^* 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 [4] 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 practic'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 [5] 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 mornings 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 [7] 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 eaſe 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 your ſelf, 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 [8] 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.

[9] 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 [10] a new nonſence 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⯑be's zeal in my commendation, and good⯑neſs [11] 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 [12] 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 [13] 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 ſhou'd 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 [14] 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 ſetting 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.

[15] 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 our ſelves; 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 damn'd 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 ingag'd by God to one another. Therefore I own to you, I was glad of any opportnnity 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 [16] needs have done good; in a nation and time, wherein 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 biggotries; 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 our ſelves 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.

[17] 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 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 would imagine the author plainly declar'd againſt thoſe ſchiſmatics, for quitting the true faith out of contempt of the underſtanding of ſome ſew 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 aſſur'd me I had ſaid no⯑thing which a Catholick need to diſown, [18] 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 refus'd 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 [19] 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 Tonſon'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 un⯑derſtand, 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 perſevere 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 [20] 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 no⯑bleſt Commentary.

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 fa⯑mous for making every man a fine gentle⯑man. 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 [21] 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 benefits 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 al⯑ready 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, [22] 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 come out in Lintot's [23] 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. [24] 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 [25] in the caſe of this unhappy Lady? I am afraid to inſinuate to you how much I eſteem you: Flatterers have taken up the ſtile 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 ſpaniels, 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 my ſelf 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 [26] 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 be⯑low 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 ſcene of your life from the town to the country, and enjoy that mix'd ſtate which wiſe men both delight in, and are quali⯑lify'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 [28] 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 an⯑other ſort of people who ſeem deſign'd for ſolitude, 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 [29] 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 my ſelf 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 e'en 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 my ſelf in theſe diffe⯑rent views, and I hope have receiv'd ſome [30] 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 our ſelves 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 [31] world have not 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 attom 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) [32] 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 meaſur'd 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 [33] 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⯑peror was a heathen, that doubt concer⯑ning 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 [34] 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 us'd 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 pleas'd to inſert it in the Spectator, 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. Ad⯑diſon ſhall ſee it to morrow: After his peruſal of it, I well 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 your ſelf. If your thoughts are unen⯑gaged, I ſhall explain my ſelf further. I am

Mr. POPE to Mr. STEELE.

YOU oblige me by the indulgence you have ſhewn to 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; [36] but ſince you ſay you ſee nothing that may be call'd a fault, can you but think it ſo, that I have confin'd 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 Your ſelf 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.)

[37] If you will entertain the beſt opinion of me, be pleas'd 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; had 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 own'd my opinion to be that the expreſſions are not ſo, but [38] that diminutives are as often in the Latin tongue uſed as marks of tenderneſs and con⯑cern.

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 Homunciolum that expreſt the love and ten⯑derneſs that great Emperor had for him And perhaps I ſhould my ſelf be much better pleas'd, if I were told you call'd me your little friend, than if you compli⯑mented me with the title of a great Ge⯑nius, 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 [39] 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 your ſelf 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 [40] 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 pleas'd to declare, that my Verſes are corrected by [41] 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 endeavour'd my utmoſt that they ſhould. But theſe things are only whiſper'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 ſhews 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 receiv'd 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 Engliſh Man to ſee the French, even Boileau him⯑ſelf in his Lutrin, outdone in your Poem: For you deſcend, leviore plectro, to all the nicer [42] touches, that your own obſervation and wit furniſh, on ſuch a ſubject as requires the fineſt ſtrokes, and the livelieſt ima⯑gination. 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 condemn me of partiality, ſince I only ſwim with the ſtream, and approve what all men of good taſte (notwith⯑ſtanding the jarring of Parties) muſt and do univerſally applaud. I now come to what is of vaſt moment, I mean the preſervation of your health, and beg of you earneſtly to get out of all Tavern-compa⯑ny, and fly away tanquam ex incendio. What a miſery it is for you to be deſtroy'd 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 country. I beg now for my own ſake, but much more for yours; methinks Mr. [...] has ſaid to you more than once,

I am

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 really uſe a ſtyle of compliment, which I expect as little as I deſerve it. I know 'tis a common opinion that a young ſcribler is as ill pleas'd to hear truth as a young Lady. From the moment one ſets up for an author, one muſt be treated as ceremo⯑niouſly, that 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 cajoll'd with praiſes. And I believe, Poets are the only poor fellows in the world whom any body will flatter.

[44] 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 my ſelf; 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 your ſelf 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 [45] 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 my ſelf as a part of your care. The inſtances I daily meet with of theſe agreeable awa⯑kenings 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 [46] obliged to Mr. Jervas, who gives me daily inſtructions and examples. As to poetical 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 eccho'd back by the Tories on the other; while the Author ſweated be⯑hind 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, [47] between one of the acts, and preſented him with fifty guinea's; in acknowledgment (as he expreſt it) for defending the cauſe of Liberty ſo well againſt a Perpetual Di⯑ctator. 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 [48] 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.

[49] 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, [50] 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 oblig'd 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 your ſelf.

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 que⯑ſtion 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 liberty of a friend, in adviſing you not to content your ſelf with one half of the Nation for your Admirers when you might command 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 undertakings will turn to the better account for it.

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

Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON.

YOUR laſt is the more obliging, as it hints at ſome little niceties in my conduct, 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 Parnaſ⯑ſus, which is often rated much higher than in proportion to the ſmall poſſeſ⯑ſion an author holds. For indeed an au⯑thor who is once come upon the town, is enjoy'd without being thank'd for the pleaſure, 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 offend⯑ed the violent of all Parties already; and at the ſame time I aſſure you conſcien⯑tiouſly, 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 condi⯑tion.

