^* Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

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

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

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

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

Therefore I will ſay no more now of them, than that your good Wit ne'er for⯑feited your good Judgment, but in your Partility to me and mine; ſo that if it [3] were poſſible for a harden'd Scribbler to be vainer than he is, what you write of me would make me more conceited, than what I ſcribble my ſelf; yet I muſt confeſs I ought to be more humbled by your Praiſe than exalted; which commends my little Senſe with ſo much more of yours, that I am diſparag'd and diſhearten'd by your com⯑mendations; who give me an Example of your Wit in the firſt Part of your Letter, and a Definition of it in the laſt: to make writing well (that is like you) more dif⯑ficult to me than ever it was before. Thus the more great and juſt your Example and Definition of Wit are, the leſs I am capa⯑ble to follow them. Then the beſt way of ſhewing my Judgment, after having ſeen how you write, is to leave off writing; and the beſt way to ſhew my Friendship to you, is to put an end to your Trouble, and to conclude

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

WHEN I write to you, I foreſee a long Letter, and ought to beg your [4] Patience beforehand; for if it proves the longeſt, it will be of courſe the worſt I have troubled you with. Yet to expreſs my Gratitude at large for your obliging Letter, is not more my Duty than my Intereſt; as ſome People will abundantly thank you for one Piece of Kindneſs, to put you in mind of beſtowing another. The more favourable you are to me, the more diſtinctly I ſee my Faults; Spots and Blemiſhes you know, are never ſo plainly diſcovere'd as in the brighteſt Sun⯑ſhine. Thus I am mortified by thoſe Com⯑mendations which were deſign'd to encou⯑rage me: for Praiſe to a young Wit, is like Rain to a tender Flower; if it be mode⯑rately beſtow'd, it chears and revives, but if too laviſhly, overcharges and depreſſes him. Moſt Men in years, as they are ge⯑nerally diſcouragers of Youth, are like old Trees, that being paſt Bearing themſelves, will ſuffer no young Plants to flouriſh be⯑neath them: But as if it were not enough to have out-done all your Coaevals in Wit, you will excel them in good Nature too. As for my ^a green Eſſays, if you find any pleaſure in 'em, it muſt be ſuch as a Man naturally takes in obſerving the firſt Shoots and Buddings of a Tree which he [5] has rais'd himſelf: and 'tis impoſſible they ſhould be eſteem'd any otherwiſe, than as we value Fruits for being early, which ne⯑vertheleſs are the moſt inſipid, and the worſt of the Year. In a word, I muſt blame you for treating me with ſo much Compliment, which is at beſt but the Smoak of Friendſhip. I neither write, nor con⯑verſe with you, to gain your Praiſe but your Affection. Be ſo much my Friend as to appear my Enemy, and tell me my Faults, if not as a young Man, at leaſt as an un⯑experienc'd Writer.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

YOUR Letter of the Twenty-fifth of March I have receiv'd, which was more welcome to me than any thing cou'd be out of the Country, tho' it were one's Rent due that Day: and I can find no fault with it, but that it charges me with Want of Sincerity, or Juſtice, for giving you your Due; who ſhou'd not let your Modeſty be ſo unjuſt to your Merit, as to reject [6] what is due to it, and call that Compliment which is ſo ſhort of your deſert, that it is rather degrading than exalting you. But if Compliment be the Smoak only of Friend⯑ſhip (as you ſay) however you muſt allow there is no Smoak but there is ſome Fire; and as the Sacrifice of Incenſe offer'd to the Gods wou'd not have been half ſo ſweet to others, if it had not been for its Smoak; ſo Friendſhip like Love, cannot be without ſome Incenſe, to perfume the Name it wou'd praiſe and immortalize. But ſince you ſay you do not write to me to gain my Praiſe, but my Affection, pray how is it poſſible to have the one without the other? We muſt admire before we love. You affirm, you would have me ſo much your Friend as to appear your Enemy, and find out your Faults rather than your Perfections: But (my Friend) that would be ſo hard to do, that I who love no Difficulties, can't be perſuaded to it. Be⯑ſides, the Vanity of a Scribbler is ſuch, that he will never part with his own Judgment to gratify another's; eſpecially when he muſt take Pains to do it: And tho' I am proud to be of your Opinion, when you talk of any Thing, or Man but your ſelf, I cannot ſuffer you to murther your fame, with your own hand, without oppoſing you; eſpecially when you ſay your laſt Let⯑ter [7] is the worſt (ſince the longeſt) you have favoured me with; which I therefore think the beſt, as the longeſt Life (if a good one) is the beſt, as it yields the more Variety and is more Exemplary; as a chearful Summer's Day, tho' longer than a dull one in the Winter, is leſs tedious and more entertain⯑ing: Therefore let but your Friendſhip be like your Letter, as laſting as it is agreeable, and it can never be tedious, but more ac⯑ceptable and obliging to

