To Lady RANELAGH at Bath.

I Hope the Waters agree very well with her Highneſs^*, and I wiſh they may anſwer all the Intents they are taken for; and that they may not only confirm her Highneſs's Health, but that the whole Nation may be bleſt with the Fruits of it in contributing to the increaſe of the Royal-Line, which will be of much more advantage to [31] theſe Kingdoms, than extending our Line in Flanders: For there, we may have ſufficient Encouragement to look after Ourſelves, and not after the Secu⯑rity of Strangers. Here is nothing at all of News, neither that Dunkirk is taken, nor Namure beſieged. So that I ſuppoſe the Army is in very good Health, for I hear nothing to the con⯑trary, and conſidering how great an Army we have, it is as much as can be expected that they take care of their Healths. This is all the News from Abroad; and as for the News at Home, the only is, that the Queen ſent into the City to borrow 200,000l. upon the Security of a Vote, the Parlia⯑ment made, that if the Poll-Bill did not ariſe to 1,200,000 l. they would make it up, ſome other way, the next Seſſion. I am very glad the City has that good Opinion of the Houſe of Commons, as to think they will not alter their Opinions. Another piece of News is, that a young Lady hanged [32] herſelf for Love, in Leiceſter-Fields. I ſuppoſe ſhe was really in Love; and, perhaps, the firſt that ever was ſo: I wiſh the City had as good a Security for their Money, as ſhe has given for her Love. I am, Madam,

To Lady RANELAGH.

I Am very ſorry, that the Waters, that have workt Wonders, as they ſay, upon all People, who have drank them this Year, ſhould diſagree with your Ladyſhip; I could find in my Heart to ſend ſome People who are very ſick thither; and then, I am ſure, I ſhall ruin their Reputation; or elſe ſend ſome ſour, conſumptive Fa⯑natic, [33] that has a Conſtitution as ſtub⯑born and untoward as his Principles; and if He ſhould chance to miſcarry, They will call them Jacobite-Waters; and if they ſhould once get that Name, it would clear you from a great deal of troubleſome Company, who have a Mind ſignally to diſtinguiſh themſelves from the reſt: And the Truth of it is, 'tis but reaſonable there ſhould be a Di⯑ſtinction made in a Place that is the Rendevous of all the Leprous. We are here ſomething ſurprized at the News that the Mayor of Bath was or⯑dered by my Lord Nottingham, not to wait upon the Princeſs to Chuch, be⯑cauſe he was the Queen's Officer. I am very glad her Highneſs does not bathe in the Queen's Bath, for then, may be, the Secretary might have for⯑bid that too. I do not know what can be done next, without they diſarm the Duke of Gloſter, becauſe he has got a Sword, and is huzzaed into the Houſe. I am informed of a great ma⯑ny [34] Ladies that will not pay the reſpect that is due to her Highneſs, and as they will pay no Viſits, ſo it would have been much better, if they did not receive Viſits from others; I ſhall take care, for the future, to preſcribe them Husbands inſtead of Gallants, to go along with them. I hope my Lady A***** has given you no reaſon to be jealous: I knew her before ſhe married a Fool in Oxfordſhire, and her own Men Servants knew her there, to much better purpoſe; only once their Service was a little too hot for them. I find that thoſe who are Jilts would be thought for the Government, and con⯑ſidering how we have been jilted, they may well claim a Pretenſion to it; I wiſh they had behaved themſelves ſin⯑cerely toward it; and then they need not have been unmannerly to ſhew their Affection to it. I am,

I Have now paſſed a Winter and a Summer here; the latter is much the beſt. I was ſo contracted together in the Winter, that I was, in a manner, Dead with Cold, and fit for nothing but to be Diſſected. Often am I put in Mind of the wide difference between Peterſburg, and old England, not only on Account of its Coldneſs, but Un⯑politeneſs; for I well remember how my Dear Mamma uſed to give Orders to our Servants to keep a thorough Silence in the Houſe till I was awake in a Mor⯑ning, and when that News was brought her, with what an endearing tenderneſs did ſhe enquire after my Health? But [47] here the Ruſſian Bear-Brutes with their Heels and their Tongues, make as loud a Din up and down Stairs, before we are ſtirring, as there is at Drury Lane after the Play is over. Such is the ſer⯑vile Politeneſs of Ruſſia. However, I bleſs God I have my Health, and am ſenſible it will be a ſecret Pleaſure, to you to hear of my Welfare; and I muſt declare that I am as happily ſitua⯑ted as you could wiſh me, and am uſed intirely to my own Satisfaction. For my part, under Misfortunes, I ſhall always adviſe Travelling, it being pleaſurable to attempt the moſt diſtant Part of the Globe with a Reſolution and Truſt in the Divine Providence which never fails thoſe who rely on it. This I offer excluſive of Predeſtination and all Fanatic Cant. When in our Voyage, the Captain told me we ſhould that Night go through the Gulph; me⯑thought he little knew how great a One I had ſhot, when I left England to ſail Three-thouſand-miles with only a [48] Splendid-Shilling in my Pocket. I have without the leaſt Anxiety, reſigned All I ever had in this World, except Friend⯑ſhip, and that I never will part with but with my Breath. I ſhall therefore moſt gratefully acknowledge, that to you, it is, I owe my preſent Happineſs, and am your much obliged Friend, and humble Servant,

II.

BE pleaſed now, to take an Account of this Place from above fifteen Months Experience.

The Gentleman and Lady^* I am with, have uſed me with the greateſt [49] Tenderneſs, Humanity and Politeneſs that is poſſible. He is Juſt, Generous, and Obliging. She is Virtuous, Chari⯑table and Compaſſionate; and I do from my Heart ſay, They are the Perſons to whom I am, and wiſh to be obliged.

As to the Ruſſian Climate it is ex⯑tream Cold, as you may imagine when Eighteen Thouſand Men were lately Reviewed upon the Ice. Carriages of all Sorts, laden with Goods, are every Day drawn over it. But indulgent Hea⯑ven to make up this Severity, has given plenty of Wood, and Furs, to fence againſt the Cold.

The People are very Strong, and can endure great Hardſhip. As to their Beauty, I cannot ſay, in Painting, they would make very ſoft Pieces; for the Lines of their Faces are very Strong. They are moſt of them of a good Heighth, but the Men wear very long [50] Beards. The Ladies are, or can be, juſt what you pleaſe. For, only ſay, what Complexion you like, and they will inſtantly put it on; being well verſed in Painting.

As to their Converſation I will not ſay any thing of it, not underſtanding their Language, but they Bow very much, and are Civil to Strangers. They can diſpence with more Dirt, and much more Food, than the Engliſh.

Their Churches are finely Adorned with what they call GODS. They go to Church in the Night, and He who makes the loweſt Bow is moſt Religious.

As to their Servants, they are the moſt ignorant Creatures living, and have every thing which attends Igno⯑rance, that is, Ingratitude, Dirt and Saucineſs; and are, in my Opinion, far inferiour to a well taught Bear.

[51] Their Buildings are very Magnificent, and their Houſes are very Warm, having an Oven in every Room, to which I creep cloſe.

The Diverſions of the Place are theſe; Twice a Week an Opera, and now and then, a ſerious Game at Ombre for what will never hurt any Body, Love and Friendſhip; and on a Moon-Light Night, a Tour upon the Ice in a Sled.

As to Scandal, here is enough of it; but, the Gentlemen Rival the Ladies of the Talent always allowed them, of a little Tittle-Tattle.

Here is no occaſion for Sir Clement Cotterel, for they are much upon the Sans Ceremonie. There is one thing that I believe they exceed any Part of the World in, Illuminations; which they make about Four or Five times a Year, and the Expence is above Sixty [52] ſand Pounds a Year, and in my Opi⯑nion it is well worth it.

As to Proviſions, here is every thing very good, and in great Plenty. As to Liquors, they are the ſame. As to Port Wine they wonder what it is; but French Wine, as Chatteau-Margouz, Burgundy, Tocai, Arrack, we every Night drink to all Friends in Old Eng⯑land.

In ſhort, here is no want of any thing but agreeable Company; and, except the Family I am in, there is not a Perſon that I ſhould not think my Time as loſt with, if I converſed with them. The Rules I go by are Theſe; I think no One my Friend, and there⯑fore cannot be deceived. I hear All, and ſay Little. I keep my old Maxim of giving no Affront, nor will not tamely take one. I believe, from this time, I ſhall always put into Lotteries; for I am apt to think my Luck is turn⯑ed, [53] in happening to be ſo fortunate as to come into ſo worthy a Family.

I make no excuſe for this long Let⯑ter, it is in Compliance of your Re⯑queſt, and I deſire your Acceptance of my Acknowledgments for all Favours conferred on,

III.

I Intreat your Acceptance of a Win⯑ter-Piece. The Scene of this Coun⯑try is quite changed. The agreeable River which ran by my Window, is now conſolidated into a fixt Subſtance of Ice. I daily ſee Numbers of Car⯑riages [54] riages covered with Snow, and the Men's Beards look as if they were ſet with Diamonds by the Iſicles hanging about them. The Green Trees are be⯑come ſo White, that they put me in mind of the Roſemary upon Cakes at Twelfth-Tide; and the Gentlemen and Ladies, I think, are turned into diffe⯑rent Creatures, of all Sorts, by their Dreſs, being habited in Skins of divers Beaſts. Yet, notwithſtanding the Se⯑verity of the Froſt, the Houſes are kept warm by Ovens, as I obſerved in my former; they give an equal Heat, but are not to me ſo agreeable as Engliſh Fires, wherein, I think, is a kind of Cheerfulneſs that I prefer to this Me⯑thod.

The Diet of Ruſſia is excellently good, and, in my Opinion, this Place is very fit for an Epicure; for in ſhort, Eating and Drinking take up a third Part of their Time.

[55] Retirement is my Delight; and when my little Ladies and I are together, I want no other Company nor Employ⯑ment; when I have a leiſure Hour to my Self, I ſpend it in Reading.

All the News I can ſend you, is, that the Engliſh Reſident gave a very ele⯑gant Entertainment on the King's Birth-Day, which concluded with a Ball. I was not at it, for my Dreſs is ſtill Brown Camlet, and I think that beſt for Re⯑tirement: I make up the Diſappoint⯑ment of Feaſts, by attending a very polite Entertainment, that is, in Read⯑ing the Spectator. For, I really think I am now arrived to that Happineſs he ſo agreeably repreſents of being leaſt Alone, when quite Alone; on which I put this Conſtruction, that Books are the beſt Companions. Pardon my Prolixity; but as I am of the Sex who ſeldom are Conciſe, I intreat you to put on your [56] Manly Generoſity and forgive the Er⯑rors of your

IV.

THE Favours you have formerly beſtowed on me are what I can never forget, I therefore omit no Op⯑portunity of acknowledging Them.

Was I not convinced of your real Me⯑rit I would not venture to write this, for I believe I have now wrote Ten Let⯑ters and have had no Anſwer. My Friends are equally unkind. I muſt own, that One Letter I have been fa⯑voured with from you affords me much Satisfaction, for I have the Vanity to believe you mean what you ſay. I think I may be allowed to complain, when my Siſter cannot find time to [57] write once a Year to unhappy me. But bad News never wants for car⯑rying, for there is a Gentleman in England who has wrote to his Cor⯑reſpondent here, that Mr. JUSTICE is the Perſon who is under Confinement, and charged with the Robbery of the Library at Cambridge: This News ar⯑rived about Four Months ago, but my Maſter and Lady concealed it from me, as they do every thing that they think will give me any uneaſineſs; yet not⯑withſtanding their Care it came to my Ear, and that in a very abrupt Manner. I was from the unwelcome News much diſordered and not willing to believe it true, but there was in Three News Pa⯑pers, immediately following, ſome Cir⯑cumſtances that agreed with it; now I will leave you to judge what an Anxi⯑ety of Mind I muſt be in, not having any one Friend ſo generous as to inform me of ſo important an Affair. I can compare myſelf to nothing but a Per⯑ſon ſet Quick in the Ground, who ſees [58] many things that would preſerve him, but can procure none of them; my leaving England in the Manner I did, and with a Reſolution to go Abroad, I muſt ſay had ſomething in it of the Daughter of CATO. Were my Af⯑flictions nicely conſidered by a religious and honourable Man, I am ſure he would allow that my Conduct was not mean, when I was ſtruggling with the rough Waves of a turbulent Sea: Now, as I am willing, nay wiſh to be judged by the Juſt and Upright, I appeal to you whether I do not deſerve a Letter twice a Year from old England. This is the laſt I ſhall write till I hear from you; I find ſo great a Decay of my Reaſon that I am apprehenſive I ſhall ſoon be deprived of my Senſes, but while I remain in them I ſhall with pleaſure own I am,

To Mr. CURLL.

MR. White, who I believe I have not the Honour to know, did very truly inform you, when he told you that I had ſeveral Manuſcripts of my Uncle WALSH's by me; for, to tell you the Truth, I have a good many: But ſeveral of them, as I take it, were written when he was very young; others at leiſure Hours, I believe, for Amuſement only, and not with any deſign to publiſh them. Indeed moſt of them are rather Sketches, or Outlines of ſome Deſign, than finiſhed Pieces. I dare not be inſtrumental in commit⯑ting any of them to the Preſs without [60] the approbation, and perhaps correction of ſome very judicious Friend.

I have not yet ſeen any of the Vo⯑lumes of Mr. POPE's Literary Corre⯑ſpondence, they being publiſhed ſince I left the Town; but I am in no pain for any thing of Mr. WALSH's that can come from that Quarter, being intirely ſatisfied that Mr. POPE would not print any thing that he did not know worthy of the Memory of his Friend, whoſe Character as a Critic, and a Man of Judgment, that Gentleman has raiſed to a very high Pitch, by the honourable and kind Mention he has made of him in his Eſſay on Criticiſm, and other his incomparable Works.

II.
To Mr. CURLL.

I have the Favour of yours of the 14th of Auguſt, and likewiſe one ſince of the 30th, to acknowledge; but as I have been a good deal upon the Ramble for theſe three Weeks laſt, I hope that will in ſome Meaſure plead my Excuſe for not having done it ſooner.

Since I wrote to you laſt, I have been looking over ſome of the MSS. you mention, and they really ſeem to be ſo very incorrect, that I cannot poſſibly prevail with myſelf to have any of them publiſhed. The Sentiments in ſome of them I believe are very well, and what he would not have been aſhamed of, but in other reſpects they are very deficient; and beſides, they have been written ſo long, and in ſo careleſs a manner, and with ſuch bad Ink that a great many of them are ſcarce legible.

[62] I ſhould be obliged to you if you would ſend me the Three Volumes of Mr. POPE's Literary Correſpondence ^*, and when I come to Town, which I be⯑lieve will be in a ſhort time, I will call upon you and pay for them.

REturning from a ſummer expedition of four months on account of my health, I found a letter from you, with an appendix longer than yours, from Lord Bo⯑lingbroke. I believe there is not a more miſerable malady than an unwillingneſs to write letters to our beſt friends, and a man might be philoſopher enough in finding out reaſons for it; one thing is clear, that it ſhews a mighty difference betwixt Friend⯑ſhip [66] and Love, for a lover (as I have heard) is always ſcribling to his miſtreſs. If I could permit my ſelf to believe what your civility makes you ſay, that I am ſtill remembred by my friends in England, I am in the right to keep my ſelf here—Non ſum qualis eram. I left you in a period of life when one year does more execution than three at yours, to which if you add the dul⯑neſs of the air, and of the people, it will make a terrible ſum. I have no very ſtrong faith in you pretenders to Retirement, you are not of an age for it, nor have gone through either good or bad fortune enough, to go into a corner, and form concluſions de contemptu mundi & fuga ſaeculi, unleſs a Poet grows weary of too much applauſe, as Miniſters do of too much weight of bu⯑ſineſs.

Your Happineſs is greater than your merit, in chuſing your Favourites ſo indifferently among either Party; this you owe partly to your Education; and partly to your Genius employing you in an Art in which Faction has nothing to do, for I ſuppoſe Virgil and Horace are equally read by Whigs and To⯑ries. You have no more to do with the Conſtitution of Church and State, than a Chriſtian at Conſtantinople; and you are ſo much the wiſer and the happier, becauſe both Parties will approve your Poetry as long as you are known to be of neither.

[67] Your notions of Friendſhip are new to me, I believe every man is born with his quantum, and he cannot give to one with⯑out robbing another. I very well know to whom I would give the firſt place in my Friendſhip, but they are not in the way: I am condemned to another ſcene, and therefore I diſtribute it in Penny-worths to thoſe about me, and who diſpleaſe me leaſt; and ſhould do the ſame to my fellow⯑priſoners if I were condemned to a jayl. I can likewiſe tolerate Knaves much better than Fools, becauſe their knavery does me no hurt in the commerce I have with them, which however I own is more dangerous, tho' not ſo troubleſome, as that of fools. I have often endeavour'd to eſtabliſh a friend⯑ſhip among all Men of Genius, and would fain have it done: they are ſeldom above three or four Cotemporaries, and if they could be united, would drive the World be⯑fore them. I think it was ſo among the Poets in the time of Auguſtus; but Envy, and Party, and Pride, have hinder'd it among us. I do not include the Subalterns, of which you are ſeldom without a large Tribe: Under the name of Poets and Scrib⯑lers, I ſuppoſe you mean the Fools you are content to ſee ſometimes, when they happen to be modeſt; which was not frequent among them while I was in the World.

[68] I would deſcribe to you my way of liv⯑ing, if any method could be call'd ſo in this Country. I chuſe my companions a⯑mong thoſe of leaſt conſequence and moſt compliance: I read the moſt trifling Books I can find, and whenever I write, it is upon the moſt trifling ſubjects: But riding, walk⯑ing, and ſleeping take up eighteen of the twenty four hours. I procraſtinate more than I did twenty years ago, and have ſeve⯑ral things to finiſh which I put off to twenty years hence; Haec eſt vita Solutorum, &c. I ſend you the compliments of a friend of yours, who hath paſſed four months this ſummer with two grave acquaintance at his country houſe without ever once going to Dublin, which is but eight Miles diſtant; yet when he returns to London, I will en⯑gage you ſhall find him as deep in the Court of Requeſts, the Park, the Opera and the Coffee-houſe, as any man there. I am now with him for a few days.

You muſt remember me with great af⯑fection to Dr Arbuthnot, Mr Congreve, and Gay—I think there are no more eodem tertio's between you and me, except Mr. Jervas to whoſe houſe I addreſs this, for want of knowing where you live; for it was not clear from your laſt whether you lodge with Lord Peterborow, or he with you? I am ever,

Mr POPE to Dr SWIFT.

I Find my ſelf the better acquainted with you for a long Abſence, as men are with themſelves for a long Affliction: Ab⯑ſence does but hold off a Friend to make one ſee him the more truly. I am infinitely more pleas'd to hear you are coming near us, than at any thing you ſeem to think in my favour; an opinion which perhaps has been aggrandiz'd by the diſtance or dullneſs of Ireland (as objects look larger thro' a me⯑dium of Foggs), and yet I am infinitely pleas'd with that too. I am much the hap⯑pier for finding (a better thing than our wits) our judgments jump, in the notion that all Scriblers ſhould be paſt by in ſilence. To vindicate one's ſelf againſt ſuch naſty ſlander; is much as wiſe as it was in your country⯑man, when the people imputed a ſtink to him, to prove the contrary by ſhowing his backſide. So let Gildon and Philips reſt in peace! What Virgil had to do with Mae⯑vius, that he ſhould wear him upon his ſleeve to all eternity, I don't know. I've been the longer upon this, that I may pre⯑pare you for the reception both you and your works may poſſibly meet in England. [70] We your true acquaintance will look upon you as a good man, and love you; others will look upon you as a Wit, and hate you. So you know the worſt; unleſs you are as vindicative as Virgil, or the aforeſaid Hi⯑bernian.

I wiſh as warmly as you for an Hoſpital in which to lodge the Deſpiſers of the world; only I fear it would be fill'd wholly like Chelſea, with maimed Soldiers, and ſuch as had been diſabled in it's ſervice. I would rather have thoſe, that out of ſuch generous principles, as you and I, deſpiſe it, fly in it's face, than retire from it. Not that I have much anger againſt the Great; my ſpleen is at the Little rogues of it: It would vex one more to be knock'd on the head with a Piſs-pot, than by a Thunder⯑bolt. As to great Oppreſſors, they are like Kites or Eagles, one expects miſchief from them, but to be ſquirted to death (as poor Wycherley ſaid to me on his death-bed) by Apothecaries Apprentices, by the under⯑ſtrappers of under-ſecretaries to ſecretaries who were no ſecretaries—this would provoke as dull a dog as Philips himſelf.

So much for enemies, now for friends. Mr L— thinks all this indiſcreet: the Doctor not ſo: he loves miſchief the beſt of any good natur'd man in England. Lord B. is above trifling: when he writes of any thing in this world, he is more than mor⯑tal; [71] If ever he trifles, it muſt be when he turns a Divine. Gay is writing Tales for Prince William: I ſuppoſe Mr Philips will take this very ill, for two reaſons; one that he thinks all childiſh things belong to him; and the other, becauſe he'll take it ill to be taught that one may write things to a child without being childiſh. What have I more to add? but that Lord Oxford deſires ear⯑neſtly to ſee you: and that many others whom you do not think the worſt of will be gratified by it; none more (be aſſured) than yours, &c.

To Dr ARBUTHNOT.

I Thank you for your letter, which has all thoſe genuine marks of a good mind by which I have ever diſtinguiſh'd yours, and for which I have ſo long loved you. Our friendſhip has been conſtant; becauſe it was grounded on good principles, and therefore not only uninterrupted by any Diſ⯑truſt, by any Vanity, much leſs any In⯑tereſt.

What you recommend to me with the ſolemnity of a Laſt Requeſt, ſhall have it's due weight with me. That diſdain and indignation againſt Vice, is (I thank God) [72] the only diſdain and indignation I have: It is ſincere, and it will be a laſting one. But ſure it is as impoſſible to have a juſt abhor⯑rence of Vice, without hating the Vicious, as to bear a true love for Virtue, without loving the Good. To reform and not to chaſtiſe, I am afraid is impoſſible, and that the beſt Precepts, as well as the beſt Laws, would prove of ſmall uſe, if there were no Examples to inforce them. To attack Vices in the abſtract, without touching Per⯑ſons, may be ſafe fighting indeed, but it is fighting with Shadows. General propoſi⯑tions are obſcure, miſty, and uncertain, compar'd with plain, full, and home ex⯑amples: Precepts only apply to our Reaſon, which in moſt men is but weak: Examples are pictures, and ſtrike the Senſes, nay raiſe the Paſſions, and call in thoſe (the ſtrongeſt and moſt general of all motives) to the aid of reformation. Every vicious man makes the caſe his own; and that is the only way by which ſuch men can be affected, much leſs deterr'd. So that to chaſtiſe is to reform. The only ſign by which I found my writings ever did any good, or had any weight, has been that they rais'd the anger of bad men. And my greateſt comfort, and encouragement to proceed, has been to ſee, that thoſe who have no ſhame, and no fear, of any thing elſe, have appear'd touch'd by my Satires.

