[7] MR. POPE'S LETTERS.

LETTER I.

WE are indebted to Heaven for all things, and above all for our ſenſe and genius (in what⯑ever [8] degree we have it); but to fan⯑cy yourſelf indebted to any thing elſe, moves my anger at your modeſty. The regard I muſt bear you, ſeriouſly pro⯑ceeds from myſelf alone; and I will not ſuffer even one I like ſo much as Mrs. H. to have a ſhare in cauſing it. I challenge a kind of relation to you on the ſoul's ſide, which I take to be better than either on a father's or mother's; and if you can overlook an ugly body (that ſtands much in the way of any friendſhip, when it is be⯑tween different ſexes) I ſhall hope to find you a true and conſtant kinſwo⯑man [9] in Apollo. Not that I would place all my pretenſions upon that poetical foot, much leſs confine them to it; I am far more deſirous to be admitted as yours, on the more meri⯑torious title of friendſhip. I have ever believed this as a ſacred maxim, that the moſt ingenious natures were the moſt ſincere; and the moſt knowing and ſenſible minds made the beſt friends. Of all thoſe that I have thought it the felicity of my life to know, I have ever found the moſt diſtinguiſhed in capacity, the moſt diſtinguiſhed in morality: and thoſe [10] the moſt to be depended on, whom one eſteemed ſo much as to deſire they ſhould be ſo. I beg you to make me no more compliments. I could make you a great many, but I know you neithe [...] need them, nor can like them: be ſo good as to think I do not. In one word, your writings are very good, and very entertaining; but not ſo good, nor ſo entertaining, as your life and converſation. One is but the effect and emanation of the other. It will always be a greater pleaſure to me, to know you are well, than that you write well, though every time [11] you tell me the one, I muſt know the other. I am willing to ſpare your modeſty; and therefore, as to your writing, may perhaps never ſay more (directly to yourſelf) than the few ver⯑ſes I ſend here; which (as a proof of my own modeſty too) I made ſo long ago as the day you ſate for your picture, and yet never till now durſt confeſs to you.

[12] THE brighteſt wit in the world, without the better qualities of the heart, muſt meet with this fate; and tends only to endear ſuch a character as I take yours to be. In the better diſcovery, and fuller conviction of which, I have a ſtrong opinion, I ſhall grow more and more happy, the longer I live your acquaintance, and (if you will indulge me in ſo much pleaſure)

LETTER II.

THOUGH I am extremely obliged by your agreeable let⯑ter, I will avoid all mention of the pleaſure you give me, that we may have no more words about compli⯑ments; which I have often obſerved people talk themſelves into, while [14] they endeavour to talk themſelves out of. It is no more the diet of friend⯑ſhip and eſteem, than a few thin wa⯑fers and marmalade were of ſo hearty a ſtomach as Sancho's. In a word, I am very proud of my new relation, and like Parnaſſus much the better, ſince I found I had ſo good a neight⯑bour there. Mrs. H [...], who lives at court, ſhall teach two country-folks ſincerity; and when I am ſo happy as to meet you, ſhe ſhall ſettle the proportions of that regard, or good⯑nature, which ſhe can allow you to ſpare me, from a heart, which is ſo much her own as yours is.

[15] THAT lady is the moſt truſty of friends, if the imitation of Shakeſpear be yours; for ſhe made me give my opinion of it with aſſurance it was none of Mrs [...]. I honeſtly liked and praiſed it, whoſe-ſoever it was; there is in it a ſenſible melancholy, and too true a picture of human life; ſo true an one, that I can ſcarce wiſh the verſes yours at the expence of your thinking that way, ſo early. I rather wiſh you may love the town (which the author of thoſe lines can⯑not immoderately do) theſe many years. [16] It is time enough to like, or affect to like, the country, when one is out of love with all but one's-ſelf, and therefore ſtudies to become agreeable or eaſy to one's-ſelf. Retiring into one's-ſelf is generally the pis-aller of mankind. Would you have me deſcribe my ſo⯑litude and grotto to you? what if, after a long and painted deſcription of them in verſe (which the writer I have juſt been ſpeaking of could better make, if I can gueſs by that line,

[17] what if it ended thus?