[53] As I hope and would flatter my ſelf, 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 mention'd. 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⯑ver'd to any man but the publiſher, till ve⯑ry lately: yet almoſt every body I met told me of it.

[54] The true reaſon that Mr. Steele laid down the Paper, was a quarrel between him and Jacob Tonſon. He ſtood engag'd to his bookſeller, in articles of penalty, for all the Cuardians: 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⯑lcy.

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 politer kind, as before: But I aſſure you as to my ſelf, 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 render'd me a ſuſpected Whig to ſome of the vio⯑lent, 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, [55] 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, [56] 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⯑ſtrain'd 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 per⯑haps I am above the ſtars, with a thouſand ſyſtems 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 [57] 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 Good! What an incongruous ani⯑mal is Man? how unſettled in 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 life of ſome minutes? and of how much leſs [58] 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 my ſelf. I am

To the Same.

YOur letter found me very buſy in my grand undertaking, to which I muſt wholly give my ſelf up for ſome time, un⯑leſs when I ſnatch an hour to pleaſe my ſelf with a diſtant converſation with you [59] 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 flatter my ſelf, 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, call'd 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 digg'd, encompaſs'd 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 [60] 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 catechiz'd 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 favour'd 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 form'd, by any good-natur'd man, that a perſon who has been well us'd 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 [61] 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 [62] 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. Stile, Painting, Judgment, Spirit, I had al⯑ready admired in others of your Writings; but in this I am charm'd 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 pleas'd with the reading of it, than I am with the pre⯑text it gives me to renew in your thoughts the remembrance of one who values no happineſs beyond the friendſhip of men of wit, learning, and good nature.

I remember to have heard you mention ſome half-form'd 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 [63] 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 retrieve them from their cold, trivial con⯑ceits, to an imitation of their Predeceſ⯑ſors.

As Merchants, Antiquaries, Men of Plea⯑ſure, &c. have all different views in tra⯑velling; I know not whether it might not be worth a Poet's while, to travel, in or⯑der 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 skys, you muſt come to Italy: and to en⯑able a man to deſcribe rocks and precipi⯑ces, it is abſolutely neceſſary that he paſs the Alps.

You will eaſily perceive that it is ſelf⯑intereſt makes me ſo fond of giving ad⯑vice 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 great⯑eſt part of his family in this town. God knows how long we ſhall ſtay here. I am

Mr. POPE to the Honourable . . . . .

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 enter'd 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 after Philips had talk'd in this idle manner, and aſſur'd me of his diſ⯑belief of what had been ſaid, of the friend⯑ſhip we ſhou'd always maintain, and de⯑ſir'd I would 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 prejudice with one Party. However Philips did all [65] 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 commiſſion'd 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 [66] opponents. May their envy and ill nature ever increaſe, to the glory and pleaſure of thoſe they would 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 launch'd 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 [67] 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 convinc'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⯑appointment here, and even in caſe of no diſappointments 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 excell'd, than theſe to be rivall'd. And at the upſhot, after a life of perpetual application, to re⯑flect that you have been doing nothing for your ſelf, 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 fame, not to be had 'till after death,) yet [68] 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 ſhou'd 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 [69] 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 paſt 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 [70] 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 qui⯑etly 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 ſort of publick Perſe⯑cution. [71] It is certainly to be lamented, that if any man does but endeavour to diſtinguiſh himſelf, or gratify others by his ſtudies, he is immediately treated as a common enemy, inſtead of being look'd upon as a common 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 perfection in writing, but through obſtinacy and an in⯑veterate reſolution againſt the ſtream of man⯑kind: 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 before un⯑fortunate in their own attempts, are ſworn foes to them only becauſe they ſucceed.—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 Painters 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 mention'd 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 permitted to paſs any judgment of you.

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

[73] 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 poſſeſt 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 my ſelf 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.

[75] I fancy no friendſhip is ſo likely to prove laſting as ours, becauſe I am pretty ſure there never was a friendſhip of ſo eaſie 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⯑vinc'd of the truth of a Maxim we once agreed in, That nothing hinders the con⯑ſtant agreement of people who live toge⯑ther, [76] 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 [77] 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 ſitu⯑ations. 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 loſing 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 [78] as four thouſand Prieſts; and they ſeem proper forces to ſend againſt thoſe in Barcetona. 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 men's. I thank God that as for my ſelf, 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 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 [79] 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 it ſelf 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 charg'd 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 my ſelf juſt in the ſame ſituation of mind you deſcribe as your own, hear⯑tily 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 ſuſpence 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 aſſured 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 ſhou'd 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 [81] 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 your ſelf 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 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 perform'd.

If I have been inſtrumental in bringing you and Mr. Addiſon together with all ſin⯑cerity, I value my ſelf upon it as an ac⯑ceptable 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 [82] 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 joyn 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 aſham'd 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, [83] or envying another's reputation as a Poet. So I leave it to time to convince him as to both, 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 when⯑ever 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 forc'd 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 man of ſenſe; [84] 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 malevolencies have loſt their effect? Indeed it is neither for me, nor my ene⯑mies, 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 acquaintance has ſo little In⯑tereſt 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 inſenſible of any good office, nor ſo humble, as not [85] to dare heartily to deſpiſe any man who does me an injuſtice.

I will not value my ſelf 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 car'd 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,"’ [86] 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 removing your objection: I beg you but to point out thoſe ſtrokes to me, and you may be aſſured they ſhall be treated with⯑out mercy.