[73] As to your kind concern for my Safety, I can gueſs what occaſions it at this time. Some Characters I have drawn are ſuch, that if there be any who deſerve 'em, 'tis evi⯑dently a ſervice to mankind to point thoſe men out: yet ſuch as if all the world gave them, none I think will own, they take to themſelves. But if they ſhould, thoſe of whom all the world think in ſuch a manner, muſt be men I cannot fear. Such in par⯑ticular as have the meanneſs to do miſchiefs in the dark, have ſeldom the courage to juſtify them in the face of day; the talents that make a Cheat or a Whiſperer, are not the ſame that qualify a man for an Inſul⯑ter; and as to private Villainy, it is not ſo ſafe to join in an Aſſaſſination, as in a Libel. I will conſult my ſafety to far as I think becomes a prudent man; but not ſo far as to omit any thing which I think becomes an honeſt one. As to perſonal attacks beyond the law, every man is liable to them; as for danger within the law, I am not guilty enough to fear any. For the good opinion of all the world, I know it is not to be had: for that of worthy men, I hope I ſhall not forfeit it; for that of the Great, or thoſe in power, I may wiſh I had it, but if thro' miſrepreſentations (too common about perſons in that ſtation) I have it not, I ſhall be ſorry, but not miſerable in the want of it.

[74] It is certain, much freer Satyriſts than I, have enjoy'd the encouragement and pro⯑tection of the Princes under whom they lived. Auguſtus and Maecenas made Ho⯑race their companion, tho' he had been in arms on the ſide of Brutus; and allow me to remark it was out of the ſuffering Party too, that they favour'd and diſtinguiſh'd Virgil. You will not ſuſpect me of com⯑paring my ſelf with Virgil and Horace, nay even with another Court-favourite, Boileau: I have always been too modeſt to imagine my Panegyrics were Incenſe worthy of a Court; and that I hope will be thought the true reaſon why I have never offer'd any. I would only have obſerv'd, that it was under the greateſt Princes and beſt Mi⯑niſters, that moral Satyriſts were moſt en⯑courag'd; and that then Poets exerciſed the ſame juriſdiction over the Follies, as Hiſtorians did over the Vices of men. It may alſo be worth conſidering, whether Auguſtus himſelf makes the greater figure, in the writings of the former, or of the latter? and whether Nero and Domitian do not appear as ridiculous for their falſe Taſte and Affectation, in Perſius and Juvenal, as odious for their bad Government in Tacitus and Suetonius? In the firſt of theſe reigns it was, that Horace was protected and ca⯑reſs'd; and in the latter that Lucan was put to death, and Juvenal baniſh'd.

[75] I would not have ſaid ſo much, but to ſhew you my whole heart on this ſubject; and to convince you, I am deliberately bent to perform that Requeſt which you make your laſt to me, and to perform it with Temper, Juſtice, and Reſolution. As your Approbation (being the teſtimony of a ſound head and an honeſt heart) does great⯑ly confirm me herein, I wiſh you may live to ſee the effect it may hereafter have upon me, in ſomething more deſerving of that approbation. But if it be the Will of God (which I know will alſo be yours) that we muſt ſeparate, I hope it will be better for You than it can be for me. You are fitter to live, or to die, than any man I know. Adieu my dear friend! and may God pre⯑ſerve your life eaſy, or make your death happy.

I Return your Preface^*, which I have read twice with plea⯑ſure. The modeſty and good ſenſe there is in it, muſt pleaſe every one who reads it: And ſince there is nothing that can offend, I ſee not why you ſhould balance a moment about printing it—al⯑ways provided, that there is nothing ſaid there, which you may have occaſion to unſay hereafter: of which you your ſelf are the beſt and the only Judge. This is my ſincere Opinion, which I give becauſe you ask it: and which I would not give, tho' [77] asked, but to a man I value as much as I do you; being ſenſible how improper it is on many accounts, for me to interpoſe in things of this nature; which I never un⯑derſtood well, and now underſtand ſome⯑what leſs than ever I did. But I can deny you nothing; eſpecially ſince you have had the goodneſs often, and patiently, to hear what I have ſaid againſt rhime, and in be⯑half of blank verſe; with little diſcretion perhaps, but I am ſure without the leaſt prejudice: being my ſelf equally incapable of writing well in either of thoſe ways, and leaning therefore to neither ſide of the queſtion, but as the appearance of reaſon inclines me. Forgive me this error if it be one; an error of above thirty years ſtand⯑ing, and which therefore I ſhall be very loth to part with. In other matters which relate to polite writing, I ſhall ſeldom differ from you: or if I do, ſhall I hope have the pru⯑dence to conceal my opinion. I am, as much as I ought to be, that is as much as any man can be,

The Biſhop of ROCHESTER to Mr. POPE.

I Have nothing to ſay to you on that melancholy ſubject, with an account of which the printed papers have furniſh'd me, but what you have already ſaid to your ſelf.

When you have paid the debt of tender⯑neſs you owe to the memory of a Father, I doubt not but you will turn your thoughts towards improving that accident to your own Eaſe and Happineſs. You have it now in your power, to purſue that method of thinking and living which you like beſt. Give me leave, (if I am not a little too ear⯑ly in my applications of this kind) to con⯑gratulate you upon it; and to aſſure you, that there is no man living, who wiſhes you better, or would be more pleas'd to contri⯑bute any way to your ſatisfaction or ſer⯑vice.

I return you your Milton, which upon collation, I find to be reviſed, and aug⯑mented in ſeveral places, as the title page of my third ^* edition pretends it to be. When [79] I ſee you next, I will ſhew you the ſeveral paſſages alter'd and added by the author, beſide what you mention'd to me.

I proteſt to you, this laſt peruſal of him has given me ſuch new degrees, I will not ſay of pleaſure, but of admiration and aſto⯑niſhment, that I look upon the ſublimity of Homer and the majeſty of Virgil with ſomewhat leſs reverence than I us'd to do. I challenge you, with all your partiality, to ſhew me, in the firſt of theſe, any thing equal to the Allegory of Sin and Death, ei⯑ther as to the greatneſs, and juſtneſs of the invention, or the height and beauty of the colouring. What I look'd upon as a rant of Barrow's, I now begin to think a ſe⯑rious truth, and could almoſt venture to ſet my hand to it,

But more of this when we meet. When I left the town, the D. of Buckingham continu'd ſo ill that he receiv'd no meſ⯑ſages; oblige me ſo far as to let me know how he does; at the ſame time I ſhall know how you do, and that will be a dou⯑ble ſatisfaction to your, &c.

The Anſwer.

I Am truly oblig'd by your kind condo⯑lance on my Father's death, and the deſire you expreſs that I ſhould improve this accident to my advantage. I know your Lordſhip's friendſhip to me is ſo extenſive, that you include in that wiſh both my Spi⯑ritual and my Temporal advantage; and it is what I owe to that friendſhip, to open my mind unreſervedly to you on this head. It is true, I have loſt a Parent for whom no gains I could make would be any equiva⯑lent: But that was not my only tye; I thank God another ſtill remains (and long may it remain) of the ſame tender nature: Genitrix eſt mihi—and excuſe me if I ſay with Euryalus,

A rigid Divine may call it a carnal tye, but ſure it is a virtuous one. At leaſt I am more certain that it is a Duty of Nature to preſerve a good parent's life and happineſs, than I am of any Speculative point what⯑ever.

[81] For ſhe, my Lord, would think this Sepa⯑ration more grievous than any other; and I, for my part, know as little as poor Eu⯑ryalus did of the ſucceſs of ſuch an Adven⯑ture, (for an Adventure it is, and no ſmall one, in ſpite of the moſt poſitive Divinity.) Whether the change would be to my ſpi⯑ritual advantage, God only knows: this I know, I mean as well in the Religion I now profeſs, as I can poſſibly ever do in any other. Can a man who thinks ſo, juſtify a change, even if he thought both equally good? To ſuch an one, the part of Join⯑ing with any one body of Chriſtians might perhaps be eaſy, but I think it would not be ſo to Renounce the other.

Your Lordſhip has formerly advis'd me to read the beſt Books of Controverſies be⯑tween the Churches. Shall I tell you a ſe⯑cret? I did ſo at fourteen years old: for I loved reading, and my father had no other books. There was a collection of all that had been written on both ſides in the reign of King James the ſecond: I warm'd my head with them, and the conſequence was, that I found my ſelf a Papiſt and a Prote⯑ſtant by turns, according to the laſt book I read, I am afraid moſt Seekers are in the ſame caſe, and when they ſtop, they are not ſo properly converted, as out-witted. You ſee how little glory you would gain by my converſion. And after all, I verily [82] believe your Lordſhip and I are both of the ſame religion, if we were thoroughly un⯑derſtood by one another; and that all ho⯑neſt and reaſonable Chriſtians would be ſo, if they did but talk enough together every day; and had nothing to do together, but to ſerve God and live in peace with their Neighbour.

As to the temporal ſide of the queſtion, I can have no diſpute with you. It is certain, all the beneficial circumſtances of life, and all the ſhining ones, lie on the part you would invite me to. But if I could bring myſelf to fancy, what I think you do but fancy; that I have any talents for Active life, I want health for it; and beſides it is a real truth, I have leſs Inclination (if poſſible) than Ability. Contemplative life is not only my ſcene, but it is my habit too. I begun my life where moſt people end theirs, with a diſreliſh of all that the world calls Ambi⯑tion: I don't know why 'tis call'd ſo, for to me it always ſeem'd to be rather ſtooping than climbing, I'll tell you my politic and religious ſentiments in a few words. In my Politics, I think no farther than how to preſerve the peace of my life in any Govern⯑ment under which I live; nor in my Reli⯑gion, than to preſerve the peace of my con⯑ſcience in any Church with which I com⯑municate. I hope all Churches and all Go⯑vernments are ſo far of God, as they are [83] rightly underſtood, and rightly adminiſtred: and where they are, or may be wrong, I leave it to God alone to mend or reform them; which whenever he does, it muſt be by greater Inſtruments than I am. I am not a Papiſt, for I renounce the temporal invaſions of the Papal power, and deteſt their arrogated authority over Princes or States. I am a Catholic, in the ſtricteſt ſenſe of the word. If I was born under an abſolute Prince, I would be a quiet ſubject; but I thank God I was not: I have a due ſenſe of the excellence of the Britiſh conſti⯑tution. In a word, the things I have always wiſhed to ſee, are not a Roman Catholic, or a French Catholic, or a Spaniſh Catho⯑lic, but a true Catholic: and not a King of Whigs, or a King of Tories, but a King of England. Which God of his mercy grant his preſent Majeſty may be, and all future Majeſties! You ſee my Lord, I end like a preacher: but this is Sermo ad Cle⯑rum, not ad Populum. Believe me, with infinite obligation and ſincere thanks, ever

Mr POPE to the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

I Hope you have ſome time ago receiv'd the Sulphur, and the two volumes of Mr Gay, as inſtances (how ſmall ones ſo⯑ever) that I wiſh you both health, and di⯑verſion. What I now ſend for your peruſal, I ſhall ſay nothing of; not to foreſtall by a ſingle word what you promis'd to ſay upon that ſubject. Your Lordſhip may criticize from Virgil to theſe Tales, as Solomon wrote of every thing from the cedar to the hyſop. I have ſome cauſe, ſince I laſt waited on you at Bromley, to look upon you as a Prophet in that retreat, from whom oracles are to be had were mankind wiſe enough to go thither to conſult you. The fate of the South-ſea Scheme has, ſooner than I expected, verify'd what you told me. Moſt people thought the time would come, but no man prepar'd for it, no man conſider'd it would come like a Thief in the night, exactly as it happens in the caſe of our death. Methinks God has puniſh'd the Avaritious as he often puniſhes ſinners, in their own way, in the very ſin itſelf: the thirſt of gain was their crime, that thirſt continued, became their puniſhment and ruin. As for the few who have the good fortune to remain with half of what they [85] imagined they had, (among whom is your humble ſervant) I would have them ſenſible of their felicity; and convinc'd of the truth of old Heſiod's maxim, who after half his eſtate was ſwallowed up by the Directors of thoſe days, reſolv'd, that half to be more than the whole.

Does not the fate of theſe people put you in mind of two paſſages, one in Job, the o⯑ther from the Pſalmiſt.

‘Men ſhall groan out of the CITY, and hiſs them out of their PLACE.’

‘They have dreamed out their dream, and awaking have found nothing in their hands.’

Indeed the univerſal Poverty, which is the conſequence of univerſal Avarice, and which will fall hardeſt upon the guiltleſs and induſ⯑trious part of mankind, is truly lamentable. The Univerſal deluge of the South-ſea, con⯑trary to the old deluge, has drown'd all ex⯑cept a few unrighteous men. But it is ſome comfort to me that I am not one of them, even tho' I were to ſurvive and rule the world by it. I am much pleas'd with a thought of Dr Arbuthnot's: he ſays the Government and South-ſea company have only lock't up the money of the people upon conviction of their Lunacy (as is uſual in caſe of Lunatics), and intend to reſtore 'em as much as may be fit for ſuch people as faſt as they ſhall ſee 'em return to their ſenſes.

[86] The latter part of your letter does me ſo much honour, and ſhews me ſo much kind⯑neſs, that I muſt both be proud and pleas'd in a great degree; but I aſſure you, my Lord, much more the laſt than the firſt. For I certainly know and feel in my own heart, which truly reſpects you, that there may be a ground for your partiality one way; but I find not the leaſt ſymptoms in my head, of any foundation for the other. In a word, the beſt reaſon I know for my be⯑ing pleas'd, is that you continue your favour toward me: the beſt I know for being proud, would be that you might cure me of it; for I have found you to be ſuch a Phy⯑ſician as does not only repair but improve. I am with the ſincereſt eſteem and-acknow⯑ledgment, Your, &c.

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

THE Arabian Tales and Mr Gay's books I receiv'd not till Monday night, together with your letter, for which I thank you. I have had a fit of the gout upon me ever ſince I return'd hither from Weſtminſter on ſaturday night laſt; it has found it's way into my hands as well as legs, ſo that I have been utterly incapable of writing: This is the firſt letter that I [87] have ventur'd upon, which will be written I fear vaccilantibus literis, as Tully ſays Tyro's Letters were after his recovery from an illneſs. What I ſaid to you in mine about the Monument, was intended only to quicken, not to alarm you: it is not worth your while to know what I meant by it: but when I ſee you, you ſhall. I hope you may be at the Deanery towards the end of October, by which time I think of ſettling there for the winter. What do you think of ſome ſuch ſhort inſcription as this in La⯑tin, which may in a few words ſay all that is to be ſaid of Dryden, and yet nothing more than he deſerves.

To ſhew you that I am as much in earneſt in the affair as you your ſelf, ſomething I will ſend you too of this kind in Engliſh. If your deſign holds of fixing Dryden's Name only below, and his Buſto above, may not lines like theſe be grav'd juſt under the name?

Or thus—

This you'll take as a proof of my zeal at leaſt, tho' it be none of my talent in Poe⯑try. When you have read it over, I'll for⯑give you if you ſhould not once in your life time again think of it.

And now, Sir, for your Arabian Tales. Ill as I have been, almoſt ever ſince they came to hand, I have read as much of them as ever I ſhall read while I live. Indeed they do not pleaſe my taſte: they are writ with ſo Romantic an air, and allowing for the difference of Eaſtern manners, are, yet upon any ſuppoſition that can be made, of ſo wild and abſurd a contrivance, (at leaſt to my northern underſtanding) that I have not only no pleaſure, but no patience, in peru⯑ſing them. They are to me like the odd paintings on Indian ſcreens, which at firſt glance may ſurprize and pleaſe a little; but when you fix your eye intently upon them [89] they appear ſo extravagant, diſproportion'd, and monſtrous, that they give a judicious eye pain, and make him ſeek for relief from ſome other object. They may furniſh the mind with ſome new images; but I think the purchaſe is made at too great an expence: for to read thoſe two volumes through, liking them as little as I do, would be a terrible penance: and to read them with pleaſure would be dangerous on the other ſide, be⯑cauſe of the infection. I will never believe, that you have any keen reliſh of them, till I find you write worſe than you do, which I dare ſay, I never ſhall. Who that Petit de la Croiſe is, the pretended author of them, I cannot tell: but obſerving how full they are in the deſcriptions of Dreſs, Furniture, &c. I cannot help thinking them the pro⯑duct of ſome Woman's imagination: and believe me, I would do any thing but break with you, rather than be bound to read 'em over with attention.

I am ſorry that I was ſo true a Prophet in reſpect of the South-ſea, ſorry I mean as far as your loſs is concern'd: for in the ge⯑neral I ever was and ſtill am of opinion, that had the project taken root and flouriſh'd, it would by degrees have overturn'd our conſtitution. Three or four hundred mil⯑lions was ſuch a weight, that whichſoever way it had leaned, it muſt have borne down all before it—But of the dead we muſt [90] ſpeak gently: and therefore as Mr Dryden ſays ſomewhere, Peace be to it's Manes!

Let me add one reflection, to make you eaſy in your ill luck. Had you got all that you have loſt beyond what you ventur'd, conſider that your ſuperfluous gains would have ſprung from the ruin of ſeveral fami⯑lies that now want neceſſaries! a thought, under which a good, and a good natur'd man that grew rich by ſuch means, could not (I perſuade my ſelf) be perfectly eaſy. Adieu and believe me ever Your, &c.

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

YOU are not your ſelf gladder you are well than I am; eſpecially ſince I can pleaſe my ſelf with the thought that when you had loſt your health elſewhere, you recover'd it here. May theſe lodgings never treat you worſe, nor you at any time have leſs reaſon to be fond of them!

I thank you for the ſight of your ^* Ver⯑ſes, and with the freedom of an honeſt, tho' perhaps injudicious friend, muſt tell you, that tho' I could like ſome of them, if they were any body's but yours, yet as [91] they are yours and to be own'd as ſuch, I can ſcarce like any of them. Not but that the four firſt lines are good, eſpecially the ſecond couplet: and might, if follow'd by four others as good, give reputation to a writer of a leſs eſtabliſh'd fame: but from you I expect ſomething of a more perfect kind, and which the oft'ner it is read, the more it will be admir'd. When you barely exceed other writers, you fall much beneath your ſelf: 'tis your misfortune now to write without a rival, and you may be tempted by that means to be more careleſs, than you would otherwiſe be in your compo⯑ſures.

Thus much I could not forbear ſaying, tho' I have a motion of conſequence in the Houſe of Lords to day, and muſt prepare for it. I am even with you for your ill pa⯑per; for I write upon worſe having no other at hand. I wiſh you the continuance of your health moſt heartily, and am ever

I have ſent Dr Arbuthnot the Latin MS.^† which I could not find when you left me; and am ſo angry at the writer for his deſign, and his manner of executing it, that I could hardly forbear ſending him a line of Virgil along with it. The chief Reaſoner [92] of that philoſophic farce is a Gallo-Ligur, as he is call'd—what that means in Eng⯑liſh or French, I can't ſay—but all he ſays is in ſo looſe and ſlippery and trickiſh a way of reaſoning, that I could not for⯑bear applying the paſſage of Virgil to him,

To be ſerious, I hate to ſee a book gravely written, and in all the forms of argumen⯑tation, which proves nothing, and which ſays nothing; and endeavours only to put us into a way of diſtruſting our own facul⯑ties, and doubting whether the marks of Truth and Falſhood can in any caſe be di⯑ſtinguiſh'd from each other? Could that bleſſed point be made out (as it is a contra⯑diction in terms to ſay it can,) we ſhould then be in the moſt uncomfortable and wretched ſtate in the world; and I would in that caſe be glad to exchange my reaſon, with a dog for his inſtinct to morrow.

Lord Chancellor HARCOURT to Mr POPE.

I Cannot but ſuſpect my ſelf of being very unreaſonable in begging you once more to review the inclos'd. Your friend⯑ſhip draws this trouble on you. I may freely own to you that my tenderneſs makes me exceeding hard to be ſatisfied with any thing which can be ſaid on ſuch an un⯑happy ſubject. I caus'd the Latin Epitaph to be as often alter'd before I could approve it.

When once your Epitaph is ſet up, there can be no alteration of it; it will remain a perpetual monument of your friendſhip, and I aſſure myſelf you will ſo ſettle it, that it ſhall be worthy of you. I doubt whether the word, deny'd, in the third line, will juſtly admit of that conſtruction which it ought to bear (viz.) renounced, deſerted, &c. deny'd is capable in my opinion of having an ill ſenſe put upon it, as too great eaſineſs, or more good nature than a wiſe man ought to have. I very well remember you told me you could ſcarce mend thoſe two lines, and therefore I can ſcarce expect [94] your forgiveneſs for my deſiring you to re⯑conſider them.

I can't perfectly, at leaſt without farther diſcourſing you, reconcile my ſelf to the firſt part of that line; and the word forc'd (which was my own, and I perſuade my ſelf for that reaſon only ſubmitted to by you,) ſeems to carry too doubtful a con⯑ſtruction for an Epitaph, which as I appre⯑hend, ought as eaſily to be underſtood as read. I ſhall acknowledge it as a very par⯑ticular favour, if at your beſt leiſure you will peruſe the incloſed and vary it, if you think it capable of being amended, and let me ſee you any morning next week.

The Biſhop of ROCHESTER to Mr POPE.

I Am now confin'd to my bed-chamber, and to the matted-room, wherein I am writing, ſeldom venturing to be carried down even into the parlour to dinner, un⯑leſs when company to whom I cannot ex⯑cuſe my ſelf, comes, which I am not ill pleas'd to find is now very ſeldom. This is my caſe in the ſunny part of the year: what muſt I expect, when

‘"If theſe things be done in the green tree, what ſhall be done in the dry."’ Excuſe me for employing a ſentence of ſcripture on this occaſion; I apply it very ſeriouſly. One thing relieves me a little un⯑der the ill proſpect I have of ſpending my time at the Deanery this winter; that I ſhall have the opportunity of ſeeing you oft'ner; tho' I am afraid you will have little plea⯑ſure in ſeeing me there. So much for my ill ſtate of health, which I had not touch'd on, had not your friendly letter been ſo full of it. One civil thing that you ſay in it, made me think you had been reading Mr [96] Waller; and poſſeſs'd of that image at the end of his copy, à la Malade, had you not beſtow'd it on one who has no right to the leaſt part of the character. If you have not read the verſes lately, I am ſure you re⯑member 'em, becauſe you forget nothing.

I mention them not on the account of that couplet, but one that follows; which ends with the very ſame rhimes and words [ap⯑pear and clear] that the couplet but one af⯑ter that does—and therefore in my Waller there is a various reading of the firſt of theſe couplets; for there it runs thus,

You will ſay that I am not very much in pain, nor very buſy, when I can reliſh theſe amuſements, and you will ſay true: for at preſent, I am in both theſe reſpects very eaſy.

I had not ſtrength enough to attend Mr Prior to his grave, elſe I would have done it to have ſhew'd his friends that I had for⯑got [97] and forgiven what he wrote on me^*. He is buried, as he deſired, at the feet of Spenſer, and I will take care to make good in every reſpect what I ſaid to him when living; particularly as to the Triplet^† he wrote for his own Epitaph; which while we were in good terms, I promis'd him ſhou'd never appear on his tomb while I was Dean of Weſtminſter.

I am pleas'd to find you have ſo much pleaſure, and (which is the foundation of it) ſo much health at Lord Bathurſt's: may both continue till I ſee you! may my Lord have as much ſatisfaction in building the houſe in the wood, and uſing it when built, as you have in deſigning it! I cannot ſend a wiſh after him that means him more hap⯑pineſs, and yet I am ſure I wiſh him as much as he wiſhes himſelf.

From the ſame.

NOtwithſtanding I write this on Sunday evening to acknowledge the receipt of yours this morning, yet I foreſee it will not reach you till Wedneſday morning: and before ſet of ſun that day I hope to reach my winter quarters at the Deanery. I hope, did I ſay? I recall that word, for it im⯑plies deſire; and God knows that is far from being the caſe. For I never part from this place but with regret, tho' I generally keep here what Mr Cowley calls the worſt of company in the world, my own; and ſee either none beſide, or what is worſe than none, ſome of the Arrii of Seboſi of my neighbourhood: Characters, which Tully paints ſo well in one of his Epiſtles, and complains of the too civil, but impertinent, interruption they gave him in his retirement. Since I have named thoſe gentlemen, and the book is not far from me, I will turn to the place, and by pointing it out to you, give you the pleaſure of peruſing the epi⯑ſtle, which is a very agreeable one if my memory does not fail me.