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

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

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

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

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

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

In the firſt place 'tis obſervable, that the Love we bear to our Friends is generally cauſed by our finding the ſame Diſpoſitions in them, which we feel in our ſelves. This is but Self-love at the Bottom: Whereas the Affection betwixt People of different Ages cannot well be ſuch, the Inclinations of ſuch [10] being commonly various. The Friendſhip of two young Men is often occaſioned by Love of Pleaſure or Voluptuouſneſs, each being deſirous, for his own ſake, of one to aſſiſt or incourage him in the Courſes he purſues; as that of two old Men is fre⯑quently on the ſcore of ſome Profit, Lucre, or Deſign upon others: Now, as a young Man who is leſs acquainted with the Ways of the World, has in all probability leſs of Intereſt; and an old Man who may be weary of himſelf, leſs of Self-love; ſo the Friendſhip between them is the more likely to be true, and unmix'd with too much Self-regard. One may add to this, that ſuch a Friendſhip is of greater Uſe and Advantage to both; for the old Man will grow more gay and agreeable to pleaſe the young one; and the young Man more diſcreet and pru⯑dent by the help of the old one; ſo it may prove a Cure of thoſe epidemical Diſeaſes of Age and Youth, Sourneſs and Madneſs. I hope you will not need many Arguments to convince you of the Poſſibility of this; One alone abundantly ſatisfies me, and con⯑vinces to the very Heart; which is, that I am, &c. ⁴

Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

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

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

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

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

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

'Tis certain, the greateſt magnifying Glaſſes in the World are a Man's own Eyes, when they look upon his own Per⯑ſon; yet even in thoſe, I cannot fancy my ſelf ſo extremely like Alexander the Great, as you wou'd perſuade me: If I muſt be like him, 'tis you will make me ſo, [13] by complimenting me into a better opinion of my ſelf than I deſerve: They made him think he was the Son of Jupiter, and you aſſure me I am a Man of Parts. But is this all you can ſay to my honour? You ſaid ten times as much before, when you call'd me your Friend. After having made me believe I poſſeſs'd a ſhare in your af⯑fection, to treat me with Compliments and ſweet Sayings, is like the proceeding with poor Sancho Panca: They had perſuaded him that he enjoy'd a great Dominion, and then gave him nothing to ſubſiſt up⯑on but Wafers and Marmalade. In our Days, the greateſt obligation you can lay upon a Wit, is to make a Fool of him. For as when Madmen are found incurable, wiſe Men give them their Way, and pleaſe them as well as they can; ſo when thoſe incorrigible things, Poets, are once irreco⯑verably Be-Mus'd, the beſt way both to quiet them, and ſecure your ſelves from the effects of their Frenzy, is to feed their Vanity; (which indeed for the moſt part is all that is fed in a Poet.)