Since we are upon proofs of ſincerity (which I am pretty confident will turn to the advantage of us both in each others opinion) give me leave to name another paſſage in the ſame Spectator, which I wiſh you would alter. It is where you men⯑tion an obſervation upon Homer's Verſes of Syſiphus's Stone, as ^* 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 ut⯑moſt eſteem,

Mr. POPE to the Earl of HALIFAX.

I Am oblig'd 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 ene⯑my to my native country, there will ap⯑pear a better reaſon; for I muſt of conſe⯑quence be very much, (as I ſincerely am)

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 my ſelf 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 perhaps 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 diſ⯑covering its own faults at firſt view: as when a Stream ſhows the dirt at its bot⯑tom, it ſhows alſo the tranſparency of the water.

My ſpleen was not occaſion'd howe⯑ver, 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 [89] 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 friend⯑ſhip, 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 judgment, 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 [90] to pay a viſit to Mr. M [...], whom I ſaw not long ſince at my Lord Halifax's. I hoped from thence he had ſome hopes of advantage from the preſent adminiſtra⯑tion: for few people (I think) but I, pay reſpects to great Men without any proſ⯑pects. 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 endea⯑vours 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 ſpecu⯑lations 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 un⯑der no leſs amazement on the ſame account. Several templers, and others of the more [91] vociferous kind of criticks, went with a re⯑ſolution to hiſs, and confeſt they were forced to laugh ſo much, that they forgot the de⯑ſign they came with. The Court in gene⯑ral has in a very particular manner come into the jeſt, and the three firſt Nights, (notwithſtanding two of them were court⯑nights) were diſtinguiſh'd by very full audi⯑ences 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 determined 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 [92] amends in that of intereſt, as yet; what⯑ever 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 as ill: but am really amazed that ſo much of that ſower and pernicious quality ſhou'd be joyned 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 perſon to converſe with upon the fathers and church-hiſtory; the knowledge I gain from him, is entirely in painting and poetry; and Mr. Pope owes [93] all his skill in aſtronomy to him and Mr. Whiſton, ſo celebrated of late for his diſ⯑covery 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 wo⯑man ever deſpis'd Sovereignty? You know Chaucer has a tale where a knight ſaves his head, by diſcovering it was the thing which all women moſt coveted. Mr. Pope's Homer is retarded by the great rains that have fal⯑len of late, which cauſes the ſheets to be long a drying; this gives Mr. Lintot great uneaſineſs, who is now endeavouring 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 pub⯑liſh'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 a⯑gainſt the Pilgrims Progreſs being read, which he ſays is directly level'd at Cato's reading Plato; to back this cenſure, he goes on to tell you, that the Pilgrims Progreſs being mention'd to be the eighth edition, makes the reflection evident, the Tragedy [94] of Cato having juſt eight times (as he quaintly expreſſes it) viſited the Preſs. He has alſo endeavoured to ſhow, that every particular paſſage of the play alludes to ſome fine part of Tragedy, which he ſays I have injudiciouſly 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 let⯑ter foreſtall'd all the ſubjects of diverſion; unleſs it ſhould be one to you to ſay, that I ſit up till two a-clock over Burgundy and Champagne; and am become ſo much a rake, that I ſhall be aſhamed in a ſhort time to be thought to do any ſort of bu⯑ſineſs. I fear I muſt get the gout by drink⯑ing, 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 predeceſſor: Pray cauſe the ſtuffing to be repaired, and the crutches ſhortned for me. The calamity of your gout is what all your friends, that is to ſay all that know you, muſt ſhare in; we de⯑ſire you in your turn to condole with us, [95] who are under a perſecution, and much afflicted with a diſtemper which proves grievous to many poets, a Criticiſm. We have indeed ſome relieving intervals of laugh⯑ter, (as you know there are in ſome Diſ⯑eaſes;) and it is the opinion of divers good gueſſers, that the laſt fit will not be more violent than advantageous; for poets aſ⯑ſail'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 call'd Homerides. He has ſince riſen very much in his criticiſms, and after aſ⯑ſaulting Homer, made a daring attack upon the ^* What-d'ye-call-it. Yet is there not a proclamation iſſued for the burning of Ho⯑mer and the Pope by the common hang⯑man; nor is the What-d'ye-call-it yet ſilenc'd by the Lord-Chamberlain. They ſhall ſur⯑vive 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 would give you an account of the extraordi⯑nary 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 mount⯑ed on a ſtonehorſe, (no diſagreeable compa⯑nion to your Lordſhips 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 anſwer'd, he got it of his publiſher: ‘"For that rogue, my printer, (ſaid he) diſap⯑pointed 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 my ſelf cockſure of his horſe, which he readily promis'd 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 [97] 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 baggs, 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 Elzevir 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 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 [98] 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 ſollicitude: 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 under the Woods. When were alighted, ‘"See here, what a mighty pretty Horace I have in my pocket? what if you amus'd your ſelf in turning an Ode, till we mount again? Lord! if you pleas'd, what a 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 trott 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 lug'd the reins, ſtopt [99] ſhort, and broke out, ‘"Well Sir, how far have you gone?"’ I anſwer'd 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 En⯑gland. 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, be⯑tween 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 un⯑derſtand all the languages in the uni⯑verſe: 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 latter end. By G-d I can never be ſure in theſe fellows, for I nei⯑ther underſtand Greek, Latin, French, nor Italian my ſelf. 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 [100] 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 ſe⯑cure that thoſe correctors may not impoſe upon you? ‘"Why I get any civil gentle⯑man, (eſpecially any Scotchman) that comes into my ſhop, to read the origi⯑nal 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 happen'd to me laſt month: I bargain'd with S [...] for a new verſion of Lucretius to publiſh againſt Tonſon's; agreeing to pay the au⯑thor ſo many ſhillings at his producing ſo many lines. He made a great pro⯑greſs in a very ſhort time, and I gave it to the corrector 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 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 [101] of them; the rich one's for a ſheet a⯑piece of the blotted manuſcript, which coſts me nothing. They'll go about with it to their acquaintance, and pre⯑tend 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 to, as the top critics of the town.—As for the poor Critics, I'll give you one inſtance of my manage⯑ment, by which you may gueſs at the reſt. A lean man that look'd like a very good ſcholar, came to me t'other day; he turn'd over Homer, ſhook his head, ſhrug'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 Verſifier—he was going on when my Wife call'd 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 con⯑cern'd on your account—Sir I am much oblig'd to you: if you can dine upon a piece of beef, together with a ſlice of pudding—Mr. Lintott, I do not ſay but Mr. Pope, if he would condeſcend to ad⯑viſe with men of learning—Sir, the pud⯑ding [102] 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 commendable, and the Pudding excel⯑lent."’