I am ſurpriz'd to find that my Lord Ba⯑thurſt and you are parted ſo ſoon; he has [99] been ſick I know of ſome late tranſactions, but ſhould that ſickneſs continue ſtill in ſome meaſure, I prophecy it will be quite off by the beginning of November: a letter or two from his London-friends, and a ſur⯑feit of ſolitude will ſoon make him change his reſolution and his quarters. I vow to you, I could live here with pleaſure all the winter, and be contented with hearing no more news than the London-journal, or ſome ſuch trifling paper, affords me, did not the duty of my place require, abſolutely require, my attendance at Weſtminſter; where I hope the Prophet will now and then remem⯑ber he has a bed and a candleſtic. In ſhort I long to ſee you, and hope you will come, if not a day, yet at leaſt an hour ſooner to town than you intended, in order to afford me that ſatisfaction. I am now I thank God as well as ever I was in my life, except that I can walk ſcarce at all without crutches: And I would willingly compound the mat⯑ter with the gout, to be no better, could I hope to be no worſe, but that is a vain thought, I expect a new attack long before Chriſtmas. Let me ſee you therefore while I am in a condition to reliſh you, before the days (and the nights) come, when I ſhall (and muſt) ſay, I have no pleaſure in them.

I will bring your ſmall volume of Paſto⯑rals along with me, that you may not be [100] diſcourag'd from lending me books, when you find me ſo punctual in returning them. Shakeſpeare ſhall bear it company, and be put into your hands as clear and as fair as it came out of them, tho' you I think have been dabling here and there with the text: I have had more reverence for the writer and the printer, and left every thing ſtanding juſt as I found it. However I thank you for the pleaſure you have given me in put⯑ting me upon reading him once more before I die.

I believe I ſhall ſcarce repeat that plea⯑any more, having other work to do, and other things to think of, but none that will interfere with the offices of friendſhip, in the exchange of which with you, Sir, I hope to live and die.

P.S. Mr Addiſon's Works came to my hands yeſterday. I cannot but think it a very odd ſet of incidents, that the book ſhould be dedicated by ^* a dead man ^† to a dead man; and even that the new ^‖ patron to whom Mr Tickell choſe to in⯑ſcribe his verſes, ſhould be dead alſo before they were publiſh'd. Had I been in the Editor's place I ſhould have been a little ap⯑prehenſive for my ſelf, under a thought that [101] every one who had any hand in that work was to die before the publication of it. You ſee when I am converſing with you I know not how to give over, till the very bottom of the paper admoniſhes me once more to bid you adieu!

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

PErmit me, dear Sir, to break into your retirement, and to deſire of you a compleat copy of thoſe verſes on Mr Ad⯑diſon^*; ſend me alſo your laſt reſolution which ſhall punctually be obſerv'd in rela⯑tion to my giving out any copy of it; for I am again ſolicited by another Lord, to whom I have given the ſame anſwer as formerly. No ſmall piece of your writing has been ever ſought after ſo much: it has pleaſed every man without exception, to whom it has been read. Since you now therefore know where your real ſtrength lies, I hope you will not ſuffer that talent to lye unem⯑ploy'd. For my part I ſhould be ſo glad to ſee you finiſh ſomething of that kind, that I could be content to be a little ſneer'd at in a line or ſo for the ſake of the pleaſure I [102] ſhould have in reading the reſt. I have talked my ſenſe of this matter to you once or twice, and now I put it under my hand, that you may ſee it is my deliberate opinion. What weight that may have with you I cannot ſay: but it pleaſes me to have an op⯑portunity of ſhewing you how well I wiſh you, and how true a friend I am to your fame, which I deſire may grow every day, and in every kind of writing to which you ſhall pleaſe to turn your pen. Not but that I have ſome little intereſt in the propoſal, as I ſhall be known to have been acquainted with a man that was capable of excelling in ſuch different manners, and did ſuch honour to his country and language; and yet was not diſpleas'd ſometimes to read what was writ⯑ten by his humble Servant.

Mr POPE to Biſhop ATTERBURY.

I Was diſappointed (much more than thoſe who commonly uſe that phraſe on ſuch occaſions) in miſſing you at the Deanery, where I lay ſolitary two nights. Indeed I truly partake in any degree of concern that affects you, and I wiſh every thing may ſuc⯑ceed as you deſire in your own family, and in that which I think you no leſs account your [103] own, and is no leſs your family, the whole world: for I take you to be one of the true Friends of it, and to your power it's protec⯑tor. Tho' the noiſe and daily buſtle for the public be now over, I dare ſay a good man is ſtill tendring it's welfare; as the Sun in the winter, when ſeeming to retire from the world, is preparing benedictions and warmth for a better ſeaſon. No man wiſhes your Lordſhip more quiet, more tranquility than I, who know you ſhould underſtand the value of it: but I don't wiſh you a jot leſs concern'd or leſs active than you are, in all ſincere, and therefore warm deſires for public good.

I beg the kindneſs (and 'tis for that chiefly I trouble you with this letter) to favour me with notice as ſoon as you return to London, that I may come and make you a proper viſit of a day or two: for hitherto I have not been your Viſiter, but your Lodger, and I accuſe my ſelf of it. I have now no earthly thing to oblige my being in town (a point of no ſmall ſatisfaction to me) but the beſt rea⯑ſon, the ſeeing a friend: As long, my Lord, as you will let me call you ſo, (and I dare ſay you will, till I forfeit what I think I never ſhall, my veracity and integrity) I ſhall eſ⯑teem my ſelf fortunate, in ſpite of the South⯑ſea, Poetry, Popery, and Poverty.

I can't tell you how ſorry I am, you ſhou'd be troubled a-new by any ſort of people. [104] I heartily wiſh, quod ſupereſt, ut tibi vivas—that you may teach me how to do the ſame: who, without any real impediment to acting and living rightly, do act and live as fooliſhly as if I were a Great man.

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

AS a viſitant, a lodger, a friend (or un⯑der what other denomination ſoever), you are always welcome to me; and will be more ſo I hope every day that we live: for to tell you the truth I like you as I like my ſelf, beſt, when we have both of us leaſt buſineſs. It has been my fate to be engag'd in it much and often, by the ſtations in which I was placed: but God, that knows my heart, knows I never lov'd it: and am ſtill leſs in love with it than ever, as I find leſs tempta⯑tion to act with any hope of ſucceſs. If I am good for any thing, 'tis in Angulo cum Libello; and yet a good part of my time has been ſpent, and perhaps muſt ſtill be ſpent, far otherwiſe. For I will never, while I have health, be wanting to my duty in any poſt or in any reſpect, how little ſoever I [105] may like my employment, and how hope⯑leſs ſoever I may be in the diſcharge of it.

In the mean time the judicious world is pleas'd to think that I delight in work which I am obliged to undergo, and aim at things which I from my heart deſpiſe. Let them think as they will, ſo I might be at liberty to act as I will, and ſpend my time in ſuch a manner as is moſt agreeable to me. I can⯑not ſay I do ſo now, for I am here without any books, and if I had them, could not uſe them to my ſatisfaction, while my mind is taken up in a more melancholy ^* man⯑ner; and how long, or how little a while it may be ſo taken up God only knows, and to his will I implicitly reſign myſelf in every thing.

Mr POPE to the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

I Am extreamly ſenſible of the repeated favour of your kind letters, and your thoughts of me in abſence, even among thoughts of much nearer concern to youſelf on the one hand, and of much more im⯑portance to the world on the other, which cannot but engage you at this juncture. I [106] am very certain of your good will, and of the warmth which is, in you, inſepa⯑rable from it.

Your remembrance of Twitenham is a freſh inſtance of that partiality. I hope the advance of the fine ſeaſon will ſet you upon your legs, enough to enable you to get into my garden, where I will carry you up a mount, to ſhew you in a point of view the glory of my little kingdom. If you ap⯑prove it, I ſhall be in danger to boaſt like Nebuchadnezzar of the things I have made, and to be turn'd to converſe, not with the beaſts of the field, but with the birds of the grove, which I ſhall take to be no great puniſhment. For indeed I heartily deſpiſe the ways of the world, and moſt of the great ones of it.

And you may judge how comfortably I am ſtrengthen'd in this opinion, when ſuch as your Lordſhip bear teſtimony to it's vanity and-emptineſs. Tinnit, inane eſt, with the picture of one ringing on the globe with his finger, is the beſt thing I have the luck to remember in that great Poet Quarles, (not that I forget the Devil at bowls; which I know to be your Lordſhip's favourite cut, as well as favourite diverſion).

[107] The ſituation here is pleaſant, and the view rural enough, to humour the moſt re⯑tir'd, and agree with the moſt contempla⯑tive. Good air, ſolitary groves, and ſparing diet, ſufficient to make you fancy your ſelf (what you are in temperance, tho' ele⯑vated into a greater figure by your ſtation) one of the Fathers of the Deſart. Here you may think (to uſe an author's words, whom you ſo juſtly prefer to all his fol⯑lowers that you'll receive them kindly tho' taken from his worſt work)

I am ſincerely free with you, as you de⯑ſire I ſhould, and approve of your not having your coach here, for if you would ſee Lord C^* or any body elſe, I have ano⯑ther chariot, beſides that little one you laugh'd at when you compar'd me to Ho⯑mer in a nut-ſhell. But if you would be entirely private, no body ſhall know any thing of the matter. Believe me, my Lord, no man is with more perfect acquieſcence, nay, with more willing acquieſcence, (not even any of your own Sons of the Church)

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

UNder all the leiſure in the world, I have no leiſure, no ſtomach to write to you; the gradual approaches of death are before my eyes. I am convinc'd, that it muſt be ſo; and yet make a ſhift to flat⯑ter my ſelf ſometimes with the thought, that it may poſſibly be otherwiſe. And that very thought, tho' it is directly contrary to my reaſon, does for a few moments make me eaſy—however not eaſy enough in good earneſt to think of any thing but the melancholy object that employs them. Therefore wonder not that I do not anſwer your kind letter: I ſhall anſwer it too ſoon, I fear, by accepting your friendly invitation. When I do ſo, no conveniencies will be wanting: for I'll ſee no body but you and your mother, and the ſervants. Viſits to Stateſmen always were to me (and are now more than ever) inſipid things; let the men that expect, that wiſh to thrive by them, pay them that homage; I am free. When I want them, they ſhall hear of me at their doors: and when they want me, I ſhall be ſure to hear of them at mine. But probably they will deſpiſe me ſo much, and [109] I ſhall court them ſo little, that we ſhall both of us keep our diſtance.

When I come to you, 'tis in order to be with you only: A Preſident of the council, or a Star and Garter will make no more im⯑preſſion upon my mind, at ſuch a time, than the hearing of a bag-pipe, or the ſight of a Puppet-ſhow. I have ſaid to Greatneſs ſometime ago—Tuas tibi res habeto, ego⯑met curabo meas. The Time is not far off when we ſhall all be upon the level: and I am reſolv'd for my part to anticipate that time, and be upon the level with them now: for he is ſo, that neither ſeeks nor wants them. Let them have more Virtue and leſs Pride: and then I'll court them as much as any body: but till they reſolve to diſtinguiſh themſelves ſome way elſe than by their outward Trappings, I am deter⯑mined (and I think I have a right) to be as proud as they are: tho' I truſt in God, my pride is neither of ſo odious a nature as theirs, nor of ſo miſchievous a conſe⯑quence.

I know not how I have fallen into this train of thinking—when I ſat down to write I intended only to excuſe my ſelf for not writing, and to tell you that the time drew nearer and nearer when I muſt diſ⯑lodge. I am preparing for it: For I am at this moment building a Vault in the Ab⯑bey for me and mine. 'Twas to be in the [110] Abbey, becauſe of my relation to the place; but 'tis at the weſt door of it; as far from Kings and Caeſars as the ſpace will admit of.

I know not but I may ſtep to town to⯑morrow, to ſee how the work goes forward; but if I do, I ſhall return hither in the evening. I would not have given you the trouble of this letter but that they tell me it will coſt you nothing, and that our privi⯑lege of Franking (one of the moſt valu⯑able we have left) is again allow'd us.

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

I Had much ado to get hither laſt night, the water being ſo rough that the ferry-men were unwilling to venture. The firſt thing I ſaw this morning after my eyes were open, was your letter, for the freedom and kind⯑neſs of which I thank you. Let all com⯑pliments be laid aſide between us for the future; and depend upon me as your faith⯑ful friend in all things within my pow'r, as one that truly values you, and wiſhes you all manner of happineſs. I thank you and Mrs Pope for my kind reception, which has left a pleaſing impreſſion upon me that will not ſoon be effac'd.

[111] Lord ^* has preſs'd me terribly to ſee him at ^* and told me in a manner betwixt kind⯑neſs and reſentment, that it is but a few miles beyond Twitenham.

I have but a little time left, and a great deal to do in it; and muſt expect that ill health will render a good ſhare of it uſeleſs and therefore what is likely to be left at the foot of the account, ought by me to be cheriſh'd, and not thrown away in compli⯑ments. You know the motto of my ſun⯑dial, Vivite, ait, fugio. I will as far as I am able, follow it's advice, and cut off all unneceſſary avocations and amuſements. There are thoſe that intend to employ me this winter in a way I do not like: if they perſiſt in their intentions, I muſt apply my ſelf to the work they cut out for me, as well as I can. But withal, that ſhall not hinder me from employing myſelf alſo in a way which they do not like. The givers of trouble one way ſhall have their ſhare of it another; that at laſt they may be induc'd to let me be quiet, and live to my ſelf, with the few (the very few) friends I like: For that is the point, the ſingle point, I now aim at; tho' I know, the generality of the world who are unacquainted with my in⯑tentions and views, think the very reverſe of this character belongs to me. I don't [112] know how I have rambled into this account of my ſelf; when I ſat down to write I had no thought of making that any part of my letter.

You might have been ſure without my telling you, that my right hand is at eaſe; elſe I ſhould not have overflow'd at this rate. And yet I have not done, for there is a kind intimation at the end of yours, which I underſtood, becauſe it ſeems to tend towards employing me in ſomething that is agreeable to you. Pray explain your ſelf, and believe that you have not an ac⯑quaintance in the world that would be more in earneſt on ſuch an occaſion than I; for I love you, as well as eſteem you.

All the while I have been writing, Pain, and a fine Thruſh have been ſeverally endea⯑vouring to call off my attention; but both in vain: Nor ſhould I yet part with you, but that the turning over a new leaf frights me a little, and makes me reſolve to break thro' a new temptation, before it has taken too faſt hold on me.

From the ſame.

YOU have generally written firſt, after our parting; I will now be before⯑hand with you in my enquiries, how you got home and how you do, and whether you met with Lord *, and deliver'd my civil reproach to him, in the manner I deſir'd? I ſuppoſe you did not, becauſe I have heard nothing either from you, or from him on that head: as I ſuppoſe I might have done if you had found him.

I am ſick of theſe Men of quality: and the more ſo, the oftner I have any buſineſs to tranſact with them. They look upon it as one of their diſtinguiſhing privileges, not to be punctual in any buſineſs, of how great importance ſoever; nor to ſet other people at eaſe, with the loſs of the leaſt part of their own. This conduct of his vexes me; but to what purpoſe? or how can I alter it?

I long to ſee the original MS. of Milton: but don't know how to come at it, without your repeated aſſiſtance.

I hope you won't utterly forget what paſs'd in the coach about Sampſon Ago⯑niſtes. I ſhan't preſs you as to time, but ſometime or other, I wiſh you would re⯑view, [114] and poliſh that piece. If upon a new peruſal of it (which I deſire you to make) you think as I do, that it is written in the very ſpirit of the Ancients; it de⯑ſerves your care, and is capable of being improv'd, with little trouble, into a perfect model and ſtandard of Tragick poetry—always allowing for it's being a ſtory taken out of the Bible, which is an objection, that at this time of day, I know is not to be got over.

Mr POPE to the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

I Have been as conſtantly at Twitenham, as your Lordſhip has at Bromley, ever ſince you ſaw Lord Bathurſt. At the time of the Duke of Marlborough's funeral, I intend to lie at the Deanery, and moralize one evening with you on the Vanity of hu⯑man Glory.—

The Ducheſs's letter concerns me nearly, and you know it, who know all my thoughts without diſguiſe. I muſt keep clear of Flattery; I will: and as this is an honeſt reſolution, I dare hope your Lordſhip will not be ſo unconcern'd for my keeping it, as not to aſſiſt me in ſo doing. I beg there⯑fore [115] you would repreſent thus much at leaſt to her Grace, that as to the fear ſhe ſeems touch'd with, [That the Duke's memory ſhould have no advantage but what he muſt give himſelf, without being beholden to any one Friend] Your Lordſhip may certainly, and agreeably to your character, both of rigid honour and chriſtian plainneſs, tell her that no man can have any other advantage: and that all offerings of Friends in ſuch a caſe paſs for nothing. Be but ſo good as to confirm what I've repreſented to her, that an Inſcription in the antient way, plain, pom⯑pous, and yet modeſt, will be the moſt uncommon, and therefore the moſt diſtin⯑guiſhing manner of doing it: And ſo I hope ſhe will be ſatisfied, the Duke's Ho⯑nour be preſerv'd, and my Integrity alſo: which is too ſacred a thing to be forfeited, in conſideration of any little (or what people of quality may call great) Honour or Di⯑ſtinction whatever, which thoſe of their rank can beſtow on one of mine; and which indeed they are apt to over-rate, but never ſo much as when they imagine us under any obligation to ſay one untrue word in their favour.

I can only thank you, my Lord, for the kind tranſition you make, from common buſineſs to that which is the only real buſi⯑neſs of every reaſonable creature: Indeed I think more of it than you imagine, tho' [116] not ſo much as I ought. I am pleas'd with thoſe latin verſes extreamly, which are ſo very good that I thought 'em yours, till you call'd 'em an Horatian Cento, and then I recollected the disjecti membra poëtae. I won't pretend I am ſo totally in thoſe ſenti⯑ments which you compliment me with, as I yet hope to be: You tell me I have them, as the civilleſt method to put me in mind how much it fits me to have 'em. I ought, firſt, to prepare my mind by a better know⯑ledge even of good prophane writers, eſpe⯑cially the Moraliſts, &c. before I can be worthy of taſting that ſupreme of books, and ſublime of all writings. In which, as in all the intermediate ones, you may (if your friendſhip and charity toward me con⯑tinue ſo far) be the beſt guide to,

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

I Have written to the Ducheſs juſt as you deſir'd, and referr'd her to our meeting in town for a further account of it. I have done it the rather, becauſe your opinion in the caſe is ſincerely mine: and if it had not been ſo, you your ſelf ſhould not have induc'd me [117] to give it. Whether, and how far ſhe will acquieſce in it, I cannot ſay: eſpecially in a caſe where ſhe thinks the Duke's honour concern'd, but ſhould ſhe ſeem to perſiſt a little at preſent, her good ſenſe (which I de⯑pend upon) will afterwards ſatisfy her that we are in the right.

I go to morrow to the Deanery, and I believe I ſhall ſtay there, till I have ſaid Duſt to duſt, and ſhut up that ^† laſt ſcene of pompous vanity.

'Tis a great while for me to ſtay there at this time of the year; and I know I ſhall often ſay to my ſelf, while I am expecting the funeral,

In that caſe I ſhall fancy I hear the ghoſt of the dead, thus intreating me,

There is an anſwer for me ſome where in Hamlet to this requeſt, which you remem⯑ber [118] tho' I don't—Poor Ghoſt thou ſhalt be ſatisfied!—or ſomething like it. How⯑ever that be, take care you do not fail in your appointment, that the company of the living may make me ſome amends for my attendance on the dead.

I know you will be glad to hear that I am well. I ſhould always, could I always be here—

You are the firſt man I ſent to this morning, and the laſt man I deſire to con⯑verſe with this evening, tho' at twenty miles diſtance from you,

From the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

I Thank you for all inſtances of your friendſhip, both before, and ſince my misfortunes. A little time will compleat them, and ſeparate you and me for ever. But in what part of the world ſoever I am, I will live mindful of your ſincere kindneſs [119] to me; and will pleaſe my ſelf with the thought, that I ſtill live in your eſteem and affection, as much as ever I did; and that no accidents of life, no diſtance of time or place, will alter you in that reſpect. It never can me; who have lov'd and valu'd you ever ſince I knew you, and ſhall not fail to do it when I am not allow'd to tell you ſo: as the caſe will ſoon be. Give my faithful ſervices to Dr Arbuthnot, and thanks for what he ſent me: which was much to the purpoſe, in a caſe that is al⯑ready determin'd. Let him know my De⯑fence will be ſuch, that neither my friends need bluſh for me, nor will my enemies have great occaſion of Triumph, tho' ſure of the Victory. I ſhall want his advice be⯑fore I go abroad in many things. But I queſtion whether I ſhall be permitted to ſee him, or any body, but ſuch as are ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary toward the diſpatch of my private affairs. If ſo, God bleſs you both! and may no part of the ill fortune that attends me ever purſue either of you! I know not but I may call upon you at my hearing, to ſay ſomewhat about my way of ſpending my time at the Deanery, which did not ſeem calculated towards managing Plots and con⯑ſpiracies. But of that I ſhall conſider—You and I have ſpent many hours together upon much pleaſanter ſubjects; and that I may preſerve the old cuſtom, I ſhall not [120] part with you now till I have clos'd this letter with three lines of Milton, which you will (I know) readily, and not without ſome degree of concern, apply to your ever af⯑fectionate, &c.

The Anſwer.

IT is not poſſible to expreſs what I think, and what I feel; only this, that I have thought and felt for nothing but you, for ſome time paſt: and ſhall think of nothing ſo long for the time to come. The greateſt comfort I had was an intention (which I would have made practicable) to have at⯑tended you in your journey; to which I had brought that perſon to conſent, who only could have hindered me, by a tye, which, though it may be more tender, I do not think more ſtrong than that of friendſhip. But I fear there will be no way left me to tell you this great truth, that I remem⯑ber you, that I love you, that I am grate⯑ful to you, that I entirely eſteem and value [121] you: no way but that one, which needs no open warrant to authorize it, or ſecret con⯑veyance to ſecure it; which no bills can preclude, and no Kings prevent; a way that can reach to any part of the world where you may be, where the very whiſper, or even the wiſh of a friend, muſt not be heard, or even ſuſpected: by this way, I dare to tell my eſteem and affection for you, to your enemies in the gates; and you, and they, and their ſons, may hear of it.

You prove your ſelf, my Lord, to know me for the friend I am; in judging that the manner of your Defence, and your Repu⯑tation by it, is a point of the higheſt con⯑cern to me: and aſſuring me it ſhall be ſuch, that none of your friends ſhall bluſh for you. Let me further prompt you to do your ſelf the beſt and moſt laſting juſtice. The inſtruments of your fame to poſterity will be in your own hands. May it not be, that providence has appointed you to ſome great and uſeful work, and calls you to it this ſevere way? You may more eminently and more effectually ſerve the publick even now, than in the ſtations you have ſo ho⯑nourably fill'd. Think of Tully, Bacon, and Clarendon: is it not the latter, the diſgrac'd part of their lives, which you moſt envy, and which you would chooſe to have liv'd.

[122] I am tenderly ſenſible of the wiſh you expreſs, that no part of your misfortune may purſue me. But God knows I am every day leſs and leſs fond of my native country (ſo torn as it is by Party-rage) and begin to conſider a friend in exile as a friend in death; one gone before, where I am not unwilling nor unprepared to follow after; and where (however various or uncertain the roads and voyages of another world may be) I cannot but entertain a pleaſing hope, that we may meet again.