You may believe me, I could be hear⯑tily glad that all you ſay were as true, ap⯑ply'd to me, as it wou'd be to your ſelf, for ſeveral weighty Reaſons; but for none ſo much, as that I might be to you what you [14] deſerve; whereas I can now be no more, than is conſiſtent with the ſmall, tho' ut⯑moſt Capacity of,

Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

I HAVE now chang'd the Scene from the Town to the Country; from Will's Coffee-Houſe to Windſor Foreſt. I find no other difference than this, betwixt the com⯑mon Town-Wits, and the downright Coun⯑try Fools; that the firſt are pertly in the Wrong, with a little more Flouriſh and Gaiety, and the laſt neither in the Right nor the Wrong, but confirmed in a ſtupid, ſettled Medium betwixt both. However, methinks theſe are moſt in the Right, who quietly and eaſily reſign themſelves over to the gentle Reign of Dulneſs, which the Wits muſt do at laſt, tho' after a great deal of Noiſe, Pother, and Reſiſtance. Ours are a ſort of modeſt, inoffenſive People, who neither have Senſe, nor pretend to any, but enjoy a jovial Sort of Dulneſs. They are commonly known in the World by the Name of honeſt, civil Gentlemen. They live much as they ride, at random; a kind of hunting Life, purſuing with earneſtneſs and hazard, ſomething not worth the catching; never in the way, nor out of it. I can't but prefer Solitude to the Company of all theſe; for tho' a [12] Man's ſelf may poſſibly be the worſt Fel⯑low to converſe with in the World, yet one would think the Company of a Perſon whom we have the greateſt regard to, and affection for, could not be very un⯑pleaſant: As a Man in love with a Mi⯑ſtreſs, deſires no Converſation but hers, ſo a Man in love with himſelf, (as moſt Men are) may be beſt pleaſed with his own. Beſides, if the trueſt and moſt uſeful Know⯑ledge, be the knowledge of our ſelves, So⯑litude conducing moſt to make us look into our ſelves, ſhould be the moſt inſtructive State of Life. We ſee nothing more com⯑monly, than Men, who for the ſake of the circumſtantial Part, and meer outſide of Life, have been half their Days rambling out of their Nature, and ought to be ſent into Solitude to ſtudy themſelves over again. People are uſually ſpoil'd inſtead of being taught, at their coming into the World; whereas by being more converſant with Obſcurity, without any Pains, they would naturally follow what they were meant for. In a word, if a Man be a Coxcomb, So⯑litude is his beſt School; and if he be a Fool, it is his beſt Sanctuary.

Theſe are good Reaſons for my own Stay here, but I wiſh I could give you any for your coming hither, except that I earneſtly invite you. And yet I can't help [13] ſaying, I have ſuffer'd a great deal of diſ⯑content that you do not, tho' I ſo little merit that you ſhould.

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

Mr. WYCHERLEY's Anſwer.