Now Sir (concluded Mr. Lintott) in re⯑turn to the frankneſs I have ſhewn, 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 hop'd it, my Lord be⯑ing 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 print⯑ing 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 prejudic'd by my pen, and the plea⯑ſures from them only to be equal'd when I meet your Lordſhip. I hope in a few days to caſt my ſelf from your horſe at your feet.

Dr. PARNELL 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 intently of my being far from you. I fan⯑cy 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 aſham'd to feel, ſince it is but the teſtimony which one part of it gives you that your merit is un⯑queſtionable: What wou'd you have other⯑wiſe, from ignorance, envy, or thoſe tem⯑pers 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 exaſperated too at the vanity of its labours; then we ſpeak ill of happier ſtudies, and ſighing con⯑demn the excellence which we find above our reach.—

My ^* Zoilus which you us'd to write about, I finiſh'd laſt ſpring, and left in [104] town, I waited till I came up to ſend it you, but not arriving here before your book was out, 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 oame 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 ſpi⯑rit have an equal maſtery with yours; but what ſurprizes me more is, that, a ſcholar being concern'd, there ſhould happen to be ſome miſtakes in the author's ſenſe; ſuch as putting 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 leaving 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.

Mr. POPE to the Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Eſq

I Lay hold of the opportunity given me by my Lord Duke of Shrewsbury, to [108] aſſure you of the continuance of that eſteem and affection I have long born you, and the memory of ſo many agreeable conver⯑ſations as we have paſs'd together. I wiſh it were a compliment to ſay ſuch conver⯑ſations as are not to be found on this ſide of the Water: for the Spirit of Diſſention 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, refin'd ſenſe, and exalted ſenſe; but for uſe and happineſs give me a little com⯑mon ſenſe. I ſay this in regard to ſome gentlemen, profeſs'd 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 conſider'd, I [109] 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 inclin'd 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 [110] 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 fa⯑miliar 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 Eccho. A modern Writer explains this to ſignify, ‘"When popular Tumults begin, retire to Solitudes, or ſuch places where Eccho's are commonly ſound; 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 Eccho, and is the more natural application of the Symbol. [111] 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 ruin of others, which I fear will be our daily proſpect in London.

I ſincerely wiſh my ſelf with you, to contemplate the wonders of God in the firmament, rather than the madneſs of man 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 rymes and the meaſuring of ſyllables: To be almoſt the only trifler in the nation; and as ridicu⯑lous as the Poet in Petronius, who while all the reſt in the ſhip were either labour⯑ing or praying for life, was ſcratching his head in a little room, to write a fine de⯑ſcription 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 liſt⯑ed my ſelf in the battles of Homer, and I am no ſooner in war, but like moſt other folks, I wiſh my ſelf out again.

[112] I heartily joyn 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 oppoſite religions, with great ſincerity. I think to be a lover of one's Country is a glo⯑rious 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 ge⯑nerouſly. Theſe, dear Sir, are my gene⯑ral diſpoſitions, but whenever I pray or wiſh for particulars, 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 Eccho, 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 Py⯑thagoras, which is Silence; and this I ſhall obſerve, if not the whole time of his diſ⯑cipline, yet at leaſt till Your return into this country. I am oblig'd further to this me⯑thod, by the moſt ſevere weather I ever felt; when tho' I keep as near by the fire as may be, yet Gelidus concrevit frigore San⯑guis: 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, ſtant 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.

[114] I cannot forbear to add a piece of ar⯑tifice I have been guilty of, on occaſion of my being oblig'd to congratulate the birth-day of a friend of mine: When finding I had no materials of my own, I very frankly ſent him your imitation of Martial's Epigram 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 proceeding I have laid the foun⯑dation 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 con⯑ceal'd the true author) whether you will give me orders to declare who is the Father of this fine child, or not? What⯑ever 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 [116] and peaceable Poſſeſſion of the Britiſh Lau⯑rel: 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 Va⯑lidity 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 [117] 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 Family Piece. Come then, and having peopled Ireland with a World of beau⯑tiful 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 England has alter'd the Airs of all its heads in your Abſence; and with what ſneaking City Attitudes our moſt celebrated Perſonages appear in the 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 deſires 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 Qualities daily extend themſelves to all about him: Whereof, I the meaneſt next to ſome Italian Chymiſts, Fidlers, Brick⯑layers, 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 Misfortunes, I ſhould tell you I reckoned your Abſence no ſmall one; but I hope you have alſo had many good and plea⯑ſant 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 have taken 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 [119] nothing to me, is by ſaying all the good you can of me, which is that I heartily love and eſteem the Dean, and Dr. Par⯑nelle.

