Miſeries to come, from which he is juſt going to be remov'd himſelf.

Perhaps, now I have learnt ſo far as

My next Leſſon may be

Let that, and all elſe be as Heaven pleaſes! I have provided juſt enough to keep me a Man of Honour. I believe you and I ſhall never be aſham'd of each other. I know I wiſh my Country well; and if it undoes me, it ſhall not make me wiſh it other⯑wiſe.

To the ſame.

IF a Regard both to Publick and Private Affairs may plead a lawful Excuſe in behalf of a negligent Correſpondent, I have really a very good Title to it: I cannot ſay [166] whether 'tis a Felicity or Unhappineſs, that I am obliged at this time to give up my whole Application to Homer; when with⯑out that Employment, my Thoughts muſt turn upon what is leſs agreeable, the Vio⯑lence, Madneſs and Reſentment of modern War-makers, which are likely to prove (to ſome People at leaſt) more fatal, than the ſame Qualities in Achilles did to his unfor⯑tunate Countrymen.

Tho' the change of my Scene of Life, from Windſor Foreſt to the Side of the Thames, be one of the grand Aera's of my days, and may be called a notable Period in ſo inconſiderable a Hiſtory; yet you can ſcarce imagine any Hero paſſing from one Stage of Life to another, with ſo much Tranquillity, ſo eaſy a Tranſition, and ſo laudable a Behaviour. I am become ſo tru⯑ly a Citizen of the World (according to Plato's Expreſſion) that I look with equal Indifference on what I have loſt, and on what I have gained. The Times and A⯑muſements paſt are not more like a Dream to me, than thoſe which are preſent: I lie in a refreſhing kind of Inaction, and have one Comfort at leaſt from Obſcurity, that the Darkneſs helps me to ſleep the better. I now and then reflect upon the Enjoyment of my Friends, whom I fancy I remember much as ſeparate Spirits do us, at tender [167] Intervals, neither interrupting their own Employments, nor altogether careleſs of ours: but in general conſtantly wiſhing us well, and hoping to have us one day in their Company.

To grow indifferent to the World is to grow Philoſophical, or Religious; (which⯑ſoever of thoſe Turns we chance to take) and indeed the World is ſuch a thing as one that thinks pretty much, muſt either laugh at, or be angry with: But if we laugh at it, they ſay we are proud; and if we are angry with it, they ſay we are ill-natur'd. So the moſt politic Way is to ſeem always better pleas'd than one can be, greater Ad⯑mirers, greater Lovers, and in ſhort greater Fools, than we really are: So ſhall we live comfortably with our Families, quietly with our Neighbours, favour'd by our Maſters, and happy with our Miſtreſſes. I have fil⯑led my Paper, and ſo adieu.

To the ſame.

I Think your leaving England was like a good Man's leaving the World, with the bleſſed Conſcience of having acted [168] well in it: And I hope you have received your Reward, in being happy where you are. I believe, in the Religious Country you now inhabit, you'll be better pleas'd to find I conſider you in this light, than if I compared you to thoſe Greeks and Romans, whoſe Conſtancy in ſuffering Pain, and whoſe Reſolution in purſuit of a generous End, you would rather imitate than boaſt of.

But I had a melancholy hint the other day, as if you were yet a Martyr to the fa⯑tigue your Virtue made you undergo on this ſide the Water. I beg if your health be reſtor'd to you, not to deny me the Joy of knowing it: Your endeavours of Service and good Advices to the poor Papiſts, put me in mind of Noah's preaching forty years to thoſe folks that were to be drowned at laſt. At the worſt I heartily wiſh your Ark may find an Ararat, and the Wife and Fa⯑mily, (the hopes of the good Patriarch) land ſafely after the Deluge upon the Shore of Totneſs.

If I durſt mix prophane with ſacred Hiſtory, I would chear you with the old Tale of Brutus the wandering Trojan, who found on that very Coaſt the happy End of his Peregrinations and Adventures.

I have very lately read Jeffery of Mon⯑mouth (to whom your Cornwall is not a lit⯑tle beholden) in the Tranſlation of a Cler⯑gyman [169] in my neighbourhood. The poor Man is highly concerned to vindicate Jef⯑fery's veracity as an Hiſtorian; and tole me he was perfectly aſtoniſhed, we of the Ro⯑man Communion could doubt of the Le⯑gends of his Giants, while we believ'd thoſe of our Saints? I am forced to make a fair Compoſition with him; and, by crediting ſome of the Wonders of Corinaeus and Gog⯑magog, have brought him ſo far already, that he ſpeaks reſpectfully of St. Chriſto⯑pher's carrying Chriſt, and the Reſuſcitation of St. Nicholas Tolentine's Chickens. Thus we proceed apace in converting each other from all manner of Infidelity.

Ajax and Hector are no more, compared to Corinaeus and Arthur, than the Guelphs and Ghibellines were to the Mohocks of e⯑verdreadful memory. This amazing Writer has made me lay aſide Homer for a Week, and when I take him up again, I ſhall be very well prepared to tranſlate with belief and reverence the Speech of Achilles's Horſe.

You'll excuſe all this trifling, or any thing elſe which prevents a Sheet full of Compliment: And believe there is nothing more true (even more true than any thing in Jeffery is falſe) than that I have a con⯑ſtant Affection for you, and am, &c.

[170] P. S. I know you will take part in re⯑joycing for the Victory of Prince Eugene over the Turks, in the Zeal you bear to the Chriſtian Intereſt, tho' your Couſin of Ox⯑ford (with whom I dined yeſterday) ſays, there is no other difference in the Chriſtians beating the Turks, or the Turks beating the Chriſtians, than whether the Emperor ſhall firſt declare War againſt Spain, or Spain declare it againſt the Emperor. I muſt add another Apothegm of the ſame noble Earl; it was the Saying of a Politick Prince, ‘"Time and he would get the better of any two others".’ To which Lord Oxford made this Anſwer,

To the ſame.

THE Queſtion you propoſed to me is what at preſent I am the moſt unfit Man in the world to anſwer, by my Loſs of one of the beſt of Fathers.

[171] He had liv'd in ſuch a Courſe of Tem⯑perance as was enough to make the longeſt Life agreeable to him, and in ſuch a Courſe of Piety as ſuffic'd to make the moſt ſud⯑den Death ſo alſo. Sudden indeed it was: However, I heartily beg of God to give me ſuch an one, provided I can lead ſuch a Life. I leave him to the Mercy of God, and to the Piety of a Religion that extends beyond the Grave: Si qua eſt ea cura, &c.

He has left me to the tickliſh Management of a narrow Fortune, where every falſe Step is dangerous. My Mother is in that diſpi⯑rited State of Reſignation, which is the ef⯑fect of long Life, and the Loſs of what is dear to us. We are really each of us in want of a Friend, of ſuch an humane Turn as yourſelf, to make almoſt any thing deſira⯑ble to us. I feel your Abſence more than ever, at the ſame time I can leſs expreſs my Regards to you than ever; and ſhall make this, which is the moſt ſincere Letter I ever writ to you, the ſhorteſt and fainteſt perhaps of any you have receiv'd. 'Tis enough if you reflect, that barely to remember any Perſon, when one's Mind is taken up with a ſenſible Sorrow, is a great degree of Friendſhip. I can ſay no more but that I love you, and all that are yours; and that I wiſh it may be very long before any of yours ſhall feel for you what I now feel for my Father. Adieu.

To the ſame.

YOUR kind Letter has overtaken me here, for I have been in and about this Country ever ſince your departure. I am pleas'd to date this from a place ſo well known to Mrs. Blount, where I write as if I were dictated by her Anceſtors, whoſe faces are all upon me. I fear none ſo much as Sir Chriſtopher Guiſe, who being in his Shirt, ſeems as ready to combate me, as her own Sir John was to demoliſh Duke Lancaſtere. I dare ſay your Lady will re⯑collect his Figure. I look'd upon the Man⯑ſion, Walls, and Terraces; the Plantations, and Slopes, which Nature has made to command a variety of Valleys and riſing Woods; with a Veneration mixt with a Pleaſure, that repreſented her to me in thoſe puerile Amuſements, which engaged her ſo many Years ago in this place: I fancy'd I ſaw her ſober over a Sampler, or gay over a jointed Baby. I dare ſay ſhe did one thing more, even in thoſe early [173] times; remember'd her Creator in the Days of her Youth.

You deſcribe ſo well your Heremitical ſtate of Life, that none of the antient An⯑chorites could go beyond you, for a Cave in a Rock, with a fine Spring, or any of the Accommodations that befit a Solitary. Only I don't remember to have read, that any of thoſe venerable and holy Perſonages took with them a Lady, and begat Sons and Daughters. You muſt modeſtly be con⯑tent to be accounted a Patriarch. But were you a little younger, I ſhould rather rank you with Sir Amadis, and his fellows. If Piety be ſo Romantick, I ſhall turn Hermit in good earneſt; for I ſee one may go ſo far as to be Poetical, and hope to ſave one's Soul at the ſame time. I really wiſh my⯑ſelf ſomething more, that is, a Prophet; for I wiſh I were as Habakkuk, to be taken by the Hair of the Head, and viſit Daniel in his Den. You are very obliging in ſay⯑ing, I have now a whole Family upon my hands, to whom to diſcharge the part of a Friend: I aſſure you I like 'em all ſo well, that I will never quit my Hereditary Right to them; you have made me yours, and conſequently them mine. I ſtill ſee them walking on my Green at Twickenham, and gratefully remember (not only their green [174] Gowns) but the Inſtructions they gave me how to ſlide down, and trip up the ſteepeſt Slopes of my Mount.

Pray think of me ſometimes, as I ſhall often of you; and know me for what I am, that is,

To the ſame.

YOUR very kind and obliging man⯑ner of enquiring after me, among the firſt Concerns of Life, at your Reſuſcitation, ſhould have been ſooner anſwer'd and ac⯑knowledg'd. I ſincerely rejoice at your re⯑covery from an Illneſs which gave me leſs pain than it did you, only from my Igno⯑rance of it. I ſhould have elſe been ſeri⯑ouſly and deeply affected, in the thought of your danger by a Fever. I think it a fine and a natural thought, which I lately read in a private Letter of Montaigne, giving an account of the laſt words of an intimate Friend of his: ‘'Adieu my Friend! the pain I feel will ſoon be over, but I grieve for [175] that you are to feel, which is to laſt you for life.'’

I join with your Family in giving God thanks for lending us a worthy Man ſome⯑what longer. The Comforts you receive from their Attendance put me in mind of what old Fletcher of Saltoune ſaid one day to me: ‘'Alas, I have nothing to do but to die; I am a poor Individual; no Creature to wiſh, or to fear, for my life or death: 'Tis the only reaſon I have to repent be⯑ing a ſingle Man; now I grow old, I am like a Tree without a Prop, and without young Trees of my own ſhedding, to grow round me, for Company and Defence.'’

I hope the Gout will ſoon go after the Fever, and all evil things remove far from you. But pray tell me, when will you move towards us? If you had an Interval to get hither, I care not what fixes you afterwards, except the Gout. Pray come, and never ſtir from us again. Do away your dirty Acres, caſt 'em to dirty People, ſuch as in the Scripture-Phraſe poſſeſs the Land. Shake off your Earth like the noble Animal in Milton.

[176] But I believe Milton never thought, theſe fine Verſes of his ſhould be apply'd to a Man ſelling a parcel of dirty Acres; tho' in the main I think it may have ſome re⯑ſemblance; for God knows this little ſpace of Ground nouriſhes, buries, and confines us, as that of Eden did thoſe Creatures, till we can ſhake it looſe, at leaſt in our Affections and Deſires.

Believe, dear Sir, I truly love and value you; let Mrs. Blount know that ſhe is in the liſt of my Memento Domine's Famulo⯑rum Famularumque's, &c. My poor Mo⯑ther is far from well, declining; and I am watching over her, as we watch an expiring Taper, that even when it looks brighteſt, waſtes faſteſt. I am (as you will ſee from the whole Air of this Letter) not in the gayeſt nor eaſieſt Humour, but always with Sincerity,

To the ſame.

YOU may truly do me the Juſtice to think no Man is more your ſincere Well-wiſher than myſelf, or more the ſin⯑cere [169] well-wiſher of your whole Family; with all which, I cannot deny but I have a mixture of Envy to you all, for loving one another ſo well; and for enjoying the ſweets of that life, which can only be taſted by people of good will.

Torbay is a Paradiſe, and a Storm is but an Amuſement to ſuch people. If you drink Tea upon a Promontory that over⯑hangs the Sea, it is preferable to an Aſſem⯑bly; and the whiſtling of the Wind better Muſic to contented and loving Minds, than the Opera to the Spleenful, Ambitious, Diſ⯑eas'd, Diſtaſted, and Diſtracted Souls, which this World affords; nay, this World affords no other. Happy they! who are baniſh'd from us: but happier they, who can baniſh themſelves; or more properly, baniſh the World from them!

I take that Period to be very ſublime, and to include more than a hundred Sentences that might be writ to expreſs Diſtraction, Hurry, Multiplication of Nothings, and all the fati⯑guing perpetual Buſineſs of having no Buſi⯑neſs to do. You'll wonder I reckon tranſlating the Odyſſey as nothing? But whenever I think [170] ſeriouſly (and of late I have met with ſo ma⯑ny Occaſions of thinking ſeriouſly, that I be⯑gin never to think otherwiſe) I cannot but think theſe things very idle; as idle, as if a Beaſt of Burden ſhould go on jingling his Bells, without bearing any thing valuable about him, or ever ſerving his Maſter.

Said a Heathen Poet; as he is tranſlated by a Chriſtian Biſhop, who has, firſt by his Exhortations, and ſince by his Example, taught me to think as becomes a Reaſonable Creature.—But he is gone! He carry'd a⯑way more Learning than is left in this Nati⯑on behind him: but he left us more in the noble Example of bearing Calamity well. 'Tis true, we want Literature very much; but pray God we don't want Patience more! if theſe Precedents are to prevail.

I remember I promis'd to write to you, as ſoon as I ſhould hear you were got home. You muſt look on this as the firſt Day I've been myſelf, and paſs over the Mad Interval un-imputed to me. How punctual a Cor⯑reſpondent I ſhall hence-forward be able, or not able, to be, God knows: but he knows I ſhall ever be a punctual and grate⯑ful Friend, and all the good Wiſhes of ſuch an one will ever attend you.

To the ſame.

YOU ſhew your ſelf a juſt Man and a Friend in thoſe Gueſſes and Suppoſi⯑tions you make at the poſſible reaſons of my Silence; every one of which is a true one. As to forgetfulneſs of you or your's, I aſſure you, the promiſcuous Converſations of the Town ſerve only to put me in mind of bet⯑ter, and more quiet, to be had in a Corner of the World (undiſturb'd, innocent, ſerene, and ſenſible) with ſuch as you. Let no Ac⯑ceſs of any Diſtruſt make you think of me differently in a cloudy day from what you do in the moſt ſunſhiny Weather. Let the young Ladies be aſſured I make nothing new in my Gardens without wiſhing to ſee the print of their Fairy Steps in every part of 'em. I have put the laſt Hand to my works of this kind, in happily finiſhing the ſubter⯑raneous Way and Grotto; I there found a Spring of the cleareſt Water, which falls in a perpetual Rill, that ecchoes thro' the Cavern day and night. From the Ri⯑ver Thames, you ſee thro' my Arch up a Walk of the Wilderneſs to a kind of open [172] Temple, wholly compos'd of Shells in the Ruſtic Manner; and from that diſtance un⯑der the Temple you look down thro' a ſlop⯑ing Arcade of Trees, and ſee the Sails on the River paſſing ſuddenly and vaniſhing, as thro' a Perſpective Glaſs. When you ſhut the Doors of this Grotto, it becomes on the inſtant, from a luminous Room, a Camera obſcura; on the Walls of which all the Ob⯑jects of the River, Hills, Woods, and Boats, are forming a moving Picture in their viſible Radiations: And when you have a mind to light it up, it affords you a very different Scene: it is finiſhed with Shells interperſed with Pieces of Looking-glaſs in angular forms; and in the Ceiling is a Star of the ſame Material, at which when a Lamp (of an or⯑bicular Figure of thin Alabaſter) is hung in the Middle, a thouſand pointed Rays glitter and are reflected over the Place. There are connected to this Grotto by a narrower Paſ⯑ſage two Porches, with Niches and Seats; one toward the River, of ſmooth Stones, full of light and open; the other toward the Arch of Trees, rough with Shells, Flints, and Iron Ore. The Bottom is paved with ſimple Pebble, as the adjoining Walk up the Wil⯑derneſs to the Temple, is to be Cockle-ſhells, in the natural Taſte, agreeing not ill with the little dripping Murmur, and the Aquatic Idea of the whole Place. It wants nothing [173] to compleat it but a good Statue with an Inſcription, like that beautiful antique one which you know I am ſo fond of,

You'll think I have been very Poetical in this Deſcription, but it is pretty near the Truth. I wiſh you were here to bear Teſ⯑timony how little it owes to Art, either the Place itſelf, or the Image I give of it.

To the ſame.

I Should be aſham'd to own the receipt of a very kind Letter from you, two whole Months from the date of this; if I were not [174] more aſham'd to tell a Lye, or to make an Excuſe, which is worſe than a Lye (for be⯑ing built upon ſome probable Circumſtance, it makes uſe of a degree of Truth to falſity with: It is a Lye Guarded). Your Letter has been in my Pocket in conſtant wearing, till that, and the Pocket, and the Suit, are worn out; by which means, I have read it forty times, and I find by ſo doing, that I have not enough conſider'd, and reflected upon many others you have obliged me with; for true Friendſhip, as they ſay of good Writing, will bear reviewing a thouſand times, and ſtill diſcover new beauties.

I have had a Fever, a ſhort one, but a vi⯑olent: I am now well. So it ſhall take up no more of this Paper.

I begin now to expect you in Town, to make the Winter to come more tolera⯑ble to us both. The Summer is a kind of Heaven, when we wander in a Paradiſaical Scene of Nature among Groves and Gardens; but at this Seaſon, we are like our poor firſt Parents turn'd out of that agreeable tho' ſo⯑litary life, and forc'd to look about for more people to help to bear our labours, to get in⯑to warmer Houſes, and hive together in Ci⯑ties.

I hope you are long ſince perfectly reſtor'd, and riſen from your Gout, happy in the delights of a contented Family, ſmiling at [175] Storms, laughing at Greatneſs, and merry o⯑ver a Chriſtmas-fire, exerciſing all the Func⯑tions of an old Patriarch in Charity and Hoſpitality. I will not tell Mrs B. what I think ſhe is doing; for I conclude it is her opinion, that he only ought to know it for whom it is done: and ſhe will allow herſelf to be far enough advanc'd above a fine La⯑dy, not to deſire to ſhine before Men.

Your Daughters perhaps may have ſome other thoughts, which even their Mother muſt excuſe them for, becauſe ſhe is a Mo⯑ther. I will not however ſuppoſe thoſe thoughts get the better of their Devotions, but rather excite 'em, and aſſiſt the warmth of them; while their Prayer may be, that they may raiſe up and breed as irreproach⯑able a young Family as their Parents have done. In a Word, I fancy you all well, eaſy, and happy, juſt as I wiſh you; and next to that I wiſh you all with me.