If theſe lines want poetry, they do not want ſenſe. God Almighty long preſerve you from a feeling of them! The book you mention, Bruyere's Characters, will make any one know the world; and I believe at the ſame [18] time deſpiſe it (which is a ſign it will make one know it thoroughly). It is certainly the proof of a maſter-hand, that can give ſuch ſtriking likeneſſes, in ſuch ſlight ſketches, and in ſo few ſtrokes on each ſubject. In anſwer to your queſtion about Shakeſpear, the book is about a quarter printed, and the number of emendations very great. I have never indulged my own con⯑jectures, but kept meerly to ſuch amendments as are authorized by old editions, in the author's life-time: but I think it will be a year at leaſt before the whole work can be finiſh⯑ed. [19] In reply to your very handſome (I wiſh it were a very true) compliment upon this head, I only deſire you to obſerve, by what natural, gentle de⯑grees I have ſunk to the humble thing I now am: firſt from a pretending poet to a critick, then to a low tran⯑ſlator, laſtly to a meer publiſher. I am apprehenſive I ſhall be nothing that's of any value, long, except,

I long for your return to town; a place I am unfit for, but ſhall not be long out of, as ſoon as I know I may be permitted to wait on you there.

LETTER III.

IT was an agreeable ſurprize to me, to hear of your ſettlement in town. I lye at my Lord Peterborow's in Bolton-ſtreet, where any commands of yours will reach me to-morrow, only on Saturday-evening I am pre⯑engaged. If Mrs. H [...] be to be en⯑gaged [22] (and if ſhe is by any creature, it is by you), I hope ſhe will join us. I am, with great truth,

LETTER IV.

I COULD not play the imperti⯑nent ſo far as to write to you, till I was encouraged to it by a piece of news Mrs H [...] tells me, which ought to be the moſt agreeable in the world to any author, That you are determined to write no more—It is now the time then, not for me only, [24] but for every body, to write without fear, or wit: and I ſhall give you the firſt example here. But for this aſſu⯑rance, it would be every way too dan⯑gerous to correſpond with a lady, whoſe very firſt ſight and very firſt writings had ſuch an effect, upon a man uſed to what they call fine ſights, and what they call fine writings. Yet he has been dull enough to ſleep qui⯑etly, after all he has ſeen, and all he has read; till yours broke in upon his ſtupidity and indolence, and totally deſtroyed it. But, God be thanked, you will write no more; ſo I am in [25] no danger of increaſing my admira⯑tion of you one way; and as to the other, you will never (I have too much reaſon to fear) open theſe eyes again with one glimpſe of you.

I AM told, you named lately in a letter a place called Twitenham, with particular diſtinction. That you may not be miſ-conſtrued and have your meaning miſtaken for the future, I muſt acquaint you, Madam, that the name of the place where Mrs. H [...] is, is not Twitenham, but Rich⯑mond; which your ignorance in the [26] geography of theſe parts has made you confound together. You will unthinkingly do honour to a paltry hermitage (while you ſpeak of Twi⯑tenham) where lives a creature alto⯑gether unworthy your memory or notice, becauſe he really wiſhes he had never beheld you, nor yours. You have ſpoiled him for a ſolitaire, and a book, all the days of his life; and put him into ſuch a condition, that he thinks of nothing, and en⯑quires of nothing but after a perſon who has nothing to ſay to him, and has left him for ever without hope of [27] ever again regarding, or pleaſing, or entertaining him, much leſs of ſeeing him. He has been ſo mad with the idea of her, as to ſteal her picture, and paſſes whole days in ſitting before it, talking to himſelf, and (as ſome people imagine) making verſes; but it is no ſuch matter, for as long as he can get any of hers, he can never turn his head to his own, it is ſo much better entertained.

LETTER V.