Gay is yours and theirs. His Spirit is awakened very much in the Cauſe of the Dean, which has broke forth in a cou⯑rageous Couplet or two upon Sir Richard Bl [...] He has printed it with his Name to it, and bravely 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 patria, ne oſſa quidem ha⯑beas.

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⯑tion'd 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 entertain'd 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 admir'd in your own Country, which ſo ſeldom hap⯑pens to Prophets and Poets. But in this you [121] 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 learn'd 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 [122] 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 myſelf under its Roof, as depend⯑ing that Providence will preſerve ſo many Raphaels, Titian's 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 [124] black and red. By diſuſing Stays, and in⯑dulging themſelves at Table, they are run out of all Shape; but as to that, they may give a good reaſon, they prefer Con⯑veniency 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 trouble you with a Letter, but was diſcouraged 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 nevertheleſs lately return'd 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 wonderful variety of Hills, Vales, ragged Rocks, fruitful Plains, and barren Mountains, all thrown together in a moſt romantic Confuſion. The Air is [126] in the hotteſt Seaſon, conſtantly refreſhed by cool breezes from the Sea. The Vales produce excellent Wheat and Indian Corn, but are moſtly covered with Vineyards, in⯑termixt with Fruit-trees. Beſides the com⯑mon kinds, as Cherries, Apricots, Pea⯑ches, &c. they produce Oranges, Limes, Almonds, Pomegranates, Figs, Water Me⯑lons, and many other Fruits unknown 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 in the Northern ſide are divided by hedge-rows of Myrtle. Several Fountains and Rivulets add to the Beauty of this Land⯑ſcape, which is likewiſe ſet off by the va⯑riety 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 An⯑cients 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 Pro⯑ſpect 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 [127] Antium, to the 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 Parthenope, together with Cajeta, Cumae, Monte Miſeno, the Habitations of Circe, the Syrens, and the Leſtrygones, 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 num⯑bers as flowing as your own, to deſcribe it. The Inhabitants 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 Ava⯑rice or Ambition, they might in fact anſwer the poetical Notions of the Golden Age. But they have got, as an alloy to their Hap⯑dineſs, an ill habit of murdering one another on ſlight 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 En⯑tertainment is the Devotion of our Neigh⯑bours. [128] Beſides the gayety of their Churches (where Folks go to ſee what they call una bella Devotione (i. e.) a ſort of Religious Opera) they make Fireworks 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, beſide 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 your Succeſs. You will do me the Juſtice to believe, 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 Tranſla⯑tor, 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 [130] 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 various fates attending that important part of my Life: Much more, ſhould I deſcribe the many Draughts, Elevations, Profiles, Perſpectives, &c. of every Palace and Gar⯑den 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 paſt 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 [131] 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 myſelf? 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 de⯑ny'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⯑rations, our Gravities, our Reveries, our Fooleries, our what not?—This awak⯑ens 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 [132] 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 Ir⯑religion. 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.

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 Medi⯑caments about with them. But indeed the Moderns are ſuch lovers of Raillery, 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.

[134] I am glad you are ſo much in a better ſtate of Health, as to allow 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 diffe⯑rence between their Gorbuduc, 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.

[135] 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 Underſtand⯑ing, you ſee I omit to anſwer your Letters till a time, when another man would be aſhamed to own he had received them. If [136] therefore you are ever moved on my ac⯑count 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 Ci⯑vility beyond my natural Inclination: I dare truſt you, Sir, not only with my Folly when I write, but with my Negligence 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-adays 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, [137] 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 rejoyced 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 yourſelves, 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 [138] 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 my ſelf, like great Miniſters, with undertaking too much for one Man, and with a Deſire of doing more than was expect⯑ed 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 exe⯑cuted. I've alſo been oblig'd to leave un⯑finiſh'd in my desk the Heads of two Eſſays, one on the Theology and Morality of Homer, and another on the Oratory of Homer and Virgil. So they muſt wait for future Edi⯑tions, 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 [139] 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 conſtantly 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 Siſters wiſh) that you were with us, to com⯑pare the beautiful Contraſte this Seaſon affords 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 retain 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 Ha⯑bitations I have made 'em: My Building riſes high enough to attract the eye and [140] curioſity 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, poetical Gods of the River may take, in reflecting on their Streams my Tuſcan Porticos, 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 advantaging a Creature that is Mortal, or of ſatisfying 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 unſatisfied ſo long, had not that ill ſtate been the impe⯑diment. Nor ſhould I have ſeem'd an un⯑concern'd party in the Joys of your family, which I heard of from Lady Scudamore, whoſe ſhort Eſchantillon of a Letter (of a quarter of a page) I value as the ſhort Glimpſe of a Viſion afforded to ſome de⯑vout Hermit; for it includes (as thoſe Re⯑velations do) a promiſe of a better Life in the Elyſian Groves of Cirenceſter, whither, 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 Aſſoci⯑ates: Thither may whole Cargoes of Nec⯑tar (Liquor of Life and Longaevity!) by mortals call'd Spaw-water, be convey'd, and there (as Milton has it) may we, like the Deities,