Next to God, is a good Man: Next in dignity, and next in value. Minuiſti eum paullo minus ab Angelis. If therefore I wiſh well to the good and the deſerving, and de⯑ſire They only ſhou'd be my Companions and Correſpondents; I muſt very ſoon, and very much think of you. I want your Company, and your Example. Pray make haſte to Town, ſo as not again to leave us: Diſcharge the Load of Earth that lies on you, [176] like one of the Mountains under which the Poets ſay the Giants (that is, the Men of the Earth) are whelmed: Leave Earth to the Sons of Earth; your Converſation is in Hea⯑ven. Which that it may be accompliſh'd in us all, is the Prayer of him who maketh this ſhort Sermon. Value (to you) Three Pence. Adieu.

YOU writ me a very kind Letter ſome months ago, and told me you were then upon the point of taking a journey into Devonſhire. That hindered my an⯑ſwering you, and I have ſince ſeveral times inquir'd of you, without any Satisfaction; for ſo I call the knowledge of your wel⯑fare, or of any thing that concerns you. I paſt two months in Suſſex, and ſince my Return have been again very ill. I writ to Lintot in hopes of hearing of you, but had no anſwer to that point. Our Friend [186] Mr. Cromwell too has been ſilent all this year; I believe he has been diſpleas'd at ſome or other of my Freedoms; which I very innocently take, and moſt with thoſe I think moſt my friends. But this I know nothing of; perhaps he may have open'd to you: And, if I know you right, you are of a Temper to cement Friendſhips, and not to divide them. I really much love Mr. Cromwell, and have a true affection for your ſelf, which if I had any Intereſt in the world, or Power with thoſe who have, I ſhou'd not be long without manifeſting to you. I deſire you will not, either out of Modeſty, or a vicious Diſtruſt of another's value for you, (thoſe two Eternal Foes to Merit) imagine that your Letters and Con⯑verſation are not always welcome to me. There's no man more intirely fond of good⯑nature or ingenuity than my ſelf, and I have ſeen too much of thoſe qualities in Mr. Gay to be any thing leſs than his

IT has been my good fortune within this month paſt, to hear more things that have pleas'd me than (I think) almoſt in all my time beſide. But nothing upon my word has been ſo Home-felt a ſatiſ⯑faction as the News you tell me of your ſelf: and you are not in the leaſt miſta⯑ken, when you congratulate me upon your own good Succeſs; for I have more People to be happy out of, than any ill-natur'd man can boaſt I may with honeſty af⯑firm to you, that notwithſtanding the ma⯑ny Inconveniencies and Diſadvantages they commonly talk of in the Res anguſti domi, I have never found any other, than the inability of giving people of Merit the only certain proof of our value for them, in doing 'em ſome real ſervice. For, after all, if we could but Think a little, Self⯑love might make us Philoſophers, and con⯑vince us, Quantuli indiget Natura! Our⯑ſelves are eaſily provided for; 'tis nothing but the Circumſtantials, and the Apparatus or Equipage of human life that coſts ſo much the furniſhing. Only what a luxu⯑rious Man wants for horſes and foot-men; [188] a good-natur'd Man wants for his friends, or the indigent.

I ſhall ſee you this Winter with much greater pleaſure than I could the laſt; and I hope as much of your Time as your At⯑tendance on the Dutcheſs will allow you to ſpare to any friend, will not be thought loſt upon one who is as much ſo as any man. I muſt alſo put you in mind, tho' you are now Secretary to this Lady, that you are likewiſe Secretary to Nine other Ladies, and are to write ſometimes for them too. He who is forc'd to live wholly upon thoſe Ladies favours, is indeed in as precarious a condition as any He who does what Chaucer ſays—for Suſtenance; but they are very agreeable Companions, like other Ladies, when a Man only paſſes a Night or ſo with them at his leiſure, and away. I am

JUST as I receiv'd yours, I was ſet down to write to you with ſome ſhame that I had ſo long deferr'd it. But I can hardly repent my neglect, when it [189] gives me the knowledge how little you inſiſt upon Ceremony, and how much a greater ſhare in your memory I have than I deſerve. I have been near a week in London, where I am like to remain, till I become, by Mr. J [...]s's help, Elegans For⯑marum Spectator. I begin to diſcover Beau⯑ties that were till now imperceptible to me. Every Corner of an Eye, or Turn of a Noſe or Ear, the ſmalleſt degree of Light or Shade on a Cheek, or in a dim⯑ple, have charms to diſtract me. I no long⯑er look upon Lord Plauſible as ridiculous, for admiring a Lady's fine Tip of an Ear and pretty Elbow (as the Plain-dealer has it) but am in ſome danger even from the Ugly and Diſagreeable, ſince they may have their retired beauties, in one Trait or other about 'em. You may gueſs in how uneaſy a ſtate I am, when every day the per⯑formances of others appear more beautiful and excellent, and my own more deſpica⯑ble. I have thrown away three Dr. Swift's, each of which was once my vanity, two Lady Bridgewaters, a Dutcheſs of Montague, beſides half a dozen Earls, and one Knight of the Garter. I have crucify'd Chriſt over again in effigie, and made a Madona as old as her Mother St. Anne. Nay, what is yet more miraculous, I have rival'd St. Luke himſelf in Painting, and as 'tis ſaid [190] an Angel came and finiſh'd his Piece, ſo you would ſwear a Devil put the laſt hand to mine, 'tis ſo begrim'd and ſmutted. However, I comfort my ſelf with a Chri⯑ſtian Reflection, that I have not broken the Commandment, for my Pictures are not the likeneſs of any thing in heaven above, or in earth below, or in the waters under the earth. Neither will any body adore or worſhip them, except the Indians ſhould have a ſight of 'em, who, they tell us, worſhip certain Pagods or Idols purely for their Uglineſs.

I am very much recreated and refreſhed with the News of the Advancement of the Fan, which I doubt not will delight the Eye and Senſe of the Fair, as long as that agreeable Machine ſhall play in the Hands of Poſterity. I am glad your Fan is mount⯑ed ſo ſoon, but I would have you varniſh and glaze it at your leiſure, and poliſh the Sticks as much as you can. You may then cauſe it to be born in the Lands of both Sexes, no leſs in Britain, than it is in China; where it is ordinary for a Mandarine to fan himſelf cool after a Debate, and a Stateſ⯑man to hide his face with it when he tells a grave Lye.

SINCE by your letter we find you can be content to breath in ſmoak, to walk in crouds, and divert your ſelf with noiſe, nay, and to make fine Pictures of this way of life, we ſhou'd give you up as one aban⯑doned to a wrong choice of pleaſures. We have however ſo much compaſſion on you, as to think of inviting you to us, where your taſte for books, friendſhip, and eaſe, may be indulg'd. But if you do not come, pray leave to tempt us with your deſcrip⯑tion of the Court; for indeed humanity is frail, and we cannot but remember ſome particular honours which we have enjoy'd in converſation; bate us this one point, and we ſtand you, ſtill untir'd with one an⯑other, and freſh to the pleaſures of the coun⯑try. If you wou'd have any news from us, know that we are well at preſent: This I am ſure wou'd have been allow'd by you as news from either of us a fortnight ago. In return to this, ſend us every thing you imagine diverting, and pray forget not my commiſſions. Give my reſpects to the Dean, [192] Dr. Arbuthnot, Mr. Ford, and the Provoſt. Dear Gay, adieu.

ABOVE all other News, ſend us the beſt, that of your good Health, if you enjoy it; which Mr. Harcourt made us very much fear. If you have any deſign either to amend your health, or your life, I know no better Expedient than to come hither, where you ſhould not want room, tho' I lay my ſelf in a Trucklebed under the Doctor. You might here converſe with the old Greeks, be initiated into all their Cuſtoms, and learn their Prayers by heart as we have done: The Doctor laſt Sunday, in⯑tending to ſay an Our Father, was got half way in Chryſes' Prayer to Apollo. The ill effects of Contention and Squabling, ſo lively deſcrib'd in the firſt Iliad, make Dr. Parnelle and my ſelf continue in the moſt exemplary Union in every thing. We deſerve to be worſhip'd by all the poor, divided, factious, intereſted Poets of this world.

[193] As we riſe in our ſpeculations daily, we are grown ſo grave, that we have not con⯑deſcended to laugh at any of the idle things about us this week: I have contracted a ſeverity of aſpect from deep meditation on high ſubjects, equal to the formidable Front of black-brow'd Jupiter, and become an awful Nod as well, when I aſſent to ſome grave and weighty Propoſition of the Doc⯑tor, or inforce a Criticiſm of my own. In a word, Y [...]g himſelf has not acquired more Tragic Majeſty in his aſpect by read⯑ing his own Verſes, than I by Homer's.

In this ſtate, I cannot conſent to your publication of that ludicrous trifling Bur⯑leſque you write about. Dr. Parnelle alſo joins in my opinion, that it will by no means be well to print it.

Pray give (with the utmoſt fidelity and eſteem) my hearty ſervice to the Dean, Dr. Arbuthnot, Mr. Ford, and to Mr. Forteſcue. Let them alſo know at Button's that I am mindful of them. I am, divine Buco⯑liaſt!

I HAVE been perpetually troubled with ſickneſs of late, which has made me ſo melancholy, that the Immortality of the Soul has been my conſtant Speculation, as the Mortality of my Body my conſtant Plague. In good earneſt, Seneca is nothing to a fit of illneſs.

Dr. Parnelle will honour Tonſon's Miſcel⯑lany with ſome very beautiful Copies, at my requeſt. He enters heartily into our deſign; I only fear his ſtay in town may chance to be but ſhort. Dr. Swift much approves what I propoſed, even to the very title, which I deſign ſhall be, The Works of the Unlearned, publiſhed monthly, in which whatever Book appears that deſerves praiſe, ſhall be depreciated Ironically, and in the ſame manner that modern Critics take to undervalue Works of Value, and to com⯑mend the high Productions of Grubſtreet.

I ſhall go into the Country about a month hence, and ſhall then deſire to take along with me your Poem of the Fan, to conſider it at full leiſure. I am deeply in⯑gaged in Poetry, the particulars whereof ſhall be deferr'd till we meet.

[195] I am very deſirous of ſeeing Mr. For⯑teſcue when he comes to Town before his journey; if you can any way acquaint him of my deſire, I believe his good nature will contrive a way for our meeting. I am ever, with all ſincerity, dear Sir,

WElcome to your native Soil! wel⯑come to your Friends! thrice wel⯑come to me! whether return'd in glory, bleſt with Court-intereſt, the love and familia⯑rity of the Great, and fill'd with agreeable Hopes; or melancholy with Dejection, contemplative of the changes of Fortune, and doubtful for the future: Whether re⯑turn'd a triumphant Whig, or a deſponding Tory, equally All Hail! equally beloved and welcome to me! If happy, I am to ſhare in your elevation; if unhappy, you have ſtill a warm corner in my heart, and a retreat at Binfield in the worſt of times at your ſervice. If you are a Tory, or thought ſo by any man, I know it can proceed from nothing but your Gratitude [196] to a few People, who endeavour'd to ſerve you, and whoſe Politicks were never your Concern. If you are a Whig, as I rather hope, and as I think your Principles and mine (as Brother Poets) had ever a Byaſs to the Side of Liberty, I know you will be an honeſt man and an inoffenſive one. Upon the whole, I know you are incapable of being ſo much of either Party as to be good for nothing. Therefore once more, what⯑ever you are, or in whatever ſtate you are, All Hail!

One or two of your old Friends com⯑plain'd they had heard nothing from you ſince the Queen's Death; I told 'em, no man living lov'd Mr. Gay better than I, yet I had not once written to him in all his Voyage. This I thought a convincing proof, how truly one may be a friend to another without telling him ſo every month. But they had reaſons too themſelves to al⯑ledge in your excuſe, as men who really value one another will never want ſuch as make their friends and themſelves eaſy. The late univerſal Concern in publick af⯑fairs, threw us all into a hurry of Spirits; even I, who am more a Philoſopher than to expect any thing from any Reign, was born away with the current, and full of the expectation of the Succeſſor: During your Journeys I knew not whither to aim [197] a letter after you, that was a ſort of ſhoot⯑ing flying: add to this the demand Ho⯑mer had upon me, to write fifty Verſes a day, beſides learned Notes, all which are at a concluſion for this year. Rejoice with me, O my Friend, that my La⯑bour is over; come and make merry with me in much Feaſting, for I to thee, and thou to me. We will feed among the Lilies. By the Lilies, I mean the Ladies, with whom I hope you have fed to Satiety: Haſt thou paſſed through many Countries, and not taſted the delights thereof? Haſt thou not left to thy Iſſue in divers Lands, that Ger⯑man Gays and Dutch Gays may ariſe, to write Paſtorals, and ſing their Songs in ſtrange Countries? Are not the Blouzelin⯑da's of the Hague as charming as the Ro⯑ſalinda's of Britain? or have the two great Paſtoral Poets of our Nation renounced Love at the ſame time? for Philips, im⯑mortal Philips, Hanover Philips, hath de⯑ſerted, yea and in a ruſtick manner kicked his Roſalind.—Dr. Parnelle and I have been inſeparable ever ſince you went. We are now at the Bath, where (if you are not, as I heartily hope, better engaged) your coming would be the greateſt plea⯑ſure to us in the world. Talk not of Ex⯑pences: Homer ſhall ſupport his Children. I beg a line from you directed to the Poſt⯑houſe [198] in Bath. Poor Parnelle is in an ill ſtate of health.

Pardon me if I add a word of advice in the Poetical way. Write ſomething on the King, or Prince, or Princeſs. On whatſo⯑ever foot you may be with the Court, this can do no harm—I ſhall never know where to end, and am confounded in the many things I have to ſay to you, tho' they all amount but to this, that I am entirely, as ever,

I AM extremely glad to find by a Let⯑ter of your's to Mr. Forteſcue, that you have receiv'd one from me; and I beg you to keep, as the greateſt of Curioſities, that Letter of mine which you receiv'd and I never writ.

But the Truth is, that we were made here to expect you in a ſhort time, that I was upon the Ramble moſt part of the Summer, and have concluded the Seaſon in Grief, for the death of my poor father.

[199] I ſhall not enter into a detail of my Concerns and Troubles, for two reaſons; becauſe I am really afflicted and need no Airs of grief, and becauſe they are not the concerns and troubles of any but my ſelf. But I think you (without too great a com⯑pliment) enough my friend, to be pleas'd to know he died eaſily, without a groan, or the ſickneſs of two minutes; in a word, as ſilently and peacefully as he lived.

I am not in the humour to ſay gay things, nor in the affectation of avoiding them. I can't pretend to entertain either Mr. Pulteney or you, as you have done both my Lord Burlington and me, by your letter to Mr. Lowndes. I am only ſorry you have no greater quarrel to Mr. Lowndes, and wiſh you paid ſome hundreds a year to the Land⯑tax. That Gentleman is lately become an inoffenſive perſon to me too; ſo that we may join heartily in our Addreſſes to him, and (like true Patriots) rejoice in all that Good done to the Nation and Govern⯑ment, to which we contribute nothing our ſelves.

I ſhould not forget to acknowledge your letter ſent from Aix; you told me then, that writing was not good with the Waters, [200] and I find ſince you are of my opinion, that 'tis as bad without the Waters. But I fancy, it is not writing but thinking, that is ſo bad with the Waters; and then you might write without any manner of pre⯑judice, if you writ like our Brother-poets of theſe days.

I have no ſtory to tell that is worth your hearing: you know I am no man of Intrigue; but the Ducheſs of Hamilton has one which ſhe ſays is worth my hearing, that relates to Mr. Pulteney and your ſelf; and which ſhe promiſes, if you won't tell me, ſhe will. Her Grace has won in a Raffle a very fine Tweezercaſe; at the ſight of which, my Tweezercaſe, and all other Tweezercaſes on the globe, Hide their di⯑miniſh'd Heads.

That Dutcheſs, Lord Warwick, Lord Stan⯑hope, Mrs. Bellenden, Mrs. Lepell, and I can't tell who elſe, had your letters: Dr. Ar⯑buthnot and I expect to be treated like Friends. I would ſend my ſervices to Mr. Pulteney, but that he is out of favour at Court; and make ſome compliment to Mrs. Pulteney, if ſhe were not a Wig. My Lord Burlington tells me ſhe has as much out⯑ſhin'd all the French Ladies, as ſhe did the Engliſh before: I am ſorry for it, becauſe it will be detrimental to our holy Religion, if heretical Women ſhould eclypſe thoſe [201] Nuns and orthodox Beauties, in whoſe eyes alone lie all the hopes we can have, of gaining ſuch fine Gentlemen as you to our Church.

I wiſh you joy of the birth of the young Prince, becauſe he is the only Prince we have, from whom you have had no Ex⯑pectations and no Diſappointments.

I Think it obliging in you to deſire an account of my health. The truth is, I have never been in a worſe ſtate in my life, and find whatever I have try'd as a remedy, ſo ineffectual, that I give myſelf entirely over. I wiſh your health may be ſet perfectly right by the Waters, and be aſ⯑ſured I not only wiſh that, and every thing elſe for you, as common friends wiſh, but with a Zeal not uſual among thoſe we call ſo. I am always glad to hear often from you; always glad to ſee you, whatever acci⯑dents amuſements have interven'd to make me do either leſs than uſual. I not only fre⯑quently think of you, but conſtantly do my beſt to make others do it, by mentioning [202] you to all your acquaintance. I deſire you to do the ſame for me to thoſe you are now with: do me what you think Juſtice in regard to thoſe who are my friends; and if there are any, whom I have unwilling⯑ly deſerved ſo little of, as to be my Ene⯑mies, I don't deſire you to forfeit their opi⯑nion or your own judgment in any caſe. Let Time convince thoſe who know me not, that I am an inoffenſive perſon; tho' (to ſay truth) I don't care how little I am indebted to Time, for the World is hardly worth living in, at leaſt to one that is ne⯑ver to have health a week together. I have been made to expect Dr. Arbuthnot in town this fortnight, or elſe I had writ⯑ten to him. If he, by never writing to me, ſeems to forget me, I conſider I do the ſame ſeemingly to him, and yet I don't believe he has a more ſincere friend in the world than I am; therefore I will think him mine. I am His, Mr. Congreve's, and

I Thank you for remembring me. I would do my beſt to forget my ſelf, but that [203] I find your Idea is ſo cloſely connected to me that I muſt forget both together, or neither. I'm ſorry, I could not have a glympſe either of you, or of the Sun, (your Father) before you went for Bath. But now it pleaſes me to ſee him, and hear of you. Pray put Mr. Congreve in mind that he has one on this ſide of the World who loves him; and that there are more Men and Women in the Univerſe, than Mr. Gay and my Lady Ducheſs of M. There are Ladies in and about Richmond that pretend to value him and your ſelf; and one of 'em at leaſt may be thought to do it without Af⯑fectation, namely Mrs. Howard. As for Mrs. Blounts (whom you mercifully make mention of) they are gone, or going to Suſſex. I hope Mrs. Pulteney is the better for the Bath, tho' I have little Charity and few good Wiſhes for the Ladies, the De⯑ſtroyers of their beſt friends the Men. Pray tell her ſhe has forgot the firſt Commiſ⯑ſſon I ever troubled her with, and therefore it ſhall be the laſt (the very thing I fear the deſires). Dr. Arbuthnot is a ſtrange creature; he goes out of town, and leaves his Baſtards at other folks doors. I have long been ſo far miſtaken in him as to think him a Man of Morals as well as of Politicks. Pray let him know I made a very unfa⯑ſhionable enquiry t'other day of the welfare [204] of his Wife and family: Things that (I pre⯑ſume) are below the conſideration of a Wit and an Omore-player. They are in perfect health. Tho' Mrs. A [...]'s Navel has been burnt, I hope the Doctor's own Belly is in abſolute eaſe and contentment. Now I ſpeak of thoſe Regions about the Abdomen, pray, dear Gay, conſult with him and Dr. Che e to what exact pitch yours may be ſuffer'd to ſwell, not to outgrow theirs, who are, yet, your Betters. Pray tell Dr. Arbuthnot that even Pigeon-pyes, and Hogs⯑puddings are thought dangerous by our Go⯑vernors; for thoſe that have been ſent to the Biſhop of Rocheſter, are open'd and pro⯑phanely pry'd into at the Tower: 'Tis the firſt time dead Pigeons have been ſuſpect⯑ed of carrying Intelligence. To be ſerious, you, and Mr. Congreve (nay and the Doctor if he has not dined) will be ſenſible of my concern and ſurprize at the commitment of that Gentleman, whoſe welfare is as much my concern as any friend's I have. I think my ſelf a moſt unfortunate wretch; I no ſooner love, and, upon knowledge, fix my eſteem to any man; but he either dies like Mr. Craggs, or is ſ nt to Impriſonment like the Biſhop. God ſend him as well as I wiſh him, manifeſt him to be as in⯑nocent as I believe him, and make all his Enemies know him as well as I do, that [205] they may love him and think of him as well!