I faithfully aſſure you, that in the mean time there is no one living or dead, of whom I ſhall think oftner or better than of you. I ſhall look upon you as in a ſtate between both, in which you will have from me all the paſſions and warm wiſhes that can attend the living, and all the reſpect and tender ſenſe of loſs, that we feel for the dead. And I ſhall ever depend upon your conſtant friendſhip, kind memory, and good offices, though I were never to ſee or hear the effects of them: like the truſt we have in benevolent Spirits, who, tho' we never ſee or hear them, we think are conſtantly ſerving us, and praying for us.

Whenever I am wiſhing to write to you, I ſhall conclude you are intentionally doing ſo to me: and every time that I think of you, I believe you are thinking of me. I never ſhall ſuffer to be forgotten (nay to be [123] but faintly remember'd) the honour, the pleaſure, the pride I muſt ever have, in re⯑flecting how frequently you have delighted me, how kindly you have diſtinguiſh'd me, how cordially you have adviſed me! In converſation, in ſtudy, I ſhall always want you, and wiſh for you. In my moſt lively, and in my moſt thoughtful hours, I ſhall equally bear about me, the impreſſions of you: And perhaps it will not be in This life only, that I ſhall have cauſe to re⯑member and acknowledge the Friendſhip of the Biſhop of ROCHESTER.

To the ſame.

ONce more I write to you as I promis'd, and this once I fear will be the laſt! the Curtain will ſoon be drawn between my friend and me, and nothing left but to wiſh you a long good night. May you enjoy a ſtate of repoſe in this life, not unlike that Sleep of the ſoul which ſome have believ'd is to ſucceed it, where we lye utterly forgetful of that world from which [124] we are gone, and ripening for that to which we are to go. If you retain any memory of the paſt, let it only image to you what has pleas'd you beſt; ſometimes preſent a dream of an abſent friend, or bring you back an agreeable converſation. But upon the whole, I hope you will think leſs of the time paſt than of the future; as the former has been leſs kind to you than the latter infallibly will be. Do not envy the world your Studies; they will tend to the benefit of men againſt whom you can have no complaint, I mean of all Poſterity: and per⯑haps at your time of life, nothing elſe is worth your care. What is every year of a wiſe man's life but a cenſure or critique on the paſt? Thoſe whoſe date is the ſhorteſt, live long enough to laugh at one half of it: the boy deſpiſes the infant, the man the boy, the philoſoper both, and the chriſtian all. You may now begin to think your manhood was too much a puerility: and you'll never ſuffer your age to be but a ſecond infancy. The toys and baubles of your childhood are hardly now more below you, than thoſe toys of our riper and of our declining years, the drums and rattles of Ambition, and the dirt and bubbles of Ava⯑rice. At this time, when you are cut off from a little ſociety, and made a citizen of the world at large, you ſhould bend your talents not to ſerve a Party, or a few, but [125] all Mankind. Your Genius ſhould mount above that miſt in which it's participation and neighbourhood with earth long involv'd it: To ſhine abroad and to heaven, ought to be the buſineſs and the glory of your pre⯑ſent ſituation. Remember it was at ſuch a time, that the greateſt lights of antiquity dazled and blazed the moſt; in their re⯑treat, in their exile, or in their death: but why do I talk of dazling or blazing? it was then that they did good, that they gave light, and that they became Guides to mankind.

Thoſe aims alone are worthy of ſpirits truly great, and ſuch I therefore hope will be yours. Reſentment indeed may remain, perhaps cannot be quite extinguiſhed, in the nobleſt minds; but revenge will never har⯑bour there: higher principles than thoſe of the firſt, and better principles than thoſe of the latter, will infallibly influence men whoſe thoughts and whoſe minds are en⯑larged, and cauſe them to prefer the Whole to any part of mankind, eſpecially to ſo ſmall a part as one's ſingle ſelf.

Believe me, my Lord, I look upon you as a Spirit enter'd into another life, as one juſt upon the edge of immortality, where the Paſſions and Affections are much more exalted, and where you ought to deſpiſe all little views, and all mean Retroſpects. No⯑thing is worth your looking back; there⯑fore [126] fore look forward, and make (as you can) the world look after you: But take care, that it be not with Pity, but with Eſteem and Admiration.

I am with the greateſt ſincerity, and paſſion for your Fame as well as Happi⯑neſs,

The Biſhop of Rocheſter went into Exile the month following, and continued in it till his death, which happen'd at Paris on the fifteenth day of February, in the year 1732.

The Duke of BUCKINGHAM to Mr POPE.

YOU deſire my opinion as to the late diſpute in France concerning Homer: And I think it excuſable (at an age alas of not much pleaſure) to amuſe my ſelf a little in taking notice of a controverſy, than which nothing is at preſent more remark⯑able (even in a nation who value them⯑ſelves ſo much upon the Belles Lettres) both on account of the illuſtrious ſubject of it, and of the two perſons ingaged in the quarrel.

The one is extraordinary in all the Lyric kind of Poetry even in the opinion of his very adverſary. The other a Lady (and of more value for being ſo) not only of great [127] Learning, but with a Genius admirably turn'd to that ſort of it which moſt becomes her Sex, for ſoftneſs, genteelneſs, and pro⯑moting of virtue: and ſuch as (one would think) is not ſo liable as other parts of ſcho⯑larſhip, to rough diſputes, or violent ani⯑moſity.

Yet it has ſo happen'd, that no writers, even about Divinity it ſelf, have been more outragious or uncharitable than theſe two polite authors; by ſuffering their judgments to be a little warped (if I may uſe that ex⯑preſſion) by the heat of their eager inclina⯑tions, to attack or defend ſo great an Au⯑thor under debate: I wiſh for the ſake of the public, which is now ſo well entertain'd by their quarrel, it may not end at laſt in their agreeing to blame a third man who is ſo preſumptuous as to cenſure both, if they ſhould chance to hear of it.

To begin with matter of fact. Madam Dacier has well judg'd, that the beſt of all Poets certainly deſerv'd a better tranſlation, at leaſt into French proſe, becauſe to ſee it done in verſe was deſpair'd of: I believe in⯑deed from a defect in that language, inca⯑pable of mounting to any degree of excel⯑lence ſuitable to ſo very great an under⯑taking.

She has not only perform'd this task as well as proſe can do it, (which is indeed but as the wrong ſide of Tapeſtry is able to re⯑preſent [128] preſent the right) but ſhe has added to it alſo many learned and uſeful annotations. With all which ſhe moſt obligingly delighted not only her own ſex, but moſt of ours, igno⯑rant of the Greek, and conſequently her ad⯑verſary himſelf, who frankly acknowledges that ignorance.

'Tis no wonder therefore, if in doing this, ſhe is grown ſo inamour'd of that unſpeak⯑ably-charming Author, as to have a kind of horror at the leaſt mention of a man bold enough to blame him.

Now as to M. de la Motte, he being al⯑ready deſervedly famous for all ſorts of Ly⯑ric poetry, was ſo far introduc'd by her in⯑to thoſe beauties of the Epic kind, (tho' but in that way of tranſlation) as not to reſiſt the pleaſure and hope of reputation by at⯑tempting that in verſe, which had been ap⯑plauded ſo much for the difficulty of doing it even in proſe; knowing how this, well executed, muſt extreamly tranſcend the other.

But, as great Poets are a little apt to think they have an ancient right of being excus'd for Vanity on all occaſions; he was not content to out-do Madam Dacier, but endea⯑vour'd to out-do Homer himſelf, and all that ever in any age or nation went before him in the ſame enterprize; by leaving out, altering, or adding whatever he thought beſt.

[129] Againſt this preſumptuous attempt, Ho⯑mer has been in all times ſo well defended, as not to need my ſmall aſſiſtance; yet I muſt needs ſay his excellencies are ſuch, that for their ſake he deſerves a much gentler touch for his ſeeming errors. Theſe if M. de la Motte had tranſlated as well as the reſt, with an apology for having retain'd 'em only out of meer veneration; his judg⯑ment in my opinion would have appear'd much greater than by the beſt of his altera⯑tions, though I admit them to be written very finely. I join with M. de la Motte in wondering at ſome odd things in Homer, but 'tis chiefly becauſe of his ſublime ones, I was about to ſay his divine ones, which almoſt ſurprize me at finding him any where in the fallible condition of humane nature.

And now we are wond'ring, I am in a difficulty to gueſs, what can be the reaſon of theſe exceptions againſt Homer. from one who has himſelf tranſlated him, con⯑trary to the general cuſtom of tranſlators. Is there not a little of that in it? I mean to be ſingular in getting above the title of a Tranſlator, tho' ſufficiently honourable in this caſe. For ſuch an ambition no body has leſs occaſion, than one who is ſo fine a Poet in other kinds; and who muſt have too much wit to believe, any alteration of another can intitle him to the denomination of an Epic Poet himſelf: though no man [130] in this age ſeems more capable of being a good one, if the French tongue would bear it. Yet in his tranſlation he has done too well, to leave any doubt (with all his faults) that her's can be ever parallel'd with it.

Beſides he could not be ignorant, that finding faults is the moſt eaſy and vulgar part of a critic; whereas nothing ſhews ſo much skill and taſte both, as the being throughly ſenſible of the ſublimeſt excel⯑lencies.

What can we ſay in excuſe of all this? Humanum eſt errare: Since as good a Poet as I believe the French language is capable of, and as ſharp a Critic as any nation can produce, has by too much cenſuring Ho⯑mer, ſubjected a tranſlation to cenſure, that would have otherwiſe ſtood the teſt of the ſevereſt adverſary.

But ſince he would needs chuſe that wrong way of criticiſm, I wonder he miſs'd a ſtone ſo eaſy to be thrown againſt Homer, for his filling the Iliad with ſo muchſlaugh⯑ter, (for that is to be excuſed, ſince a War is not capable of being deſcribed without it) but with ſo many various particulars of wounds and horror, as ſhew the writer (I am afraid) ſo delighted that way himſelf, as not the leaſt to doubt his reader being ſo alſo. Like Spainoletta, whoſe diſmal pic⯑tures are the more diſagreeable for being al⯑ways ſo very movingly painted. Even [131] Hector's laſt parting from his ſon and An⯑dromache, hardly makes us amends for his body's being dragg'd thrice round the town. M. de la Motte in his ſtrongeſt objection about that diſmal combat, has ſufficient cauſe to blame his inrag'd adverſary; who here gives an inſtance that it is impoſſible to be violent without committing ſome mi⯑ſtake; her paſſion for Homer blinding her too much to perceive the very groſſeſt of his failings. By which warning I am become a little more capable of impartiality, though in a diſpute about that very Poet for whom I have the greateſt veneration.

Madam Dacier might have conſider'd a lit⯑tle, that whatever were the motives of M. de la Motte to ſo bold a proceeding, it could not darken that fame which I am ſure ſhe thinks ſhines ſecurely even after the vain at⯑tempts of Plato himſelf againſt it: caus'd only perhaps by a like reaſon with that of Madam Dacier's anger againſt M. de la Motte, namely, the finding that in proſe his genius (great as it was) could not be ca⯑pable of the ſublime heights of poetry, which therefore he baniſh'd out of his com⯑mon-wealth.

Nor were theſe objections to Homer any more leſſening of her merit in tranſlating him, as well as that way is capable of, viz. fully, plainly, and elegantly, than the moſt [132] admirable verſes can be any diſparagement to an excellent proſe.

The beſt excuſe for all this violence is, it's being in a Cauſe which gives a kind of repu⯑tation even to ſuffering by never ſo ill a ma⯑nagement of it.

The worſt of defending even Homer in ſuch a paſſionate manner, is it's being more a proof of her weakneſs, than of his being liable to none. For what is it can excuſe Homer any more than Hector, for flying at the firſt ſight of Achilles? whoſe terri⯑ble aſpect ſure needed not ſuch an inexcu⯑ſable fright to ſet it off; and methinks all that account of Minerva's reſtoring his dart to Achilles, comes a little too late, for ex⯑cuſing Hector's ſo terrible apprehenſion at the very firſt.

To the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

I Am much honour'd by your Grace's compliance with my requeſt, in giving me your opinion of the French diſpute con⯑cerning Homer. And I ſhall keep my word, in fairly telling wherein I diſagree from you. It is but in two or three very ſmall points, not ſo much of the diſpute, as of the par⯑ties [133] concern'd in it. I cannot think quite ſo highly of the Lady's learning, tho' I re⯑ſpect it very much. It is great complai⯑ſance in that polite nation, to allow her to be a Critic of equal rank with her husband. To inſtance no further, his remarks on Horace ſhew more good Senſe, Penetration, and a better Taſte of his author, and thoſe upon Ariſtotle's art of poetry more Skill and Science, than any of hers on any author whatever. In truth, they are much more ſlight, dwell more in generals, and are be⯑ſides for the moſt part leſs her own, of which her remarks upon Homer are an example; where Euſtathius is tranſcribed ten times for once that he is quoted. Nor is there at all more depth or learning in thoſe upon Terence, Plautus, (or where they were moſt wanted) upon Ariſtophanes, only the Greek Scholia upon the latter are ſome of the beſt extant.

Your Grace will believe me, that I did not ſearch to find defects in a Lady; my employment upon the Iliad forc'd me to ſee them: yet I had ſo much French com⯑plaiſance as to conceal her thefts; for where⯑ever I have found her notes to be wholly anothers, (which is the caſe in ſome hun⯑dreds) I have barely quoted the true Pro⯑prietor without obſerving upon it. If Ma⯑dam Dacier has ever ſeen my obſervations, ſhe will be ſenſible of this conduct, but [134] what effect it may have upon a Lady, I will not anſwer for.

In the next place, as to Mr. de la Motte, I think your Grace hardly does him right, in ſuppoſing he could have no idea of the beauties of Homer's Epic Poetry but what he learn'd from Madam Dacier's Proſe-tran⯑ſlation. There had been a very elegant Proſe-tanſlation before by Monſieur de la Valtaire, lo elegant, that the ſtyle of it was evidently the original and model of the fa⯑mous Telemaque. Your Grace very juſtly animadverts againſt the too great diſpoſition of finding faults, in the one, and of con⯑feſſing none, in the other: But doubtleſs, as to Violence, the Lady has infinitely the better of the Gentleman. Nothing can be more polite, diſpaſſionate or ſenſible, than Mr de la Motte's manner of managing the diſpute: and ſo much as I ſee your Grace admires the beauty of his verſe (in which you have the ſuffrage too of the Archbiſhop of Cambray) I will venture to ſay, his proſe is full as good. I think therefore when you ſay, no diſputants ev'n in Divinity could be more outrageous and uncharitable than theſe two authors, you are a little too hard upon M. de la Motte. Not but that (with your Grace) I doubt as little of the zeal of Com⯑mentators as of the zeal of Divines, and am as ready to believe of the paſſions and pride of mankind in general, that (did but the [135] ſame intereſts go along with them) they would carry the learned world to as violent extremes, animoſities, and even perſecutions, about variety of opinions in Criticiſm, as ever they did about Religion: and that in defect of Scripture to quarrel upon, we ſhou'd have French, Italian, and Dutch Commentators ready to burn one another about Homer, Virgil, Terence and Horace.

I do not wonder your Grace is ſhock'd at the flight of Hector upon the firſt ap⯑pearance of Achilles in the twenty-ſecond Iliad. However (to ſhew my ſelf a true Commentator, if not a true Critic) I will endeavour to excuſe, if not to defend it, in my notes on that Book. And to ſave my ſelf what trouble I can, inſtead of doing it in this letter, I will draw up the ſubſtance of what I have to ſay for it in a ſeparate paper which I'll ſhew your Grace when next we meet. I will only deſire you to allow me, that Hector was in an abſolute certainty of death, and depreſs'd over and above with the conſcience of being in an ill cauſe. If your heart be ſo great, as not to grant the firſt of theſe will ſink the ſpi⯑rit of a Hero, you'll at leaſt be ſo good, as to allow the ſecond may: But I can tell your Grace, no leſs a Hero than my Lord Peterborow, when a perſon complimented him for never being afraid, made this an⯑ſwer; ‘"Sir, ſhew me a danger that I think [136] an imminent and real one, and I promiſe you I'll be as much afraid as any of you."’

IT is with a great deal of pleaſure I ſee your letter, dear Sir, written in a ſtile that ſhows you full of health, and in the midſt of diverſions: I think thoſe two things neceſſary to a man who has ſuch un⯑dertakings in hand as yours. All lovers of Homer are indebted to you for taking ſo much pains about the ſituation of his Hero's kingdoms; it will not only be of great uſe with regard to his works, but to all that read any of the Greek Hiſtorians; who ge⯑nerally are ill underſtood thro' the difference of the maps as to the places they treat of, which makes one think one author contra⯑dicts another. You are going to ſet us right; and 'tis an advantage every body will gladly ſee you engroſs the glory of.

You can draw rules to be free and eaſy, from formal pedants; and teach men to be ſhort and pertinent, from tedious commen⯑tators. However, I congratulate your happy deliverance from ſuch authors, as you (with all your humanity) cannot wiſh alive again to converſe with. Critics will quarrel with you, if you dare to pleaſe without their leave; and Zealots will ſhrug up their ſhoulders at a man, that pretends to get to [148] Heaven out of their form, dreſs, and diet. I would no more make a judgment of an author's genius from a damning critic, than I would of a man's religion from an un⯑ſaving zealot.

I could take great delight in affording you the new glory of making a Barceloniad (if I may venture to coin ſuch a word) I fancy you would find a juſter parallel than it ſeems at firſt ſight; for the Trojans too had a great mixture of folly with their brave⯑ry: and I am out of countenance for them when I read the wife reſult of their council, where after a warm debate between Antenor and Paris about reſtoring Helen, Priam ſage⯑ly determines that they ſhall go to ſupper. And as for the Greeks, what can equal their ſuperſtition in ſacrificing an innocent lady?

I have a good opinion of my politics, ſince they agree with a man who always thinks ſo juſtly as you. I wiſh it were in our power to perſuade all the nation into as calm and ſteady a diſpoſition of mind.

We have receiv'd the late melancholy news, with the uſual ceremony of condoling in one breath for the loſs of a gracious Queen, and in another rejoycing for an il⯑luſtrious King. My views carry me no far⯑ther, than to wiſh the peace and welfare of [149] my country; and my morals and politics, teach me to leave all that to be adjuſted by our repreſentatives above, and to divine providence. It is much at one to you and me who ſit at the helm, provided they will permit us to ſail quietly in the great ſhip. Ambition is a vice that is timely mortify'd in us poor Papiſts; we ought in recom⯑pence to cultivate as many virtues in our ſelves as we can, that we may be truly great. Among my Ambitions, that of being a ſin⯑cere friend is one of the chief; yet I will confeſs that I have a ſecret pleaſure to have ſome of my deſcendants know, that their Anceſtor was great with Mr Pope.

From the ſame.

IT is an agreement of long date between you and me, that you ſhould do with my letters juſt as you pleaſed, and anſwer them at your leiſure, and that is as ſoon as I ſhall think you ought. I have ſo true a taſte of the ſubſtantial part of your friend⯑ſhip, that I wave all ceremonials; and am ſure to make you as many viſits as I can, and leave you to return them whenever you [150] pleaſe, aſſuring you they ſhall at all times be heartily welcome to me.

The many alarms we have from your parts, have no effect upon the genius that reigns in our country, which is happily turn'd to preſerve peace and quiet among us. What a diſmal ſcene has there been open'd in the North? what ruin have thoſe unfor⯑tunate raſh gentlemen drawn upon them⯑ſelves and their miſerable followers, and per⯑chance upon many others too, who upon no account would be their followers? How⯑ever, it may look ungenerous to reproach people in diſtreſs. I don't remember you and I ever uſed to trouble our ſelves about politics, but when any matter hap⯑pen'd to fall into our diſcourſe, we us'd to condemn all undertakings that tended towards the diſturbing the peace and quiet of our country, as contrary to the notions we had of morality and religion, which oblige us on no pretence whatſoever to vio⯑late the laws of charity: how many lives have there been loſt in hot blood, and how many more are there like to be taken off in cold? If the broils of the nation affect you, come down to me, and though we are farmers, you know Eumeus made his friends welcome. You ſhall here worſhip the Ec⯑cho at your eaſe; indeed we are forc'd to do ſo, becauſe we can't hear the firſt report, and therefore are oblig'd to liſten to the ſe⯑cond; [151] which for ſecurity ſake, I do not al⯑ways believe neither.

'Tis a great many years ſince I fell in love with the character of Pomponius At⯑ticus: I long'd to imitate him a little, and have contriv'd hitherto, to be like him en⯑gaged in no party, but to be a faithful friend to ſome in both: I find my ſelf very well in this way hitherto, and live in a certain peace of mind by it, which I am perſuaded brings a man more content than all the per⯑quiſites of wild ambition. I with pleaſure join with you in wiſhing, nay I am not aſhamed to ſay, in praying for the welfare temporal and eternal of all mankind. How much more affectionately then ſhall I do ſo for you, ſince I am in a moſt particular man⯑ner and with all ſincerity,

I Have read your letter over and over with delight. By your deſcription of the town, I imagine it to lie under ſome great enchantment, and am very much concerned for you and all my friends in it. I am the more afraid, imagining ſince you do not fly thoſe horrible monſters, rapine, diſſimula⯑tion, and luxury, that a magic circle is drawn about you, and you cannot eſcape. We are here in the country in quite another world, ſurrounded with bleſſings and plea⯑ſures, without any occaſion of exerciſing our iraſcible faculties; indeed we cannot boaſt of good-breeding and the art of life, but yet we don't live unpleaſantly in primitive ſimpli⯑city and good humour. The faſhions of the town affect us but juſt like a raree-ſhow, we have a curioſity to peep at 'em and nothing more. What you call pride, prodigality, and vain-glory, we cannot find in pomp and ſplendour at this diſtance; it appears to us a fine glittering ſcene, which if we don't envy you, we think you happier than we are in enjoying it. Whatever you may think to perſuade us of the humility of virtue, and her appearing in rags amongſt you, we can ne⯑ver [153] believe; our uninform'd minds repreſent her ſo noble to us, that we neceſſarily annex ſplendour to her; and we could as ſoon ima⯑gine the order of things inverted, and that there is no man in the moon, as believe the contrary. I can't forbear telling you we in⯑deed read the ſpoils of Rapine as boys do the Engliſh rogue, and hug our ſelves full as much over it; yet our roſes are not without thorns. Pray give me the pleaſure of hear⯑ing (when you are at leiſure) how ſoon I may expect to ſee the next volume of Ho⯑mer.

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

YOUR letter which I had two poſts a⯑go was very medicinal to me; and I heartily thank you for the relief it gave me. I was ſick of the thoughts of my not having in all this time given you any teſtimony of the affection I owe you, and which I as con⯑ſtantly indeed feel as I think of you. This in⯑deed was a troubleſome ill to me, 'till after reading your letter I found it was a moſt idle weak imagination to think I could ſo offend you: Of all the impreſſions you have made upon me, I never received any with greater [154] joy than this of your abundant good-nature, which bids me be aſſured of ſome ſhare of your affections.

I had many other pleaſures from your let⯑ter; that your mother remembers me is a ve⯑ry ſincere joy to me; I cannot but reflect how alike you are; from the time you do any one a favour, you think yourſelves ob⯑liged as thoſe that have received one. This is indeed an old-faſhioned reſpect, hardly to be found out of your houſe. I have great hopes however to ſee many old-faſhioned vir⯑tues revive, ſince you have made our age in love with Homer; I heartily wiſh you, who are as good a citizen as a poet, the joy of ſeeing a reformation from your works. I am in doubt whether I ſhould congratulate your having finiſhed Homer, while the two Eſſays you mention are not compleated; but if you expect no great trouble from finiſhing theſe, I heartily rejoyce with you.