[142] 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 Ora⯑tory or what Poetry, can ſuffice, to expreſs how infinitely I eſteem, value, love and de⯑ſire 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 needed only to follow his Hints, to be in eternal buſineſs and amuſement of mind, and even as active as ſhe could deſire. But indeed 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 Philanthropy, 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 forces all others about him to be ſo too, and draws them into his own Vortex. He is a Star that [144] looks as if it were all Fire, but is all Benig⯑nity, 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 mixed with Acquiſitions and Loſſes (tho' 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 wor⯑thy Man I have loſt another, a very eaſy, humane, and gentlemanly Neighbour, Mr. Stonor. It's certain the Loſs of one of this Character puts us naturally upon ſetting a greater Value on the few that are left, tho' the degree of our Eſteem may be different. Nothing, ſays Seneca, is ſo melancholy a circumſtance in human life, or ſo ſoon re⯑conciles us to the thought of our own death, as the reflection and proſpect of one Friend after 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 ſafety 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 ſees 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 [146] from the young Lady, further buſineſs, and further employment. Beſides all this, there dwells on the one ſide of her the Lord Co⯑ningsby, 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 better Man than to content myſelf with thanking 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 Cla⯑rendon, and deſire Mr. Philips to remember me in his Cyder, and to tell Mr. W [...] that I am dead and buried.

I wiſh the young Ladies, whom I almoſt 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 overlook one's failings, ſince every ſuch inſtance is a Conviction of his Kindneſs.

If I am all my life to dwell in In⯑tentions, 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 Digby 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 Magi⯑cian 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 [148] 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. Digby 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 Scythian 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 [149] with all their Charms diſplay'd, provoke the Spirit of the Soldiers: Tea and Coffee ſup⯑ply the place of Lacedemonian black Broth. This Camp ſeems crowned with perpetual Victory, for every Sun that riſes in the Thunder of Cannon, ſets in the Muſick of Violins. Nothing is yet wanting but the conſtant preſence of the Princeſs, to repreſent the Mater Exercitûs.

At Twickenham the World goes other⯑wiſe. There are certain old People who take up all my time, and will hardly al⯑low 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 Rocheſter. Yet he allows me (from 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 Abſence 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) wonderfully recovered, tho' not ſo much as yet to venture out of her Chamber, yet enough to enjoy a few particular Friends, when they have the good Nature to look upon her. I may recom⯑mend to you the Room we ſit in, upon one (and that a favourite) Account, 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 Eyes. This I take to be a [151] Splendor ſtill more agreeable than the Fires you ſo delightfully 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 to⯑gether, (a far more rational Delight, and better felt by an honeſt Heart, than all the glaring Entertainments, numerous 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. How⯑ard'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 ex⯑preſs 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 danger⯑ous 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 try'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, [153] 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 [154] 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 Painter; 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 Teleſcopes, and where thoſe of all others are equally ſuch upon their Neighbours. Stay You at leaſt (for what I've ſaid before relates only to the Ladies, don't imagine I'll write about any Eyes but theirs) Stay, I ſay, from that idle, [155] buſy-looking Sanhedrin, 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 Advice, 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 world⯑ly, as idle, in a Word as much an Anti-Ber⯑mudaniſt as any body. Dear Sir, make the Ladies know I am their Servant, 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 ſome⯑thing 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 hanging [156] Gardens of Babylon, the Paradiſe of Cyrus, and the Sharawaggi's 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 Extra⯑vagante Bergerie; and that ſhe is juſt now ſitting, or rather reclining, on a Bank, fa⯑tigu'd with over much Dancing and Sing⯑ing at his unwearied Requeſt and Inſtigation. 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 Conſopition 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 [157] 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 excellent, 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 to 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 [158] (what makes him ſtill more a Child) a King of French-men. 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 Climacterick. 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 hers 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 Scan⯑dal, 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 its Peace, there muſt be ſome Guilt or Conſciouſneſs, which is inconſiſtent with its 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 Liers and Calumni⯑ators at laſt hurt none but themſelves, even [159] 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⯑flections 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 'tis the Misfortune of that Fa⯑mily to be govern'd 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 [160] 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 Plum-broth) whereof frequent is the mention in old Sermons and Alma⯑nacks, is really kept alive and in Practiſe: 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 [161] I aſſure you, Men, Women, and Children 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 Comick 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 [166] 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 an heroick 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 Recompenſe; 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 [167] 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 my ſelf to know ſuch Trifles, when they concern or charac⯑teriſe 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 [168] 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 here 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, [169] 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.

[170] Your Remark, that the Variety of opini⯑on in Politicks 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 a 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 Friends 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 people 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 in⯑to 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 a⯑bove [172] 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 Conflagra⯑tion, where nothing we can value is leſt behind us.

Methinks in our preſent Condition, the moſt heroic thing we are left capable of doing, is to endeavour to lighten each others 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 [173] Chearfulneſs. The Misfortunes of private Families, the Miſunderſtandings of People whom Diſtreſſes make ſuſpicious, the Cold⯑neſſes of Relations whom Change of Religi⯑on 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 [174] to apprehend. I grieve with the Old, for ſo many additional Inconveniencies, and Chagrins, more than their ſmall Remain of Life ſeem'd deſtin'd to undergo; andwith 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 Widow and Fatherleſs, late of—As I am certain no People living had an earlier and truer Senſe of others Misfortunes, or a more gene⯑rous reſignation as to what might be their own; ſo I earneſtly wiſh, that whatever part they muſt bear may be render'd as ſup⯑portable 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 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 Fata⯑lity 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 [175] 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 [176] whether 'tis a Felicity or Unhappineſs, tha I am obliged at this time to give up my whole Application to Homer; when without that Employment, my Thoughts muſt turn upon what is leſs agreeable, the Violence, Mad⯑neſs 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 unfortunate Country⯑men.