If you apprehend this Period to be of any danger in being addreſs'd to you; tell Mr. Congreve or the Doctor, it is writ to them. I am

I WAS very much pleas'd, not to ſay oblig'd, by your kind letter, which ſufficiently warm'd my heart to have an⯑ſwer'd it ſooner, had I not been deceiv'd (a way one often is deceiv'd) by hearkening to Women; who told me that both Lady Burlington and yourſelf were immediately to return from Tunbridge, and that my Lord was gone to bring you back. The world furniſhes us with too many examples of what you complain of in yours, and I aſ⯑ſure you, none of them touch and grieve me ſo much as what relates to you. I think your Sentiments upon it are the very ſame I ſhould entertain: I wiſh thoſe we call Great Men had the ſame Notions, but they are really the moſt Little Creatures in the world; and the moſt intereſted, in all but one Point; which is, that they want Judg⯑ment [206] to know their greateſt Intereſt, to encourage and chuſe Honeſt men for their Friends.

I have not once ſeen the Perſon you complain of, whom I have of late thought to be, as the Apoſtle admoniſheth, one Fleſh with his Wife.

Pray make my ſincere compliments to Lord Burlington, whom I have long known to have more Mind to be a Good and honourable man, than almoſt any one of his rank.

I have not forgot yours to Lord Boling⯑broke, (tho' I hope to have ſpeedily a fuller opportunity) he returns for Flanders and France, next Month.

Mrs. Howard has writ you ſomething or other in a letter which ſhe ſays ſhe repents. She has as much Good-nature as if ſhe had never ſeen any Ill-nature, and had been bred among Lambs and Turtle-doves, inſtead of Princes and Court-Ladies.

By the end of this week, Forteſcue will paſs a few days with me. We ſhall re⯑member you in our Potations, and wiſh you a Fiſher with us, on my Graſs-plat. In the mean time we wiſh you Succeſs as a Fiſher of Women, at the Wells, a Rejoycer of the Comfortleſs and Widow, an Impreg⯑nator of the Barren, and a Playfellow of the Maiden. I am

I Faithfully aſſure you, in the midſt of that melancholy with which I have been ſo long encompaſſed, in an hourly Expectation almoſt of my Mother's death; there was no circumſtance that render'd it more inſupportable to me, than that I could not leave her to ſee you. Your own pre⯑ſent Eſcape from ſo imminent danger, I pray God may prove leſs precarious than my poor Mother's can be; whoſe Life at her age can at beſt be but a ſhort Reprieve, or a longer Dying. But I fear, even that is more than God will pleaſe to grant me; for, theſe two days paſt, her moſt dangerous Symptoms are returned upon her; and unleſs there be a ſudden change, I muſt in a few days, if not in a few Hours, be de⯑priv'd of her. In the afflicting Proſpect be⯑fore me, I know nothing that can ſo much alleviate it as the View now given me (Heaven grant it may encreaſe!) of your recovery. In the ſincerity of my heart, I am exceſſively concern'd, not to be able to pay you, dear Gay, any part of the debt I very gratefully remember I owe you, on a like ſad occaſion, when you was here com⯑forting me in her laſt great Illneſs. May your [208] health augment as faſt as I fear it pleaſes God hers muſt decline: I believe that would be very faſt—may the Life that is added to you be paſt in good fortune and tran⯑quillity, rather of your own giving to your ſelf, than from any Expectations or Truſt in others.—May you and I live together, without wiſhing more felicity or acquiſi⯑tions than Friendſhip can give and receive without obligations to Greatneſs—God keep you, and three or four more of thoſe I have known as long, that I may have ſomething worth the ſurviving my Mother. Adieu, dear Gay, and believe me (while you live, and while I live)

As I told you in my laſt letter, I repeat it in this: Do not think of writing to me. The Doctor, Mrs. Howard, and Mrs. Blount give me daily accounts of you.

I Truly rejoyc'd to ſee your hand-wri⯑ting, tho' I fear'd the trouble it might give you. I wiſh I had not known that you are ſtill ſo exceſſively weak. Every day for [209] a week paſt I had hopes of being able in a day or two more to ſee you. But my poor Mother advances not at all, gains no ſtrength, and ſeems but upon the whole to wait for the next cold Day to throw her into a Diarrhoea that muſt, if it return, carry her off. This being daily to be fear'd, makes me not dare to go a day from her, leſt that ſhould prove to be her Laſt. God ſend you a ſpeedy recovery, and ſuch a total one as at your time of Life may be expected. You need not call the few Words I writ to you either kind, or good; That was, and is, nothing. But whatever I have in my Nature of Kindneſs, I really have for you, and whatever Good I could do, I wou'd among the very firſt be glad to do to you. In your circumſtance the old Roman fare⯑well is proper. Vive! memor noſtri.

I ſend you a very kind letter of Mr. Digby, between whom and me two letters have paſs'd concerning you.

NO words can tell you the great con⯑cern I feel for you; I aſſure you it [210] was not, and is not leſſen'd, by the imme⯑diate apprehenſion I have now every day Jain under of loſing my Mother. Be aſ⯑ſur'd, no Duty leſs than that, ſhould have kept me one day from attending your con⯑dition: I would come and take a Room by you at Hampſtead, to be with you daily, were ſhe not ſtill in danger of death. I have conſtantly had particular accounts of you from the Doctor, which have not ceas'd to alarm me yet. God preſerve your life, and reſtore your health. I really beg it for my own ſake, for I feel I love you more than I thought, in health, tho' I always lov'd you a great deal. If I am ſo unfortunate as to bury my poor Mother, and yet have the good fortune to have my prayers heard for you, I hope we may live moſt of our remaining days together. If, as I believe, the air of a better clime as the Southern Part of France, may be thought uſeful for your recovery, thither I would go with you infallibly; and it is very pro⯑bable we might get the Dean with us, who is in that abandon'd ſtate already in which I ſhall ſhortly be, as to other Cares and Duties. Dear Gay, be as chearful as your Sufferings will permit: God is a better friend than a Court: Even any honeſt man is a better. I promiſe you my entire friendſhip [211] in all events, heartily praying for your recovery.

Do not write, if you are ever ſo able: The Doctor tells me all.

I AM glad to hear of the progreſs of your recovery, and the oftner I hear it the better, when it becomes eaſy to you to give it me. I ſo well remember the Con⯑ſolation you were to me in my Mother's former Illneſs, that it doubles my Concern at this time not to be able to be with you, or you able to be with me. Had I loſt her, I wou'd have been no where elſe but with you during your confinement. I have now paſt five weeks without once going from home, and without any company but for three or four of the days. Friends rarely ſtretch their kindneſs ſo far as ten miles. My Lord Bolingbroke and Mr. Bethel have not forgotten to viſit me: the reſt (except Mrs. Blount once) were contented to ſend meſſages. I never paſs'd ſo melancholy a time, and now Mr. Congreve's death touches me nearly. It is twenty years that I have known him. Every year carries away ſome⯑thing [212] dear with it, till we out-live all ten⯑derneſſes, and become wretched Individu⯑als again as we begun. Adieu! This is my Birth-day, and this is my Reflection upon it:

YOU have the ſame ſhare in my me⯑mory that good things generally have; I always know (whenever I reflect) that you ſhould be in my mind; only I reflect too ſeldom. However, you ought to al⯑low me the Indulgence I allow all my Friends, (and if I did not, They would take it) in conſideration that they have other avocations; which may prevent the Proofs of their remembring me, tho' they preſerve for me all the friendſhip, and good-will which I deſerve from them. In like man⯑ner I expect from you, that my paſt life [213] of twenty years may be ſet againſt the omiſſion of (perhaps) one month: And if you complain of this to any other, 'tis you are in the ſpleen, and not I in the wrong. If you think this letter ſplenatick, conſider I have juſt receiv'd the News of the death of a Friend, whom I eſteem'd almoſt as many years as you; poor Fenton: He died at Eaſthamſtead, of Indolence and Inactivi⯑ty; let it not be your fate, but uſe Exerciſe. I hope the Ducheſs will take care of you in this reſpect, and either make you gal⯑lop after her, or teize you enough at home to ſerve inſtead of Exerciſe abroad. Mrs. Howard is ſo concern'd about you, and ſo angry at me for not writing to you, and at Mrs. Blount for not doing the ſame, that I am piqu'd with Jealouſy and Envy at you, and hate you as much as if you had a great Place at Court; which you will confeſs a proper cauſe of Envy and Ha⯑tred, in any Poet-militant, or unpenſion'd. But to ſet matters even, I own I love you; and own, I am as I ever was, and juſt as I ever ſhall be,

I HAVE many years ago magnify'd in my own mind, and repeated to you, a ninth Beatitude, added to the eight in the Scripture; Bleſſed is he who expects nothing, for he ſhall never be diſappointed. I could find in my heart to congratulate you on this happy diſmiſſion from all Court-De⯑pendance; I dare ſay I ſhall find you the Better and the Honeſter Man for it, many years hence; very probably the health⯑fuller, and the chearfuller into the bargain. You are happily rid of many curſed cere⯑monies, as well as of many ill and vici⯑ous habits, of which few or no men eſcape the Infection, who are hackney'dand tramel⯑led in the ways of a court. Princes indeed, and Peers (the Lackies of Princes) and Ladies (the Fools of Peers) will ſmile on you the leſs; but Men of Worth, and real Friends, will look on you the better. There is a thing the only thing which Kings and Queens cannot give you, (for they have it not to give) Liberty, which is worth all they have; and which, as yet, I hope Engliſhmen need not ask from their hands. You will enjoy That, and your own Integrity, and the ſa⯑tisfactory [215] Conſciouſneſs of having not me⯑rited ſuch Graces from them, as they be⯑ſtow only on the mean, ſervile, flattering, intereſted, and undeſerving. The only Steps to their favour are ſuch complacen⯑cies, ſuch compliances, ſuch diſtant de⯑corums, as delude them in their Vanities, or engage them in their Paſſions. He is their Greateſt favourite, who is their Fal⯑ſeſt: and when a man, by ſuch vile Gra⯑dations, arrives at the height of Grandeur and Power, he is then at beſt but in a cir⯑cumſtance to be hated, and in a condition to be hanged, for ſerving their Ends: So many a Miniſter has found it!

I believe you did not want Advice, in the letter you ſent by my Lord Grantham. I preſume you writ it not, without: And you cou'd not have better, if I gueſs right at the perſon who agreed to your doing it, in reſpect to any Decency you ought to ob⯑ſerve: for I take that perſon to be a perfect Judge of Decencies and Forms. I am not without fears even on that perſon's account: I think it a bad Omen: but what have I to do with Court-Omens?—Dear Gay, adieu. I can only add a plain, uncourtly Speech: While you are no body's Servant, you may be any one's Friend; and as ſuch I embrace you, in all conditions of life. While I have a ſhilling, you ſhall have ſix-pence, nay eight [216] pence, if I can contrive to live upon a groat. I am faithfully

IF my friendſhip were as effectual as it is ſincere, you would be one of thoſe people who would be vaſtly advantag'd and enrich'd by it. I ever honour'd thoſe Popes who were moſt famous for Nepotiſm; 'tis a ſign that the old fellows loved Somebody, which is not uſual in ſuch advanced years. And I now honour Sir Robert Walpole, for his extenſive Bounty and Goodneſs to his private Friends and Relations. But it vexes me to the heart when I reflect, that my friendſhip is ſo much leſs effectual than theirs; nay ſo utterly uſeleſs that it can⯑not give you any thing, not even a Dinner, at this diſtance, nor help the General, whom I greatly love, to catch one fiſh. My only conſolation is to think you happier than myſelf, and to begin to envy you, which is next to hating (an excellent Remedy for Love.) How comes it that Providence has been ſo unkind to me, (who am a greater object of compaſſion than any fat man alive) that I am forc'd to drink wine, while you [217] riot in water, prepar'd with oranges by the hand of the Ducheſs of Queensberry? that I am condemn'd to live on a High-way ſide, like an old Patriarch, receiving all Gueſts, where my Portico (as Virgil has it)

while you are rapt into the Idalian Groves, ſprinkled with Roſe-water, and live in Burrage, Balm and Burnet up to the chin, with the Ducheſs of Queensberry? that I am doom'd to the drudgery of dining at Court with the Ladies in waiting at Wind⯑ſor, while you are happily baniſh'd with the Ducheſs of Queensberry? So partial is Fortune in her diſpenſations! for I deſerv'd ten times more to be baniſh'd than you, and I know ſome Ladies, who merit it bet⯑ter than even her Grace. After this I muſt not name any, who dare do ſo much for you, as to ſend you their Services: But one there is, who exhorts me often to write to you, I ſuppoſe to prevent or ex⯑cuſe her not doing it herſelf; ſhe ſeems (for that is all I'll ſay for a Courtier) to wiſh you mighty well. Another who is no Courtier frequently mentions you, and does certainly wiſh you well—I fancy, after all, they both do ſo.

I writ to Mr. Forteſcue and told him the pains you took to ſee him. Dr. A. for all [218] that I know, may yet remember you and me, but I never hear of it. The Dean is well; I have had many accounts of him from Iriſh Evidence, but only two Letters theſe four months, in both which you are mentioned kindly: He is in the North of Ireland, doing I know not what with I know not whom. Cleland always ſpeaks of you: he is at Tunbridge, wondring at the ſuperior Carnivoracity of the Dr. He plays now with the old Ducheſs of M [...], nay dines with her, after ſhe has won all his money. Other News know I not, but that Counſellor Bickford has hurt himſelf, and has the ſtrangeſt walking-ſtaff I ever ſaw. He intends ſpeedily to make you a viſit at Amesbury. I am my Lord Duke's, my Lady Ducheſs's, Mr. Dormer's, Gene⯑ral Dormer's, and

I May with great Truth return your Speech, that I think of you daily; oftner indeed than is conſiſtent with the character of a reaſonable man; who is rather to make himſelf eaſy with the things and men that are about him, than uneaſy [219] with thoſe which are not. And you, whoſe Abſence is in a manner perpetual to me, ought rather to be remembred as a good man gone, than breathed after as one living. You are taken from us here, to be laid up in a more bleſſed ſtate with Spirits of a higher kind: ſuch I reckon his Grace and her Grace, ſince their Baniſh⯑ment from an earthly Court to an heavenly one, in each other and their friends; for I conclude none but true friends will con⯑ſort or aſſociate with them afterwards. I can't but look upon myſelf (ſo unworthy as a man of Twitnam ſeems to be rank'd with ſuch rectify'd and ſublimated Beings as you as a ſeparated Spirit too from Courts and Courtly Fopperies. But I own, not altogether ſo diveſted of terrene Mat⯑ter, nor altogether ſo ſpiritualized, as to be worthy admiſſion to your Depths of Retirement and Contentment. I am tugg'd back to the world and its regards too often; and no wonder, when my retreat is but ten miles from the Capital. I am within Ear-ſhot of Reports, within the Vortex of Lyes and Cenſures. I hear ſometimes of the Lampooners of Beauty, the Calumni⯑ators of Virtue, the Jokers at Reaſon and Religion. I preſume theſe are creatures and things as unknown to you, as we of this dirty Orb are to the Inhabitants of the [220] Planet Jupiter: Except a few fervent prayers reach you on the wings of the poſt, from two or three of your zealous Votaries at this diſtance; as one Mrs. How⯑ard, who liſts up her heart now and then to you, from the midſt of the Colluvies and Sink of Human Greatneſs at W [...]r: One Mrs. B. that fancies you may remember her while you liv'd in your mortal and too tranſitory State at Peterſham: One Lord B. who admir'd the Ducheſs before ſhe grew quite a Goddeſs; and a few others.

To deſcend now to tell you what are our Wants, our Complaints, and our Mi⯑ſeries here; I muſt ſeriouſly ſay, the Loſs of any one Good woman is too great to be born eaſily: and poor Mrs. Rollinſon, tho' a private woman, was ſuch. Her Husband is gone into Oxfordſhire very melancholy, and thence to the Bath, to live on, for ſuch is our Fate, and Duty. Adeiu. Write to me as often as you will, and (to encourage you) I will write as ſeldom as if you did not. Believe me

I AM ſomething like the Sun at this Sea⯑ſon, withdrawing from the World, but meaning it mighty well, and reſolving to ſhine whenever I can again. But I fear the Clouds of a long Winter will over⯑come me to ſuch a degree, that any body will take a farthing-candle for a better Guide, and more ſerviceable companion. My Friends may remember my brighter days, but will think (like the Iriſhman) that the Moon is a better thing when once I am gone. I don't ſay this with any alluſion to my Poetical capacity as a Son of Apolio, but in my Companionable one, (if you'll ſuffer me to uſe a phraſe of the Earl of Clarendon's) For I ſhall ſee or be ſeen of few of you, this Winter. I am grown too faint to do any good, or to give any plea⯑ſure. I not only, as Dryden fairly ſays, Feel my Notes decay as a Poet; but feel my Spirits flag as a Companion, and ſhall re⯑turn again to where I firſt began, my Books. I have been putting my Library in order, and enlarging the Chimney in it, with equal intention to warm my Mind and Body (if I can) to ſome Life. A Friend, [222] (a Woman-friend, God help me!) with whom I have ſpent three or four hours a day theſe fifteen years, adviſed me to paſs more time in my ſtudies: I reflected, ſhe muſt have found ſome Reaſon for this admoni⯑tion, and concluded ſhe wou'd compleat all her kindneſſes to me by returning me to the Employment I am fitteſt for; Con⯑verſation with the dead, the old, and the worm-eaten.