YOURS of the 26th of October I have receiv'd, as I have always done yours, with no little Satisfaction, and am proud to diſcover by it, that you find fault with the ſhortneſs of mine, which I think the beſt Excuſe for it: And tho' they (as you ſay) who have moſt Wit or Money, are moſt ſparing of either; there are ſome who ap⯑pear Poor to be thought Rich, and are Poor, which is my Caſe: I cannot but rejoyce, that you have undergone ſo much diſcontent for want of my company; but if you have a Mind to puniſh me for my fault, (which I could not help) defer your coming to Town, and you will do it ef⯑fectually. But I know your Charity always exceeds your Revenge, ſo that I will not [14] diſpair of ſeeing you, who, in return to your inviting me to your Foreſt, invite you to my Foreſt, the Town; where the Beaſts that inhabit, tame or wild, of long Ears or Horns, purſue one another either out of Love or Hatred. You may have the Pleaſure to ſee one Pack of Blood⯑hounds purſue another Herd of Brutes, to bring each other to their Fall, which is their whole Sport: Or, if you affect a leſs bloody Chace, you may ſee a Pack of Spa⯑niels, called Lovers, in hot purſuit of a two-legg'd Vixen, who only flies the whole low'd Pack to be ſingled out by one Dog, who runs mute to catch her up the ſooner from the reſt, as they are making a Noiſe, to the Loſs of their Game. In fine, this is the Time for all ſorts of Sport in the Town, when thoſe of the Country ceaſe; there⯑fore leave your Foreſt of Beaſts, for ours of Brutes, call'd Men, who now in full Cry, (pack'd by the Court or Country) run down in the Houſe of Commons, a de⯑ſerted horned Beaſt of the Court, to the ſatisfaction of their Spectators: Beſides, (more for your Diverſion) you may ſee not only the two great Play-houſes of the Nation, thoſe of the Lords and Commons, in Diſpute with one another; but the two other Play-houſes in high Conteſt, becauſe the Members of one Houſe are remov'd [15] up to t'other, (as it is often done by the Court for Reaſons of State.) Inſomuch that the lower Houſes, I mean the Play-houſes, are going to act Tragedies on one another without Doors, and the Sovereign is put to it (as it often happens in the other two Houſes) to ſilence one or both, to keep Peace between them: Now I have told you all the News of the Town.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE receiv'd your kind Letter, with my Paper ^* to Mr. Dryden corrected. I own you have made more of it by making it leſs, as the Dutch are ſaid to burn half the Spices they bring home to inhance the Price of the remainder, ſo to be greater Gainers by their Loſs, (which is indeed my Caſe now.) Well; you have prun'd my fading Lawrels of ſome ſuperfluous, ſapleſs, [16] and dead Branches, to make the remainder live the longer; thus like your Maſter Apollo, you are at once a Poet and a Phyſician.

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

Now, Sir, to make you another Excuſe for my boldneſs in inviting you to Town, I deſign'd to leave with you ſome more of my Papers, (ſince theſe return ſo much bet⯑ter out of your Hands than they went from mine) for I intended (as I told you formerly) [17] to ſpend a Month, or ſix Weeks this Sum⯑mer, near you in the Country, for you may be aſſured there is nothing I deſire ſo much, as an Improvement of your Friendſhip,—

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

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

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

BY yours of the laſt Month, you deſire me to ſelect, if poſſible, ſome Things from the ^† firſt Volume of your Miſcel⯑lanies, which may be alter'd ſo as to ap⯑pear again. I doubted your meaning in this; whether it was to pick out the beſt of thoſe Verſes, (as that on the Idleneſs of Buſineſs; on Ignorance; on Lazineſs, &c.) to make the Method and Numbers exact, and avoid Repetitions? For tho' (upon reading 'em on this occaſion) I believe they might receive ſuch an Alteration with Advantage; yet they would not be chang'd ſo much, but any one would know 'em for the ſame at firſt ſight. Or if you mean to improve the worſt Pieces, which are ſuch as to render them very good, would require a great addition, and almoſt the entire new writing of them? Or, laſtly, if you mean the middle ſort, as the Songs and Love-Verſes? For theſe will need only to be ſhortned, to omit repetition; the Words remaining very little different from what they were before. Pray let me know [19] your mind in this, for I am utterly at a loſs. Yet I have try'd what I could do to ſome of the Songs, ^* and the Poems on Lazineſs and Ignorance, but can't (e'en in my own partial Judgment) think my al⯑terations much to the purpoſe. So that I muſt needs deſire you would apply your Care wholly at preſent, to thoſe which are yet unpubliſhed, of which there are more than enough to make a conſiderable Volume, of full as good ones, nay, I verily believe, of better than any in Vol. I. which I could wiſh you would defer, at leaſt 'till you have finiſh'd theſe that are yet unprinted.