I AM touched with ſhame when I look on the date of your letter. I have anſwered it a hundred times in my own mind, which I aſſure you has few thoughts, either ſo frequent or ſo lively, as thoſe relating to you. I am ſenſibly obliged by you, in the comfort you endeavour to give me [29] upon the loſs of a friend. It is like the ſhower we have had this morning, that juſt makes the drooping trees hold up their heads, but they remain checked and withered at the root: the benediction is but a ſhort relief, though it comes from Heaven itſelf. The loſs of a friend is the loſs of life; after that is gone from us, it is all but a gentler decay, and waſting and lingering a little longer. I was the other day forming a wiſh for a lady's happineſs, upon her birth-day: and thinking of the greateſt climax of fe⯑licity I could raiſe, ſtep by ſtep, to [30] end in this—a Friend. I fancy I have ſucceeded in the gradation, and ſend you the whole copy to aſk your opinion, or (which is much the better reaſon) to deſire you to alter it to your own wiſh: for I believe you are a woman that can wiſh for yourſelf more reaſonably, than I can for you. Mrs. H [...] made me promiſe her a copy; and to the end ſhe may value it, I beg it may be tranſcribed, and ſent her by you.

[32] PRAY, Madam, let me ſee this mended in your copy to Mrs. H [...]; and let it be an exact ſcheme of hap⯑pineſs drawn, and I hope enjoyed, by yourſelf. To whom I aſſure you I wiſh it all, as much as you wiſh it her.

LETTER VI.

YOUR laſt letter tells me, that if I do not write in leſs than a month, you will fancy the length of yours frighted me. A conſciouſneſs that I had upon me of omitting too long to anſwer it, made me look (not without ſome fear and trembling) for [34] the date of it: but there happened to be none; and I hope, either that you have forgot how long it is, or at leaſt that you cannot think it ſo long as I do, ſince I writ to you. Indeed a multitude of things (which ſingly ſeem trifles, and yet altogether make a vaſt deal of buſineſs, and wholly take up that time which we ought to value above all ſuch things) have from day to day made me wanting, as well to my own greateſt pleaſure in this, as to my own greateſt concerns in other points. If I ſeem to neglect any friend I have, I do more than ſeem to [35] neglect myſelf, as I find daily by the increaſing ill conſtitution of my body and mind. I ſtill reſolve this courſe ſhall not, nay I ſee it cannot, be long; and I determine to retreat within myſelf to the only buſineſs I was born for, and which I am only good for (if I am entitled to uſe that phraſe for any thing). It is great folly to ſa⯑crifice one's ſelf, one's time, one's quiet (the very life of life itſelf), to forms, complaiſances, and amuſe⯑ments, which do not inwardly pleaſe me, and only pleaſe a ſort of people who regard me no farther than a [36] meer inſtrument of their preſent idle⯑neſs, or vanity. To ſay truth, the lives of thoſe we call great and happy are divided between thoſe two ſtates; and in each of them, we poetical fid⯑lers make but part of their pleaſure, or of their equipage. And the mi⯑ſery is, we, in our turns, are ſo vain (at leaſt I have been ſo) as to chuſe to pipe without being paid, and ſo ſilly to be pleaſed with piping to thoſe who underſtand muſick leſs than ourſelves. They have put me of late upon a taſk before I was aware, which I am ſick and ſore of: and yet enga⯑ged [37] in honour to ſome perſons whom I muſt neither diſobey nor diſappoint (I mean two or three in the world only) to go on with it. They make me do as mean a thing as the greateſt man of them could do; ſeem to de⯑pend, and to ſolicit, when I do not want; and make a kind of court to thoſe above my rank, juſt as they do to thoſe above theirs, when we might much more wiſely and agreeably live of ourſelves, and to ourſelves. You will eaſily find I am talking of my tranſlating the Odyſſey by ſubſcrip⯑tion: which looks, it muſt needs [38] look, to all the world as a deſign of mine both upon fame and money, when in truth I believe I ſhall get neither; for one I go about without any ſtomach, and the other I ſhall not go about at all.