Judge therefore if I might not treat you as a Beatify'd Spirit, comparing your life with my ſtupid ſtate. For as to my living at Windſor with Ladies, &c. it is all a dream; I was there but two nights and all the day out of that company. I ſhall certainly make as little Court to others, as they do to me; and that will be none at all. My Fair-Weather-Friends of the Sum⯑mer are going away for London, and I ſhall ſee Them and the Butterflies together, if I live till next Year; which I would not deſire to do, if it were only for their ſakes. But we that are writers, ought to love Po⯑ſterity, that Poſterity may love us; and I would willingly live to ſee the Children of the preſent Race, meerly in hope they may be a little wiſer than their Parents.

To J. GAY, Eſq

I Am aſtoniſhed at the Complaints occa⯑ſion'd by a late Epiſtle to the Earl of Burlington; and I ſhould be afflicted were there the leaſt juſt Ground for 'em. Had the Writer attack'd Vice, at a Time when it is not only tolerated but triumphant, and ſo far from being concealed as a De⯑fect, that it is proclaimed with Oſtenta⯑tion as a Merit; I ſhould have been ap⯑prehenſive of the Conſequence: Had he ſatirized Gameſters of a hundred thou⯑ſand pounds Fortune, acquired by ſuch Me⯑thods as are in daily practice, and almoſt univerſally encouraged: Had he overwarm⯑ly deſended the Religion of his Country, a⯑gainſt ſuch Books as come from every Preſs, are publickly vended in every Shop, and greedily bought by almoſt every Rank of Men; or had he called our excellent Weekly Writers by the ſame Names which they o⯑penly beſtow on the greateſt Men in the Mi⯑niſtry, and out of the Miniſtry, for which they are all unpuniſhed, and moſt rewarded: [224] In any of theſe Caſes, indeed, I might have judged him too preſumptuous, and perhaps have trembled for his Raſhneſs.

I could not but hope better for this ſmall and modeſt Epiſtle, which attacks no one Vice whatſoever; which deals only in Folly, and not Folly in general, but a ſingle Spe⯑cies of it; that only Branch, for the oppo⯑ſite Excellency to which, the Noble Lord to whom it is written muſt neceſſarily be cele⯑brated. I fancied it might eſcape Cenſure, eſpecially ſeeing how tenderly theſe Follies are treated, and really leſs accuſed, than Apologized for.

Is this ſuch a Crime, that to impute it to a Man muſt be a grievous Offence? 'Tis an Innocent Folly, and much more Beneficent than the Want of it; for Ill Taſte employs more hands, and diffuſes Expence more than a Good one. Is it a Moral Defect? No, it is but a Natural one; a Want of Taſte. It is what the beſt good Man living may be liable to: The worthieſt Peer may live ex⯑emplarily in an ill-favour'd Houſe, and the beſt reputed Citizen be pleaſed with a vile Garden. I thought (I ſay) the Author had [225] the common Liberty to obſerve a Defect, and to compliment a Friend for a Quality that diſtinguiſhes him: which I know not how any Quality ſhould do, if we were not to remark that it was wanting in others.

But, they ſay, the Satire is Perſonal. I thought it could not be ſo, becauſe all its Reflexions are on Things. His Reflexions are not on the Man, but his Houſe, Garden, &c. Nay, he reſpects (as one may ſay) the Perſons of the Gladiator, Amphitheatre, the Nile and the Triton: He is only ſorry to ſee them (as he might be to ſee any of his Friends) ridiculous, by being in the wrong Place, and in bad Company. Some fancy, that to ſay a Thing is Perſonal, is the ſame as to ſay it is Unjuſt, not conſidering, that no⯑thing can be Juſt that, is not Perſonal. I am afraid that ‘"all ſuch Writings and Diſcour⯑ſes as touch no Man, will mend no Man."’ The Good-Natured, indeed, are apt to be alarmed at any thing like Satire; and the Guilty readily concur with the Weak for a plain Reaſon, becauſe the Vicious look upon Folly as their Frontier:

No wonder thoſe who know Ridicule be⯑longs to them, find an inward Conſolation [226] in removing it from themſelves as far as they can; and it is never ſo far, as when they can get it fixed on the beſt Characters. No wonder thoſe who are Food for Satiriſts, ſhould rail at them as Creatures of [...] every Beaſt born for our Uſe would be rea⯑dy to call a Man ſo.

I know no Remedy, unleſs people in our Age would as little frequent the Theatres, as they begin to do the Churches; un⯑leſs Comedy were forſaken, Satire ſilent, and every man left to do what ſeems good in his own Eyes, as if there were no King, no Prieſt, no Poet in Iſrael.

But I find myſelf obliged to touch a Point, on which I muſt be more ſerious; it well deſerves I ſhould: I mean the malicious Ap⯑plication of the Character of Timon, which I will boldly ſay, they would impute to the Perſon the moſt different in the World from a Man-hater, and the Perſon whoſe Taſte and Encouragement of Wit have often been ſhewn in the righteſt Place. The Author of that Epiſtle muſt certainly think ſo, if he has the ſame Opinion of his own Merit as Authors generally have; for he has been favoured by this very Perſon.

Why, in God's Name, muſt a Portrait, apparently collected from twenty different Men, be applied to one only? Has it his Eye? No, it is very unlike. Has it his Noſe [227] or Mouth? No, they are totally differing. What then, I beſeech you? Why, it has the Mole on his Chin. Very well; but muſt the Picture therefore be his, and has no other man that Blemiſh?

Could there be a more melancholy In⯑ſtance how much the Taſte of the Publick is vitiated, and turns the moſt ſalutary and ſeaſonable Phyſick into Poiſon, than if amidſt the Blaze of a thouſand bright Qualities in a Great Man, they ſhould only remark there is a Shadow about him, as what Eminence is without? I am con⯑fident the Author was incapable of im⯑puting any ſuch to One, whoſe whole Life (to uſe his own Expreſſion in Print of him) is a continued Series of good and generous Actions.

I know no man who would be more concerned, if he gave the leaſt Pain or Offence to any innocent Perſon; and none who would be leſs concerned, if the Sa⯑tire were challenged by any one at whom he would really aim it, If ever that hap⯑pens, I dare engage he will own it, with all the Freedom of one whoſe Cenſures are juſt, and who ſets his Name to them.

To the Earl of Burlington.

THE Clamour rais'd about my Epiſtle to you, could not give me ſo much pain, as I receiv'd pleaſure in ſeeing the general Zeal of the world in the cauſe of a great Man who is Beneficent, and the particular Warmth of your Lordſhip in that of a private Man who is innocent.

It was not the Poem that deſerv'd this from you; for as I had the Honour to be your Friend, I cou'd not treat you quite like a Poet: but ſure the Writer deſerv'd more Candor, even from thoſe who knew him not, than to promote a Report, which in regard to that Noble Perſon was Imper⯑tinent; in regard to me, Villainous. Yet I had no great cauſe to wonder, that a Character belonging to twenty ſhou'd be applied to one; ſince, by that means, nineteen wou'd eſcape the Ridicule.

I was too well content with my Know⯑ledge of that Noble Perſon's Opinion in this Affair, to trouble the publick about it. But [229] ſince Malice and Miſtake are ſo long a dy⯑ing, I have taken the opportunity of a third Edition to declare His Belief, not only of My Innocence, but of Their Malignity, of the former of which my own heart is as con⯑ſcious, as I fear ſome of theirs muſt be of the latter. His Humanity feels a Concern for the Injury done to Me, while his Great⯑neſs of Mind can bear with Indifference the Inſult offer'd to Himſelf. ^*

However, my Lord, I own, that Critics of this Sort can intimidate me, nay half incline me to write no more: That wou'd be making the Town a Compliment which I think it deſerves; and which ſome, I am ſure, wou'd take very kindly. This way of Satire is dan⯑gerous, as long as Slander rais'd by Fools of the loweſt Rank can find any countenance from thoſe of a Higher. Even from the Conduct ſhewn on this occaſion, I have learnt there are ſome who wou'd rather be wicked than ridiculous; and therefore it may be ſafer to attack Vices than Follies. I will therefore leave my Betters in the quiet Poſ⯑ſeſſion of their Idols, their Groves, and their High-Places; and change my Subject from [230] their Pride to their Meanneſs, from their Vanities to their Miſeries: And as the only certain way to avoid Miſconſtructions, to leſſen Offence, and not to multiply ill-na⯑tur'd Applications, I may probably, in my next, make uſe of Real Names and not of Fictitious Ones.^†

Dr. ARBUTHNOT to Mr. POPE.

I Little doubt of your kind Concern for me, nor of that of the Lady you men⯑tion. I have nothing to repay my Friends with at preſent, but prayers and good wiſhes. I have the ſatisfaction to find that I am as officiouſly ſerv'd by my Friends, as he that has thouſands to leave in Legacies; beſides the Aſſurance of their Sincerity, [231] God Almighty has made my bodily diſtreſs as eaſy as a thing of that nature can be: I have found ſome relief, at leaſt ſometimes, from the Air of this Place. My Nights are bad, but many poor Creatures have worſe.

As for you, my good Friend, I think ſince our firſt acquaintance there has not been any of thoſe little Suſpicions or Jealouſies that often affect the ſincereſt Friendſhips; I am ſure not on my ſide. I muſt be ſo ſincere as to own, that tho' I could not help valuing you for thoſe Talents which the World prizes, yet they were not the Foun⯑dation of my Friendſhip: They were quite of another ſort; nor ſhall I at preſent offend you by enumerating them: And I make it my Laſt Requeſt, that you continue that noble Diſdain and Abhorrence of Vice, which you ſeem naturally endu'd with, but ſtill with a due regard to your own Safety; and ſtudy more to reform than chaſtiſe, tho' the one often cannot be effected without the other.

Lord Bathurſt I have always honour'd for every good Quality, that a Perſon of his Rank ought to have: Pray give my Reſpects and kindeſt Wiſhes to the Family. My Ve⯑niſon Stomach is gone, but I have thoſe about me, and often with me, who will be very glad of his Preſent. If it is left [232] at my houſe it will be tranſmitted ſafe to me.

A Recovery in my Caſe, and at my Age, is impoſſible; the kindeſt Wiſh of my Friends is Euthanaſia. Living or dying, I ſhall always be

I Believe it was with me when I left the Town, as it is with a great many Men when they leave the World, whoſe loſs itſelf they do not ſo much re⯑gret, as that of their Friends whom they leave behind in it. For I do not know one thing for which I can envy London, but for your continuing there. Yet I gueſs you [234] will expect I ſhould recant this Expreſſion, when I tell you, that Sapho (by which hea⯑theniſh Name you have chriſten'd a very orthodox Lady) did not accompany me in⯑to the Country. However, I will confeſs myſelf the leſs concern'd on that account, becauſe I have no very violent Inclination to loſe my Heart, eſpecially in ſo wild and ſavage a place as this Foreſt is: In the Town, 'tis ten to one but a young Fellow may find his ſtray'd Heart again, with ſome Wild⯑ſtreet or Drury-lane Damfel; but here, where I could have met with no redreſs from an unmerciful, virtuous Dame, I muſt for ever have loſt my little Traveller in a Hole, where I could never rummage to find him again.—Well, Sir, you have your Lady in the Town ſtill, and I have my Heart in the Country ſtill, which being wholly unemploy'd as yet, has the more room in it for my Friends, and does not want a Corner at your Service.—To be ſerious, you have extremely oblig'd me by your Frankneſs and Kindneſs to me: And if I have abus'd it by too much Freedom on my part, I hope you will at⯑tribute it to the natural Openneſs of my Temper, which hardly knows how to ſhow Reſpect, where I feel Affection. I wou'd love my Friend, as my Miſtreſs, without Ceremony; and hope a little rough Uſage [235] ſometimes may not be more diſpleaſing to the one, than it is to the other.

If you have any Curioſity to know in what manner I live, or rather loſe a Life, Martial will inform you in one Line: (the Tranſlation of which coſt a Friend of ours three in Engliſh,

Every Day with me is literally an⯑other yeſterday; for it is exactly the ſame; It has the ſame Buſineſs, which is Poetry; and the ſame Pleaſure, whieh is Idleneſs. A man might indeed paſs his Time much better, but I queſtion if any Man could paſs it much eaſier. If you will viſit our Shades this Spring, which I very much deſire, you may perhaps inſtruct me to manage my Game more wiſely; but at preſent I am ſatisfy'd to trifle away my Time any Way, rather than let it ſtick by me; as Shop-keepers are glad to be rid of thoſe Goods at any rate, which would otherwiſe always be lying upon their hands.

Sir, if you will favour me ſometimes with your Letters, it will be a great Satisfaction [236] to me on ſeveral accounts; and on this in particular, That it will ſhow me (to my Comfort) that even a wiſe Man is ſome⯑times very idle; for ſo you muſt needs be when you can find leiſure to write to

I Have nothing to ſay to you in this Let⯑ter; but I was reſolv'd to write to tell you ſo. Why ſhould not I content myſelf with ſo many great Examples, of deep Di⯑vines, profound Caſuiſts, grave Philoſophers, who have written, not Letters only, but whole Tomes and voluminous Treatiſes about Nothing? Why ſhou'd a Fellow like me, who all his life does nothing, be a⯑ſham'd to write nothing? and that to one who has nothing to do but to read it? But perhaps you'll ſay, the whole World has ſomething to do, ſomething to talk of, ſomething to wiſh for, ſomething to be imploy'd about: But pray, Sir, caſt up the Account, put all theſe Somethings together, and what is the Sum Total but juſt Nothing? I have no more to ſay, but to deſire to give you my Service (that [237] is nothing) to your Friends, and to believe that I am nothing more than

YOU talk of Fame and Glory, and of the great Men of Antiquity: Pray tell me, what are all your great dead Men, but ſo many little living Letters? What a vaſt Reward is here for all the Ink waſted by Writers, and all the Blood ſpilt by Princes? There was in old time one Severus a Roman Emperor. I dare ſay you never call'd him by any other Name in your Life: and yet in his days he was ſtyl'd Lucius, Septimius, Severus, Pius, Pertinax, Auguſtus, Parthi⯑cus, Adiabenicus, Arabicus, Maximus,—and what not? What a prodigious waſte of Letters has Time made! what a Number have here dropt off, and leſt the poor ſur⯑viving Seven unattended! For my own part, Four are all I have to take care for; and I'll be judg'd by you if any man cou'd live in leſs compaſs? except it were one Mon⯑ſieur D. and one Romulus ⁂ But theſe, con⯑trary to the common Calamity, came, in [238] proceſs of time, to be call'd Monſieur Boileau Deſpreaux, and Romulus Three⯑points.—Well, Sir, for the future I'll drown all high Thoughts in the Lethe of Cowſlip-Wine; as for Fame, Renown, Re⯑putation, take 'em, Critics!

If ever I ſeek for Immortality here, may I be d [...]d! for there's not ſo much dan⯑ger in a Poet's being damn'd:

I Have been ſo well ſatisfy'd with the Country ever ſince I ſaw you, that I have not ſo much as once thought of the Town, or enquir'd of any one in it beſides Mr. Wycherley and yourſelf. And from him I underſtand of your Journey this Sum⯑mer into Leiceſterſhire; from whence I gueſs you are return'd by this time, to your old Apartment in the Widow's Corner, to your old Buſineſs of comparing Critics, and re⯑conciling [239] reconciling commentators; and to the old diverſions of a loſing game at Picquet with the ladies, and half a play, or a quarter of a play, at the theatre; where you are none of the malicious Audience, but the chief of amorous Spectators; and for the infirmity of one ^*Senſe which there for the moſt part could only ſerve to diſguſt you, enjoy the vigour of another which raviſhes you.

(According to the poetical, not the learn⯑ed, Dodwell; who has done one thing wor⯑thy of eternal memory; wrote two lines in his life that are not nonſenſe!) So you have the advantage of being entertain'd with all the beauty of the Boxes, without being trou⯑bled with any of the dulneſs of the Stage. You are ſo good a critic, that 'tis the great⯑eſt happineſs of the modern Poets that you do not hear their works; and next, that you are not ſo arrant a critic, as to damn them (like the reſt) without hearing. But now I talk of thoſe critics, I have good news to tell you concerning myſelf, for which I expect you ſhou'd congratulate with me: It is, that beyond all my expectations, and [240] far above my demerits, I have been moſt mercifully repriev'd by the ſovereign power of Jacob Tonſon, from being brought forth to publick puniſhment; and reſpited from time to time from the hands of thoſe bar⯑barous executioners of the Muſes, whom I was juſt now ſpeaking of. It often happens, that guilty Poets, like other guilty criminals, when once they are known and proclaim'd, deliver themſelves into the hands of Ju⯑ſtice, only to prevent others from doing it more to their diſadvantage; and not out of any Ambition to ſpread their fame, by be⯑ing executed in the face of the world, which is a fame but of ſhort continuance. That Poet were a happy man who cou'd but obtain a grant to preſerve his for ninety-nine years; for thoſe names very rarely laſt ſo many days, which are planted either in Jacob Tonſon's, or the Ordinary of Newgate's Miſcellanies.

I have an hundred things to ſay to you, which ſhall be deferr'd till I have the hap⯑pineſs of ſeeing you in town; for the ſea⯑ſon now draws on, that invites every body thither. Some of them I had communi⯑cated to you by Letters before this, if I had not been uncertain were you paſs'd your time the laſt ſeaſon: ſo much fine weather, I doubt not, has given you all the pleaſure you cou'd deſire from the coun⯑try, [241] and your own thoughts the beſt com⯑pany in it. But nothing cou'd allure Mr. Wycherley to our Foreſt; he continu'd (as you told me long ſince he wou'd) an ob⯑ſtinate lover of the town, in ſpite of friend⯑ſhip and fair weather. Therefore hence⯑forward, to all thoſe conſiderable qualities I know you poſſeſt of, I ſhall add that of Prophecy. But I ſtill believe Mr. Wycher⯑ley's intentions were good, and am ſatisfy'd that he promiſes nothing but with a real deſign to perform it: how much ſoever his other excellent qualities are above my imi⯑tation, his ſincerity, I hope, is not; and it is with the utmoſt that I am,

Sir, &c.