I ſend you a Sample of ſome few of theſe; namely, the Verſes to Mr. Waller in his old Age; your new ones on the Duke of Marlborough, and two others. I have done all that I thought could be of advantage to them: Some I have con⯑tracted, as we do Sun-beams, to improve their Energy and Force; ſome I have ta⯑ken quite away, as we take Branches from a Tree, to add to the Fruit; others I have entirely new expreſs'd, and turned more into Poetry. Donne (like one of his Suc⯑ceſſors) had infinitely more Wit than he wanted Verſification: for the great dealers [20] in Wit, like thoſe in Trade, take leaſt Pains to ſet off their Goods; while the Haberdaſhers of ſmall Wit, ſpare for no Decorations or Ornaments. You have com⯑miſſion'd me to paint your Shop, and I have done my beſt to bruſh you up like your Neighbours. But I can no more pre⯑tend to the Merit of the Production, than a Midwife to the Virtues and good Qua⯑lities of the Child ſhe helps into the Light.

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

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE received yours of the 26th, as kind as it is ingenious, for which therefore I moſt heartily thank you: It would have been much more welcome to me, had it not inform'd me of your want of Health: But you who have a Mind ſo [21] vigorous, may well be contented with its crazy Habitation; ſince (you know) the old Similitude ſays, The Keenneſs of the Mind ſooneſt wears out the Body; as the ſharpeſt Sword ſooneſt deſtroys the Scabbard: So that (as I ſay) you muſt be ſatisfied with your apprehenſion of an uneaſy Life, (tho' I hope not a ſhort one;) notwithſtanding that generally you ſound Wits (tho' weak Bodies) are immortal hereafter, by that Genius which ſhortens your preſent Life to prolong that of the future. But I yet hope, your great, vigorous, and active Mind, will not be able to deſtroy your little, ten⯑der, and crazy Carcaſs.

Now to ſay ſomething to what you write, concerning the preſent epidemick Diſtem⯑per of the Mind and Age, Calumny; I know it is no more to be avoided (at one time or another of our Lives) than a Fever, or an Ague; and as often thoſe Diſtem⯑pers attend, or threaten the beſt Conſtitu⯑tions, from the worſt Air; ſo does that malignant Air of Calumny, ſooneſt attack the ſound and elevated in Mind, as Storms of Wind the talleſt and moſt fruitful Trees; whilſt the low and weak, for bowing and moving to and fro, are, by their Weakneſs, ſecure from the danger and violence of the Tempeſt. But ſo much for ſtinking Ru⯑mour, which weakeſt Minds are moſt afraid [22] of; as Iriſh Men, tho' the naſtieſt of Man⯑kind, are moſt offended at a Fart.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

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

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

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

Mr. POPE to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

MR. Engiefyld being upon his Journey to London, tells me I muſt write to you by him, which I do, not more to comply with his deſire, than to gratify my own; tho' I did it ſo lately by the Meſ⯑ſenger you ſent hither: I take it too as an opportunity of ſending you the fair Copy of the Poem ^a on Dulneſs, which was not then finiſh'd, and which I ſhould not care to hazard by the common Poſt. Mr. Englefyld is ignorant of the Contents, and I hope your prudence will let him re⯑main ſo, for my ſake no leſs than your own: Since if you ſhould reveal any thing of this nature, it would be no wonder Re⯑ports ſhould be rais'd, and there are thoſe (I fear) who would be ready to improve them to my diſadvantage. I am ſorry you told the great Man, whom you met in the Court of Requeſts, that your Papers were in my hands: No Man alive ſhall ever know any ſuch thing from me; and [25] I give you this warning beſides, that tho' your ſelf ſhould ſay I had any way aſ⯑ſiſted you, I am notwithſtanding reſolv'd to deny it.