I have ſome faint notion of the beauties of Twickenham from what I here ſee round me. The verdure of ſhowers is poured up⯑on every tree and field about us; the gardens unfold variety of colours to the eye every morning; the hedges breath is beyond all perfume; and the ſong of birds we hear as well as you. But tho' I hear and ſee all this, yet I think they would delight me more if you was here. I found the want of theſe at Twickenham while I was there with you, [155] by which I gueſs what an increaſe of charms it muſt now have. How kind is it in you to wiſh me there, and how unfortunate are my circumſtances that allow me not to viſit you? if I ſee you I muſt leave my father a⯑lone, and this uneaſy thought would diſap⯑point all my propoſed pleaſures; the ſame circumſtance will prevent my project of ma⯑ny happy hours with you in Lord Bathurſt's wood, and (I fear) of ſeeing you till winter, unleſs Lady Scudamore comes to Sherburne, in which caſe I ſhall preſs you to ſee Dorſet⯑ſhire as you propoſed. May you have a long enjoyment of your new favourite Portico.

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

THE London language and converſa⯑tion is I find quite changed ſince I left it, tho' it is not above three or four months ago. No violent change in the natural world ever aſtoniſhed a Philoſopher ſo much as this does me. I hope this will calm all Party⯑rage, and introduce more humanity than has of late obtained in converſation. All ſcan⯑dal will ſure be laid aſide, for there can be [156] no ſuch diſeaſe any more as ſpleen in this new golden age. I am pleaſed with the thoughts of ſeeing nothing but a general good-humour when I come up to town; I rejoyce in the univerſal riches I hear of, in the thought of their having this effect. They tell me you was ſoon content; and that you eared not for ſuch an increaſe as others wiſh⯑ed you. By this account I judge you the richeſt man in the South-ſea, and congratu⯑late you accordingly. I can wiſh you only an increaſe of health, for of riches and fame you have enough.

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

I Congratulate you, dear Sir, on the re⯑turn of the Golden Age, for ſure this muſt be ſuch, in which money is ſhower'd down in ſuch abundance upon us. I hope this overflowing will produce great and good fruits, and bring back the figurative moral golden-age to us. I have ſome omens to in⯑duce me to believe it may; for when the Muſes delight to be near a Court, when I find you frequently with a Firſt-miniſter, I can't but expect from ſuch an intimacy an encouragement and revival of the polite arts, [157] I know you deſire to bring them into ho⯑nour, above the golden Image which is ſet up and worſhipped, and if you cannot effect it, adieu to all ſuch hopes. You ſeem to in⯑timate in yours another face of things from this Inundation of wealth, as if beauty, wit, and valour, would no more engage our paſ⯑ſions in the pleaſurable purſuit of them, tho' aſſiſted by this increaſe: if ſo, and if mon⯑ſters only as various as thoſe of Nile ariſe from this abundance, who that has any Spleen about him will not haſte to town to laugh? What will become of the play-houſe? who will go thither while there is ſuch en⯑tertainment in the ſtreets? I hope we ſhall neither want good Satire nor Comedy; if we do, the age may well be thought barren of genius's, for none has ever produced bet⯑ter ſubjects.

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

I Find in my heart that I have a taint of the corrupt age we live in. I want the publick Spirit ſo much admired in old Rome, of ſacrificing every thing that is dear to us to the common-wealth. I even feel a more in⯑timate concern for my friends who have ſuf⯑fered [158] in the South Sea, than for the public, which is ſaid to be undone by it. But I hope the reaſon is, that I do not ſee ſo evi⯑dently the ruin of the public to be a con⯑ſequence of it, as I do the loſs of my friends. I fear there are few beſides yourſelf that will be perſuaded by old Heſiod, that half is more than the whole. I know not whether I do not rejoyce in your Sufferings; ſince they have ſhewn me your mind is principled with ſuch a ſentiment. I aſſure you I expect from it a performance greater ſtill than Ho⯑mer. I have an extreme joy from your com⯑municating to me this affection of your mind;

Believe me, dear Sir, no equipage could ſhew you to my eye in ſo much ſplendor. I would not indulge this fit of philoſophy ſo far as to be tedious to you, elſe I could pro⯑ſecute it with pleaſure.

I long to ſee you, your Mother, and your Villa; 'till then I will ſay nothing of Lord Bathurſt's wood, which I ſaw in my return hither. Soon after Chriſtmas I deſign for London, where I ſhall miſs Lady Scuda⯑more very much, who intends to ſtay in the country all winter. I am angry with her as I am like to ſuffer by this reſolution, and would fain blame her, but cannot find a [159] cauſe. The man is curſed that has a longer letter than this to write with as bad a pen, yet I can uſe it with pleaſure to ſend my ſervices to your good mother, and to write myſelf your, &c.

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

I Can't return from ſo agreeable an enter⯑tainment as yours in the country with⯑out acknowledging it. I thank you heartily for the new Idea of life you there gave me; it will remain long with me, for it is very ſtrongly impreſſed upon my imagination. I repeat the memory of it often, and ſhall va⯑lue that faculty of the mind now more than ever, for the power it gives me of being en⯑tertained in your villa, when abſent from it. As you are poſſeſſed of all the pleaſures of the country, and as I think of a right mind. what can I wiſh you but health to enjoy them? This I ſo heartily do, that I ſhould be even glad to hear your good old mother might loſe all her preſent pleaſures in her unwearied care of you, by your better health convincing her it is unneceſſary.

I am troubled and ſhall be ſo, till I hear you have received this letter: for you gave me the greateſt pleaſure imaginable in yours, [160] and I am impatient to acknowledge it. If I any ways deſerve that friendly warmth and affection with which you write, it is, that I have a heart full of love and eſteem for you. So truly, that I ſhould loſe the greateſt plea⯑ſure of my life if I loſt your good opinion. It rejoices me very much to be reckoned by you in the claſs of honeſt men; for tho' I am not troubled overmuch about the opini⯑on moſt may have of me, yet I own it wou'd grieve me not to be thought well of, by you and ſome few others. I will not doubt my own ſtrength, yet I have this fur⯑ther ſecurity to maintain my integrity, that I cannot part with that, without forfeiting your eſteem with it.

Perpetual diſorder and ill health hath for ſome years ſo diſguiſed me, that I ſome⯑times fear I do not to my beſt friends enough appear what I really am. Sickneſs is a great oppreſſor; it does great injury to a zealous heart, ſtifling it's warmth, and not ſuffering it to break out in action. But I hope I ſhall not make this complaint much longer. I have other hopes that pleaſe me too, tho' not ſo well grounded; theſe are, that you may yet make a journey weſtward with Lord Bathurſt; but of the probability of this I do not venture to reaſon, becauſe I would not part with the pleaſure of that belief. It grieves me to think how far I am removed from you, and from that excellent Lord, [161] whom I love! indeed I remember him as one that has made ſickneſs eaſy to me, by bearing with my infirmities in the ſame manner that you have always done. I often too conſider him in other lights that make him valuable to me. With him, I know not by what connection, you never fail to come into my mind, as if you were inſepa⯑rable. I have as you gueſs, many philoſo⯑phical reveries in the ſhades of Sir Walter Raleigh, of which you are a great part. You generally enter there with me, and like a good Genius applaud and ſtrengthen all my ſentiments that have Honour in them. This good office which you have often done me unknowingly, I muſt acknowledge now; that my own breaſt may not reproach me with ingratitude, and diſquiet me when I would muſe again in that ſolemn ſcene. I have not room left to aſk you many queſti⯑ons I intended about the Odyſſey. I beg I may know how far you have carried Ulyſſes on his journey, and how you have been entertained with him on the way? I deſire I may hear of your health, of Mrs Pope's, and of every thing elſe that be⯑longs to you.

How thrive your garden plants? how look the trees? how ſpring the Broculi and the Fenochio? hard names to ſpell! how did the poppies bloom? and how is the great room approved? what parties have you had [162] of pleaſure? what in the grotto? what upon the Thames? I would know how all your hours paſs, all you ſay, and all you do; of which I ſhould queſtion you yet farther, but my paper is full and ſpares you. My bro⯑ther Ned is wholly yours, ſo my father de⯑ſires to be, and every ſoul here whoſe name is Digby. My ſiſter will be yours in parti⯑cular. What can I add more?

To the Hon. EDWARD DIGBY.

I Have a great inclination to write to you, tho' I cannot by writing, any more than I could by words expreſs what part I bear in your ſuffering. Nature and eſteem in you are join'd to aggravate your affliction: the latter I have in a degree equal even to yours, and a tye of friendſhip approaches near to the tenderneſs of nature: yet God knows, no man living is leſs fit to comfort you, as no man is more deeply ſenſible than my ſelf of the greatneſs of the loſs. That very virtue, which ſecures his preſent ſtate from all the ſorrows incident to ours, does but aggrandiſe our ſenſation of it's being re⯑moved from our ſight, from our affection [163] and from our imitation. The friendſhip and ſociety of good men does but compleat their felicity before our own, who probably are not yet arriv'd to their degree of perfe⯑ction which merits an immediate reward. That your dear brother and my dear friend was ſo, I take his very removal to be a proof; providence would certainly lend vir⯑tuous men to a world that ſo much wants them as long as in it's juſtice to them it could ſpare them to us. May my ſoul be with thoſe who have meant well and have acted well to that meaning; and I doubt not, if this prayer be granted, I ſhall be with him. Let us preſerve his memory in the way he would beſt like, by recollecting what his behaviour would have been in eve⯑ry incident of our lives to come, and doing in each, juſt as we think he would have done: ſo we ſhall have him always before our eyes, and in our minds, and more in our lives and manners. I hope when we ſhall meet him next we ſhall be more of a piece with him, and conſequently not to be ever more ſeparated from him. I will add but one word (that relates to what remains of your ſelf and me ſince ſo valued a part of us is gone) it is to beg you to accept as yours by inheritance, of the vacancy he has left in a heart which (while he could fill it with ſuch hopes, wiſhes and affections for him as ſuited a mortal creature) was truly and warm⯑ly [164] ly his and ſhall (I aſſure you in the ſinceri⯑ty of ſorrow for my own loſs) be faithfully at your ſervice while I continue to love his memory, that is while I continue to be

I Aſſure you unfeignedly, any memorial of your good-na⯑ture and friendlineſs is moſt welcome to me, who know thoſe tenders of affection from you, are not like the common traffic of compliments and profeſſions, which moſt people only give that they may receive; and is at beſt a commerce of Vanity, if not of Falſehood. I am happy in not immediately wanting the ſort of good offices you offer: but if I did want 'em, I ſhou'd not think my ſelf unhappy in receiving 'em at your hands: this really is ſome compliment, for [166] I would rather moſt men did me a ſmall injury, than a kindneſs. I know your hu⯑manity, and allow me to ſay, I love and value you for it: 'Tis a much better ground of love and value, than all the qualities I ſee the world ſo fond of: They generally admire in the wrong place, and generally moſt admire the things they don't compre⯑hend, or the things they can never be the better for. Very few can receive pleaſure or advantage from wit which they ſeldom taſte, or learning which they ſeldom underſtand: much leſs from the quality, high birth, or ſhining circumſtances of thoſe to whom they profeſs eſteem, and who will always remember how much they are their Infe⯑riors. But Humanity and ſociable virtues are what every creature wants every day, and ſtill wants more the longer he lives, and moſt the very moment he dies. It is ill travelling either in a Ditch or on a Terras; we ſhould walk in the common way, where others are continually paſſing on the ſame level, to make the journey of life ſupport⯑able by bearing one another company in the ſame circumſtances.—Let me know how I may convey over the Odyſſes for your amuſe⯑ment in your journey, that you many com⯑pare your own travels with thoſe of Ulyſſes: I am ſure yours are undertaken upon a more diſintereſted, and therefore a more heroic motive. Far be the omen from you, of re⯑turning [167] as he did, alone, without ſaving a friend.

There is lately printed a book^* wherein all human virtue is reduced to one teſt, that of Truth, and branch'd out in every in⯑ſtance of our duty to God and man. If you have not ſeen it, you muſt, and I will ſend it together with the Odyſſey. The very women read it, and pretend to be charm'd with that beauty which they gene⯑rally think the leaſt of. They make as much ado about Truth, ſince this book ap⯑pear'd, as they did about Health when Dr Cheyne's came out; and will doubtleſs be as conſtant in the purſuit of one, as of the other. Adieu.

I Never am unmindful of thoſe I think ſo well of as yourſelf; their number is not ſo great as to confound one's memory. Nor ought you to decline writing to me, upon an imagination that I am much em⯑ploy'd by other people. For tho' my houſe is like the houſe of a Patriarch of old, ſtanding by the high-way ſide and receiving all travellers, nevertheleſs I ſeldom go to bed [168] without the reflection, that one's chief bu⯑ſineſs is to be really at home: and I agree with you in your opinion of company, amuſements, and all the ſilly things which mankind would fain make pleaſures of, when in truth they are labour and ſorrow.

I condole with you on the death of your Relation, the E. of C.^† as on the fate of a mortal man: Eſteem I never had for him, but concern and humanity I had: the latter was due to the infirmity of his laſt period, tho' the former was not due to the trium⯑phant and vain part of his courſe. He cer⯑tainly knew himſelf beſt at laſt, and knew beſt the little value of others, whoſe neglect of him whom they ſo groſsly follow'd and flatter'd in the former ſcene of his life, ſhew'd them as worthleſs as they could ima⯑gine him to be, were he all that his worſt enemies believ'd of him. For my own part, I am ſorry for his death, and wiſh he had lived long enough to ſee ſo much of the faithleſneſs of the world, as to have been above the mad ambition of governing ſuch wretches as he muſt have found it to be compos'd of.

Tho' you cou'd have no great value for this Great Man, yet acquaintance itſelf, the cuſtom of ſeeing the face, or entring under the roof, of one that walks along with us in [169] the common way of the world, is enough to create a wiſh at leaſt for his being above ground, and a degree of uneaſineſs at his removal. 'Tis the loſs of an object fami⯑liar to us: I ſhould hardly care to have an old poſt pull'd up, that I remember'd ever ſince I was a child. And add to this the reflection (in the caſe of ſuch as were not the beſt of their Species) what their condition in another life may be, it is yet a more im⯑portant motive for our concern and com⯑paſſion. To ſay the truth, either in the caſe of death or life, almoſt every body and every thing is a cauſe or object for huma⯑nity, even proſperity itſelf, and health it⯑ſelf, ſo many weak pitiful incidentals attend on them.

I am ſorry any relation of yours is ill, whoever it be, for you don't name the perſon. But I conclude it is one of thoſe to whoſe houſes you tell me you are going, for I know no invitation with you is ſo ſtrong as when any one is in diſtreſs, or in want of your aſſiſtance: The ſtrongeſt proof in the world of this, was your at⯑tendance on the late Earl.

I have been very melancholy for the loſs of Mr Blount. Whoever has any portion of good nature will ſuffer on theſe occaſions, but a good mind rewards it's own ſufferings. I hope to trouble you as little as poſſible, if it be my fate to go before you. I am [170] of old Ennius's mind, Nemo me docoret lachrymis—I am but a Lodger here: this is not an abiding City. I am only to ſtay out my leaſe, for what has Perpetuity and mortal man to do with each other? But I could be glad you would take up with an Inn at Twitenham, as long as I am Hoſt of it: if not, I would take up freely with any Inn of yours.—Adieu, dear Sir: Let us while away this life; and (if we can) meet in another.

YOU are too humane and conſiderate, (things few People can be charged with.) Do not ſay you will not expect let⯑ters from me; upon my word I can no more forbear writing ſometimes to you, than thinking often of you. I know the world too well, not to value you; who are an ex⯑ample of acting, living and thinking, above it, and contrary to it.

I thank God for my Mother's unexpected recovery, tho' my hope can riſe no higher than from reprieve to reprieve, the ſmall ad⯑dition of a few days to the many ſhe has al⯑ready ſeen. Yet ſo ſhort and tranſitory as this Light is, it is all I have to warm or ſhine upon me; and when it is out, there is nothing elſe that will live for me, or conſume itſelf [171] in my ſervice. But I wou'd have you think this is not the chief motive of my concern about her: Gratitude is a cheap virtue, one may pay it very punctually, for it coſts us no⯑thing, but our memory of the good done. And I owe her more good, than ever I can pay or ſhe at this age receive, if I could. I do not think the tranquillity of the mind ought to be diſturbed for many things in this world; but thoſe offices that are neceſſa⯑ry duties either to our friends or our ſelves, will hardly prove any breach of it; and as much as they take away from our indolence and eaſe of body, will contribute to our peace and quiet of mind by the content they give. They often afford the higheſt plea⯑ſure; and thoſe who do not feel that, will hardly ever find another to match it, let them love themſelves ever ſo dearly. At the ſame time it muſt be own'd, one meets with cruel diſappointments in ſeeing ſo often the beſt endeavours ineffectual to make o⯑thers happy, and very often (what is moſt cruel of all) thro' their own means. But ſtill I affirm, thoſe very diſappointments of a virtuous man are greater pleaſures, than the utmoſt gratifications and ſucceſſes of a mere ſelf-lover.

The great and ſudden event^* which has juſt now happened, puts the whole world [172] (I mean this whole world) into a new ſtate: The only uſe I have, ſhall, or wiſh to make of it, is to obſerve the Diſparity of men from themſelves in a weeks time: the deſul⯑tory leaping and catching of new motions, new modes, new meaſures: and that ſtrange ſpirit and life, with which men broken and diſappointed reſume their hopes, their ſolli⯑citations, their ambitions! It would be worth your while, as a Philoſopher, to be buſy in theſe obſervations, and to come hither to ſee the fury and buſtle of the Bees this hot ſeaſon, without coming ſo near as to be ſtung by them.

AFTER the publiſhing of my Boyiſh Letters to Mr Cromwell, you will not wonder if I ſhould forſwear writing a letter again while I live; ſince I do not cor⯑reſpond with a friend upon the terms of any other free ſubject of this kingdom. But to you I can never be ſilent, or reſerved; and I am ſure my opinion of your heart is ſuch, that I could open mine to you in no man⯑ner which I could fear the whole world ſhould know. I could publiſh my own heart too, I will venture to ſay, for any miſchief or malice there's in it; but a little [173] too much folly or weakneſs might (I fear) appear to make ſuch a ſpectacle either in⯑ſtuctive or agreeable to others.

I am reduced to beg of all my acquain⯑tance to ſecure me from the like uſage for the future, by returning me any Letters of mine which they may have preſerved; that I may not be hurt after my death by that which was the happineſs of my life, their partiality and affection to me.

I have nothing of my ſelf to tell you, on⯑ly that I have had but indifferent health. I have not made a viſit to London: Curioſity and the love of diſſipation dye apace in me. I am not glad nor ſorry for it, but I am ve⯑ry ſorry for thoſe who have nothing elſe to live on.

I have read much, but writ no more. I have ſmall hopes of doing good, no vanity in writing, and little ambition to pleaſe a world not very candid or deſerving. If I can preſerve the good opinion of a few friends, it is all I can expect, conſidering how little good I can do even them to me⯑rit it. Few people have your candour, or are ſo willing to think well of another from whom they receive no benefit, and gratify no vanity. But of all the ſoft ſenſations, the greateſt pleaſure is to give and receive mutual Truſt. It is by Belief and firm Hope, that men are made happy in this life, as well as in the other. My confi⯑dence [174] dence in your good opinion, and dependance upon that of one or two more, is the chief cordial drop I taſte, amidſt the Inſipid, the Diſagreeable, the Cloying, or the Dead⯑ſweet, which are the common draughts of life. Some pleaſures are too pert, as well as others too flat, to be reliſh'd long: and vivacity in ſome caſes is worſe than dulneſs. Therefore indeed for many years I have not choſen my companions for any of the qua⯑lities in faſhion, but almoſt intirely for that which is the moſt out-of-faſhion, ſincerity. Before I am aware of it, I am making your panegyrick, and perhaps my own too, for next to poſſeſſing the beſt of qualities is the eſteeming and diſtinguiſhing thoſe who poſ⯑ſeſs it. I truly love and value you, and ſo I ſtop ſhort.

YOU might well think me negligent or forgetful of you, if true friendſhip and ſincere Eſteem were to be meaſured by common forms and compliments. The truth is, I could not write then, without ſay⯑ing ſomething of my own Condition, and of my loſs of ſo old and ſo deſerving a pa⯑rent^*, which really would have troubled you; [175] or I muſt have kept a ſilence upon that head, which would not have ſuited that freedom and ſincere opening of the heart which is due to you from me. I am now pretty well; but my home is uneaſy to me ſtill, and I am therefore wandring about all this ſummer. I was but four days at Twiten⯑ham ſince the occaſion that made it ſo me⯑lancholy. I have been a fortnight in Eſſex, and am now at Dawley (whoſe maſter is your ſervant) and going to Cirenceſter to Lord Bathurſt. I ſhall alſo ſee Southamp⯑ton with Lord Peterborow. The Court and Twit'nam I ſhall forſake together. I wiſh I did not leave our freind, who de⯑ſerves more quiet and more health and hap⯑pineſs, than can be found in ſuch a family. The reſt of my acquaintance are tolerably happy in their various ways of life, whether court, country, or town; and Mr Cleland is as well in the Park, as if he were in Pa⯑radice. I heartily hope Yorkſhire is the ſame to you; and that no evil, moral and phyſical, may come near you.

I have now but too much melancholy leiſure, and no other care but to finiſh my Eſſay on Man: There will be in it one line^* that may offend you, (I fear) and yet [176] I will not alter or omit it, unleſs you come to town and prevent me before I print it, which will be in a fortnight in all probabili⯑ty. In plain truth, I will not deny my ſelf the greateſt pleaſure I am capable of receiv⯑ing, becauſe another may have the modeſty not to ſhare it. It is all a poor Poet can do, to bear teſtimony to the virtue he can⯑not reach; beſides, that in this age, I have too few good examples not to lay hold on any I can find. You ſee what an intereſted man I am.

To Mr FENTON.

I Had not omitted anſwering years of the 18th of laſt month, but out of a deſire to give you ſome certain and ſatisfactory account, which way, and at what time, you might take your journey. I am now commiſſioned to tell you, that Mr Craggs will expect you on the riſing of the Parlia⯑ment, which will be as ſoon as he can re⯑ceive a man de Belles Lettres, that is, in tranquility and full leiſure. I dare ſay your way of life (which in my taſte will be the beſt in the world, and with one of the beſt men in the world) muſt prove highly to your contentment. And I muſt add, it will be ſtill the more a joy to me, as I ſhall reap a peculiar advantage from the good I ſhall have done in bringing you together, by ſee⯑ing it in my own neighbourhood. Mr Craggs has taken a houſe cloſe by mine, whither he propoſes to come in three weeks: In the mean time I heartily invite you to live with me; where a frugal and philoſo⯑phical diet for a time, may give you a higher reliſh of that elegant way of life you will [178] enter into after. I deſire to know by the firſt poſt how ſoon I may hope for you?

I am a little ſcandalized at your com⯑plaint that your time lies heavy on your hands, when the muſes have put ſo many good materials into your head to employ them. As to your queſtion, what I am doing? I anſwer, juſt what I have been doing ſome years, my duty: ſecondly, relieving my ſelf with neceſſary amuſements, or exerciſes, which ſhall ſerve me inſtead of phyſic as long as they can; thirdly, reading till I am tired; and laſtly, writing when I have no other thing in the world to do, or no friend to entertain in company. My mother is, I thank God, the eaſier if not the better, for my cares; and I am the happier in that re⯑gard, as well as in the conſciouſneſs of doing my beſt. My next felicity is in retaining the good opinion of honeſt men, who think me not quite undeſerving of it; and in finding no injuries from others hurt me, as long as I know my ſelf. I will add the ſincerity with which I act towards ingenious and undeſigning men, and which makes me always (even by a natural bond) their friend; therefore believe me very affectionate⯑ly your, &c.