I Had ſent you the inclos'd ^* Papers be⯑fore this time, but that I intended to have brought them myſelf, and afterwards cou'd find no opportunity of ſending them [242] without ſuſpicion of their miſcarrying; not that they are of the leaſt value, but for fear ſomebody might be fooliſh enough to imagine them ſo, and inquiſitive enough to diſcover thoſe faults which I (by your help) wou'd correct. I therefore beg the favour of you to let them go no farther than your chamber, and to be very free of your re⯑marks in the margins, not only in regard to the accuracy, but to the fidelity of the tran⯑ſlation; which I have not had time of late to compare with its original. And I deſire you to be the more ſevere, as it is much more criminal for me to make another ſpeak nonſenſe, than to do it in my own proper perſon. For your better help in comparing, it may be fit to tell you, that this is not an entire verſion of the firſt book. There is an omiſſion from the 168th line—Jam murmura ſerpunt plebis ageno⯑reae—to the 312th—Interea patriis olim vagus exul ab oris—(between theſe ^* two Statius has a deſcription of the council of the Gods, and a ſpeech of Ju⯑piter; which contain a peculiar beauty and majeſty, and were left out for no other reaſon, but becauſe the conſequence [243] of this machine appears not till the ſecond book.) The tranſlation goes on from thence to the words Hic vero ambobus rabiem fortuna cruentam, where there is an odd account of a battle at fifty-cuffs be⯑tween the two Princes on a very ſlight occaſion, and at a time when one wou'd think the fatigue of their Journey in ſo tem⯑peſtuous a night, might have render'd them very unfit for ſuch a ſcuffle. This I had actually tranſlated, but was very ill ſatis⯑fied with it, even in my own words, to which an author cannot but be partial enough of conſcience; it was therefore omitted in this copy, which goes on above eighty lines farther, at the words—Hic primum luſtrare oculis, &c.—to the end of the book.

You will find, I doubt not, that Sta⯑tius was none of the diſcreeteſt Poets, tho' he was the beſt verſifier next Vir⯑gil: In the very beginning he unluckily betrays his ignorance in the rules of Poetry, (which Horace had already taught the Ro⯑mans) when he asks his Muſe, where to begin his Thebaid, and ſeems to doubt whe⯑ther it ſhould not be ab ovo Ledaeo? When he comes to the ſcene of his Poem, and the prize in diſpute between the Brothers, he gives us a very mean opinion of it— [244] Pugna eſt de paupere regno.—Very diffe⯑rent from the conduct of his maſter Virgil, who at the entrance of his Poem informs his reader of the greatneſs of its ſub⯑ject,—Tantae molis erat Romanam condere Gentem. [Boſſu on Epic Poetry.] There are innumerable little faults in him, a⯑mong which I cannot but take notice of one in this book, where ſpeaking of the implacable hatred of the brothers, he ſays, The whole world wou'd be too ſmall a prize to repay ſo much impiety.

This was pretty well, one wou'd think already, but he goes on.

After all this, what cou'd a Poet think of but Heaven itſelf for the Prize? but what follows is aſtoniſhing.

[245] I do not remember to have met with ſo great a fall in any antient author what⯑ſoever. I ſhou'd not have inſiſted ſo much on the faults of this Poet, if I did not hope you wou'd take the ſame freedom with, and revenge it upon, his Tranſlator. I ſhall be extremely glad if the reading this can be any amuſement to you, the rather becauſe I had the diſſatisfaction to hear you have been confin'd to your chamber by an illneſs, which I fear was as troubleſome a companion as I have ſometimes been to you in the ſame place; where if ever you found any pleaſure in my company, it muſt ſure⯑ly have been that which moſt men take in obſerving the faults and follies of ano⯑ther; a pleaſure which you ſee I take care to give you even in my abſence.

If you will oblige me at your leiſure with the confirmation of your recovery, under your own hand, it will be extreme grateful to me; for next to the pleaſure of ſee⯑ing my friends, is that I take in hearing from them; and in this particular, I am beyond all acknowledgments oblig'd to our friend Mr. Wycherley, who, as if it were not enough to have excell'd all men in wit, is reſolv'd to excel them in good-nature too. I know I need no apology to you for ſpeaking of Mr. Wycherley, whoſe ex⯑ample as I am proud of following in all [246] things, ſo in nothing more than in profeſ⯑ſing myſelf, like him,

YOU had long before this time been troubled with a Letter from me, but that I deferr'd it till I cou'd ſend you either the ^*Miſcellany, or my continuation of the Verſion of Statius. The firſt I imagin'd you might have had before now; but ſince the contrary has happen'd, you may draw this Moral from it, That Authors in gene⯑ral are more ready to write nonſenſe, than Bookſellers are to publiſh it. I had I know not what extraordinary flux of rhyme upon me for three days together, in which time all the Verſes you ſee added, have been written; which I tell you that you may more freely be ſevere upon them. 'Tis a mercy I do not aſſault you with a number of original Sonnets and Epigrams, which our modrn Bards put forth in the ſpring⯑time, in as great abundance, as Trees do [247] Bloſſoms, a very few whereof ever come to be Fruit, and pleaſe no longer than juſt in their birth. So that they make no leſs haſte to bring their flowers of wit to the preſs, than gardeners to bring their other flowers to the market, which if they can't get off their hands in the morning, are ſure to die before night. Thus the ſame reaſon that furniſhes Covent-Garden with thoſe noſegays you ſo delight in, ſupplies the Muſes Mer⯑cury, and Britiſh Apollo (not to ſay Jacob's Miſcellanies) with Verſes. And it is the happineſs of this age, that the modern in⯑vention of printing Poems for pence apiece, has brought the Noſegays of Parnaſſus to bear the ſame price; whereby the publick-ſpirited Mr. Henry Hills of Black-fryars has been the cauſe of great eaſe and ſingular comfort to all the Learned, who never over-abounding in tranſitory coin, ſhould not be diſcontented (methinks) even tho' Poems were diſtributed gratis about the ſtreets, like Bunyan's Sermons and other pious treatiſes, uſually publiſh'd in a like Volume and Character.

The time now drawing nigh, when you uſe with Sapho to croſs the Water in an Ev'ning to Spring-Garden, I hope you will have a fair opportunity of raviſhing her:—I mean only (as Oldfox in the Plain-dealer ſays) thro' the ear, with your well-penn'd [248] Verſes. I have been told of a very lucky Compliment of an Officer to his Miſtreſs in the very ſame place, which I cannot but ſet down (and deſire you at preſent to take it in good part inſtead of a Latin Quotation) that it may ſome time or other be improv'd by your pronunciation, while you walk So⯑lus cum Sola in thoſe amorous ſhades.

I wiſh you all the pleaſures which the Seaſon and the Nymph can afford; the beſt Company, the beſt Coffee, and the beſt News you can deſire. And what more to wiſh you than this, I do not know; unleſs it be a great deal of patience to read and examine the Verſes I ſend you; and I pro⯑miſe you in return a great deal of deference to your judgment, and an extraordinary obe⯑dience to your ſentiments for the future, (to which you know I have been ſometimes a little refractory.) If you will pleaſe to be⯑gin where you left off laſt, and mark the margins, as you have done in the pages im⯑mediately before, (which you will find cor⯑rected to your ſenſe ſince your laſt peruſal) you will extremely oblige me, and improve my Tranſlation. Beſides thoſe places which may deviate from the ſenſe of the Author, [249] it wou'd be very kind in you to obſerve any deficiencies in the Diction or Num⯑bers. The Hiatus in particular I wou'd avoid as much as poſſible, to which you are certainly in the right to be a profeſs'd ene⯑my; tho' I confeſs I cou'd not think it poſſible at all times to be avoided by any writer, till I found by reading Malherbe lately, that there is ſcarce any throughout his Poems. I thought your obſervation true enough to be paſs'd into a Rule, but not a rule without exceptions, nor that ever it had been reduc'd to practiſe: But this ex⯑ample of one of the moſt correct and beſt of their Poets has undeceiv'd me, and confirms your opinion very ſtrongly, and much more than Mr. Dryden's Authority, who tho' he made it a rule, ſeldom obſerv'd it.

I Have received part of the Verſion of Statius, and return you my thanks for your remarks which I think to be juſt, ex⯑cept where you cry out (like one in Horace's Art of Poetry) Pulchrè, benè, rectè! There I have ſome fears, you are often, if not al⯑ways, in the wrong.

[250] One of your objections, namely on that paſſage,

may be well grounded, in relation to its not being the exact ſenſe of the words—^* Cae⯑tera reliquo ordine ducam. But the duration of the Action of Statius's poem may as well be excepted againſt, as many things beſides in him: (which I wonder Boſſu has not ob⯑ſerv'd) For inſtead of confining his narra⯑tion to one year, it is manifeſtly exceeded in the very firſt two books: The Narration begins with Oedipus's prayer to the Fury to promote diſcord betwixt his Sons; af⯑terward the Poet expreſly deſcribes their entrlng into the agreement of reigning a year by turns; and Polynices takes his flight for Thebes on his brother's refuſal to reſign the throne. All this is in the firſt book; in next, Tydeus is ſent Ambaſſador to Etheo⯑cles, and demands his reſignation in theſe terms,

[251] But Boſſu himſelf is miſtaken in one particular, relating to the commencement of the Action; ſaying in Book 2. Cap. 8. that Statius opens it with Europa's Rape, whereas the Poet at moſt only deliberates whether he ſhou'd or not:

but then expreſly paſſes all this with a Longa retro ſeries—and ſays,

Indeed there are numberleſs particulars blame-worthy in our Author, which I have try'd to ſoften in the verſion:

is moſt extravagantly hyperbolical: Nor did I ever read a greater piece of Tautology than

[252] In the Journey of Polynices is ſome geo⯑graphical error,

could hardly be; for the Iſthmus of Corinth is full five miles over: And Caligantes ab⯑rupto ſole Mycaenas, is not conſiſtent with what he tells us, in Lib. 4. lin. 305: ‘"that thoſe of Mycaenae came not to the war at this time, becauſe they were then in con⯑fuſion by the diviſions of the Brothers, Atreus and Thyeſtes:"’ Now from the raiſing the Greek army againſt The'es, back to the time of this journey of Polynices, is (accord⯑ing to Statius's own account) three years.

THE Morning after I parted from you, I found myſelf (as I had prophecy'd) all alone in an uneaſy Stage-Coach; a dole⯑ful change from that agreeable company I enjoy'd the night before! without the leaſt hope of entertainment but from my laſt recourſe in ſuch caſes, a Book. I then be⯑gan to enter into acquaintance with the Moraliſts, and had juſt receiv'd from them [253] ſome cold conſolation for the inconvenien⯑cies of this life, and the incertainty of hu⯑man affairs; when I perceiv'd my Vehicle to ſtop, and heard from the ſide of it the dreadful news of a ſick Woman preparing to enter it. 'Tis not eaſy to gueſs at my mortification, but being ſo well fortify'd with Philoſophy I ſtood reſign'd with a Stoical conſtancy to endure the worſt of evils, a ſick Woman. I was indeed a little comforted to find, by her voice and dreſs, that ſhe was Young and a Gentlewoman; but no ſooner was her hood remov'd, but I ſaw one of the fineſt faces I ever beheld, and to increaſe my ſurprize, heard her ſalute me by my name. I never had more reaſon to accuſe Nature for making me ſhort-ſight⯑ed than now, when I could not recollect I had ever ſeen thoſe fair eyes which knew me ſo well, and was utterly at a loſs how to addreſs myſelf; till with a great deal of ſimplicity and innocence ſhe let me know (even before I diſcover'd my ignorance) that ſhe was the daughter of one in our Neigh⯑bourhood, lately marry'd, who having been conſulting her Phyſicians in Town, was re⯑turning into the Country, to try what good Air and a new Husband cou'd do to recover her. My Father, you muſt know, has ſometimes recommended the Study of Phy⯑ſick to me, but I never had any ambition [254] to be a Doctor till this inſtant. I ventur'd to preſcribe ſome Fruit (which I happen'd to have in the Coach) which being forbid⯑den her by her Doctors, ſhe had the more inclination to. In ſhort, I tempted, and ſhe eat; nor was I more like the Devil than ſhe like Eve. Having the good ſucceſs of the 'foreſaid Gentleman before my eyes, I put on the Gallantry of the old Serpent, and in ſpite of my evil Form accoſted her with all the Gaiety I was maſter of; which had ſo good effect, that in leſs than an hour ſhe grew pleaſant, her colour return'd, and ſhe was pleas'd to ſay my preſcription had wrought an immediate cure: In a word, I had the pleaſanteſt journey imaginable.

Thus far (methinks) my Letter has ſome⯑thing of the air of a Romance, tho' it be true. But I hope you will look on what fol⯑lows as the greateſt of truths, That I think myſelf extremely oblig'd by you in all points, eſpecially for your kind and ho⯑nourable Information and Advice in a mat⯑ter of the utmoſt concern to me, which I ſhall ever acknowledge as the higheſt proof at once of your friendſhip, juſtice, and ſin⯑cerity. At the ſame time be aſſur'd, that Gentleman we ſpoke of, ſhall never by any alteration in me diſcover my knowledge of his Miſtake: the hearty forgiving of which is the only kind of Return I can poſſibly [255] make him for ſo many favours. And I may derive this pleaſure at leaſt from it, that whereas I muſt otherwiſe have been a little uneaſy to know my incapacity of returning to his Obligations; I may now, by bearing his Frailty, exerciſe my Grati⯑tude and Friendſhip more than Himſelf either is, or perhaps ever will be ſenſible of.

But in one thing, I muſt confeſs you have yourſelf oblig'd me more than any man, which is, that you have ſhew'd me many of my Faults, to which as you are the more an implacable Enemy, by ſo much the more you are a kind Friend to me. I cou'd be proud, in revenge, to find a few ſlips in your Verſes, which I read in Lon⯑don, and ſince in the Country with more ap⯑plication and pleaſure: the thoughts are ve⯑ry juſt, and you are ſure not to let them ſuffer by the Verſification. If you wou'd oblige me with the truſt of any thing of yours, I ſhou'd be glad to execute any com⯑miſſions you wou'd give me concerning them. I am here ſo perfectly at leiſure, that nothing wou'd be ſo agreeable an en⯑tertainment [256] to me; but if you will not af⯑ford me that, do not deny me at leaſt the ſatisfaction of your Letters as long as we are abſent, if you wou'd not have him very un⯑happy who is very ſincerely

Having a vacant ſpace here, I will fill it with a ſhort Ode on Solitude, which I found yeſterday by great accident, and which I find by the date was written when I was not twelve years old; that you may perceive how long I have continu'd in my paſſion for a rural life, and in the ſame employ⯑ments of it.

IF I were to write to you as often as I think of you, my Letters wou'd be as bad as a Rent-charge; but tho' the one be but too little for your Good-nature, the other wou'd be too much for your Quiet, which is one bleſſing Good-nature ſhou'd indiſpenſably receive from mankind, in re⯑turn for thoſe many it gives. I have been inform'd of late, how much I am indebted to that quality of yours, in ſpeaking well of me in my abſence; the only thing by which [258] you prove yourſelf no Wit or Critic: Tho' indeed I have often thought, that a friend will ſhow juſt as much indulgence (and no more) to my faults when I am abſent, as he does ſeverity to 'em when I am preſent. To be very frank with you, Sir, I muſt own, that where I receiv'd ſo much Civility at firſt, I cou'd hardly have expected ſo much Sincerity afterwards. But now I have only to wiſh, that the laſt were but equal to the firſt, and that as you have omitted nothing to oblige me, ſo you wou'd omit nothing to improve me.

I caus'd an acquaintance of mine to en⯑quire twice of your welfare, by whom I have been inform'd, that you have left your ſpeculative Angle in the Widow's Coffee-houſe, and bidding adieu for ſome time to all the Rehearſals, Reviews, Ga⯑zettes, &c. have march'd off into Lin⯑colnſhire. Thus I find you vary your life in the ſcene at leaſt, tho' not in the Action; for tho' life for the moſt part, like an old Play, be ſtill the ſame, yet no w and then a new Scene may make it more entertaining. As for myſelf, I would not have my life a very regular Play, let it be a good mery Farce, a G-d's name, and a fig for the critical Unities! Yet (on the other ſide) I wou'd as ſoon write like Durfey, as live like T [...]e; whoſe beaſtly, yet [259] merry life, is (if you will excuſe ſuch a ſi⯑militude) not unlike a F--t, at once naſty and laughable. For the generality of men, a true modern life is like a true modern play, neither Tragedy, Comedy, nor Farce, nor one, nor all of theſe: every Actor is much better known by his having the ſame Face, than by keeping the ſame Character: for we change our minds as often as they can their parts, and he who was yeſterday Caeſar, is to day Sir John Daw. So that one might ask the ſame queſtion of a mo⯑dern life, that Rich did of a modern play;

I have dwelt the longer upon this, be⯑cauſe I perſuade myſelf it might be uſeful, at a time when we have no other Theatre, to divert ourſelves at this great one. Here is a glorious ſtanding Comedy of Fools, at which every man is heartily merry, and thinks himſelf an unconcern'd Spectator. This (to our ſingular comfort) neither my Lord Chamberlain, nor the Queen herſelf can ever ſhut up, or ſilence. While that of Drury (alas!) lies deſolate, in the pro⯑foundeſt peace: and the melancholy pro⯑ſpect of the Nymphys yet lingring about its beloved avenues, appears no leſs moving than that of the Trojan Dames lamenting over their ruin'd Ilium! What now can they [260] hope, diſpoſieſs'd of their antient ſeats, but to ſerve as Captives to the inſulting Victors of the Hay-market? The afflicted ſubjects of France do not, in our Poſt-man, ſo gnie⯑vouſly deplore the obſtinacy of their arbi⯑trary Monarch, as theſe periſhing people of Drury the obdurate heart of that Pharaoh, Rich, who like him, diſdains all Propoſals of peace and accommodation. Several Li⯑bels have been ſecretly affix'd to the great gates of his imperial palace in Bridges-ſtreet; and a Memorial repreſenting the diſtreſſes of theſe perſons, has been accidentally dropt (as we are credibly inform'd by a perſon of quality) out of his firſt Miniſter the chief Box-keeper's pocket, at a late Conference of the ſaid Perſon of quality and others, on the part of the Confederates, and his Theatrical Majeſty on his own part. Of this you may expect a copy as ſoon as it ſhall be tranſmitted to us from a good hand. As for the late Congreſs, it is here reported, that it has not been wholly ineffectual; but this wants confirmation; yet we cannot but hope the concurring prayers and tears of ſo many wretched Ladies may induce this haughty Prince to reaſon.