The method of the Copy I ſend you is very different from what it was, and much more regular: For the better help of your Memory, I deſire you to compare it by the Figures in the Margin, anſwer⯑ing to the ſame in this Letter. The Poem is now divided into four Parts, mark'd with the literal Figures I. II. III. IV. The firſt contains the praiſe of Dulneſs, and ſhews how upon ſeveral ſuppoſitions, it paſſes for 1. Religion. 2. Philoſophy. 3. Example. 4. Wit. And 5. The cauſe of Wit, and the end of it. The ſecond Part contains the advantages of Dulneſs: 1ſt, In Buſi⯑neſs; and 2dly, at Court; where the Si⯑militudes of the Byaſs of a Bowl, and the Weights of a Clock, are directly tend⯑ing to illuſtrate thoſe advantages of Dul⯑neſs, tho' introduced before in a place where there was no mention made of them; (which was your only objection to my ad⯑ding them.) The third contains the happi⯑neſs of Dulneſs in all Stations, and ſhews in a great many Particulars, that it is ſo fortunate, as to be eſteem'd ſome good Quality or other in all ſorts of People; that it is thought Quiet, Senſe, Caution, [26] Policy, Prudence, Majeſty, Valour, Cir⯑cumſpection, Honeſty, &c. The fourth Part I have wholly added, as a Climax which ſums up all the praiſe, advantage, and happineſs of Dulneſs in a few words, and ſtrengthens them all by the oppoſition of the diſgrace, diſadvantage, and unhappineſs of Wit, with which it concludes ^b

Tho' the whole be as ſhort again as at firſt, there is not one Thought omitted, but what is a Repetition of ſomething in your firſt Volume, or in this very Paper: Some Thoughts are contracted, where they ſeem'd encompaſs'd with too many words; and ſome new expreſs'd, or added, where I thought there wanted heightning, (as you'll ſee parti⯑culary in the Simile of the Clock-Weights; ^c [27] and the Verſification throughout, is, I be⯑lieve ſuch, as no Body can be ſhock'd at. The repeated permiſſions you give me of dealing freely with you, will (I hope) ex⯑cuſe what I have done; for if I have not ſpar'd you when I thought Severity would do you a kindneſs, I have not mangled you where I thought there was no abſolute need of Amputation. As to Particulars, I can ſatisfy you better when we meet; in the mean time pray write to me when you can, you cannot too often.

Mr. WYCHERLEY's Anſwer.

YOU may ſee by my Stile, I had the happineſs and ſatisfaction to receive yeſterday (by the hands of that Wagg, Mr. Englefyld) your extream kind and obliging Letter of the 20th of this Month; which like all the reſt of yours, did at once mor⯑tify me, and make me vain; ſince it tells me with ſo much more Wit, Senſe and Kindneſs than mine can expreſs, that my Letters are always welcome to you. So that even whilſt your Kindneſs invites me to write to you, your Wit and Judgment [28] forbids me; ſince I may return you a Let⯑ter, but never an Anſwer.

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

And now for the pains you have taken to recommend my Dulneſs, by making it more methodical, I give you a thouſand thanks; ſince true and natural Dulneſs is ſhown more by its pretence to form and method, as the ſprightlineſs of Wit by its deſpiſing both. I thank you a thouſand [29] times for your repeated Invitations to come to Binfield:—You will find, it will be as hard for you to get quit of my merce⯑nary kindneſs to you, as it would for me to deſerve, or return to yours; however, it ſhall be the Endeavour of my future Life, as it will be to demonſtrate my ſelf,

Mr. POPE's Reply.

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

I ſhall proceed in this manner, with ſome others of your Pieces; but ſince you [30] deſire I would not deface your Copy for the future, and only mark the Repetitions; I muſt, as ſoon as I've mark'd theſe, tranſ⯑cribe what is left on another Paper; and in that, blot, alter, and add all I can de⯑viſe, for their Improvement. For you are ſenſible, the Omiſſion of Repetitions is but one, and the eaſieſt Part, of yours and my Deſign; there remaining beſides to rectify the Method, to connect the Matter, and to mend the Expreſſion and Verſification. I will go next upon the ^* Poems of Solitude, on the publick, and on the mixt Life; the Bill of Fare; the Praiſes of Avarice, and ſome others.