THIS freedom of opening my mind upon my own ſituation will be a proof of truſt, and of an opinion your goodneſs of nature has made me entertain, that you never profeſs any degree of good-will without being pretty warm in it. So I tell you my grievances; I hope in God you have [39] none, wherewith to make me any return of this kind. I hope that was the only one which you commu⯑nicated in your laſt, about Mrs. H [...] ſilence; for which ſhe want⯑ed not reproaches from me; and has ſince, ſhe ſays, amply atoned for. I ſaw a few lines of yours to her, which are more obliging to me than I could have imagined: if you put my welfare into the ſmall number of things which you heartily wiſh (for a ſenſible per⯑ſon, of either ſex, will never wiſh for many), I ought to be a happier man than I ever yet deſerved to be.

[40] UPON a review of your papers, I have repented of ſome of the trivial alterations I had thought of, which were very few. I would rather keep them till I have the ſatisfaction to meet you in the winter, which I muſt beg earneſtly to do; for hitherto methinks you are to me like a ſpirit of another world, a being I admire, but have no commerce with: I can⯑not tell but I am writing to a Fairy, who has left me ſome favours, which I ſecretly enjoy, and ſhall think it [41] unlucky, if not fatal, to part with. So pray do not expect your verſes till farther acquaintance.

LETTER VII.

NO confidence is ſo great, as that one receives from perſons one knows may be believed, and in things one is willing to believe. I have (at laſt) acquired this; by Mrs. H [...] repeated aſſurances of a thing I am [43] unfeignedly ſo deſirous of, as your allowing me to correſpond with you. In good earneſt, there is ſometimes in men as well as in women, a great deal of unaffected modeſty: and I was ſincere all along, when I told her perſonally, and told you by my ſilence, that I feared only to ſeem imperti⯑nent, while perhaps I ſeemed negli⯑gent, to you. To tell Mrs. [...] any thing like what I really thought of her, would have looked ſo like the common traffick of compliment, that pays only to receive; and to have told it her in diſtant or baſhful terms, [44] would have appeared ſo like coldneſs in my ſenſe of good qualities (which I cannot find out in any one, without feeling, from my nature, at the ſame time a great warmth for them) that I was quite at a loſs what to write, or in what ſtile, to you. But I am re⯑ſolved, plainly to get over all objec⯑tions, and faithfully to aſſure you, if you will help a baſhful man to be paſt all preliminaries, and forms, I am ready to treat with you for your friendſhip. I know (without more ado) you have a valuable ſoul; and wit, ſenſe, and worth enough, to make [45] me reckon it (provided you will per⯑mit it) one of the happineſſes of my life to have been made acquainted with you.

I DO not know, on the other hand, what you can think of me; but this, for a beginning, I will venture to en⯑gage, that whoever takes me for a poet, or a wit (as they call it), takes me for a creature of leſs value than I am: and that where-ever I profeſs it, you ſhall find me a much better man, that is, a much better friend, or at leaſt a much leſs faulty one, than I [46] am a poet. That whatever zeal I may have, or whatever regard I may ſhew, for things I truly am ſo pleaſed with as your entertaining writings; yet I ſhall ſtill have more for your perſon, and for your health, and for your happineſs. I would, with as much readineſs, play the apothecary or the nurſe, to mend your head-akes, as I would play the critick to improve your verſes. I have ſeriouſly looked over and over thoſe you intruſted me with; and aſſure you, Madam, I would as ſoon cheat in any other truſt, as in this. I ſincerely tell you, [47] I can mend them very little, and only in trifles, not worth writing about; but will tell you every tittle when I have the happineſs to ſee you.

I AM more concerned than you can reaſonably believe, for the ill ſtate of health you are at preſent under: but I will appeal to time, to ſhew you how ſincerely I am (if I live long enough to prove myſelf what I truly am)

I am very ſick all the while I write this letter, which I hope will be an excuſe for its being ſo ſcribbled.

LETTER VIII.