I MAY truly ſay I am more oblig'd to you this ſummer than to any of my Acquaintance, for had it not been for the two kind letters you ſent me, I had been perfectly, oblituſque meorum, obliviſcendus & illis. The only companions I had were thoſe Muſes of whom Tully ſays, Adole⯑ſcentiam alunt, Senectutem oblectant, ſecundas res ornant, adverſis perfugium ac ſolatium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiſcum, peregrinantur, ruſtican⯑tur. Which indeed is as much as ever I expected from them; for the Muſes, if you take them as Companions, are ve⯑ry pleaſant and agreeable; but whoever ſhould be forc'd to live or depend up⯑on 'em, would find himſelf in a very bad condition. That Quiet, which Cowley calls the Companion of Obſcurity, was not want⯑ing to me, unleſs it was interrupted by thoſe fears you ſo juſtly gueſs I had for our Friend's welfare. 'Tis extremely kind in you to tell me the news you heard of him, and you have deliver'd me from more an⯑xiety than he imagines me capable of on his account, as I am convinc'd by his long [262] ſilence. However the love of ſome things rewards itſelf, as of Virtue, and of Mr. Wy⯑cherley. I am ſurpriz'd at the danger you tell me he has been in, and muſt agree with you, that our nation would have loſt in him alone, more wit and probity, than would have remain'd (for ought I know) in all the reſt of it. My concern for his friendſhip will excuſe me, (ſince I know you honour him ſo much, and ſince you know I love him above all men) if I vent a part of my uneaſineſs to you, and tell you, that there has not been wanting one to inſinuate malicious untruths of me to Mr. Wycherley, which I fear may have had ſome effect upon him. If ſo, he will have a greater puniſhment for his credulity than I cou'd wiſh him, in that fellow's acquain⯑tance. The loſs of a faithful creature is ſomething, tho' of ever ſo contemptible an one; and if I were to change my Dog for ſuch a Man as the aforeſaid, I ſhou'd think my Dog undervalu'd: (who follows me about as conſtantly here in the country, as I was us'd to do Mr. Wycherley in the Town.)

Now I talk of my Dog, that I may not treat of a worſe ſubject which my ſpleen tempts me to, I will give you ſome account of him; a thing not wholly unprecedented, ſince Montaigne (to whom I am but a Dog [263] in compariſon) has done the very ſame thing of his Cat. Dic mihi quid melius deſidioſus agam? You are to know then, that as 'tis Likeneſs begets affection, ſo my favourite dog is a little one, a lean one, and none of the fineſt ſhap'd. He is not much a Spa⯑niel in his fawning, but has (what might be worth any man's while to imitate from him) a dumb ſurly ſort of kindneſs, that rather ſhows itſelf when he thinks me ill⯑us'd by others, than when we walk quietly and peaceably by ourſelves. If it be the chief point of Friendſhip to comply with a friend's Motions and Inclinations, he poſ⯑ſeſſes this in an eminent degree; he lies down when I ſit, and walks when I walk, which is more than many good friends can pretend to, witneſs our walk a year ago in St. James's Park.—Hiſtories are more full of examples of the Fidelity of Dogs than of Friends, but I will not inſiſt upon ma⯑ny of 'em, becauſe it is poſſible ſome may be almoſt as fabulous as thoſe of Pylades and Oreſtes, &c. I will only ſay for the ho⯑nour of Dogs, that the two moſt antient and eſteemable books ſacred and prophane extant, (viz. the Scripture and Homer) have ſhewn a particular regard to theſe animals. That of Toby is the more remarkable, be⯑cauſe there was no manner of reaſon to take notice of the Dog, beſides the great hu⯑manity [264] of the Author. Homer's account of Ulyſſes's Dog Argus is the moſt pathe⯑tick imaginable, all the Circumſtances con⯑ſider'd, and an excellent proof of the old Bard's Good-nature. Ulyſſes had left him at Ithaca when he embark'd for Troy, and found him at his return after twenty years, (which by the way is not unnatural as ſome Critics have ſaid, ſince I remember the dam of my dog was twenty-two years old when ſhe dy'd: May the omen of lon⯑gaevity prove fortunate to her ſucceſſor!) You ſhall have it in verſe.

Plutarch relating how the Athenians were oblig'd to abandon Athens in the time of Themiſtocles, ſteps back again out of the way of his Hiſtory, purely to deſcribe the lamen⯑table cries and howlings of the poor Dogs they left behind. He makes mention of one, that follow'd his Maſter acroſs the Sea to Salamis, where he dy'd and was honour'd with a Tomb by the Athenians, who gave the name of the Dog's Grave to that part of the Iſland where he was buried: this re⯑ſpect to a dog in the moſt polite people of the world, is very obſervable. A modern inſtance of gratitude to a Dog (tho' we have but few ſuch) is, that the chief Order of Denmark (now injuriouſly call'd the Order of the Elephant) was inſtituted in memory of the fidelity of a dog nam'd Wild-brat, to one of their Kings who had been deſerted [266] by his ſubjects: He gave his order this mot⯑to, or to this effect, (which ſtill remains) Wild-brat was faithful. Sir William Trum⯑bull has told me a ſtory which he heard from one that was preſent: King Charles I. being with ſome of his Court during his troubles, a diſcourſe aroſe what ſort of dogs deſerv'd pre-eminence, and it being on all hands agreed to belong either to the Spa⯑niel or Greyhound, the King gave his opi⯑nion on the part of the Greyhound, becauſe (ſaid he) it has all the Good-nature of the other, without the Fawning. A good piece of ſatire upon his Courtiers, with which I will conclude my Diſcourſe of Dogs. Call me a Cynick, or what you pleaſe, in revenge for all this impertinence, I will be content⯑ed; provided you will but believe me when I ſay a bold word for a chriſtian, that, of all dogs, you will find none more faithful than

I Had written to you ſooner, but that I made ſome ſcruple of ſending prophane things to you in Holy week. Beſides our Family wou'd have been ſcandaliz'd to ſee me write, who take it for granted I write nothing but ungodly Verſes. I aſſure you I [267] am look'd upon in the Neighbourhood for a very well-diſpos'd perſon, no great Hunter indeed, but a great Admirer of the noble ſport, and only unhappy in my want of conſtitution for that, and Drinking. They all ſay 'tis pity I am ſo ſickly, and I think 'tis pity they are ſo healthy. But I ſay no⯑thing that may deſtroy their good opinion of me: I have not quoted one Latin Author ſince I came down, but have learn'd with⯑out book a Song of Mr. Thomas Durfey's, who is your only Poet of tolerable reputa⯑tion in this country. He makes all the mer⯑riment in our Entertainments, and but for him, there would be ſo miſerable a dearth of Catches, that I fear they would put ei⯑ther the Parſon or me upon making ſome for 'em. Any man, of any quality, is hear⯑tily welcome to the beſt Topeing-Table of our Gentry, who can roar out ſome Rhapſo⯑dies of his works: ſo that in the ſame man⯑ner as it was ſaid of Homer to his Detra⯑ctors, What? Dares any man ſpeak againſt Him who has given ſo many men to Eat? (Meaning the Rhapſodiſts who live by re⯑peating his verſes) thus may it be ſaid of Mr. Durfey to his Detractors; Dares any one de⯑ſpiſe Him, who has made ſo many men Drink? Alas, Sir! this is a glory which nei⯑ther you nor I muſt ever pretend to. Nei⯑ther you with your Ovid, nor I with my [268] Statius, can amuſe a whole board of Juſtices and extraordinary 'Squires, or gain one hum of approbation, or laugh of admiration! Theſe things (they wou'd ſay) are too ſtu⯑dious, they may do well enough with ſuch as love Reading, but give us your antient Poet Mr. Durfey! 'Tis mortifying enough, it muſt be confeſs'd; but however, let us proceed in the way that nature has directed us—Multi multa ſciunt, ſed nemo omnia, as it is ſaid in the Almanack. Let us commu⯑nicate our works for our mutual comfort; ſend me Elegies, and you ſhall not want Heroicks. At preſent, I have only theſe Arguments in Proſe to the Thebaid, which you claim by promiſe, as I do your Tranſ⯑lation of Pars me Sulmo tenet—and the Ring: the reſt I hope for as ſoon as you can conveniently tranſcribe 'em, and whatſoever orders you are pleas'd to give me ſhall be punctually obey'd by

I Had not ſo long omitted to expreſs my acknowledgments to you for ſo much good-nature and friendſhip as you lately ſhow'd me; but that I am but juſt return'd to my own Hermitage, from Mr. Caryl's, [269] who has done me ſo many favours, that I am almoſt inclin'd to think my Friends in⯑fect one another, and that your converſation with him has made him as obliging to me as yourſelf. I can aſſure you he has a ſincere reſpect for you, and this I believe he has partly contracted from me, who am too full of you not to overflow upon thoſe I converſe with. But I muſt now be contented to con⯑verſe only with the Dead of this world, that is to ſay, the dull and obſcure, every way obſcure, in their intellects as well as their perſons: Or elſe have recourſe to the living Dead, the old Authors with whom you are ſo well acquainted, even from Virgil down to Aulus Gellius, whom I do not think a Cri⯑tic by any means to be compar'd to Mr. Den⯑nis: And I muſt declare poſitively to you, that I will perſiſt in this opinion, till you become a little more civil to Atticus. Who cou'd have imagin'd, that he who had eſca⯑ped all the misfortunes of his Time, un⯑hurt even by the Proſcriptions of Anthony and Auguſtus; ſhou'd in theſe days find an Enemy more ſevere and barbarous than thoſe Tyrants? and that Enemy the gentleſt too, the beſt-natur'd of mortals, Mr. C [...]? Whom I muſt in this compare once more to Auguſtus; who ſeem'd not more unlike himſelf, in the Severity of one part of his life and the Clemency of the other, than you. [270] I leave you to reflect on this, and hope that time (which mollifies rocks, and of ſtiff things makes limber) will turn a reſolute critic to a gentle reader; and inſtead of this poſitive, tremendous, new-faſhion'd Mr. C [...], reſtore unto us our old acquaintance, the ſoft, beneficent, and courteous Mr. C [...].

I expect much, towards the civilizing of you in your critical capacity, from the in⯑nocent Air and Tranquillity of our Foreſt, when you do me the favour to viſit it. In the mean time, it wou'd do well by way of Preparative, if you wou'd duly and con⯑ſtantly every morning read over a Paſtoral of Theccritus or Virgil; and let the Lady Iſabella put your Macrobius and Aulus Gelli⯑us ſomewhere out of your way, for a month or ſo. Who knows, but Travelling and long Airing in an open field, may contribute more ſucceſsfully to the cooling a Critic's ſeverity, than it did to the aſſwaging of Mr. Cheek's Anger, of old? In theſe fields you will be ſecure of finding no enemy, but the moſt faithful and affectionate of your friends, &c.

AFTER I had recover'd from a dan⯑gerous Illneſs which was firſt con⯑tracted in Town, about a fortnight after my coming hither I troubled you with a letter, and a paper inclos'd, which you had been ſo obliging as to deſire a ſight of when laſt I ſaw you, promiſing me in return ſome tranſlations of yours from Ovid. Since when, I have not had a ſyllable from your hands, ſo that 'tis to be fear'd that tho' I have eſca⯑ped Death, I have not Oblivion. I ſhou'd at leaſt have expected you to have finiſh'd that Elegy upon me, which you told me you was upon the point of beginning when I was ſick in London; if you will but do ſo much for me firſt, I will give you leave to forget me afterwards; and for my own part will die at diſcretion, and at my leiſure. But I fear I muſt be forc'd like many learn⯑ed Authors, to write my own Epitaph, if I wou'd be remember'd at all. Monſieur de la Fontaine's wou'd fit me to a hair, but it is a kind of Sacrilege, (do you think it is not?) to ſteal Epitaphs. In my preſent, living dead condition, nothing wou'd be properer than Oblituſque meorum, obliviſcendus & illis, but that unluckily I can't forget my friends, and the civilities I receiv'd from yourſelf, [272] and ſome others. They ſay indeed 'tis one quality of generous minds to forget the ob⯑ligations they have conſerr'd, and perhaps too it may be ſo to forget thoſe on whom they conferr'd 'em? Then indeed I muſt be forgotten to all intents and purpoſes! I am, it muſt be own'd, dead in a natural ca⯑pacity, according to Mr. Bickerſtaff; dead in a poetical capacity, as a damn'd author; and dead in a civil capacity, as a uſeleſs member of the Common-wealth. But re⯑flect, dear Sir, what melancholy effects may enſue, if Dead men are not civil to one ano⯑ther? If he who has nothing to do him⯑ſelf, will not comfort and ſupport another in his Idleneſs? If thoſe who are to die themſelves, will not now and then pay the charity of viſiting a Tomb and a dead friend, and ſtrowing a ſew flow'rs over him? In the ſhades where I am, the Inhabitants have a mutual compaſſion for each other: Being all alike Inanes, and Umbratiles, we ſaunter to one another's habitations, and daily aſſiſt each other in doing nothing at all; this I mention for your edification and example, that Tout plein du vie as you are, yet you may not ſometimes diſdain—deſipere in loco. Tho' you are no Papiſt, and have not ſo much regard to the dead as to addreſs yourſelf to them, (which I plainly perceive by your ſi⯑lence) yet I hope you are not one of thoſe [273] Heterodox, who hold them to be totally in⯑ſenſible of the good offices and kind wiſhes of their living friends, and to be in a dull State of Sleep, without one dream of thoſe they left behind them? If you are let this Letter convince you to the contrary, which aſſures you, I am ſtill, tho' in a State of Se⯑paration,

P. S. This letter of Deaths, puts me in mind of poor Mr. Betterton's; over whom I wou'd have this Sentence of Tully for an Epitaph.

'TIS very natural for a young Friend, and a young Lover, to think the perſons they love have nothing to do but to pleaſe them; when perhaps they, for their parts, had twenty other engagements before. This was my caſe when I wonder'd I did not hear from you; but I no ſooner receiv'd your ſhort letter, but I forgot your long ſilence; and ſo many fine things as you ſaid of me cou'd not but have wrought a cure on my own Sickneſs, if it had not been of the nature of that, which is deaf to the Voice of the Charmer. 'Twas impoſſible you [274] cou'd have better tim'd your compliment on my Philoſophy; it was certainly propereſt to commend me for it juſt when I moſt needed it, and when I cou'd leaſt be proud of it; that is, when I was in pain. 'Tis not eaſy to expreſs what an exaltation it gave to my Spirits, above all the cordials of my Doctor; and 'tis no compliment to tell you, that your Compliments were ſweeter than the ſweeteſt of his Juleps and Syrups. But if you will not believe ſo much,

Nevertheleſs I wou'd not have you entirely lay aſide the thoughts of my Epitaph, any more than I do thoſe of the probabili⯑ty of my becoming (ere long) the ſubject of one. For Death has of late been very familiar with ſome of my Size; I am told my Lord Lumley and Mr. Litton are gone before me; and tho' I may now without vanity eſteem myſelf the leaſt thing like a man in England, yet I can't but be ſorry, two Heroes of ſuch a make ſhou'd die in⯑glorious in their beds; when it had been a [275] fate more worthy our ſize, had they met with theirs from an irruption of Cranes, or other warlike Animals, thoſe antient ene⯑mies to our Pygmaean Anceſtors! You of a ſuperior ſpecies little regard what befals us Homunciolos Seſquipedales; however you have no reaſon to be ſo unconcern'd, ſince all Phy⯑ſicians agree there is no greater ſign of a Plague among Men, than a Mortality among Frogs. I was the other day in company with a Lady, who rally'd my Perſon ſo much, as to cauſe a total ſubverſion of my counte⯑nance: Some days after, to be reveng'd on her, I preſented her among other company the following Rondeau on that occaſion, which I deſire you to ſhow Sapho.

[276] This ſort of writing call'd the Rondeau is what I never knew practis'd in our Nation, and I verily believe it was not in uſe with the Greeks or Romans, neither Macrobius nor Hyginus taking the leaſt notice of it. 'Tis to be obſerv'd, that the vulgar ſpelling and pronouncing it Round O, is a manifeſt Cor⯑ruption, and by no means to be allow'd of by Critics. Some may miſtakenly imagine that it was a ſort of Rondeau which the Gallick Soldiers ſung in Caeſar's Triumph over Gaul—Gallias Caeſar ſubegit, &c. as it is re⯑corded by Suetonius in Julio, and ſo derive its original from the antient Gauls to the modern French: but this is erroneous; the words there not being rang'd according to the Laws of the Rondeau, as laid down by Clement Marot. If you will ſay, that the Song of the Soldiers might be only the rude beginning of this kind of Poem, and ſo conſequently imperfect, neither Heinſius nor I can be of that opinion; and ſo I conclude, that we know nothing of the matter.

But, Sir, I ask your pardon for all this Buffoonry, which I could not addreſs to any one ſo well as to you, ſince I have found by experience, you moſt eaſily forgive my impertinencies. 'Tis only to ſhow you that I am mindful of you at all times; that I write at all times; and as nothing I can ſay can be worth your reading, ſo I may as [277] well throw out what comes uppermoſt, as ſtudy to be dull. I am, &c.

Mr. C. . . . . to Mr. POPE.

AT laſt I have prevail'd over a lazy hu⯑mour to tranſcribe this Elegy: I have chang'd the ſituation of ſome of the Latin Verſes, and made ſome Interpola⯑tions, but I hope they are not abſurd, and foreign to my author's ſenſe and manner; but they are refer'd to your cenſure, as a debt; whom I eſteem no leſs a Critic than a Poet: I expect to be treated with the ſame rigour as I have practis'd to Mr. Dryden and you,

I deſire the favour of your opinion, why Priam, in his ſpeech to Pyrrhus in the ſe⯑cond Aeneid, ſays this to him,

He wou'd intimate (I fancy by Pyrrhus's anſwer) only his degeneracy: but then theſe following lines of the Verſion (I ſuppoſe [278] from Homer's Hiſtory) ſeem abſurd in the mouth of Priam, viz.

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I Give you thanks for the Verſion you ſent me of Ovid's Elegy. It is very much an image of that author's writing, who has an agreeableneſs that charms us without correctneſs, like a miſtreſs whoſe faults we ſee, but love her with them all. You have very judiciouſly alter'd his method in ſome places, and I can find nothing which I dare inſiſt upon as an error: What I have written in the margins being merely Gueſſes at a little improvement, rather than Criti⯑ciſms. I aſſure you I do not expect you ſhou'd ſubſcribe to my private notions but when you ſhall judge 'em agreeable to rea⯑ſon and good ſenſe. What I have done is not as a Critic, but as a Friend; I know too well how many qualities are requiſite to make up the one, and that I want almoſt all [279] I can reckon up; but I am ſure I do not want inclination, nor I hope capacity, to be the other. Nor ſhall I take it at all amiſs, that another diſſents from my opinion: 'Tis no more than I have often done from my own; and indeed, the more a man advances in underſtanding, he becomes the more eve⯑ry day a critic upon himſelf, and finds ſomething or other ſtill to blame in his for⯑mer notions and opinions. I cou'd be glad to know if you have tranſlated the 11th Ele⯑gy of Lib. 2. Ad amican navigantem, the 8th of Book 3, or the 11th of Book 3, which are above all others my particular favou⯑rites, eſpecially the laſt of theſe.

As to the paſſage of which you ask my opinion in the ſecond Aeneid, it is either ſo plain as to require no ſolution; or elſe (which is very probable) you ſee farther into it than I can. Priam wou'd ſay, ‘"that Achilles (whom ſurely you only feign to be your Father, ſince your actions are ſo different from his) did not uſe me thus inhuman⯑ly. He bluſh'd at his murder of Hector when he ſaw my ſorrows for him; and reſtor'd his dead body to me to be buried."’ To this the anſwer of Pyrrhus ſeems to be agreeable enough. ‘"Go then to the ſhades, and tell Achilles how I degenerate from him:"’ granting the truth of what Priam had ſaid of the difference between them. [280] Indeed Mr. Dryden's mentioning here what Virgil more judiciouſly paſſes in ſilence, the circumſtance of Achilles's ſelling for mony the body of Hector, ſeems not ſo proper; it in ſome meaſure leſs'ning the character of Achilles's generoſity and piety, which is the very point of which Priam endeavours in this place to convince his Son, and to re⯑proach him with the want of. But the truth of this Circumſtance is no way to be que⯑ſtion'd being expreſly taken from Homer, who repreſents Achilles weeping for Priam, yet receiving the gold, Iliad 24: For when he gives the body, he uſes theſe words, ‘"O my friend Patroclus! forgive me that I quit the corps of him who kill'd thee; I have great gifts in ranſom for it, which I will beſtow upon thy funeral."’