To JABEZ HUGHES, Eſq

I Have read over again your brother's play^*, with more concern and ſorrow than I ever felt in the reading any Tra⯑gedy.

The real loſs of a good man may be called a diſtreſs to the world, and ought to affect us more than any feigned or ancient diſtreſs, how finely drawn ſoever.

I am glad of an Occaſion to give you, under my Hand, this teſtimony, both how excellent I think this work to be, and how excellent I thought the Author,

To Mr ^*—

THE gayety of your letter proves you not ſo ſtudious of Wealth as many of your profeſſion are, ſince you can derive matter of mirth from want of buſineſs. You are none of thoſe Lawyers who deſerve the motto of the Devil, Circuit quaerens quem devoret. But your Circuit will at leaſt pro⯑cure you one of the greateſt of temporal bleſſings, Health. What an advantagious circumſtance is it, for one that loves ramb⯑ling ſo well, to be a grave and reputable rambler? while (like your fellow Circuiteer, the Sun) you travel the round of the earth and behold all the iniquities under the hea⯑vens? You are much a ſuperior genius to me in rambling; you like a Pigeon (to which I would ſooner compare a Lawyer than to a Hawk) can fly ſome hundred leagues at a pitch; I, like a poor Squirrel, am continually in motion indeed, but it is about a cage of three foot: my little excur⯑ſions are but like thoſe of a ſhopkeeper, who walks every day a mile or two before his own door, but minds his buſineſs all the [182] while, Your letter of the Cauſe lately be⯑fore you, I could not but communicate to ſome ladies of your acquaintance. I am of opinion if you continued a correſpon⯑dence of the ſame ſort during a whole Cir⯑cuit, it could not fail to pleaſe the ſex, better than half the novels they read; there would be in them what they love above all things, a moſt happy union of Truth and Scandal. I aſſure you the Bath affords nothing equal to it: It is on the contrary full of grave and ſad men, Mr Baron S. Lord Chief Juſtice A. Judge P. and Counſellor B. who has a large pimple on the tip of his noſe, but thinks it inconſiſtent with his gravity to wear a patch, notwithſtanding the precedent of an eminent Judge.

To the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.
[In anſwer to a Letter, in which he incloſed the Deſcription of Buckingham-houſe writ⯑ten by him to the D. of Shrewſbury.]

PLINY was one of thoſe few authors who had a warm houſe over his head, nay, two houſes; as appears by two of his epiſtles. I believe if any of his cotempo⯑rary authors durſt have inform'd the public where they lodg'd, we ſhould have found the garrets of Rome as well inhabited as thoſe of Fleetſtreet; but 'tis dangerous to let creditors into ſuch a ſecret, therefore we may preſume that then as well as now-a-days, no body knew where they lived but their bookſellers.

It ſeems, that when Virgil came to Rome, he had no lodgings at all: he firſt introduc'd himſelf to Auguſtus by an epigram, begin⯑ning Noctle pluit tota—an obſervation which probably he had not made, unleſs he had lain all night in the ſtreet.

Where Juvenal lived we cannot affirm, but in one of his ſatires he complains of the exceſſive price of lodgings; neither do I [184] think he would have talk'd ſo feelingly of the ſhortneſs of Codrus's bed, if there had been room for a bedfellow in it.

I believe, with all the oſtentation of Pli⯑ny, he would have been glad to have chang'd both his Houſes for your Grace's one; which is a country-houſe in the ſummer, and a town-houſe in the winter; and muſt be own'd to be the propereſt habitation for a wiſe man, who ſees all the world change e⯑very ſeaſon without ever changing himſelf.

I have been reading the deſcription of Pli⯑ny's houſe with an eye to yours, but find⯑ing they will bear no compariſon, will try if it can be matched by the large country ſeat I inhabit at preſent, and ſee what fi⯑gure it may make, by the help of a florid deſcription.

You muſt expect nothing regular in my deſcription, any more than in the houſe; the whole vaſt edifice is ſo disjointed, and the ſeveral parts of it ſo detach'd one from the other, and yet ſo joining again, one can⯑not tell how, that in one of my poetical fits I imagined it had been a village in Amphi⯑on's time, where the cottages, having taken a country dance together, had been all out, and ſtood ſtone ſtill with amazement ever ſince.

You muſt excuſe me if I ſay nothing of the Front, indeed I don't know which it is? A ſtranger would be grievouſly diſappointed [185] who endeavour'd to get into this houſe the right way. One would reaſonably expect, after the entry throgh the Porch, to be let into the Hall; alas nothing leſs! you find your ſelf in the houſe of office. From the parlour you think to ſtep into the drawing⯑room, but upon opening the iron-nail'd door, you are convinc'd by a flight of birds about your ears and a cloud of duſt in your eyes, that it is the Pigeon-houſe. If you come into the chapel, you find it's altars like thoſe of the Ancients, continually ſmoaking, but it is with the ſteams of the adjoining kitchen.

The great hall within is high and ſpaci⯑ous, flank'd on one ſide with a very long ta⯑ble, atrue image of ancient hoſpitality: The walls are all over ornamented with mon⯑ſtrous horns of animals, about twenty bro⯑ken pikes, ten or a dozen blunderbuſſes, and a ruſty match-lock muſket or two, which we were informed had ſerved in the civil wars. Here is a vaſt arch'd window beau⯑tifully darken'd with divers ſcutchions of painted glaſs: one ſhining pane in particu⯑lar bears date 1286, which alone preſerves the memory of a Knight whoſe iron armour is long ſince periſh'd with ruſt, and whoſe alabaſter noſe is moulder'd from his monu⯑ment. The face of dame Eleanor in ano⯑ther piece, owes more to that ſingle pane than to all the glaſſes ſhe ever conſulted in [186] her life. After this, who can ſay glaſs is frail, when it is not half ſo frail as human beauty, or glory! and yet I can't but ſigh to think, that the moſt authentic record of ſo ancient a Family ſhould lie at the mercy of every boy that flings a ſtone. In former days, there have dined in this hall garter'd Knights, and courtly Dames, attended by Uſhers, Sewers, and Senêchals; and yet it was but laſt night, that an Owl flew hither and miſtook it for a barn.

This hall lets you (up and down) over a very high threſhold into the great parlour. It's contents are a broken-belly'd virginal, a couple of cripled velvet chairs, with two or three mil-dew'd pictures of mouldy ance⯑ſtors, who look as diſmally, as if they came freſh from hell with all their brimſtone a⯑bout them. Theſe are carefully ſet at the farther corner; for the windows being every where broken, make it ſo convenient a place to dry poppies and muſtard ſeed, that the room is appropriated to that uſe.

Next this parlour, as I ſaid before, lies the pigeon-houſe, by the ſide of which runs an entry, which lets you on one hand or o⯑ther into a bed-chamber, a buttery, and a ſmall hole call'd the chaplain's ſtudy; then follow a brewhouſe, a little green and gilt parlour, and the great ſtairs, under which is the dairy; a little farther on the right the ſervants hall, and by the ſide of it, up ſix [187] ſteps, the old Lady's cloſet for her private devotions, which has a lettice into the hall; that at the ſame time ſhe pray'd, ſhe might have an eye on the men and maids. There are upon the ground-floor in all twenty ſix apartments, among which I muſt not for⯑get a chamber which has in it a large anti⯑quity of timber, that ſeems to have been either a bedſtead or a cyder-preſs.

The Kitchen is built in form of a Rotun⯑da, being one vaſt Vault to the top of the roof; where the ſame aperture ſerves to let out the ſmoak and let in the light. By the blackneſs of the walls, the circular fires, vaſt cauldrons, yawning mouths of ovens and furnaces, you would think it either the forge of Vulcan, the cave of Polypheme, or the temple of Moloch. The horror of this place has made ſuch an impreſſion on the country people, that they believe the Witches keep their Sabbath here, and that once a year the Devil treats them with infernal ve⯑niſon, a roaſted Tiger ſtuff'd with ten-pen⯑ny nails.

Above ſtairs we have a number of rooms, you never paſs out of one into another but by the aſcent or deſcent of two or three ſtairs. Our beſt room is very long and low, of the exact proportion of a Band-box. In moſt of theſe there are hangings of the fin⯑eſt work in the world, that is to ſay, thoſe which Arachne ſpins from her own bowels: [188] Were it not for this only furniture, the whole would be a miſerable ſcene of naked walls, flaw'd cielings, broken windows, and ruſty locks. The roof is ſo decay'd, that after a favourable ſhower we may expect a crop of muſhrooms between the chinks of our floors. All the doors are as little and low as thoſe to the cabbins of packet boats. Theſe rooms have for many years had no o⯑ther inhabitants than certain Rats whoſe ve⯑ry age renders them worthy of this ſeat, for the very Rats of this venerable houſe are grey: ſince theſe have not yet quitted it, we hope at leaſt that this ancient manſion may not fall during the ſmall remnant the poor animals have to live, who are now too in⯑firm to remove to another. There is yet a ſmall ſubſiſtance left them, in the few re⯑maining books of the library.

We had never ſeen half what I have de⯑ſcribed, but for a ſtarch'd grey-headed Steward, who is as much an antiquity as any in this place, and looks like an old family pic⯑ture walk'd out of it's frame. He entertain'd us as we paſs'd from room to room with ſeveral relations of the family; but his ob⯑ſervations were particularly curious when we came to the Cellar. He informed us where ſtood the triple rows of buts of ſack, and where were ranged the bottles of tent, for toaſts in a morning; he pointed to the ſtands that ſupported the iron-hoop'd hog⯑ſheads [189] of ſtrong beer; then ſtepping to a corner, he lugg'd out the tatter'd fragments of an unframed picture; ‘"This (ſays he, with tears) was poor Sir Thomas! once maſter of all this drink! He had two ſons, poor young maſters! who never ar⯑rived to the age of his beer; they both fell ill in this very room, and never went out on their own legs."’ He could not paſs by a heap of broken bottles without taking up a piece, to ſhow us the Arms of the family upon it. He then led us up the Tower by dark winding ſtone-ſteps, which landed us into ſeveral little rooms one above another. One of theſe was nail'd up, and our guide whiſper'd to us as a ſecret the occaſion of it: It ſeems the courſe of this noble blood was a little interrupted about two centuries ago, by a freak of the lady Frances, who was here taken in the fact with a neigh⯑bouring Prior, ever ſince which the room has been nailed up, and branded with the name of the Adultery-chamber. The ghoſt of lady Frances is ſuppoſed to walk there, and ſome prying maids of the family report that they have ſeen a lady in a fardingale through the key-hole; but this matter is huſht up, and the ſervants are forbid to talk of it.

I muſt needs have tired you by this long deſcription: but what engaged me in it was a generous principle, to preſerve the me⯑mory [190] of that, which it ſelf muſt ſoon fall into duſt, nay, perhaps part of it before this letter reaches your hands.

Indeed we owe this old houſe the ſame kind of gratitude that we do to an old friend, who harbours us in his declining condition, nay, even in his laſt extremities. How fit is this retreat for uninterrupted ſtudy, where no one that paſſes by can dream there is an inhabitant? and even thoſe who would dine with us dare not ſtay under our roof? Any one who ſees it will own I could not have choſen a more likely place to converſe with the Dead. I had been to blame indeed if I had left your Grace for any one but Homer. But when I return to the living, I ſhall have the ſenſe to endeavour to converſe with ſome of the beſt of 'em, and ſhall therefore as ſoon as poſſible tell you in perſon how much,

To the Earl of OXFORD.

YOur Lordſhip may be ſurpriz'd at the liberty I take in writing to you; tho' you will allow me always to remember, that you once permitted me that honour, in con⯑junction with ſome others who better de⯑deſerv'd it. I hope you will not wonder if I am ſtill deſirous to have you think me your grateful and faithful ſervant; but I own I have an ambition yet farther to have others think me ſo, which is the occaſion I give your Lordſhip the trouble of this. Poor Parnell, before he died, left me the charge of publiſhing theſe few remains of his: I have a ſtrong deſire to make them, their author, and their publiſher, more conſiderable, by addreſſing and dedi⯑cating 'em all to you. There is a pleaſure in bearing teſtimony to Truth, and a vanity perhaps, which at leaſt is as excuſable as any vanity can be. I beg you, my Lord, to allow me to gratify it, in prefixing this paper of honeſt verſes to the book. I ſend the book it ſelf, which I dare ſay you'll re⯑ceive more ſatisfaction in peruſing, than you [192] can from any thing written upon the ſubject of your ſelf. Therefore I am a good deal in doubt, whether you will care for ſuch an addition to it? All I ſhall ſay for it is, that 'tis the only Dedication I ever writ, and ſhall be the only one, whither you ac⯑cept of it or not: for I will not bow the knee to a leſs man than my Lord Oxford, and I expect to ſee no greater in my time.

After all, if your Lordſhip will tell my Lord Harley that I muſt not do this, you may depend upon a ſuppreſſion of theſe verſes (the only copy whereof I ſend you) but you never ſhall ſuppreſs that great, ſin⯑cere, and entire reſpect, with which I am always, my Lord,

The Earl of OXFORD to Mr POPE.

I Received your packet, which could not but give me great pleaſure, to ſee you preſerve an old friend in your memory; for it muſt needs be very agreeable to be re⯑member'd by thoſe we highly value. But then how much ſhame did it cauſe me, when I read your very fine verſes inclos'd? My mind reproach'd me how far ſhort I [193] came of what your great friendſhip and de⯑licate pen would partially deſcribe me. You ask my conſent to publiſh it: to what ſtreights does this reduce me? I look back indeed to thoſe evenings I have uſefully and pleaſantly ſpent, with Mr Pope, Mr Parnel, Dean Swift, the Doctor, &c. I ſhould be glad the world knew You admitted me to your friendſhip: And ſince your affection is too hard for your judgment, I am con⯑tented to let the world know how well Mr Pope can write upon a barren ſubject. I return you an exact Copy of the verſes, that I may keep the Original, as a teſti⯑mony of the only Error you have been guilty of. I hope very ſpeedily to embrace you in London, and to aſſure you of the particular eſteem and friendſhip wherewith I am,

THE only news you can expect to have from me here, is news from heaven, for I am quite out of the world, and there is ſcarce any thing can reach me ex⯑cept the noiſe of thunder, which undoubted⯑ly you have heard too. We have read in old authors, of high towers levell'd by it to the ground, while the humble valleys have eſcap'd: the only thing that is proof againſt it is the Laurel, which however I take to be no great ſecurity to the brains of modern authors. But to let you ſee that the contrary to this often happens, I muſt acquaint you that the higheſt and moſt extravagant heap of towers in the univerſe, which is in this neighbourhood, ſtands ſtill undefac'd, while a cock of barley in our next field has been conſumed to aſhes. Would to God that this heap of harley had been all that had periſhed! for unhappily beneath this little ſhelter ſate two much more conſtant Lovers than ever were found in Romance under the ſhade of a beech-tree. John Hewet was a [195] well-ſet man of about five and twenty; Sarah Drew might be rather called comely than beautiful, and was about the ſame age: They had paſs'd thro' the various labours of the year together with the greateſt ſatisfac⯑tion; if ſhe milk'd, 'twas his morning and evening care to bring the cows to her hand; it was but laſt fair that he bought her a pre⯑ſent of green ſilk for her ſtraw hat, and the poſie on her ſilver ring was of his chooſing. Their love was the talk of the whole neighbourhood; for ſcandal never affirm'd that they had any other views than the lawful poſſeſſion of each other in mar⯑riage. It was that very morning that he had obtain'd the conſent of her parents, and it was but till the next week that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps in the inter⯑vals of their work they were now talking of the wedding cloaths, and John was ſuit⯑ing ſeveral ſorts of poppy's and field flowers to her complection, to chuſe her a knot for the wedding-day. While they were thus buſied, (it was on the laſt of July be⯑tween two or three in the afternoon) the clouds grew black, and ſuch a ſtorm of lightning and thunder enſued, that all the labourers made the beſt of their way to what ſhelter the trees and hedges afforded. Sarah was frightned, and fell down in a ſwoon on a heap of barley. John, who never ſeparated from her, ſate down by her [196] ſide, having raked together two or three heaps the better to ſecure her from the ſtorm. Immediately there was heard ſo loud a crack, as if heaven had ſplit aſunder; every one was ſolicitous for the ſafety of his neighbour, and called to one another through⯑out the field. No anſwer being return'd to thoſe who called to our Lovers, they ſtept to the place where they lay; they perceived the barley all in a ſmoak, and then ſpy'd this faithful pair; John with one arm about Sarah's neck, and the other held over her, as to ſkreen her from the lightning. They were both ſtruck dead in this tender poſture. Sarah's left eye-brow was ſing'd, and there appear'd a black ſpot on her breaſt; her Lo⯑ver was all over black, but not the leaſt ſigns of life were found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, they were convey'd to the town, and the next day in⯑terr'd in Stanton-Harcourt Church-yard. My Lord Harcourt, at Mr Pope's and my requeſt, has cauſed a ſtone to be plac'd over them, upon condition that we ſhould furniſh the Epitaph, which is as follows;

[197] But my Lord is apprehenſive the country people will not underſtand this, and Mr Pope ſays he'll make one with ſomething of Scripture in it, and with as little poetry as Hopkins and Sternhold.^*

Mr GAY to Mr POPE.

'TWAS two or three weeks ago that I writ you a letter: I might indeed have done it ſooner; I thought of you every poſt-day upon that account, and every other day upon ſome account or other. I muſt beg you to give Mrs Blount my ſincere thanks for her kind way of thinking of me, which I have heard of more than once from our friend at court, who ſeem'd in the letter ſhe writ to be in high health and ſpirits. Conſidering the multiplicity of pleaſures and delights that one is over-run with in thoſe places, I wonder how any body hath health and ſpirits enough to ſupport 'em: I am heartily glad ſhe has, and whenever I hear ſo, I find it contributes to mine. You ſee I am not free from Dependance, tho' I have leſs Attendance than I had formerly; [198] for a great deal of my own welfare ſtill de⯑pends upon hers. Is the widow's houſe to be diſpos'd of yet? I have not given up my pretenſions to the Dean; if it was to be parted with, I wiſh one of us had it: I hope you wiſh ſo too, and that Mrs Blount and Mrs Howard wiſh the ſame, and for the very ſame reaſon that I wiſh it. All I could hear of you of late hath been by ad⯑vertiſements in news-papers, by which one would think the race of Curls was multi⯑plied; and by the indignation ſuch fellows ſhow againſt you, that you have more me⯑rit than any body alive could have. Homer himſelf hath not been worſe us'd by the French. I am to tell you that the Ducheſs makes you her compliments, and is always inclin'd to like any thing you do; that Mr Congreve admires with me your fortitude; and loves, not envies your performances, for we are not Dunces. Adieu.

Mr POPE to Mr GAY.

IT is true that I write to you very ſeldom, and have no pretence of writing which ſatisfies me, becauſe I have nothing to ſay that can give you much pleaſure: only that I am in being, which in truth is of little [199] conſequence to one from whoſe converſation I am cut off, by ſuch accidents or engage⯑ments as ſeparate us. I continue, and ever ſhall, to wiſh you all good and happineſs. I wiſh that ſome lucky event might ſet you in a ſtate of eaſe and independency all at once, and that I might live to ſee you as happy, as this ſilly world and fortune can make any one. Are we never to live together more, as once we did? I find my life ebbing apace, and my affections ſtrengthening as my Age encreaſes: not that I am worſe, but better, in my health than laſt winter: but my mind finds no amendment, nor im⯑provement, nor ſupport to lean upon from thoſe about me: and ſo I feel my ſelf leav⯑ing the world, as faſt as it leaves me. Com⯑panions I have enough, friends few, but thoſe too warm in the concerns of the world for me to keep pace with; or elſe ſo divided from me, that they are but like the dead whoſe remembrance I hold in honour. Nature, temper, and habit, from my youth made me have but one ſtrong deſire; all other Ambitions, my perſon, education, conſtitution, religion, &c. con⯑ſpir'd to remove far from me: That deſire was to fix and preſerve a few laſting, de⯑pendable friendſhips: and the accidents which have diſappointed me in it, have put a period to all my aims. So I am ſunk into an idleneſs, which makes me neither care [200] nor labour to be notic'd by the reſt of mankind. I propoſe no rewards to my ſelf, and why ſhould I take any ſort of pains? here I ſit and ſleep, and probably here I ſhall ſleep till I ſleep for ever, like the old man of Ve⯑rona. I hear of what paſſes in the buſy world with ſo little attention, that I forget it the next day: and as to the learned world, there is nothing paſſes in it. I have no more to add, but that I am with the ſame truth as ever,

To the ſame.

YOur letter is a very kind one, but I can't ſay ſo pleaſing to me as many of yours have been, thro' the account you give of the dejection of your ſpirits. I wiſh the too conſtant uſe of water does not contri⯑bute to it; I find Dr Arbuthnot and ano⯑ther very knowing phyſician of that o⯑pinion. I alſo wiſh you were not ſo totally immers'd in the country. I hope your re⯑turn to Town will be a prevalent remedy againſt the evil of too much recollection. I wiſh it partly for my own ſake: We have liv'd little together of late, and we want to be phyſicians to one another. It was a [201] remedy that agreed very well with us both, for many years, and I fancy our conſtitu⯑tions would mend upon the old medicine of Studiorum ſimilitudo, &c. I believe we both of us want whetting; there are ſeveral here who will do you that good office, merely for the love of wit, which ſeems to be bid⯑ding the town a long and laſt adieu. I can tell you of no one thing worth reading, or ſeeing; the whole age ſeems reſolv'd to juſtify the Dunciad, and it may ſtand for a public Epitapth or monumental Inſcrip⯑tion, like that at Thermopylae, on a whole people periſh'd! There may indeed be a Wooden image or two of Poetry ſet up, to preſerve the memory that there once were Bards in Britain; and (like the Giants at Guildhall) ſhow the bulk and bad taſte of our anceſtors: At preſent the poet Lau⯑reat and Stephen Duck ſerve for this pur⯑poſe; a drunken ſot of a Parſon holds forth the emblem of Inſpiration, and an honeſt induſtrious Threſher not unaptly repreſents Pains and Labour. I hope this Phaenome⯑non of Wiltſhire has appear'd at Ameſbury, or the Ducheſs will be thought inſenſible to all bright qualities and exalted genius's, in Court and Country alike. But he is a harm⯑leſs man, and therefore I am glad.

This is all the news talk'd of at court, but it will pleaſe you better to hear that Mrs Ho⯑ward talks of you, tho' not in the ſame breath [202] with the Threſher, as they do of me. By the way, have you ſeen or convers'd with Mr Chubb, who is a wonderful Phaenome⯑non of Wiltſhire? I have read thro' his whole volume with admiration of the writer: tho' not always with approbation of the doctrine. I have paſt juſt three days in London in four months, two at Windſor, half an one at Richmond, and have not taken one excurſion into any other country. Judge now whether I can live in my library? adieu. Live mindful of one of your firſt friends, who will be ſo to the laſt. Mrs Blount deſerves your remem⯑brance, for ſhe never forgets you, and wants nothing of being a friend.

I beg the Duke's and her Grace's accep⯑tance of my ſervices: the contentment you expreſs in their company pleaſes me, tho' it be the barr to my own, in dividing you from us. I am ever very truly,

To the ſame.