IT happened that when I deter⯑mined to anſwer yours, by the poſt that followed my receipt of it, I was prevented from the firſt proof I have had the happineſs to give you of my warmth and readineſs, in re⯑turning [50] the epitaph, with my ſincere condolements with you on that me⯑lancholy ſubject. But nevertheleſs I reſolved to ſend you the one, though unattended by the other: I begged Mrs. H [...] to incloſe it, that you might at leaſt ſee I had not the power to delay a moment the do⯑ing what you bid me; eſpecial⯑ly when the occaſion of obeying your commands was ſuch, as muſt affect every admirer and well-wiſh⯑er of honour and virtue in the na⯑tion.

[51] YOU had it in the very blots, the better to compare the places; and I can only ſay it was done to the beſt of my judgement, and to the extent of my ſincerity.

I DO not wonder that you decline the poetical amuſement I propoſed to you, at this time. I know (from what little I know of your heart) enough at leaſt to convince me, it muſt be too deeply concerned at the loſs, not only of ſo great, and ſo near a relation; but of a good man (a loſs [52] this age can hardly ever afford to bear, and not often can ſuſtain). Yet perhaps it is one of the beſt things that can be ſaid of poetry, that it helps us to paſs over the toils and troubles of this tireſome journey, our life; as horſes are encouraged and ſpirited up, the better to bear their labour, by the jingling of bells about their heads. Indeed, as to myſelf, I have been uſed to this odd cordial, ſo long, that it has no effect upon me: but you, Madam, are in your honey⯑moon of poetry; you have ſeen only the ſmiles, and enjoyed the careſſes, [53] of Apollo. Nothing is ſo pleaſant to a Muſe as the firſt children of the imagination; but when once ſhe comes to find it meer conjugal duty, and the care of her numerous progeny daily grows upon her, it is all a ſour tax for paſt pleaſure. As the Pſalmiſt ſays on another occaſion, the age of a Muſe is ſcarce above five and twen⯑ty: all the reſt is labour and ſorrow. I find by experience that his own fiddle is no great pleaſure to a com⯑mon fidler, after once the firſt good conceit of himſelf is loſt.

[54] I LONG at laſt to be acquainted with you; and Mrs. H [...] tells me you ſhall ſoon be in town, and I bleſt with the viſion I have ſo long deſired. Pray believe I worſhip you as much, and ſend my addreſſes to you as often, as to any female Saint in Heaven: it is certain I ſee you as little, unleſs it be in my ſleep; and that way too, holy hermits are viſited by the Saints themſelves.

I AM, without figures and meta⯑phors, yours: and hope you will [55] think, I have ſpent all my fiction in my poetry; ſo that I have nothing but plain truth left for my proſe; with which I am ever,

LETTER IX.

I THINK it a full proof of that unlucky ſtar, which upon too ma⯑ny occaſions I have experienced; that this firſt, this only day that I ſhould [57] have owned happy beyond expec⯑tation (for I did not till yeſterday hope to have ſeen you ſo ſoon) I muſt be forced not to do it. I am too ſick (indeed very ill) to go out ſo far, and lie on a bed at my doctor's houſe, as a kind of force upon him to get me better with all haſte.

I AM ſcarce able to ſee theſe few lines I write; to wiſh you health and pleaſure enough not to miſs me to⯑day, and myſelf patience to bear [58] being abſent from you as well as I can being ill.

LETTER X.

AFTER a very long expecta⯑tion and daily hopes of the ſa⯑tisfaction of ſeeing and converſing with you, I am ſtill deprived of it in a manner that is the moſt afflicting, becauſe it is occaſioned by your ill⯑neſs [60] and your misfortune. I can bear my own, I aſſure you, much better: and thus to find you loſt to me, at the time that I hoped to have regained you, doubles the concern I ſhould naturally feel in being de⯑prived of any pleaſure whatever.

MRS. H [...] can beſt expreſs to you the concern of a friend, who eſteems and pities: for ſhe has the liberty to expreſs it in her actions, and the ſatisfaction of attending on you in your indiſpoſition.