Mr. C. . . . . to Mr. POPE.

LOoking among ſome French Rhymes, I was agreeably ſurpriz'd to find in the Rondeau of ^* Pour le moins—your [281] Apoticaire and Lavement, which I took for your own; ſo much is your Muſe of In⯑telligence with the Wits of all languages. You have refin'd upon Voiture, whoſe Ou Vous Sçavez is much inferior to your You know where—You do not only pay your club with your author (as our friend ſays) but the whole reckoning; who can form ſuch pretty lines from ſo trivial a hint.

For ^*my Elegy; 'tis confeſs'd, that the Topography of Sulmo in the Latin makes but an awkward figure in the Verſion. Your couplet of the Dog-ſtar is very fine, but may be too ſublime in this place. I laugh'd hear⯑tily at your note upon Paradiſe; for to make Ovid talk of the Garden of Eden, is certainly moſt abſurd: But Xenophon in his Oeconomicks, ſpeaking of a garden finely planted and watered (as is here deſcribed) calls it Paradiſos: 'Tis an interpolation in⯑deed, and ſerves for a gradation to the Cae⯑leſtial Orb; which expreſſes in ſome ſort the Sidus Caſtoris in parte Caeli—how Trees can enjoy, let the naturaliſts determine; but the Poets make 'em ſenſitive, lovers, bache⯑lors, and married. Virgil in his Georgicks Lib. 2. Horace Ode 15. Lib. 2. Platanus caelebs evincet ulmos. Epod. 2. Ergo aut adul⯑ta vitium propagine Altas maritat populos. [282] Your Critique is a very Dolce-piccante; for after the many faults you juſtly find, you ſmooth your rigour: but an obliging thing is owing (you think) to one who ſo much eſteems and admires you, and who ſhall ever be

YOUR Letters are a perfect charity to a man in retirement, utterly forgot⯑ten of all his Friends but you; for ſince Mr. Wycherley left London, I have not heard a word from him; tho' juſt before, and once ſince, I writ to him, and tho' I know my⯑ſelf guilty of no offence but of doing ſin⯑cerely juſt what he ^* bid me.—Hoc mihi li⯑bertas, hoc pia lingua dedit! But the greateſt injury he does me is the keeping me in ig⯑norance of his welfare, which I am always very ſollicitous for, and very uneaſy in the fear of any Indiſpoſition that may befal him. In what I ſent you ſome time ago, you have not verſe enough to be ſevere upon, in revenge for my laſt criticiſm: In one point I muſt perſiſt, that is to ſay, my diſlike of your Paradiſe, [283] in which I take no pleaſure; I know very well that in Greek 'tis not only us'd by Xenophon, but is a common word for any Garden; but in Engliſh it bears the ſignifi⯑cation and conveys the idea of Eden, which alone is (I think) a reaſon againſt making Ovid uſe it; who will be thought to talk too like a Chriſtian in your verſion at leaſt, whatever it might have been in Latin or Greek. As for all the reſt of my Remarks, ſince you do not laugh at them as at this, I can be ſo civil as not to lay any ſtreſs upon 'em (as I think I told you before) and in particular in the point of Trees enjoying, you have, I muſt own, ſully ſatisfy'd me that the Expreſſion is not only defenſible, but beauti⯑ful. I ſhall be very glad to ſee your Tranſla⯑tion of the Elegy, Ad Amicam navigantem, as ſoon as you can; for (without a compli⯑ment to you) every thing you write either in verſe or proſe, is welcome to me; and you may be confident, (if my opinion can be of any ſort of conſequence in any thing) that I will never be unſincere, tho' I may be often miſtaken. To uſe Sincerity with you is but paying you in your own coin, from whom I have experienc'd ſo much of it; and I need not tell you how much I really eſteem you, when I eſteem nothing in the world ſo much as that Quality. I know you ſometimes ſay civil things to me in your Epiſtolary Style, but thoſe I am to make al⯑lowance [284] for, as particularly when you talk of Admiring; 'tis a word you are ſo us'd to in converſation of Ladies, that it will creep in to your diſcourſe in ſpite of you, ev'n to your Friends. But as Women when they think themſelves ſecure of admiration, com⯑mit a thouſand Negligences, which ſhow them ſo much at diſadvantage and off their guard, as to loſe the little real Love they had before: ſo when men imagine others entertain ſome eſteem for their abilities, they often expoſe all their Imperfections and fooliſh works, to the diſparagement of the little Wit they were thought maſters of. I am going to exem⯑plify this to you, in putting into your hands (being encourag'd by ſo much indulgence) ſome verſes of my Youth, or rather Child⯑hood; which (as I was a great admirer of Waller) were intended in imitation of his manner; and are perhaps, ſuch imitations, as thoſe you ſee in awkward country Dames of the fine and well-bred Ladies of the Court. If you will take 'em with you into Lincolnſhire, they may ſave you one hour from the converſation of the country Gen⯑tlemen and their Tenants, (who differ but in Dreſs and Name) which if it be there as bad as here, is even worſe than my Poetry. I hope your ſtay there will be no longer than (as Mr. Wycherley calls it) to rob the [285] Country, and run away to London with your money. In the mean time I beg the fa⯑vour of a line from you, and am (as I will never ceaſe to be)

I Deferr'd anſwering your laſt, upon the advice I receiv'd that you were leaving the town for ſome time, and expected your return with impatience, having then a de⯑ſign of ſeeing my Friends there, among the firſt of which I have reaſon to account yourſelf. But my almoſt continual Ill⯑neſſes prevent that, as well as moſt o⯑ther ſatisfactions of my life: However I may ſay one good thing of ſickneſs, that it is the beſt Cure in nature for Ambition, and deſigns upon the World or Fortune: It makes a man pretty indifferent for the future, provided he can but be eaſy, by intervals, for the preſent. He will be con⯑tent to compound for his Quiet only, and leave all the circumſtantial part and pomp of life to thoſe, who have a health vigo⯑rous enough to enjoy all the Miſtreſſes of their deſires. I thank God, there is no⯑thing out of myſelf which I would be at [286] the trouble of ſeeking, except a Friend; a happineſs I once hop'd to have poſſeſs'd in Mr. Wycherley; but—Quantum mutalus ab illo!—I have for ſome years been em⯑ploy'd much like Children that build houſes with Cards, endeavouring very buſily and eagerly to raiſe a Friendſhip, which the firſt breath of any ill-natur'd By-ſtander cou'd puff away.—But I will trouble you no farther with writing, nor myſelf with thinking, of this ſubject.

I was mightily pleas'd to perceive by your quotation from Voiture, that you had track'd me ſo far as France. You ſee 'tis with weak heads as with weak ſtomachs, they immediately throw out what they re⯑ceiv'd laſt: and what they read, floats up⯑on the ſurface of their mind, like Oil up⯑on water, without incorporating. This, I think however, can't be ſaid of the Love⯑verſes I laſt troubled you with, where all (I am afraid) is ſo puerile and ſo like the Author, that no body will ſu⯑ſpect any thing to be borrow'd. Yet you, (as a friend, entertaining a better opinion of 'em) it ſeems ſearch'd in Wal⯑ler, but ſearch'd in vain. Your judgment of 'em is (I think) very right,—for it was my own opinion before. If you think 'em not worth the trouble of correcting, [287] pray tell me ſo freely, and it will ſave me a labour; if you think the contrary, you wou'd particularly oblige me by your re⯑marks on the ſeveral thoughts as they oc⯑cur. I long to be nibling at your verſes, and have not forgot who promis'd me Ovid's Elegy ad Amicam Navigantem? Had Ovid been as long compoſing it, as you in ſending it, the Lady might have ſail'd to Gades, and receiv'd it at her return. I have really a great Itch of Criticiſm upon me, but want matter here in the Country; which I deſire you to furniſh me with, as I do you in the Town,

I am oblig'd to Mr. Caryl (whom you tell me you met at Epſom) for telling you Truth, as a man is in theſe days to any one that will tell Truth to his advantage, and I think none is more to mine, than what he told you and I ſhou'd be glad to tell all the world, that I have an extreme Affection and eſtrem for you.

By theſe Epulae, as I take it, Perſius meant the Portugal Snuff and burn'd Claret, which he took with his maſter Cornutus; and the Verecunda Menſa was, without diſpute, ſome Coffee-houſe table of the antients.—I will only obſerve, that theſe four lines are as elegant and muſical as any in Perſius, not excepting thoſe ſix or ſeven which Mr. Dry⯑den quotes as the only ſuch in all that Au⯑thor.—I could be heartily glad to repeat the ſatisfaction deſcrib'd in them, being truly

I am glad to find by your laſt letter that you write to me with the freedom of a friend, ſetting down your thoughts as they occur, and dealing plainly with me in the matter of my own Trifles, which I aſſure you I never valu'd half ſo much as I do that Sincerity in you which they were the occa⯑ſion of diſcovering to me; and which while I am happy in, I may be truſted with that dangerous weapon, Poetry; ſince I ſhall do [289] nothing with it but after asking and fol⯑lowing your advice. I value Sincerity the more, as I find by ſad experience, the pra⯑ctice of it is more dangerous; Writers rarely pardoning the executioners of their Verſes, ev'n tho' themſelves pronounce ſentence up⯑on them.—As to Mr. Philips's Paſtorals, I take the firſt to be infinitely the beſt, and the ſecond the worſt; the third is for the greateſt part a Tranſlation from Virgil's Daphnis. I will not foreſtal your judgment of the reſt, only obſerve in that of the Nightingale theſe lines, (ſpeaking of the Muſician's playing on the harp.)

To which nothing can be objected, but that they are too lofty for Paſtoral, eſpe⯑cially being put into the mouth of a Shep⯑herd, as they are here; in the Poet's own perſon they had been (I believe) more pro⯑per. Theſe are more after Virgil's manner than that of Theocritus, whom yet in the character of Paſtoral he rather ſeems to [290] imitate. In the whole, I agree with the Tatler, that we have no better Eclogues in our language. There is a ſmall copy of the ſame Author publiſh'd in the Tatler N^o 12. on the Daniſh Winter: 'Tis Poetical Paint⯑ing, and I recommend it to your per⯑uſal.

Dr. Garth's Poem I have not ſeen, but believe I ſhall be of that Critic's opinion you mention at Will's, who ſwore it was good: For tho' I am very cautious of ſwear⯑ing after Critics, yet I think one may do it more ſafely when they commend, than when they blame.

I agree with you in your cenſure of the uſe of Sea-terms in Mr. Dryden's Virgil; not only becauſe Helenus was no great Pro⯑phet in thoſe matters, but becauſe no Terms of Art or Cant-Words ſuit with the Ma⯑jeſty and dignity of Style which Epic Poetry requires.—Cui mens divinior atque os magna ſoniturum.—The Tarpawlin Phraſe can pleaſe none but ſuch Qui aurem habent Batavam; they muſt not expect Au⯑ribus Atticis probari, I find by you. (I think I have brought in two phraſes of Martial here very dexterouſly.)

Tho' you ſay you did not rightly take my Meaning in the verſe I quoted from Juve⯑nal, yet I will not explain it; becauſe tho' it ſeems you are reſolv'd to take me for a [291] Critic, I wou'd by no means be thought a Commentator.—And for another reaſon too, becauſe I have quite forgot both the Verſe and the Application.

I hope it will be no offence to give my moſt hearty ſervice to Mr. Wycherley, tho' I perceive by his laſt to me, I am not to trouble him with my letters, ſince he there told me he was going inſtantly out of Town, and till his return was my Ser⯑vant, &c. I gueſs by yours he is yet with you, and beg you to do what you may with all truth and honour, that is, aſ⯑ſure him I have ever borne all the Re⯑ſpect and Kindneſs imaginable to him. I do not know to this hour what it is that has eſtrang'd him from me; but this I know, that he may for the future be more ſafely my friend, ſince no invitation of his ſhall ever more make me ſo free with him. I cou'd not have thought any man had been ſo very cautious and ſuſpi⯑cious, as not to credit his own Experience of a friend. Indeed to believe no body, may be a Maxim of Safety, but not ſo much of Honeſty. There is but one way I know of converſing ſafely with all men, that is, not by concealing what we ſay or do, but by ſaying or doing nothing that deſerves to be con⯑ceal'd, and I can truly boaſt this comfort in my affairs with Mr. Wycherley. But I par⯑don [292] his Jealouſy, which is become his Na⯑ture, and ſhall never be his enemy whatſo⯑ever he ſays of me.

Mr. C. . . . . . to Mr. POPE.

I Find I am oblig'd to the ſight of your Love-verſes, for your opinion of my ſincerity; which had never been call'd in queſtion, if you had not forc'd me, upon ſo many other occaſions to expreſs my eſteem.

I have juſt read and compar'd ^* Mr. Row's Verſion of the 9th of Lucan, with very great pleaſure, where I find none of thoſe abſurdities ſo frequent in that of Virgil, ex⯑cept in two places, for the ſake of laſhing the Prieſts; one where Cato ſays—Sorti⯑legis egeant dubii—and one in the ſimile of the Haemorhois—fatidici Sabaei—He is ſo errant a Whig, that he ſtrains even be⯑yond his Author, in paſſion for Liberty, and [293] averſion to Tyranny; and errs only in am⯑plification. Lucan in initio 9ni, deſcribing the ſeat of the Semidei manes, ſays,

Mr. Row has this Line,

Pray your opinion, if there be an Error-Sphaericus in this or no?

YOU miſtake me very much in think⯑ing the freedom you kindly us'd with my Love-verſes, gave me the firſt opinion of your ſincerity: I aſſure you it only did what every good-natur'd action of yours has done ſince, confirm'd me more in that opi⯑nion. The Fable of the Nightingale in Philips's Paſtoral, is taken from Famianus Strada's Latin Poem on the ſame ſubject, in his Proluſiones Academicae; only the Tomb he erects at the end, is added from Virgil's concluſion of the Culex. I can't forbear giving you a paſſage out of the Latin Poem [294] I mention, by which you will find the En⯑gliſh Poet is indebted to it.

This Poem was many years ſince imitated by Craſhaw, out of whoſe Verſes the fol⯑lowing are very remarkable.

I have (as I think I formerly told you) a very good opinion of Mr. Row's 9th book [295] of Lucan: Indeed he amplifies too much, as well as Brebaeuſ, the famous French imi⯑tator. If I remember right, he ſometimes takes the whole Comment into the Text of the Verſion, as particularly in lin. 808. Ut (que) ſolet pariter totis ſe eſſundere ſignis Co⯑rycii preſſura croci—And in the place you quote, he makes of thoſe two lines in the Latin

no leſs than eight in Engliſh.

What you obſerve ſure cannot be an Error Sphaericus, ſtrictly ſpeaking, either according to their Ptolomaick, or our Co⯑pernican Syſtem; Tycho Brahe himſelf will be on the Tranſlator's ſide. For Mr. Row here ſays no more, than that he look'd down on the Rays of the Sun, which Pompey might do, even tho' the Body of the Sun were above him.

You can't but have remark'd what a journey Lucan here makes Cato take for the ſake of his fine Deſcriptions. From Cyrene he travels by land, for no better reaſon than this:

[296] The Winter's effects on the Sea, it ſeems were more to be dreaded than all the Ser⯑pents, Whirlwinds, Sands, &c. by Land, which immediately after he paints out in his ſpeech to the ſoldiers: Then he fetches a compaſs a vaſt way round about, to the Naſamones and Jupiter Ammon's Temple, purely to ridicule the Oracles: And Labi⯑enus muſt pardon me, if I do not believe him when he ſays—ſors obtulit, & fortuna viae—either Labienus or the Map, is very much miſtaken here. Thence he returns back to the Syrtes (which he might have taken firſt in his way to Utica) and ſo to Leptis Minor, where our Author leaves him; who ſeems to have made Cato ſpeak his own mind, when he tells his Army—Ire ſat eſt—no matter whither. I am,

Mr. C. . . . . to Mr. POPE.

THE Syſtem of Tycho Brahe (were it true, as it is Novel) cou'd have no room here: Lucan, with the reſt of the Latin Poets, ſeems to follow Plato; whoſe [297] order of the Spheres is clear in Cicero, De Natura Deorum, De ſomnio Scipionis, and in Macrobius. The Seat of the Semidei ma⯑nes is Platonick too, for Apuleius de Deo Socratis aſſigns the ſame to the Genii, viz. the Region of the Air for their intercourſe with Gods and Men; ſo that I fancy, Row miſtook the ſituation, and I can't be re⯑concil'd to, Look down on the Sun's Rays. I am glad you agree with me about the la⯑titude he takes; and wiſh you had told me, if the ſortilegi, and fatidici, cou'd licence his invectives againſt Prieſts? But I ſuppoſe you think them (with Helena) undeſerving of your protection. I agree with you in Lucan's Errors, and the cauſe of 'em, his Poetic deſcriptions: for the Romans then knew the coaſt of Africa from Cyrene (to the South-eaſt of which lies Ammon toward Egypt) to Leptis and Utica: But pray re⯑member how your Homer nodded while Ulyſſes ſlept, and waking knew not where he was, in the ſhort paſſage from Corcyra to Ithaca. I like Trapp's Verſions for their juſtneſs; his Pſalm is excellent, the Prodi⯑gies in the firſt Georgick judicious (whence I conclude that 'tis eaſier to turn Virgil juſtly in blank verſe, than rhyme.) The Eclogue of Gallus, and Fable of Phaeton pretty well; but he is very ſaulty in his [298] Numbers; the fate of Phaeton might run thus,

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

TO make uſe of that freedom and fa⯑miliarity of ſtyle which we have ta⯑ken up in our Correſpondence, and which is more properly Talking upon paper, than Writing; I will tell you without any pre⯑face, that I never took Tycho Brahe for one of the Antients, or in the leaſt an acquain⯑tance of Lucan's; nay, 'tis a mercy on this occaſion tha [...] I do not give you an ac⯑count of h [...] Life and converſation; as how he liv [...] ſome years like an inchanted Knight in a certain Iſland, with a tale of a King of Denmark's Miſtreſs that ſhall be nameleſs.—But I have compaſſion on you, and wou'd not for the world you ſhou'd [299] ſtay any longer among the Genii, and Semi⯑dei Manes, you know where; for if once you get ſo near the Moon, Sapho will want your preſence in the Clouds and inferior regions; not to mention the great loſs Drury-lane will ſuſtain, when Mr. C [...] is in the Milky way. Theſe coeleſtial thoughts put me in mind of the Prieſts you mention, who are a ſort of Sortilegi in one ſenſe, becauſe in their Lottery there are more Blanks than Prizes; the Adventurers being at beſt in an uncertainty, whereas the Set⯑ters-up are ſure of ſomething. Prieſts in⯑deed in their Character, as they repreſent God, are ſacred; and ſo are Conſtables as they repreſent the King, but you will own a great many of 'em are very odd fellows, and the devil a bit of likeneſs in 'em. Yet I can aſſure you, I honour the good as much as I deteſt the bad, and I think, that in condemning theſe, we praiſe thoſe. I am ſo far from eſteeming e'en the worſt unworthy of my protection, that I have defended their Character (in Congreve's and Vanbrugh's Plays) ev'n againſt their own Brethren. And ſo much for Prieſts in general, now for Trapp in particular whoſe Tranſlations from Ovid I have not ſo good an opinion of as you; not (I will aſſure you) from any ſort of preju⯑dice to him as a Prieſt, but becauſe I [300] think he has little of the main Characte⯑riſtick of his Author, a graceful Eaſineſs. For let the ſenſe be ever ſo exactly ren⯑der'd, unleſs an author looks like himſelf, in his air, habit, manner, 'tis a Diſguiſe and not a Tranſlation. But as to the Pſalm, I think David is much more beholden to him than Ovid; and as he treated the Ro⯑man like a Jew, ſo he has made the Jew ſpeak like a Roman.