SIR Clem. Cottrell tells me you will ſhortly come to town. We begin to want comfort, in a few friends about us, while the winds whiſtle, and the waters roar. The ſun gives us a parting look, but 'tis but a cold one; we are ready to change thoſe diſtant favours of a lofty beauty, for a groſs material fire that warms and comforts more. I wiſh you cou'd be here 'till your family come to town: you'll live more in⯑nocently, and kill fewer harmleſs creatures; nay none, except by your proper deputy, the butcher. It is fit for conſcience ſake, that you ſhou'd come to town, and that the Ducheſs ſhou'd ſtay in the country, where no innocents of another ſpecies may ſuffer by her. I hope ſhe never goes to church: the Duke ſhou'd lock you both up, and leſs harm would be done. I adviſe you to make Man your game, hunt and beat about here for coxcombs, and truſs up Rogues in Satire: I fancy they'll turn to a good account, if you can produce them freſh, or make them keep: and their [204] Relations will come, and buy their bodies of you.

The death of Wilks leaves Cibber with⯑out a colleague, abſolute and perpetual Dictator of the ſtage; tho' indeed while he lived, he was but as Bibulus to Caeſar. However Ambition finds ſomething to be gratify'd with, in a mere name; or elſe, God have mercy upon poor Ambition! Here is a dead vacation at preſent, no politics at court, no trade in town, no⯑thing ſtirring but poetry. Every man, and every boy, is writing verſes on the Royal Hermitage: I hear the Queen is at a loſs which to prefer, but for my own part, I like none ſo well as Mr Poyntz's in Latin. You would oblige my Lady Suffolk if you tried your muſe on this occaſion: I am ſure I would do as much for the Ducheſs of Queenſberry, if ſhe deſir'd it. Several of your friends aſſure me it is expected from you: one ſhould not bear in mind all one's life, any little indignity received from a Court; and therefore I'm in hopes neither her Grace will hinder you, nor you decline it.

The volume of ^† Miſcellanies is juſt publiſhed, which concludes all our fooleries of that kind. All your friends remember you, and I aſſure you no one more than,

Mr GAY to Mr POPE.

I Am at laſt return'd from my Somerſet⯑ſhire expedition, but ſince my return I cannot ſo much boaſt of my health as be⯑fore I went, for I am frequently out of or⯑der with my colical complaints, ſo as to make me uneaſy and diſpirited, though not to any violent degree. The reception we met with, and the little excurſions we made were every way agreeable. I think the country abounds with beautiful proſpects. Sir William Wyndham is at preſent amuſing himſelf with ſome real improvements, and a great many viſionary caſtles. We were often entertain'd with ſea views and ſea fiſh, and were at ſome places in the neighbour⯑hood, among which I was mightily pleaſed with Dunſter Caſtle near Minehead: It ſtands upon a great eminence, and hath a proſpect of that town, with an extenſive view of the Briſtol Channel; in which are ſeen two ſmall Iſlands, call'd the ſteep Holms and flat Holms, and on t'other ſide we could plainly diſtinguiſh the diviſions of fields on the Welſh coaſt. All this journey I perform'd on horſeback, and I am very [206] much diſappointed that at preſent I feel my ſelf ſo little the better for it. I have indeed follow'd riding and exerciſe for three months ſucceſſively, and really think I was as well without it: ſo that I begin to fear the ill⯑neſs I have ſo long and ſo often complain'd of is inherent in my conſtitution, and that I have nothing for it but patience.

As to your advice about writing Panegy⯑ric, 'tis what I have not frequently done. I have indeed done it ſometimes againſt my judgment and inclination, and I heartily re⯑pent of it. And at preſent as I have no deſire of reward, and ſee no juſt reaſon of praiſe, I think I had better let it alone. There are flatterers good enough to be found, and I would not interfere in any Gentle⯑man's profeſſion. I have ſeen no verſes up⯑on theſe ſublime occaſions, ſo that I have no emulation. Let the Patrons enjoy the Authors and the Authors their Patrons, for I know my ſelf unworthy.

Mr POPE to Mr GAY.

IT is a true ſaying that misfortunes alone prove one's friendſhips, they ſhow us not only other peoples for us, but our own for them. We hardly know our ſelves any otherwiſe. I feel my being forc'd to this Bath-journey as a misfortune; and to follow my own welfare preferably to thoſe I love, is indeed a new thing to me: my health has not uſually got the better of my tenderneſſes and affections. I ſet out with a heavy heart, wiſhing I had done this thing the laſt ſeaſon; for every day I defer it, the more I am in danger of that accident which I dread the moſt, my Mother's death (eſpe⯑cially ſhould it happen while I am away.) And another Reflection pains me, that I have never ſince I knew you been ſo long ſeparated from you, as I now muſt be. Methinks we live to be more and more ſtrangers, and every year teaches you to live without me: This abſence may, I fear, make my return leſs welcome and leſs wanted to you, than once it ſeem'd, even after but a fortnight. Time ought not in reaſon to diminiſh friendſhip, when it con⯑firms the truth of it by experience.

[208] The journey has a good deal diſorder'd me, notwithſtanding my reſting place at Lord Bathurſt's. My Lord is too much for me, he walks and is in ſpirits all day long: I rejoice to ſee him ſo. It is a right diſtin⯑ction, that I am happier in ſeeing my friends ſo many degrees above me, be it fortune, health, or pleaſures, than I can be in ſharing either with them: for in theſe ſort of en⯑joyments I cannot keep pace with 'em: any more than I can walk with a ſtronger man. I wonder to find I am a companion for none but old men, and forget that I am not a young fellow my ſelf. The worſt is, that reading and writing which I have ſtill the greateſt reliſh for, are growing painful to my eyes. But if I can preſerve the good opinion of one or two friends, to ſuch a de⯑gree, as to have their indulgence to my weakneſſes, I will not complain of life: And if I could live to ſee you conſult your eaſe and quiet, by becoming independent on thoſe who will never help you to either, I doubt not of finding the latter part of my life pleaſanter than the former, or preſent. My uneaſineſſes of mind is in your regard. You have a temper that would make you eaſy and beloved, (which is all the happineſs one needs to wiſh in this world) and con⯑tent with moderate things. All your point is not to loſe that Temper by ſacrificing [209] your ſelf to others, out of a miſtaken ten⯑derneſs which hurts you, and profits not them. And this you muſt do ſoon, or it will be too late: Habit will make it as hard for you to live independent, as for L— to live out of a Court.

You muſt excuſe me for obſerving what I think any defect in you: You grow too in⯑dolent, and give things up too eaſily: which would be otherwiſe, when you found and felt your ſelf your own: Spirits would come in, as ill-uſage went out. While you live under a kind of perpetual dejection and oppreſſion, nothing at all belongs to you, not your own Humour, nor your own Senſe.

You can't conceive how much you would find reſolution riſe, and chearfulneſs grow upon you, if you'd once try to live indepen⯑dent for two or three months. I never think tenderly of you but this comes acroſs me, and therefore excuſe my repeating it, for whenever I do not, I diſſemble half that I think of you: Adieu, pray write, and be particular about your health.

To —

YOur letter dated at nine a clock on Tueſday (night as I ſuppoſe) has ſunk me quite. Yeſterday I hoped; and yeſter⯑day I ſent you a line or two for our poor friend Gay, inclos'd in a few words to you; about twelve or one a clock you ſhould have had it. I am troubled about that, tho' the preſent cauſe of our trouble be ſo much greater.^† Indeed I want a friend, to help me to bear it better. We want each other. I bear a hearty ſhare with Mrs Howard, who has loſt a man of a moſt honeſt heart: ſo honeſt an one, that I wiſh her Maſter had none leſs honeſt about him. The world after all is a little pitiful thing; not performing any one promiſe it makes us, for the future, and every day taking away and annulling the joys of the paſt. Let us comfort one another, and, if poſſible, ſtudy to add as much more friendſhip to each other, as death has depriv'd us of in him: I promiſe you more and more of mine, which will be the way to deſerve more and more of yours.

I purpoſely avoid ſaying more. The ſub⯑ject is beyond writing upon, beyond cure or eaſe by reaſon or reflection, beyond all but one thought, that it is the will of God.

[211] So will the death of my Mother be! which now I tremble at, now reſign to, now bring cloſe to me, now ſet farther off: Every day alters, turns me about, and con⯑fuſes my whole frame of mind. Her dan⯑gerous diſtemper is again return'd, her fever coming onward again, tho' leſs in pain; for which laſt however I thank God.

I am unfeignedly tired of the world, and receive nothing to be call'd a pleaſure in it, equivalent to countervail either the death of one I have ſo long lived with, or the loſs of one I have ſo long lived for. I have nothing left but to turn my thoughts to one comfort; the laſt we uſually think of, tho' the only one we ſhould in wiſdom depend upon, in ſuch a diſappointing place as this. I ſit in her room, and ſhe is always preſent before me, but when I ſleep. I wonder I am ſo well: I have ſhed many tears, but now I weep at nothing. I would above all things ſee you, and think it would comfort you to ſee me ſo equal-temper'd and ſo quiet. But pray dine here: you may, and ſhe know nothing of it; for ſhe dozes much, and we tell her of no earthly thing leſt it run in her mind, which often trifles have done. If Mr Bethel had time, I wiſh he were your companion hither. Be as much as you can with each other: Be aſſur'd I love you both, and be farther aſſur'd, that friendſhip will encreaſe as I live on.

I Preſume you may before this time be returned from the contemplation of many Beau⯑ties animal and vegetable in Gardens; and poſſibly ſome rational in Ladies; to the bet⯑ter enjoyment of your own at Bevis-Mount. I hope, and believe, all you have ſeen will only contribute to it. I am not ſo fond of making compliments to Ladies as I was [213] twenty years ago, or I wou'd ſay there are ſome very reaſonable, and one in particular there. I think you happy, my Lord, in being at leaſt half the year almoſt as much your own maſter as I am mine the whole year: and with all the diſadvantageous in⯑cumbrance of quality, parts, and honour, as meer a gardiner, loyterer, and labourer, as he who never had Titles, or from whom they are taken. I have an eye in the laſt of theſe glorious appellations to the ſtyle of a Lord ^* degraded or attainted: methinks they give him a better title than they de⯑prive him of, in calling him Labourer: Agricultura, ſays Tully, proxima Sapientiae, which is more than can be ſaid by moſt modern Nobility of Grace or Right Ho⯑nourable, which are often proxima Stultitiae. The great Turk, you know, is often a Gar⯑diner, or of a meaner trade: and are there not (my Lord) ſome circumſtances in which you would reſemble the great Turk? The two Paradiſes are not ill connected, of Gardens and Gallantry; and ſome there are (not to name my Lord Bolingbroke) who pretend they are both to be had, even in this life, without turning Muſſelmen.

We have as little politics here within a few miles of the Court (nay perhaps at the Court) as you at Southampton; and our Miniſters I dare ſay have leſs to do. Our [214] weekly hiſtories are only full of feaſts given to the Queen and Royal Family by their ſervants, and the long and laborious walks her majeſty takes every morning. Yet if the graver Hiſtorians hereafter ſhall be ſilent of this year's events, the amorous and anecdotical may make poſterity ſome a⯑mends, by being furniſhed with the gallan⯑tries of the Great at home; and 'tis ſome comfort, that if the Men of the next age do not read of us, the Women may.

From the time you have been abſent, I've not been to wait on a certain great man, thro' modeſty, thro' idleneſs, and thro' reſpect. But for my comfort I fancy, that any great man will as ſoon forget one that does him no harm, as he can one that has done him any good. Believe me my Lord,

From the Earl of PETERBOROW.

I Muſt confeſs that in going to Lord Cobham's, I was not led by curioſity. I went thither to ſee what I had ſeen, and what I was ſure to like.

I had the idea of thoſe gardens ſo fixt in my imagination by many deſcriptions, that nothing ſurprized me; Immenſiy, [215] and Van Brugh appear in the whole, and in every part. Your joyning in your letter animal and vegetable beauty, makes me uſe this expreſſion, I confeſs the ſtately Sachariſſa at Stow, but am content with my little Amoret.

I thought you indeed more knowing upon the ſubject, and wonder at your miſtake: why will you imagine women inſenſible to Praiſe, much leſs to yours? I have ſeen them more than once turn from their Lover to their Flatterer. I am ſure the Farmereſs at Bevis in her higheſt mor⯑tifications, in the middle of her Lent, would feel emotions of vanity, if ſhe knew you gave her the character of a reaſonabe woman.

You have been guilty again of another miſtake which hinder'd me ſhowing your letter to a friend: when you join two ladies in the ſame compliment, tho' you gave to both the beauty of Venus and the wit of Minerva, you would pleaſe neither.

If you had put me into the Dunciad, I could not have been more diſpoſed to criticiſe your letter. What, Sir, do you bring it in as a reproach, or as a thing un⯑common to a Court, to be without politics? With politics indeed the Richlieu's and ſuch folks have brought about great things in former days: but what are they, Sir, who without policy in our times can make ten [216] treaties in a year, and ſecure everlaſting Peace?

I can no longer diſagree with you, tho' in jeſt. O how heartily I join with you in your contempt for Excellency and Grace, and in your Eſteem of that moſt noble title, Loiterer: If I were a man of many plums^†, and a good heathen, I would dedicate a Temple to Lazineſs; No man ſure could blame my choice of ſuch a Deity, who conſiders, that when I have been fool enough to take pains, I always met with ſome wiſe man able to undo my la⯑bours.

Mr POPE to the Earl of PETERBOROW.

YOU were in a very Polemic humour when you did me the honour to an⯑ſwer my laſt. I always underſtood, like a true controvertiſt, that to anſwer is only to cavil and quarrel: however I forgive you; you did it (as all Polemics do) to ſhew your parts. Elſe was it not very vexatious, to deny me to commend two women at a time? It is true my Lord, you know wo⯑men, as well as men: but ſince you cer⯑tainly love them better, why are you ſo [217] uncharitable in your opinion of them? ſurely one lady may allow another to have the thing ſhe herſelf leaſt values, Reaſon, when Beauty is unconteſted? Venus her ſelf could allow Minerva to be Goddeſs of Wit, when Paris gave her the apple (as the fool her ſelf thought) on a better account. I do ſay, that Lady P* is a reaſonable wo⯑man; and I think ſhe will not take it amiſs, if I ſhould inſiſt upon Eſteeming her, in⯑ſtead of Toaſting her like a ſilly thing I could name, who is the Venus of theſe days. I ſee you had forgot my letter, or would not let her know how much I thought of her in this reaſonable way: but I have been kinder to you, and have ſhown your letter to one who would take it candidly.

But for God's ſake, what have you ſaid about Politicians? you made me a great compliment in the truſt you repoſed in my prudence, or what miſchief might not I have done you with ſome that affect that denomination? Your Lordſhip might as ſafely have ſpoken of Heroes. What a bluſter would the God of the winds have made, had one that we know puff'd againſt Aeolus, or, (like Xerxes) whipp'd the ſeas? They had dialogued it in the language of the Rehearſal,

[218] But all now is ſafe; the Poets are preparing ſongs of joy, and Halcyon-days are the word.

I hope my Lord, it will not be long before your dutiful affection brings you to town. I fear it will a little raiſe your envy to find all the Muſes imployed in celebrating a Royal work, which your own partiality will think inferior to Bevis-Mount. But if you have any inclination to be even with them, you need but put three or four Wits into any hole in your Garden, and they will out-rhyme all Eaton and Weſtminſter. I think Swift, Gay, and I, could undertake it, if you don't think our Heads too expen⯑ſive: but the ſame hand that did the others, will do them as cheap. If all elſe ſhould fail, you are ſure at leaſt of the head, hand, and heart of your ſervant.

Why ſhould you fear any diſagreeable news to reach us at Mount Bevis? Do as I do, even within ten miles of London, let no news whatever come near you. As to public affairs we never knew a deader ſeaſon: 'tis all ſilent, deep tranquillity. Indeed they ſay 'tis ſometimes ſo juſt before an Earth⯑quake. But whatever happens, cannot we obſerve the wiſe neutrality of the Dutch, and let all about us fall by the ears. Or if you, my Lord, ſhould be prick'd on by any old-faſhion'd notions of Honour and Ro⯑mance, and think it neceſſary for the [219] General of the Marines to be in action, when our Fleets are in motion; meet them at Spit-head, and take me along with you I decline no danger where the glory of Great Britain is concern'd; and will contribute to empty the largeſt bowl of punch that ſhall be rigg'd out on ſuch an occaſion. Adieu, my Lord, and may as many Years attend you as may be happy and honourable!

From the Earl of PETERBOROW.

YOU muſt receive my letters with a juſt impartiality, and give grains of allowance for a gloomy or rainy day; I ſink grievouſly with the weather-glaſs, and am quite ſpiritleſs when oppreſt with the thoughts of a Birth-day or a Return.

Dutiful affection was bringing me to town, but undutiful lazineſs, and being much out of order, keep me in the coun⯑try; however if alive, I muſt make my ap⯑pearance at the Birth-day. Where you ſhowed one letter you may ſhow the other; ſhe that never was wanting in any good office in her power, will make a proper ex⯑cuſe, where a ſin of Omiſſion, I fear, is not reckoned as a venial ſin.

I conſent you ſhall call me Polemic, or aſſociate me to any Sect or Corporation, [220] provided you do not join me to the Chari⯑table Rogues, or to the Pacific Politicians of the preſent age. I have read over ^† Bar⯑clay in vain, and find, after a ſtroak given on the left, I cannot offer the right cheek for another blow: all I can bring my ſelf to, is to bear mortification from the Fair ſex with patience.

You ſeem to think it vexatious that I ſhould allow you but one woman at a time, either to praiſe, or love. If I diſpute with you upon this point, I doubt every jury will give a verdict againſt me: ſo Sir, with a Mahometan indulgence, I allow you Pluralities, the favourite privilege of our church.

I find you do not mend upon correction; again I tell you, you muſt not think of women in a reaſonable way: You know we always make Goddeſſes of thoſe we adore upon earth, and do not all the good men tell us, we muſt lay aſide Reaſon in what relates to the Deity.

'Tis well the Poets are preparing ſongs of joy, 'tis well to lay in antidotes of ſoft rhyme, againſt the rough proſe they may chance to meet with at Weſtminſter. I ſhould have been glad of any thing of Swift's, pray when you write to him next, tell him I expect him with impatience, in a [221] place as odd, and as much out of the way, as himſelf,

From the ſame.

WHenever you apply as a good Papiſt to your female Mediatrix, you are ſure of ſucceſs; but there is not a full aſſu⯑rance of your entire ſubmiſſion to Mother⯑church, and that abates a little of your au⯑thority. However if you will accept of country letters, ſhe will correſpond from the haycock, and I will write to you upon the ſide of my wheelbarrow: ſurely ſuch let⯑ters might eſcape examination!

Your Idea of the golden Age is, that every ſhepherd might pipe where he pleaſed. As I have lived longer, I am more mode⯑rate in my wiſhes, and would be content with the liberty of not piping where I am not pleaſed.

O how I wiſh, to my ſelf and my friends, a freedom which Fate ſeldom al⯑lows, and which we often refuſe our ſelves! why is our Shepherdeſs in voluntary ſla⯑very? why muſt our Dean ſubmit to the Colour of his coat, and live abſent from us? [222] and why are you confined to what you can⯑not relieve?

I ſeldom venture to give accounts of my journeys before-hand, becauſe I take reſolu⯑tions of going to London, and keep them no better than quarrelling lovers do theirs. But the devil will drive me thither about the middle of next month, and I will call upon You, to be ſprinkled with holy water, be⯑fore I enter the place of Corruption,

From the ſame.

I Am under the greateſt impatience to ſee Dr Swift at Bevis-Mount, and muſt ſignify my mind to him by another hand, it not being permitted me to hold correſ⯑pondence with the ſaid Dean, for no letter of mine can come to his hands.

And whereas it is apparent, in this pro⯑teſtant land moſt eſpecially under the care of divine providence, that nothing can ſuc⯑ceed or come to a happy iſſue but by Bri⯑bery; therefore let me know what he ex⯑pects to comply with my deſires, and it ſhall be remitted unto him.

[223] For tho' I would not corrupt any man for the whole world, yet a benevolence may be given without any offence to conſcience; every one muſt confeſs that gratification and corruption are two diſtinct terms; nay, at worſt many good men hold, that for a good end ſome very naughty meaſures may be made uſe of.

But Sir, I muſt give you ſome good news in relation to my ſelf, becauſe I know you wiſh me well; I am cur'd of ſome diſeaſes in my old age, which tormented me very much in my youth,

I was poſſeſt with violent and uneaſy paſſions, ſuch as a peeviſh concern for Truth, and a ſaucy love for my Country.

When a Chriſtian Prieſt preached againſt the Spirit of the Goſpel, when an Engliſh Judge determined againſt Magna Charta, when the Miniſter acted againſt common-Senſe, I uſed to fret.

Now Sir, let what will happen, I keep my ſelf in temper: As I have no flattering hopes, ſo I baniſh all uſeleſs fears: but as things of this world, I find my ſelf in a condition beyond expectation; it being evident from a late Parliamentary enquiry, that I have as much ready money, as much in the funds, and as great a perſonal eſtate, as Sir Robert S-tt-n.

If the Tranſlator of Homer find fault with this unheroic diſpoſition, or what I [222] more fear, if the Draper of Ireland accuſe the Engliſh-man of want of ſpirit; I ſilence you both with one line out of your own Horace, Quid te exempta juvat ſpinis è pluribus una? For I take the whole to be ſo corrupted, that a cure in any part would be of little avail.

From Dean SWIFT to the Earl of PETERBOROW.

I Never knew or heard of any perſon ſo volatile and ſo fixt as your Lordſhip: You, while your imagination is carrying you through every corner of the world where you have, or have not been, can at the ſame time remember to do offices of fa⯑vour and kindneſs to the meaneſt of your friends; and in all the ſcenes you have paſſed, have not been able to attain that one quality peculiar to a great man, of for⯑getting every thing but injuries. Of this I am a living witneſs againſt you, for being the moſt inſignificant of all your old humble ſervants, you were ſo cruel as never to give me time to aſk a favour, but prevented me [225] in doing whatever you thought I deſired, or could be for my credit or advantage.

I have often admir'd at the capriciouſneſs of fortune, in regard to your Lordſhip. She hath forced Courts to act againſt their oldeſt, and moſt conſtant maxims; to make you a General, becauſe you had courage and conduct; an Embaſſador, be⯑cauſe you had wiſdom and knowledge in the intereſts of Europe; and an Admiral, on account of your ſkill in maritime affairs, whereas according to the uſual method of Court proceedings, I ſhould have been at the head of the Army, and you of the church, or rather a Curate under the Dean of St Patrick's.

The Arch-Biſhop of Dublin laments that he did not ſee your Lordſhip till he was juſt upon the point of leaving the Bath; I pray God you may have found ſucceſs in that journey, elſe I ſhall continue to think there is a fatality in all your Lordſhip's under⯑takings, which only terminate in your own honour, and the good of the public, without the leaſt advantage to your health or for⯑tune.

I remember Lord Oxford's Miniſtry us'd to tell me, that not knowing where to write to you, they were forced to write at you. It is ſo with me, for you are in one thing an Evangelical man, that you know not where to lay your head, and I think [226] you have no houſe. Pray my Lord write to me, that I may have the pleaſure in this ſcoundrel-country, of going about, and ſhewing my depending Parſons a letter from the Earl of Peterborow,

To Lord BATHURST.