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 truly a Citizen of the World (according to Pla⯑to's Expreſſion) that I look with equal In⯑difference on what I have loſt, and on what I have gained. The Times and Amuſements paſt are not more like a Dream to me, than thoſe which are preſent: I lie in a refreſh⯑ing 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 Intervals, [177] neither interrupting their own Employ⯑ments, nor altogether careleſs of ours: but in general conſtantly wiſhing us well, and hoping to have us one day in their Com⯑pany.

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 Admirers, greater Lovers, and in ſhort greater Fools, than we really are: So ſhall we live comfortably with our Fami⯑lies, quietly with our Neighbours, favour'd by our Maſters, and happy with our Miſ⯑treſſes. I have filled 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 [178] 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 re⯑ſtor'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 Family, (the hopes of the good Patriarch) land ſafe⯑ly after the Deluge upon the Shore of Tot⯑neſs.

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 little beholden) in the Tranſlation of a Clergyman [179] in my neighbourhood. The poor Man is highly concerned to vindicate Jeffery's vera⯑city as an Hiſtorian; and told me he was perfectly aſtoniſhed, we of the Roman com⯑munion could doubt of the Legends 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 Gogmagog, have brought him ſo far already, that he ſpeaks reſpect⯑fully of St. Chriſtopher's carrying Chriſt, and the Reſuſcitation of St. Nicholas Tolentine's Chickens. Thus we proceed apace in con⯑verting each other from all manner of Infi⯑delity.

Ajax and Hector are no more; compared to Corinaeus and Arthur, than the Guelphs and Ghibellines were to the Mohocks of ever⯑dreadful 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.

[180] P. S. I know you will take part in rejoy⯑cing 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 de⯑clare 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.

[181] 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 per⯑haps 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 be⯑ing 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 recollect his Figure. I look'd upon the Manſion, Walls, and Terraces; the Plantations, and Slopes, which Nature has made to command a variety of Vallies 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 joynted Baby. I dare ſay ſhe did one thing more, even in [183] thoſe early times; remember'd her Creator in the Days of her Youth.

You deſcribe ſo well your Heremitical ſtate of life, that none of the ancient 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 Perſona⯑ges took with them a Lady, and begat Sons and Daughters. You muſt modeſtly be content 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 Her⯑mit 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 myſelf 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 ob⯑liging in ſaying, I have now a whole Fa⯑mily upon my hands, to whom to diſ⯑charge 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 [184] only their green 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 [185] that you are to feel, which is to laſt you for life.'’

I joyn 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 dye; I am a poor Individual; no Crea⯑ture to wiſh, or to fear, for my life or death: 'Tis the only reaſon I have to re⯑pent being 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 De⯑fence.'’

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,

[186] 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 Af⯑fections 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 Famulorum Famularumque's, &c. My poor Mother is far from well, declining; and I am watch⯑ing 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 gay⯑eſt 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 [187] 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 Muſick 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 [188] ſeriouſly (and of late I have met with ſo many Occaſions of thinking ſeriouſly, that I begin never to think otherwiſe) I cannot but think theſe things very idle; as idle, as if a Beaſt of Burden ſhou'd 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 Nation 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.

Y [...] ſhew your ſelf a juſt Man and a [...]end in thoſe Gueſſes and Suppoſi⯑tions [...] make at the poſſible reaſons of my Silence; every one of which is a true one. As to forgetfulneſs of you or yours, 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 [190] 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 interſperſed with Pieces of Looking-glaſs in angular forms; and in the Cieling is a Star of the ſame Ma⯑terial, at which when a Lamp (of an orbi⯑cular Figure of thin Alabaſter) is hung in the Middle, a thouſand pointed Rays glitter and are reflected over the Place. There are con⯑nected to this Grotto by a narrower Paſſage 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 [191] 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 Teſtimony 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 [192] 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 degeee of Truth to falſify with: It is a Lye Guarded. Your Letter has been in my Pocket in conſtan [...] wearing, till that, and the Pocket, and the Suit, are worn out; by which means, I love 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' ſoli⯑tary 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 [193] Storms, laughing at Greatneſs, and merry over a Chriſtmas-fire, exerciſing all the Functions 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 Lady, 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 ſhould 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, [194] 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 [118] 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 myſelf, 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) al⯑moſt in all my time beſide. But nothing upon my word has been ſo Home-felt a ſa⯑tisfaction 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 humane life that coſts ſo much the furniſhing. Only what a luxu⯑rious Man wants for horſes and foot-men [120] 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 whol⯑ly 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 defer'd it. But I can hardly repent my neglect, when it [121] 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 Forma⯑rum 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 lon⯑ger 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 Bridgwaters, 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 [122] 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 ſmut⯑ted. However I comfort my ſelf with a chriſtian Reflection, that, I have not broken the Commandment, for my Pi⯑ctures 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 wou'd 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, [124] 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 myſelf 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 Dr. laſt Sunday, intend⯑ing 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 myſelf 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.

[125] 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 Do⯑ctor, or enforce 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 commend 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.

[127] 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, con⯑templative 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 [128] 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 loved 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 [129] 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 Lillies. By the Lillies 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 of 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 inſeperable 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 [130] 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 en⯑tirely, as ever,

I AM extremely glad to find by a Let⯑ter of yours 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 fa⯑ther.