[61] I WISH ſincerely your condition were not ſuch as to debar me from telling you in perſon how truly I am yours. I wiſh I could do you any little offices of friendſhip, or give you any amuſements, or help you to what people in your preſent ſtate moſt want, better ſpirits. If reading to you, or writing to you, could contribute to entertain your hours, or to raiſe you to a livelier reliſh of life, how well ſhould I think my time employed! indeed I ſhould, and think it a much better end of my poor ſtudies, than [62] all the vanities of fame, or views of a character that way, which engage moſt men of my fraternity.

IF you thoroughly knew the zeal with which I am your ſervant, you would take ſome notice of the ad⯑vice I would give you, and ſuffer it to have a weight with you propor⯑tionable to the ſincerity with which it is given.

I BEG you to do your utmoſt to call to you all the ſuccours, which [63] your own good ſenſe and natural re⯑flexion can ſuggeſt, to avoid a melan⯑choly way of thinking, and to throw up your ſpirits by intervals of mode⯑rate company; not to let your diſtem⯑per fix itſelf upon your mind at leaſt, though it will not entirely quit your body. Do not indulge too much ſolitarineſs. Though moſt company be not proper or ſupportable during your illneſs, force yourſelf to enter into ſuch as is good and reaſonable, where you may have your liberty, and be under no reſtraint.

[64] WHY will you not come to your friend Mrs. H [...], ſince you are able to go out, and ſince motion is certainly good for your health? why will you not make any little ſets of ſuch as you are eaſieſt with, to ſit with you ſometimes?

Do not think I have any intereſted aim in this advice: though I long to ſee you, and to try to amuſe you, I would not for the world be conſi⯑dered as one that would ever require [65] for my own gratification, any thing that might either be improper or hurtful to you.

PRAY let me know, by our friend Mrs. H [...], if there can be any thing in my power to ſerve, or to amuſe you. But uſe me ſo kindly, as not to think ever of writing to me till you are ſo well as that I may ſee you, and then it will be need⯑leſs. Do not even read this, if it be the leaſt trouble to your eyes or head.

[66] BELIEVE me, with great reſpect, and the warmeſt good wiſhes for your ſpeedy recovery,

LETTER XI.

IT was an inexpreſſible pleaſure to me to ſee your letter, as I aſſure you it had long been a great trouble, to reflect on the melancholy reaſon of your ſilence and abſence. It was [68] that only which hindered my wri⯑ting, not only again, but often, to you; for fear your good-nature ſhould have been prompted to oblige me too much at your own expence, by anſwering. Indeed I never ex⯑preſſed (and never ſhall be able to expreſs) more concern and good wiſh⯑es for you, than I ſhall ever feel for one of your merit.

I AM ſorry, the moment you grow better, to have you ſnatcht from thoſe, who I may ſay deſerve the plea⯑ſure of ſeeing you in health, for [69] having ſo long lamented and felt your illneſs.

MRS. H [...], I hope, will find it not impoſſible to draw you to Richmond: and if not, I dare ſay will not be long out of Hertfordſhire. I want nothing but the ſame happy pretence ſhe has, of a title through your friendſhip, and the privilege of her ſex, to be there immediately. I cannot but wonder you have not heard from her, though I ſhould wonder if any body elſe had; for I am told by her family ſhe has had [70] much of the head-ake at Bath, be⯑ſides the excuſe of a great giddineſs occaſioned naturally by the waters. I writ to her at the firſt going, and have not had a word from her; and now you tell me the ſame thing, I conclude ſhe has been worſe than I imagined. I hear ſhe returns on Wedneſday, when I ſhall have the ſa⯑tisfaction (I doubt not) to talk and hear a great deal of Mrs. [...].

I WISH I could ſay any thing, ei⯑ther to comfort you when ill, or en⯑tertain [71] you when well. Though nothing could, in the proper propor⯑tion of friendſhip, more affect me than your condition; I have not wanted other occaſions of great melancholy, of which the leaſt is the loſs of part of my fortune by a late act of parlia⯑ment.

I AM at preſent in the afflicting circumſtance of taking my laſt leave of one of the ^* trueſt friends I ever had, and one of the greateſt men in all polite learning, as well as the moſt [72] agreeable companion, this nation ever had.