I Believe you are by this time immers'd in your vaſt Wood; and one may addreſs to you as to a very abſtracted perſon, like Alexander Selkirk, or the ^* Self-taught Phi⯑loſopher. I ſhould be very curious to know what ſort of contemplations employ you? I remember the latter of thoſe I mention'd, gave himſelf up to a devout exerciſe of making his head giddy with various circum⯑rotations, to imitate the motions of the coeleſtial bodies. I don't think it at all impoſ⯑ſible that Mr L* may be far advanced in that exerciſe, by frequent turns toward the ſeveral aſpects of the heavens, to which you may have been pleas'd to direct him in ſearch of proſpects and new avenues. He will be tractable in time as birds are tam'd by being whirl'd about; and doubtleſs come not to [227] deſpiſe the meaneſt ſhrubs or coppice-wood, (tho' naturally he ſeems more inclin'd to ad⯑mire God in his greater works, the tall tim⯑ber: for as Virgil has it, Non omnes arbuſta juvant, humileſque myricae.) I wiſh my ſelf with you both, whether you are in peace or at war, in violent argumentation or ſmooth conſent, over Gazettes in the morn⯑ing, or over Plans in the evening. In that laſt article, I am of opinion your Lordſhip has a loſs of me; for generally after the debate of a whole day, we acquieſc'd at night in the beſt concluſion of which human rea⯑ſon ſeems capable in all great matters, to fall faſt aſleep! And ſo we ended, unleſs immediate Revelation (which ever muſt overcome human reaſon) ſuggeſted ſome new lights to us, in a Viſion in Bed. But laying aſide Theory, I am told you are going directly to Practice. Alas, what a Fall will that be? A new Building is like a new Church, when once it is ſet up, you muſt maintain it in all the forms, and with all the inconveniences; then ceaſe the plea⯑ſant luminous days of inſpiration, and there's an end of miracles at once.

That this Letter may be all of a piece, I'll fill the reſt with an account of a con⯑ſultation lately held in my neighbourhood, about deſigning a princely garden.^* Several Critics were of ſeveral opinions: One de⯑clar'd [228] he would not have too much Art in it; for my notion (ſaid he) of gardening is, that it is only ſweeping Nature: Another told them that Gravel walks were not of a good taſte, for all the fineſt abroad were of looſe ſand: A third advis'd peremptorily there ſhould not be one Lyme-tree in the whole plantation; a fourth made the ſame excluſive clauſe extend to Horſe-cheſnuts, which he affirm'd not to be Trees, but Weeds; Dutch Elms were condemn'd by a fifth; and thus about half the Trees were proſcrib'd, contrary to the Paradiſe of God's own planting, which is expreſſly ſaid to be planted with all trees. There were ſome who could not bear Ever-greens, and call'd them Never-greens; ſome, who were angry at them only when cut into Shapes, and gave the modern Gard'ners the name of Ever-green Taylors; ſome who had no diſlike to Cones and Cubes, but would have 'em cut in Foreſt-trees; and ſome, who were in a paſſion againſt any thing in ſhape, even againſt clipt Hedges, which they call'd Green Walls. Theſe (my Lord) are our Men of Taſte, who pretend to prove it by taſting little or nothing: Sure ſuch a Taſte is like ſuch a Stomach, not a good one, but a weak one. We have the ſame ſort of Critics in Poetry; one is fond of nothing but Heroics, another cannot reliſh Trage⯑dies, another hates Paſtorals, all little Wits [229] delight in Epigrams. Will you give me leave to add, we have the ſame in Divinity; where many leading Critics are for rooting up more than they plant, and would leave the Lord's vineyard either very thinly fur⯑niſh'd, or very oddly trim'd.

I have lately been with my Lord ^* who is a zealous, yet charitable Planter, and has ſo bad a Taſte, as to like all that is good. He has a diſpoſition to wait on you in his way to the Bath, and if he can go and re⯑turn to London in eight or ten days, I am not without a hope of ſeeing your Lordſhip with the delight I always ſee you. Every where I think of you, and every where I wiſh for you,

Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL to Mr POPE.

I Return you the book you were pleas'd to lend me, and with it your obliging letter, which deſerves my particular acknow⯑ledgments; for next, to the pleaſure of enjoying the company of ſo good a friend, the welcomeſt thing to me is to hear from him. I expected to find, what I have met with, an admirable genius in thoſe poems, not only becauſe they were Milton's ^†, or were approv'd by Sir Henry Wotton, but be⯑cauſe you had commended them; and give me leave to tell you, that I know no body ſo like to equal him, even at the age he wrote moſt of them, as your ſelf. Only do not afford more cauſe of complaints againſt you, that you ſuffer nothing of yours to come abroad; which in this age, wherein wit and true ſenſe is more ſcarce than money, is a piece of ſuch cruelty as your friends can [231] hardly pardon. I hope you will repent and amend; I could offer many reaſons to this purpoſe, and ſuch as you cannot anſwer with any ſincerity; but that I dare not en⯑large, for fear of engaging in a ſtile of com⯑pliment, which has been ſo abuſed by fools and knaves, that it is become almoſt ſcan⯑dalous. I conclude therefore with an aſſu⯑rance which ſhall never vary,

To a LADY Abroad.

I Can never have too many of your let⯑ters. I am angry at every ſcrap of paper loſt, and tho' it is but an odd com⯑pliment to compare a fine Lady to a Sybil, your leaves methinks like hers are too good to be committed to the winds, tho' I have no other way of receiving them but by thoſe unfaithful meſſengers. I have had but three, and I reckon that ſhort one from D----, which was rather a dying ejaculation than a letter.

You contriv'd to ſay in your laſt the two things moſt pleaſing to me: The firſt, that [234] whatever be the fate of your letters, you will continue to write in the diſcharge of your conſcience: The other is, the juſtice you do me, in taking what I write to you in the ſerious manner it was meant. It is the point upon which I can bear no ſuſpicion, and in which above all I deſire to be thought ſerious: It would be vexatious indeed, if you ſhould pretend to take that for wit, which is no more than the natural over⯑flowing of a heart improv'd by an eſteem for you: but ſince you tell me you believe me, I fancy my expreſſions have not been entirely unfaithful to my thoughts.

May your faith be increaſed in all truths, that are as great as this, and depend upon it to whatever degree it may extend, you can never be a bigot.

If you could ſee the heart I talk of, you would really think it a fooliſh good kind of thing, with ſome qualities, as well deſerving to be half-laughed at and half eſteem'd, as moſt hearts in the world.

It's grand foible in regard to you, is the moſt like reaſon of any foible in nature. Upon my word this heart is not like a great warehouſe, ſtored only with my own goods, or with empty ſpaces, to be ſupply'd as faſt as Intereſt or Ambition can fill them: but is every inch of it let out into lodgings for it's friends, and ſhall never want a corner [235] where your idea will always lie as warm, and as cloſe, as any idea in Chriſtendom.

If this diſtance (as you are ſo kind to ſay) enlarges your belief of my friendſhip, I aſſure you it has ſo extended my notion of your value, that I begin to be impious upon that account, and to wiſh that even ſlaughter, ruin, and deſolation may inter⯑poſe between you and the place you deſign for; and that you were reſtored to us at the expence of a whole people.

Is there no expedient to return you in peace to the boſom of your country? I hear you are come as far as — do you only look back to die twice? is Eurydice once more ſnatch'd to the ſhade? If ever mortal had reaſon to hate the King, it is I, whoſe particular misfortune it is, to be almoſt the only innocent perſon he has made to ſuffer; both by his Government at home, and his Negotiations abroad.

If you muſt go from us, I wiſh at leaſt you might paſs to your baniſhment by the moſt pleaſant way; that all the road might be roſes and myrtles, and a thouſand objects riſe round you, agreeable enough to make England leſs deſirable to you. It is not now my intereſt to wiſh England agreeable: It is highly probable it may uſe me ill enough to drive me from it. Can I think that place my country, where I cannot now call a foot of paternal Earth my own? Yet [236] it may ſeem ſome alleviation, that when the wiſeſt thing I can do is to leave my country, what was moſt agreeable in it ſhould firſt be ſnatch'd away from it.

I could overtake you with pleaſure in — and make that tour in your company. Every reaſonable entertainment and beautiful view would be doubly engaging when you par⯑took of it. I ſhould at leaſt attend you to the ſea coaſts, and caſt a laſt look after the ſails that tranſported you. But perhaps I might care as little to ſtay behind you; and be full as uneaſy to live in a country where I ſaw others perſecuted by the rogues of my own religion, as where I was perſecuted my ſelf by the rogues of yours. And it is not impoſſible I might run into Aſia in ſearch of liberty; for who would not rather live a freeman among a nation of ſlaves, than a ſlave among a nation of freemen?

In good earneſt if I knew your motions, and your exact time; I verily think I ſhould be once more happy in a ſight of you next ſpring.

I'll conclude with a wiſh, God ſend you with us, or me with you.

To Mrs BLOUNT.

THE weather is too fine for any one that loves the country to leave it at this ſeaſon; when every ſmile of the ſun, like the ſmile of a coy lady, is as dear as it is uncommon: and I am ſo much in the taſte of rural pleaſures, I had rather ſee the ſun than any thing he can ſhew me, except yourſelf. I deſpiſe every fine thing in town, not excepting your new gown, till I ſee you dreſs'd in it (which by the way I don't like the better for the red; the leaves I think are very pretty.) I am growing fit, I hope, for a better world, of which the light of the ſun is but a ſhadow: for I doubt not but Gods works here, are what comes neareſt to his works there; and that a true reliſh of the beauties of nature is the moſt eaſy preparation and gentleſt tranſition to an enjoyment of thoſe of heaven; as on the contrary a true town life of hurry, con⯑fuſion, noiſe, ſlander, and diſſenſion, is a ſort of apprenticeſhip to hell and it's furies. I'm endeavouring to put my mind into as quiet a ſituation as I can, to be ready to receive that ſtroke which I believe is coming upon me, and have fully reſign'd [240] my ſelf to yield to it. The ſeparation of my ſoul and body is what I could think of with leſs pain; for I am very ſure he that made it will take care of it, and in what⯑ever ſtate he pleaſes it ſhall be, that ſtate muſt be right: But I cannot think without tears of being ſeparated from my friends, when their condition is ſo doubtful, that they may want even ſuch aſſiſtance as mine. Sure it is more merciful to take from us after death all memory of what we lov'd or pur⯑ſu'd here: for elſe what a torment would it be to a ſpirit, ſtill to love thoſe creatures it is quite divided from? Unleſs we ſuppoſe, that in a more exalted life, all that we eſteem'd in this imperfect ſtate will affect us no more, than what we lov'd in our in⯑fancy concerns us now.

This is an odd way of writing to a lady, and I'm ſenſible would throw me under a great deal of ridicule, were you to ſhow this letter among your acquaintance. But per⯑haps you may not your ſelf be quite a ſtranger to this way of thinking. I heartily wiſh your life may be ſo long and ſo happy, as never to let you think quite ſo far, as I am now led to do; but to think a little towards it, is what will make you the happier and the eaſier at all times.

There are no pleaſures, or amuſements, that I don't wiſh you, and therefore 'tis no ſmall grief to me that I ſhall for the future be [239] leſs able to partake with you in them. But let Fortune do her worſt, whatever ſhe makes us loſe, as long as ſhe never makes us loſe our honeſty and our independence; I deſpiſe from my heart whoever parts with the firſt, and I pity from my ſoul who⯑ever quits the latter.

I am griev'd at Mr GAY's condition in this laſt reſpect of dependence. He has Merit, good Nature, and Integrity, three qualities that I fear are too often loſt upon great men; or at leaſt are not all three a match for that one which is oppos'd to them, Flattery. I wiſh it may not ſoon or late diſplace him from the favour he now poſſeſſes, and ſeems to like.

To a LADY, on SINCERE Letters.

I Am not at all concern'd to think that this letter may be leſs entertaining than ſome I have ſent: I know you are a friend that will think a kind letter as good as a di⯑verting one. He who gives you his mirth makes a much leſs preſent than he who gives you his heart; and true friends wou'd ra⯑ther ſee ſuch thoughts as they communicate [140] only to one another, than what they ſquan⯑der about to all the world. They who can ſet a right value upon any thing, will prize one tender, well-meant word, above all that ever made them laugh in their lives. If I did not think ſo of you, I ſhould never have taken much pains to endeavour to pleaſe you, by writing, or any thing elſe. Wit, I am ſure I want; at leaſt in the de⯑gree that I ſee others have it, who wou'd at all ſeaſons alike be entertaining; but I wou'd willingly have ſome qualities that may be (at ſome ſeaſons) of more comfort to my ſelf, and of more ſervice to my friends. I wou'd cut off my own head, if it had nothing better than wit in it; and tear out my own heart, if it had no better diſpoſitions than to love only my ſelf, and laugh at all my neighbours.

I know you'll think it an agreeable thing to hear that I have done a great deal of Homer. If it be tolerable, the world may thank you for it: for if I cou'd have ſeen you every day, and imagin'd my company cou'd have every day pleas'd you, I ſhou'd ſcarce have thought it worth my while to pleaſe the world. How many verſes cou'd I gladly have left unfiniſh'd, and turn'd into it, for people to ſay what they would of, had I been permitted to paſs all thoſe hours more pleaſingly? Whatever ſome may think, Fame is a thing I am much leſs [241] covetous of, than your Friendſhip; for that I hope will laſt all my life, the other I can⯑not anſwer for. What if they ſhou'd both grow greater after my death? alas! they wou'd both be of no advantage to me! Therefore think upon it, and love me as well as ever you can, while I live.

To the Hon. Mrs **. On the ſame Subject.

ALL the pleaſure or uſe of familiar let⯑ters, is to give us the aſſurance of a friend's welfare; at leaſt 'tis all I know, who am a mortal enemy and deſpiſer of what they call fine letters. In this view I promiſe you, it will always be a ſatisfaction to me to write letters and to receive them from you; becauſe I unfeignedly have your good at my heart, and am that thing, which many people make only a ſubject to diſplay their fine ſentiments upon, a Friend: which is a character that admits of little to be ſaid, 'till ſomething may be done. Now let me fairly tell you, I don't like your ſtyle: 'tis very pretty, therefore I don't like it; and if you writ as well as Voiture, I wou'd not give a farthing for ſuch letters, unleſs I were to ſell 'em to be printed. Methinks I have loſt the Mrs L * I formerly knew, who writ and talk'd like other people, (and ſometimes better.) You muſt allow me to [242] ſay, you have not ſaid a ſenſible word in all your letter, except where you ſpeak of ſhewing kindneſs and expecting it in re⯑turn: but the addition you make about your being but two and twenty, is again in the ſtyle of wit an abomination. To ſhew you how very unſatisfactorily you write, in all your letters you've never told me how you did? Indeed I ſee 'twas abſolutely neceſſary for me to write to you, before you continu'd to take more notice of me, for I ought to tell you what you are to expect; that is to ſay, Kindneſs, which I never fail'd (I hope) to return; and not Wit, which if I want, I am not much concern'd, becauſe judg⯑ment is a better thing; and if I had, I wou'd make uſe of it rather to play upon thoſe I deſpis'd, than to trifle with thoſe I loved. You ſee in ſhort, after what man⯑ner you may moſt agreeably write to me: tell me you are my friend, and you can be no more at a loſs about that article. As I have open'd my mind upon this to you, it may alſo ſerve for Mr H * who will ſee by it what manner of letters he muſt expect if he correſponds with me. As I am too ſe⯑riouſly yours and his ſervant to put turns upon you inſtead of good wiſhes, ſo in re⯑turn I ſhou'd have nothing but honeſt plain how d'ye's and pray remember me's; which not being fit to be ſhown to any body for wit, may be a proof we correſpond only for [243] our ſelves, in meer friendlineſs; as doth, God is my witneſs,

From Dr. ARBUTHNOT.

I Am extreamly oblig'd to you for taking notice of a poor old diſtreſſed courtier, commonly the moſt deſpiſeable thing in the world. This blow has ſo rous'd Scriblerus that he has recover'd his ſenſes, and thinks and talks like other men. From being fro⯑lickſome and gay he is turn'd grave and moroſe. His lucubrations lye neglected a⯑mongſt old news-papers, caſes, petitions, and abundance of unanſwerable letters. I wiſh to God they had been amongſt the papers of a noble Lord^* ſealed up. Then might Scriblerus have paſs'd for the Preten⯑der, and it would have been a moſt excel⯑lent and laborious work for the Flying Poſt or ſum ſuch author, to have allegoriz'd all his adventures into a plot, and found out myſteries ſomewhat like the Key to the Lock. Martin's Office is now the ſecond door on the left hand in Dover-ſtreet, where he will be glad to ſee Dr Parnel, Mr Pope, and his old friends, to whom he can ſtill af⯑ford a half pint of claret. It is with ſome [244] pleaſure that he contemplates the world ſtill buſy, and all mankind at work for him. I have ſeen a letter from Dean Swift; he keeps up his noble ſpirit, and tho' like a man knock'd down, you may behold him ſtill with a ſtern countenance, and aiming a blow at his adverſaries. I will add no more, being in haſte, only that I will never forgive you if you don't uſe my foreſaid houſe in Dover-ſtreet with the ſame free⯑dom as you did that in St. James's; for as our friendſhip was not begun upon the rela⯑tion of a courtier, ſo I hope it will not end with it. I will always be proud to be reckon'd amongſt the number of your friends and humble ſervants.

To Mr C****.

I Aſſure you I am glad of your letter, and have long wanted nothing but the per⯑miſſion you now give me, to be plain and unreſerved upon this head. I wrote to you concerning it long ſince; but a friend of yours and mine was of opinion, it was ta⯑king too much upon me, and more than I cou'd be entitled to by the mere merit of long acquaintance, and good will. I have not a thing in my heart relating to any friend, which I would not, in my own na⯑ture, declare to all mankind. The truth is [245] what you gueſs; I could not eſteem your con⯑duct, to an object of miſery ſo near you as Mrs — and I have often hinted it to your ſelf: The truth is, I cannot yet eſteem it for any reaſon I am able to ſee. But this I promiſe, I acquit you as far as your own mind acquits you. I have now no farther cauſe of complaint for the unhappy lady gives me now no farther pain; ſhe is no longer an object either of yours, or my compaſſion; the hardſhips done her, are lodg'd in the hands of God, nor has any man more to do in them, except the per⯑ſons concern'd in occaſioning them.

As for the interruption of our Correſpon⯑dence, I am ſorry you ſeem to put the Teſt of my friendſhip upon that, becauſe it is what I am diſqualify'd from toward my o⯑ther acquaintance, with whom I cannot hold any frequent Commerce. I'll name you the obſtacles which I can't ſurmount: want of health, want of time, want of good eyes; and one yet ſtronger than all, I write not upon the terms of other men. For however glad I might be, of expreſ⯑ſiug my reſpect, opening my mind, or vent⯑ing my concerns to my private friends; I hardly dare, while there are Curlls ^* in the World. If you pleaſe to reflect either on the impertinence of weak admirers, the ma⯑lice [246] of low enemies, the avarice of merce⯑nary Bookſellers, or the ſilly curioſity of people in general; you'll confeſs I have ſmall reaſon to indulge correſpondencies: in which too I want materials, as I live al⯑together out of town, and have abſtracted my mind (I hope) to better things than common news. I wiſh my friends wou'd ſend me back thoſe forfeitures of my diſcre⯑tion, commit to my juſtice what I truſted only to their indulgence, and return me at the years End thoſe trifling letters which can be to them but a days amuſement, but to me may prove a diſcredit as laſting and extenſive, as the aforeſaid weak admirers, mean enemies, mercenary ſcriblers, or cu⯑rious ſimpletons, can make it.

I come now to a particular you complain of, my not anſwering your queſtion about ſome Party Papers, and their Authors. This indeed I could not tell you, becauſe I never was, or will be privy to ſuch Papers: And if by accident thro' my acquaintance with any of the writers, I had known a thing they conceal'd; I ſhould certainly never be the Reporter of it.

For my waiting on you at your country houſe, I have often wiſh'd it; it was my compliance to a ſuperior duty that hinder'd me, and one which you are too good a chriſtian to wiſh I ſhou'd have broken, having never ventur'd to leave my mother [247] (at her great age) for more than a week, which is too little for ſuch a journey.

Upon the whole, I muſt acquit myſelf of any act or thought in prejudice to the regard I owe you, as ſo long and obliging an acquaintance and correſpondent. I am ſure I have all the good wiſhes for yourſelf and your family, that become a friend: There is no accident that can happen to your advantage, and no action that can re⯑dound to your credit, which I ſhould not be ready to extol, or to rejoice in. And therefore I beg you to be aſſured, I am in diſpoſition and will, tho' not ſo much as I wou'd be in teſtimonies or writings,

To Mr JERVAS.

AS I know, you and I mutually deſire to ſee one another, I hoped that this day our wiſhes would have met, and brought you hither. And this for the very reaſon which poſſibly might hinder your coming, that my poor Mother is dead. I thank God her death was as eaſy, as her [248] life was innocent; and as it coſt her not a groan, or even a ſigh, there is yet upon her countenance ſuch an expreſſion of Tranquillity, nay almoſt of pleaſure, that far from horrid, it is even amiable to behold it. It would afford the fineſt Image of a Saint expir'd, that ever Painting drew; and it wou'd be the greateſt obligation which even That obliging Art could ever beſtow on a friend, if you cou'd come and ſketch it for me. I am ſure, if there be no very pre⯑valent obſtacle, you will leave any common buſineſs to do this: and I hope to ſee you this evening as late as you will, or to mor⯑row morning as early, before this Winter⯑flower is faded. I will defer her interment till to morrow night. I know you love me, or I cou'd not have written this—I could not (at this time) have written at all.—Adieu! May you dye as happily!

To ****^†

YOU cannot think how melancholy this place makes me: every part of this Wood puts into my mind poor Mr Gay with whom I paſt once a great deal of plea⯑ſant [249] time in it, and another friend who is near dead, and quite loſt to us, Dr Swift. I really can find no enjoyment in the place: the ſame ſort of uneaſineſs as I find at Twit⯑nam, whenever I paſs near my Mother's room.

I've not yet writ to Mrs G. I think I ſhould, but have nothing to ſay that will anſwer the character they conſider me in, as a Wit: beſides, my eyes grow very bad, (whatever is the cauſe of it) I'll put 'em out for no body but a friend: and I proteſt it brings tears into them almoſt to write to you, when I think of your ſtate and mine. I long to write to Swift, but cannot. The greateſt pain I know is to ſay things ſo very ſhort of one's meaning, when the heart is full.

I feel the goings out of life faſt enough, to have little appetite left to make compli⯑ments, at beſt uſeleſs, and for the moſt part unfelt, ſpeeches. 'Tis but in a very narrow circle that friendſhip walks in this world, and I care not to tread out of it more than I needs muſt; knowing well it is but to two or three (if quite ſo many) that any man's welfare, or memory, can be of conſequence: The reſt I believe I may forget, and be pretty certain they are already even, if not before⯑hand with me.

Life, after the firſt warm heats are over, is all down-hill; and one almoſt wiſhes the [250] journey's end, provided we were ſure but to lye down eaſy whenever the night ſhall over⯑take us.

I dreamed all laſt night of — ſhe has dwelt (a little more than perhaps is right) upon my ſpirits: I ſaw a very deſerving Gentleman in my travels, who has formerly, I have heard, had much the ſame misfor⯑tune; and (with all his good breeding and ſenſe) ſtill bears a cloud and melancholy caſt that never can quite clear up, in all his behaviour and converſation. I know another who I believe could promiſe and eaſily keep his word, never to laugh in his life. But one muſt do one's beſt, not to be uſed by the world as that poor lady was by her ſiſter; and not ſeem too good, for fear of being thought affected, or whimſical.

It is a real truth, that to the laſt of my moments, he thought of you, and the beſt of my wiſhes for you, will attend you, told or untold: I could wiſh you had once the conſtancy and reſolution to act for your ſelf, whether before or after I leave you (the only way I ever ſhall leave you) you muſt determine: but reflect, that the firſt wou'd make me, as well as your ſelf, happier; the latter could only make you ſo.