I muſt take ſome Notice of what you ſay, of ‘"My pains to make your Dulneſs methodical;" ’and of your hint, that ‘"The ſprightlineſs of Wit deſpiſes method."’ This is true enough, if by Wit you mean no more than Fancy or Conceit; but in the better notion of Wit, conſider'd as propriety, ſurely Method is not only neceſ⯑ſary for Perſpicuity and Harmony of parts, but gives beauty even to the minute and particular thoughts, which receive an ad⯑ditional advantage from thoſe which pre⯑cede or follow in their due place: Ac⯑cording [31] to a Simile Mr. Dryden us'd in converſation, of Feathers in the Crowns of the wild Indians, which they not only chuſe for the beauty of their Colours, but place them in ſuch a manner as to reflect a Luſtre on each other. I will not diſguiſe any of my Sentiments from you: To methodize in your Caſe, is full as neceſſary as to ſtrike out; otherwiſe you had better deſtroy the whole Frame, and reduce them into ſingle Thoughts in Proſe, like Rochfoucault, as I have more than once hinted to you.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE had yours of the 23d of this Inſtant, for which I give you many thanks, ſince I find by it, that even abſence (the uſual bane of Love, or Friendſhip) can⯑not leſſen yours no more than mine. ^* As to your hearing of my being ill; I am glad, [32] and ſorry for the report: In the firſt place, glad that it was not true; and in the next ſorry that it ſhou'd give you any diſturb⯑ance, or concern more than ordinary for me; for which as well as your concern for my future well-being or life, I think my ſelf moſt eternally oblig'd to you; aſ⯑ſuring, your concern for either will make me more careful of both. Yet for your ſake I love this Life ſo well, that I ſhall the leſs think of the other; but 'tis in your power to enſure my Happineſs in one and the other, both by your Society and good Example, ſo not only contribute to my fe⯑licity here, but hereafter.

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

Next to the News of your good Health, I am pleas'd with the good News of your going to print ſome of your Poems, and [33] proud to be known by them to the Pub⯑lick for your Friend; who intend (perhaps the ſame way) to be reveng'd of you for your kindneſs; by taking your Name in vain in ſome of my future Madrigals: yet ſo as to let the World know, my love or eſteem for you are no more Poetick than my Talent in ſcribbling. But of all the Arts of Fiction, I deſire you to believe I want that of feigning Friendſhip, and that I am ſincerely,

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE receiv'd yours of the firſt of May. Your Paſtoral Muſe outſhines, in her modeſt and natural dreſs, all Apollo's Court-Ladies, in their more artful, labour'd, and coſtly Finery; therefore I am glad to find by your Letter, you deſign your Coun⯑try-beauty of a Muſe ſhall appear at Court and in Publick; to outſhine all the farded, lewd, confident, affected, Town-dowdies, who aim at being honour'd only to their Shame: But her artful Innocence (on the contrary) will gain more Honour as ſhe [34] becomes more Publick; and in ſpite of Cuſtom will bring Modeſty again into Fa⯑ſhion, or at leaſt make her Siſter-rivals of this Age, bluſh for Spite, if not for Shame. As for my ſtale, antiquated, poetical Puſs, whom you would keep in countenance, by ſaying ſhe has once been tolerable, and wou'd yet paſs Muſter by a little licking over; it is true that (like moſt vain anti⯑quated Jades which have once been paſſa⯑ble) ſhe yet affects Youthfulneſs, in her Age, and wou'd ſtill gain a few Admirers, (who the more ſhe ſeeks, or labours for their liking, are but more her contemners.) Nevertheleſs, ſhe is reſolv'd henceforth to be ſo cautious as to appear very little more in the World, except it be as an attendant on your Muſe, or as a Foil, not a Rival to her Wit, or Fame: So that let your Country⯑gentlewoman appear when ſhe will in the World ^*, my old worn-out Jade of a loſt Reputation, ſhall be her attendant into it, [35] to procure her Admirers; as an old Whore who can get no more Friends of her own, bawds for others, to make Sport or Plea⯑ſure yet, one way or other, for Mankind. I approve of your making Tonſon your Muſe's Introductor into the World, or Ma⯑ſter of the Ceremonies, who has been ſo long a Pimp, or Gentleman-Uſher to the Muſes.