Mr. C. . . . . to Mr. POPE.

THE ſame judgment we made on Row's 9th of Lucan will ſerve for his part of the 6th, where I find this me⯑morable line,

For this he employs ſix Verſes, among which is this,

Pray can you trace Chivalry up higher than Pharamond? will you allow it an Anachro⯑niſm? [301] —Tickell in his Verſion of the Phoe⯑nix from Claudian,

Claudian thus,

which plainly reſers to the Deluge of Deu⯑calion and the Conflagration of Phaeton; not to the final Diſſolution. You thought of the Prieſts Lottery is very fine; you play the Wit, and not the Critic, upon the errors of your brother.

Your obſervations are all very juſt: Vir⯑gil is eminent for adjuſting his diction to his ſentiments; and among the mo⯑derns, I find your Practice the Proſodia of your Rules. Your ^*Poem ſhews you to be, what you ſay of Voiture, with Books well-bred: The ſtate of the Fair, tho' ſati⯑rical, is touch'd with that delicacy and gal⯑lantry, that not the Court of Auguſtus, nor—But hold, I ſhall loſe what I late⯑ly recover'd, your opinion of my Sincerity; yet I muſt ſay, 'tis as faultleſs as the Fair to whom 'tis addreſs'd, be ſhe never ſo perfect. [302] The M. G. (who it ſeems had no right no⯑tion of you, as you of him) tranſcrib'd it by lucubration: From ſome diſcourſe of yours, he thought your inclination led you to (what the men of faſhion call Learning) Pe⯑dantry; but now he ſays he has no leſs, I aſſure you, than a Veneration for you.

Mr. POPE to Mr. C. . . . .

IT ſeems that my late mention of Cra⯑ſhaw, and my quotation from him, has mov'd your curioſity. I therefore ſend you the whole Author, who has held a place among my other books of this nature for ſome years; in which time having read him twice or thrice, I find him one of thoſe whoſe works may juſt deſerve reading. I take this Poet to have writ like a Gentleman, that is, at leiſure hours, and more to keep out of idleneſs, than to eſta⯑bliſh a reputation: ſo that nothing regular or juſt can be expected from him. All that regards Deſign, Form, Fable, (which is the Soul of Poetry) all that concerns ex⯑actneſs, or conſent of parts, (which is the [303] Body) will probably be wanting; only pret⯑ty conceptions, fine metaphors, glitt'ring expreſſions, and ſomething of a neat caſt of Verſe, (which are properly the dreſs, gems, or looſe ornaments of Poetry) may be found in theſe verſes. This is indeed the caſe of moſt other Poetical Writers of Miſcellanies; nor can it well be otherwiſe, ſince no man can be a true Poet, who writes for diverſion only. Theſe Authors ſhou'd be conſider'd as Verſifiers and witty Men, rather than as Poets; and under this head will only fall the Thoughts, the Expreſſion, and the Numbers. Theſe are only the pleaſing parts of Poetry, which may be judg'd of at a view, and comprehended all at once. And (to expreſs myſelf like a Painter) their Colouring entertains the ſight, but the Lines and Life of the Picture are not to be in⯑ſpected too narrowly.

This Author form'd himſelf upon Pe⯑trarch, or rather upon Marino. His thoughts one may obſerve, in the main, are pretty; but oftentimes far fetch'd, and too often ſtrain'd and ſtiffned to make them appear the greater. For men are never ſo apt to think a thing great, as when it is odd or wonderful; and inconſiderate Authors wou'd rather be admir'd than underſtood. This ambition of ſurpriſing a reader, is the true natural cauſe of all Fuſtian, or Bombaſt in [304] Poetry. To confirm what I have ſaid you need but look into his firſt Poem of the Weeper, where the 2d, 4th, 6th, 14th, 21ſt ſtanza's are as ſublimely dull, as the 7th, 8th, 9th, 16th, 17th, 20th and 23d ſtanza's of the ſame copy, are ſoft and plea⯑ſing: And if theſe laſt want any thing, it is an eaſier and more unaffected expreſſion. The remaining thoughts in that Poem might have been ſpared, being eihter but re⯑petitions, or very trivial and mean. And by this example in the firſt one may gueſs at all the reſt, to be like this; a mixture of tender gentle thoughts and ſutiable expreſſions, of ſorc'd and inextri⯑cable conceits, and of needleſs fillers-up to the reſt. From all which it is plain, this Author writ faſt, and ſet down what came uppermoſt. A reader may skim off the froth, and uſe the clear underneath; but if he goes too deep will meet with a mouthful of dregs: either the Top or bot⯑tom of him are good for little, but what he did in his own, natural, middle-way, is beſt.

To ſpeak of his Numbers is a little diffi⯑cult, they are ſo various and irregular, and moſtly Pindarick: 'tis evident his heroic Verſe (the beſt example of which is his Muſick's Duel) is careleſly made up; but one may imagine from what it now is, [305] that had he taken more care, it had been muſical and pleaſing enough, not extreme⯑ly majeſtic, but ſweet: And the time con⯑ſider'd of his writing, he was (ev'n as un⯑correct as he is) none of the worſt Verſifi⯑cators.

I will juſt obſerve, that the beſt Pieces of this Author are, a Paraphraſe on Pſal. 23. On Leſſius, Epitaph on Mr. Aſhton, Wiſhes to his ſuppos'd Miſtreſs, and the Dies Irae.

Mr. POPE to Mr. C. . . . .

I Reſume my old liberty of throwing out myſelf upon paper to you, and ma⯑king what thoughts float uppermoſt in my head, the ſubject of a letter. They are at preſent upon Laughter, which (for ought I know) may be the cauſe you might ſome⯑times think me too remiſs a friend, when I was moſt intirely ſo: for I am never ſo inclin'd to mirth as when I am moſt pleas'd and moſt eaſy, which is in the company of a friend like yourſelf.

[306] As the fooling and toying with a miſtreſs is a proof of fondneſs, not diſreſpect, ſo is raillery with a friend. I know there are Prudes in friendſhip, who expect diſtance, awe and adoration, but I know you are not of them; and I for my part am no Idol⯑worſhipper, tho' a Papiſt. If I were to addreſs Jupiter himſelf in a heathen way, I fancy I ſhou'd be apt to take hold of his knee in a familiar manner, if not of his beard like Dionyſius; I was juſt going to ſay of his buttons, but I think Jupiter wore none (however I won't be poſitive to ſo nice a Critic as you, but his robe might be Subnected with a Fibula.) I know ſome Philoſophers define Laughter, A recommend⯑ing ourſelves to our own favour, by compa⯑riſon with the weakneſs of another: but I am ſure I very rarely laugh with that view, nor do I believe Children have any ſuch conſideration in their heads, when they ex⯑preſs their pleaſure this way: I laugh full as innocently as they, for the moſt part, and as ſillily. There is a difference too betwixt laughing about a thing and laugh⯑ing at a thing: One may find the inferior Man (to make a kind of caſuiſtical di⯑ſtinction) provok'd to folly at the ſight or obſervation of ſome circumſtance of a thing, when the thing itſelf appears ſolemn and auguſt to the ſuperior Man, that is, our [307] Judgment and Reaſon. Let an Ambaſſador ſpeak the beſt Senſe in the world, and de⯑port himſelf in the moſt graceful manner before a Prince, yet if the Tail of his Shirt happen (as I have known it happen to a very wiſe man) to hang out behind, more people ſhall laugh at that than attend to the other; till they recollect themſelves, and then they will not have a jot the leſs reſpect for the Miniſter. I muſt confeſs the iniquity of my countenance before you; ſeveral Muſcles of my Face ſometimes take an impertinent liberty with my Judgment, but then my Judgment ſoon riſes, and ſets all right again about my mouth: And I find I value no man ſo much, as he in whoſe ſight I have been playing the fool. I cannot be Sub-Perſona before a man I love; and not to laugh with honeſty, when Nature prompts, or Folly (which is more a ſecond Nature than any thing I know) is but a knaviſh hypocritical way of ma⯑king a mask of one's own Face.—To conclude, thoſe that are my friends I laugh with, and thoſe that are not I laugh at; ſo am merry in company, and if ever I am wiſe, it is all by myſelf. You take juſt another courſe, and to thoſe that are not your friends, are very civil, and to thoſe that are, very endearing and complaiſant: Thus when you and I meet, there will be [308] the Riſus & Blanditiae united together in converſation, as they commonly are in a verſe: But without Laughter on the one ſide, or Compliment on the other, I aſſure you I am with real eſteem

Mr. C. . . . . to Mr. POPE.

MR. Wycherley viſited me at the Bath in my ſickneſs, and expreſs'd much af⯑fection to me: hearing from me how wel⯑come his Letters would be, he preſently writ to you; in which I inſerted my Scrall, and after a ſecond. He went to Glouceſter in his way to Salop, but was diſappointed of a boat and ſo return'd to the Bath; then he ſhew'd me your anſwer to his letters in which you ſpeak of my good nature, but I fear you found me very froward at Read⯑ing; yet you allow for my illneſs. I cou'd not poſſibly be in the ſame houſe with Mr. Wycherley, tho' I ſought it earneſtly; nor come up to town with him, he being en⯑gag'd with others; but whenever we met we [309] talk'd of you. He praiſes your ^*Poem, and even outvies me in kind expreſſions of you. As if he had not wrote two letters to you, he was for writing every Poſt; I put him in mind he had already. Forgive me this wrong, I know not whither my tal⯑king ſo much of your great humanity and tenderneſs to me, and love to him; or whe⯑ther the return of his natural diſpoſition to you, was the cauſe; but certainly you are now highly in his favour; now he will come this Winter to your houſe, and I muſt go with him; but firſt he will invite you ſpee⯑dily to town.—I arriv'd on Saturday laſt much wearied, yet had wrote ſooner, but was told by Mr. Gay (who has writ a pret⯑ty Poem to Lintot, and who gives you his ſervice) that you was gone from home. Lewis ſhew'd me your letter, which ſet me right, and your next letter is impatiently expected by me. Mr. Wycherley came to town on Sunday laſt, and kindly ſurpriz'd me with a viſit on Monday morning. We din'd and drank together; and I ſaying, To our Loves, he reply'd, 'Tis Mr. Pope's health: He ſaid he would go to Mr. Tho⯑rold's and leave a letter for you. Tho' I cannot anſwer for the event of all this, in [310] reſpect to him; yet I can aſſure you, that when you pleaſe to come you will be moſt deſirable to me, as always by inclination ſo now by duty, who ſhall ever be

Mr. POPE to Mr. C. . . .

I Receiv'd the entertainment of your Let⯑ter the day after I had ſent you one of mine, and I am but this morning return'd hither. The news you tell me of the ma⯑ny difficulties you found in your return from Bath, gives me ſuch a kind of plea⯑ſure as we uſually take in accompanying our Friends in their mixt adventures; for me⯑thinks I ſee you labouring thro' all your inconveniencies of the rough roads, the hard ſaddle, the trotting horſe, and what not? What an agreeable ſurprize wou'd it have been to me, to have met you by pure accident, (which I was within an ace of doing) and to have carry'd you off triumphantly, ſet you on an eaſier Pad, and reliev'd the wandring Knight with a Night's lodging and rural Repaſt, at our Caſtle in the Foreſt? But theſe are only [311] the pleaſing Imaginations of a diſappointed Lover, who muſt ſuffer in a melancholy abſence yet theſe two months. In the mean time, I take up with the Muſes for want of your better company; the Muſes, Quae nobiſcum pernoctant, peregrinantur, ruſtican⯑tur. Thoſe aerial Ladies juſt diſcover e⯑nough to me of their beauties to urge my purſuit, and draw me on in a wand'ring Maze of thought, ſtill in hopes (and only in hopes) of attaining thoſe favours from 'em, which they confer on their more happy Admirers. We graſp ſome more beautiful Idea in our own brain, than our endeavours to expreſs it can ſet to the view of others; and ſtill do but la⯑bour to fall ſhort of our firſt Imagina⯑tion. The gay Colouring which Fancy gave at the firſt tranſient glance we had of it, goes off in the Execution; like thoſe various figures in the gilded clouds which while we gaze long upon, to ſeparate the parts of each imaginary Image, the whole faints before the eye and decays into confu⯑ſion.

I am highly pleas'd with the knowledge you give me of Mr Wycherley's preſent temper, which ſeems ſo favourable to me. I ſhall ever have ſuch a Fund of Affection for him as to be agreeable to myſelf when I am ſo to him, and cannot but be [312] gay when he's in good humour, as the ſurface of the Earth (if you will pardon a poetical ſimilitude) is clearer or gloomier, juſt as the Sun is brighter, or more over⯑caſt.—I ſhould be glad to ſee the Ver⯑ſes to Lintot which you mention, for me⯑thinks ſomething oddly agreeable may be produc'd from that ſubject.—For what remains, I am ſo well, that nothing but the aſſurance of your being ſo can make me better; and if you wou'd have me live with any ſatisfaction theſe dark days in which I cannot ſee you, it muſt be by your writing ſometimes to

Mr. C. . . . to Mr. POPE.

MR. Wycherley has, I believe ſent you two or three letters of invitation; but you, like the Fair, will be long ſolli⯑cited before you yield, to make the favour the more acceptable to the Lover. He is much yours by his talk; for that unbound⯑ed Genius which has rang'd at large like a libertine, now ſeems confin'd to you: [313] and I ſhou'd take him for your Miſtreſs too by your ſimile of the Sun and Earth: 'Tis very fine, but inverted by the application; for the gaiety of your fancy, and the droop⯑ing of his by the withdrawing of your luſtre, perſwades me it wou'd be juſter by the reverſe. Oh happy Favourite of the Muſes! how per-noctare, all night long with them? but alas! you do but toy, but ſkirmiſh with them, and decline a cloſe Engagement. Leave Elegy and Tranſlation to the inferior Claſs, on whom the Muſes only glance now and then like our Win⯑ter-Sun, and then leave 'em in the dark. Think on the Dignity of Tragedy, which is of the greater Poetry, as Dennis ſays, and foil him at his other weapon, as you have done in Criticiſm. Every one wonders that a Genius like yours will not ſupport the ſinking Drama; and Mr Wilks (tho' I think his Talent is Comedy) has expreſs'd a furious ambition to ſwell in your Buſkins. We have had a poor Comedy of John⯑ſon's (not Ben) which held ſeven nights, and has got him three hundred pounds, for the Town is ſharp-ſet on new Plays. In vain wou'd I fire you by Intereſt or Ambi⯑tion, when your mind is not ſuſceptible of either; tho' your Authority (ariſing from the General eſteem, like that of Pompey) muſt infallibly aſſure you of ſucceſs; for [314] which in all your wiſhes you will be at⯑tended with thoſe of

Mr POPE to Mr C. . . . . .

IF I have not writ to you ſo ſoon as I ought, let my writing now attone for the delay; as it will infallibly do, when you know what a Sacrifice I make you at this time, and that every moment my eyes are employ'd upon this paper, they are ta⯑ken off from two of the fineſt Faces in the univerſe. But indeed 'tis ſome conſolation to me to reflect, that while I but write this period. I eſcape ſome hundred fatal Darts from thoſe unerring Eyes, and about a thouſand Deaths, or better. Now you, that delight in dying, wou'd not once have dreamt of an abſent Friend in theſe cir⯑cumſtances; you that are ſo nice an Admi⯑rer of Beauty, or (as a Critic wou'd ſay af⯑ter Terence) ſo elegant a Spectator of Forms: You muſt have a ſober diſh of Coffee, and a ſolitary candle at your ſide, to write an Epiſtle Lucubratory to your friend; where⯑as I can do it as well with two pair of radiant lights, that out-ſhine the golden God [315] of Day and ſilver Goddeſs of Night with all the refulgent Eyes of the Firmament.—You fancy now that Sapho's eyes are two of theſe my Tapers, but it is no ſuch mat⯑ter, Sir; theſe are eyes that have more per⯑ſwaſion in one glance than all Sapho's Ora⯑tory and Geſture together, let her put her body into what moving poſtures ſhe pleaſes. Indeed, indeed, my friend, you cou'd ne⯑ver have found ſo improper a time to tempt me with Intereſt or Ambition: let me but have the Reputation of theſe in my keeping, and as for my own, let the De⯑vil, or let Dennis, take it for ever. How gladly wou'd I give all I am worth, that is to ſay, my Paſtorals for one of them, and my Eſſay for the other? I wou'd lay out all my Poetry in Love; an Original for a Lady, and a Tranſlation for a wait⯑ing Maid! alas! what have I to do with Jane Grey, as long as Miſs Molly, Miſs Betty, or Miſs Patty are in this world? Shall I write of Beauties murder'd long ago, when there are thoſe at this inſtant that murder me? I'll e'en compoſe my own Tra⯑gedy, and the Poet ſhall appear in his own perſon to move Compaſſion: 'Twill be far more effectual than Bays's entring with a rope about his neck, and the world will own, there never was a more miſerable Ob⯑ject brought upon the Stage.

[316] Now you that are a Critic, pray inform me, in what manner I may connect the foregoing part of this Letter with that which is to follow, according to the Rules? I would willingly return Mr Gay my thanks for the favour of his Poem, and in parti⯑cular for his kind mention of me; I hop'd, when I heard a new Comedy had met with ſucceſs upon the Stage, that it had been his, to which I really wiſh no leſs; and (had it been any way in my power) ſhould have been very glad to have contributed to it's Introduction into the world. His ^*Ver⯑ſes to Lintot have put a whim into my head, which you are like to be troubled with in the oppoſite page^†. Take it as you find it, the production of half an hour t'o⯑ther morning. I deſign very ſoon to put a taſk of a more ſerious nature upon you, in reviewing a piece of mine that may better deſerve Criticiſm; and by that time you have done with it, I hope to tell you in perſon with how much fidelity I am,