I REALLY do not love life ſo dear⯑ly, or ſo weakly, as to value it on any other ſcore, than for that portion of happineſs which a friend only can be⯑ſtow upon it: or, if I muſt want that myſelf, for the pleaſure which is next it, of ſeeing deſerving and virtuous people happy. So that indeed I want comfort; and the greateſt I can re⯑ceive from you (at leaſt unleſs I were ſo happy as to deſerve what I never can) will be to hear you grow better [73] till you grow perfectly well, perfectly eaſy, and perfectly happy, which no one more ſincerely wiſhes than,

LETTER XII.

IT would be a vanity in me to tell you why I trouble you ſo ſoon again: I cannot imagine myſelf of the number of thoſe correſpondents whom you call favourite ones; yet I [75] know it is thought, that induſtry may make a man what merit cannot: and if an old maxim of my Lord Oxford's be true, That in England if a man reſolve to be any thing, and conſtant⯑ly ſtick to it, he may (even a Lord Treaſurer): if ſo, I ſay, it ſhall not be want of reſolution that ſhall hinder me from being a favourite. In good earneſt, I am more ambitious of being ſo to you, Madam, than I ever was, or ever ſhall be, of being one to any Prince, or (which is more) any Prince's Miniſter, in Chriſtendom.

[76] I WISH I could tell you any agreea⯑ble news of what your heart is con⯑cerned in; but I have a ſort of quar⯑rel to Mrs. H [...] for not loving herſelf ſo well as ſhe does her friends: for thoſe ſhe makes happy, but not herſelf.

THERE is an air of ſadneſs about her which grieves me, and which, I have learnt by experience, will increaſe upon an indolent (I will not ſay an affected) reſignation to it. [77] It will do ſo in men, and much more in women, who have a natural ſoft⯑neſs that ſinks them even when rea⯑ſon does not. This I tell you in con⯑fidence; and pray give our friend ſuch hints as may put her out of hu⯑mour with melancholy: your cen⯑ſure, or even your raillery, may have more weight with her than mine: a man cannot either ſo de⯑cently, or ſo delicately, take upon him to be a phyſician in theſe con⯑cealed diſtempers.

[78] YOU ſee, Madam, I proceed in truſting you with things that nearly concern me. In my laſt letter I ſpoke but of a trifle, myſelf: in this I ad⯑vance farther, and ſpeak of what touches me more, a friend.

THIS beautiful ſeaſon will raiſe up ſo many rural images and deſcriptions in a poetical mind, that I expect, you, and all ſuch as you (if there be any ſuch), at leaſt all who are not down⯑right dull tranſlators, like your ſer⯑vant, [79] muſt neceſſarily be productive of verſes.

I LATELY ſaw a ſketch this way on the bower of ^* BEDINGTON: I [80] could wiſh you tried ſomething in the deſcriptive way on any ſubject you pleaſe, mixed with viſion and moral; like pieces of the old provençal poets, which abound with fancy, and are the moſt amuſing ſcenes in nature. There are three or four of this kind in Chaucer admirable: ‘"the Flower and the Leaf"’ every body has been delighted with.

[81] I HAVE long had an inclination to tell a Fairy tale, the more wild and exotic the better; therefore a viſion, which is confined to no rules of pro⯑bability, will take in all the variety and luxuriancy of deſcription you will; provided there be an apparent moral to it. I think, one or two of the Perſian tales would give one hints for ſuch an invention: and perhaps if the ſcenes were taken from real places that are known, in order to compliment particular gardens and buildings of a fine taſte (as I believe [82] ſeveral of Chaucer's deſcriptions do, though it is what nobody has ob⯑ſerved), it would add great beauty to the whole.

I WISH you found ſuch an amuſe⯑ment pleaſing to you: if you did but, at leiſure, form deſcriptions from ob⯑jects in nature itſelf, which ſtruck you moſt livelily, I would undertake to find a tale that ſhould bring them all together: which you will think an odd undertaking, but in a piece of this fanciful and imaginary nature I [83] am ſure is practicable. Excuſe this long letter; and think no man is more