[131] 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. Pulte⯑ney 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, [132] 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 Whig. 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 [133] 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 Expe⯑ctations 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⯑ſur'd 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 of, and from you; always glad to ſee you, whatever accidents or 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 [134] 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 deſerv'd 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 [135] 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 Dutcheſs of M. There are Ladies in and about Richmond that pretend to va⯑lue him and yourſelf; 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⯑ſion I ever troubled her with, and therefore it ſhall be the laſt (the very thing I fear ſhe 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 [136] of his Wife and family: Things that (I pre⯑ſume) are below the conſideration of a Wit and an Ombre-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. Chene, 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 ſent 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 [137] 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 'em 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 [138] 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 Impregnator of the Barren, and a Playfellow of the Mai⯑den. I am

I Faithfully aſſure you, in the midſt of that melancholy with which I have been ſo long encompaſſed, in an hourly Ex⯑pectation 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 [140] 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⯑quility, rather of your own giving to your ſelf, than from any Expectations of 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 [141] 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 [142] was not, and is not leſſen'd, by the imme⯑diate apprehenſion I have now every day lain 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 proba⯑ble 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 Du⯑ties. Dear Gay, be as chearful as your Suf⯑ferings will permit: God is a better friend than a Court: Even any honeſt man is a better. I promiſe you my entire friendſhip [143] in all events, heartily praying for your re⯑covery.

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 ſor 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 [144] dear with it, till we outlive 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 [145] 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 Indolency 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 healthful⯑ler, and the chearfuller into the bargain. You are happily rid of many curſed ce⯑remonies, as well as of many ill, and vici⯑ous habits, of which few or no men eſcape the Infection, who are hackney'd and 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 [147] 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 complacencies, ſuch compliances, ſuch diſtant decorums, as de⯑lude them in their Vanities, or engage them in their Paſſions. He is their Greateſt favourite, who is their Falſeſt: and when a man, by ſuch vile Gradations, arrives at the height of Grandeur and Power, he is then at beſt but in a circumſtance to be ha⯑ted, 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 [148] 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 on⯑ly 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 [149] 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 wrapt into the Idalian Groves, ſprinkled with Roſe-water, and live in Bur⯑rage 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 For⯑tune in her diſpenſations! for I deſerv'd ten times more to be baniſh'd than you, and I know ſome Ladies who merit it better 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 excuſe her not do⯑ing 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 men⯑tions 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 [150] 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 men⯑tioned kindly: He is in the North of Ire⯑land, doing I know not what, with I know not whom. Cleland always ſpeaks of you: he is at Tunbridge, wondring at the ſupe⯑rior Carni-voracity 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, General 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 [151] uneaſy with thoſe which are not. And you, whoſe Abſence is in a manner perpe⯑tual 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 Ba⯑niſhment from an earthly Court to an hea⯑venly one, in each other and their friends; for I conclude none but true Friends will conſort or aſſociate with them afterwards. I can't but look upon myſelf (ſo unwor⯑thy 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 Matter, 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 re⯑treat 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 Beau⯑ty, the Calumniators 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 inhabi⯑tants [152] of the Planet Jupiter: Except a few fervent prayers reach you on the wings of the poſt, from two or three of your zea⯑lous Votaries at this diſtance; as one Mrs. Howard, who lifts up her heart now and then to you, from the midſt of the Collu⯑vies and Sink of Human Greatneſs at W [...]r: One Mrs. B. that fancies you may remem⯑ber 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. Adieu. 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 Apollo, 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, [154] (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 conceal'd 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⯑and pounds Fortune, acquired by ſuch Me⯑thods as are in daily practice, and almoſt univerſally encouraged: Had he overwarm⯑ly defended 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: [156] 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 [157] 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 Injuſt, not conſidering, that no⯑thing can be Juſt that is not Perſonal. I am afraid that ‘"all ſuch Writings and Diſcourſes as touch no Man, will mend no Man."’ The Good Natured, indeed, are apt to be alarm⯑ed at any thing like Satire; and the Guilty readily concur with the Weak for a plain Reaſon, becauſe the Vicious look upon Fol⯑ly as their Frontier:

No wonder thoſe who know Ridicule be⯑longs to them, find an inward Conſolation [158] 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 Prey; every Beaſt born for our Uſe would be ready 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; unleſs Co⯑medy 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 apply'd to one only? Has it his Eye? No, it is very unlike. Has it his Noſe [159] 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 ſea⯑ſonable 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 confident the Author was incapable of imputing 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 con⯑cerned, if he gave the leaſt Pain or Offence to any innocent perſon; and none who would be leſs concerned, if the Satire were challenged by any one at whom he would really aim it. If ever that happens, 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 re⯑gard to that Noble Perſon was Impertinent; in regard to me, Villainous. Yet I had no great cauſe to wonder, that a Character be⯑longing 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 [161] 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 for⯑mer of which my own Heart is as conſci⯑ous, as I fear ſome of theirs muſt be of the latter. His Humanity feels a Concern for the Injury done to Me, while His Greatneſs of Mind can bear with Indifference the In⯑ſult 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 there⯑fore leave my Betters in the quiet Poſſeſſion of their Idols, their Groves, and their High-Places; and change my Subject from their [162] Pride to their Meanneſs, from their Vanities to their Miſeries: And as the only certain way to avoid Miſconſtructions, to leſſen Of⯑fence, and not to multiply illnatur'd Appli⯑cations, 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. [163] 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 no⯑ble Diſdain and Abhorrence of Vice, which you ſeem naturally endu'd with, but ſtill with a due regard to your own Safety; and ſtu⯑dy 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 a⯑bout me, and often with me, who will be very glad of his Preſent. If it is left [164] 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 al⯑ways be