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

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I MUST thank you for a Book of your Miſcellanies, which Tonſon ſent me, I ſuppoſe by your Order; and all I can tell you of it is, that nothing has lately been better receiv'd by the Publick, than your part of it; you have only diſpleas'd the Criticks by pleaſing them too well; ha⯑ving not left them a Word to ſay for them⯑ſelves, againſt you and your performances; ſo that now your hand is in you muſt per⯑ſevere, 'till my Prophecy's of you be ful⯑fill'd. In earneſt, all the beſt Judges of good Senſe, or Poetry, are Admirers of yours; and like your Part of the Book ſo well, that the reſt is lik'd the worſe. This is true upon my word, without Compli⯑ment; ſo that your firſt Succeſs will make you for all your Life a Poet, in ſpite of your Wit; for a Poet's Succeſs at firſt, [37] like a Gameſter's Fortune at firſt, is like to make him a loſer at laſt, and to be un⯑done by his good fortune and merit.

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

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I AM glad you receiv'd the ^* Miſcellany, if it were only to ſhow you that there [38] are as bad Poets in this Nation as your Servant. This modern Cuſtom of appear⯑ing in Miſcellanies, is very uſeful to the Poets, who, like other Thieves, eſcape by getting into a Crowd, and herd together like Banditti, ſafe only in their Multitude. Methinks Strada has given a good De⯑ſcription of theſe kind of Collections; Nullus hodié mortalium aut naſcitur, aut moritur, aut proeliatur, aut ruſticatur, aut abit peregrè; aut redit, aut nubit; aut eſt, aut non eſt, (nam etiam mortuis iſti canunt) cui non illi ea templò cudant Epicoedia, Genethaliaca, Protreptica, Panegyrica, Epi⯑thalamia, Vaticinia, Propemptica, Saterica, Paroenctica, Noenias, Nugas. As to the ſuc⯑ceſs which you ſay my part has met with, it is to be attributed to what you were pleas'd to ſay of me to the World; which you do well to call your Prophecy, ſince whatever is ſaid in my favour, muſt be a Prediction of things that are not yet; you, like a true Godfather, engage on my part for much more than ever I can perform. My Paſtoral Muſe, like other Country Girls, is but put out of Countenance, by what you Courtiers ſay to her; yet I hope you would not deceive me too far, as knowing that a young Scribler's vanity needs no Re⯑cruits from abroad: for Nature like an in⯑dulgent Mother, kindly takes care to ſup⯑ply [39] her ſons with as much of their own, as is neceſſary for their Satisfaction. If my Verſes ſhould meet with a few flying Com⯑mendations, Virgil has taught me that a young Author has not too much reaſon to be pleas'd with them, when he conſiders, that the natural conſequence of Praiſe, is Envy and Calumny.

When once a Man has appear'd as a Poet, he may give up his Pretenſions to all the rich and thriving Arts: Thoſe who have once made their court to thoſe Miſtreſſes without Portions, the Muſes, are never like to ſet up for Fortunes. But for my part, I ſhall be ſatisfy'd if I can loſe my Time agreeably this way, without loſing my re⯑putation: As for gaining any, I am as indifferent in the Matter as Falſtaffe was, and may ſay of Fame as he did of Honour, If it comes, it comes unlook'd for; and there's an End on't. I can be content with a bare ſaving game, without being thought an Eminent hand, (with which Title Jacob has graciouſly dignify'd his adventurers and vo⯑luntiers in Poetry.) Jacob creates Poets, as Kings ſometimes do Knights, not for their honour, but for money. Certainly he [40] ought to be eſteem'd a worker of Miracles, who is grown rich by Poetry.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

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

As to the ſucceſs of your Poems in the late Miſcellany, I told you of in my laſt; (upon my word) I made you no Compli⯑ment, for you may be aſſur'd, that all ſorts of Readers like them, except they are [41] Writers too; but for them, (I muſt needs ſay) the more they like them, they ought to be the leſs pleas'd with 'em: So that you do not come off with a bare Saving Game (as you call it) but have gain'd ſo much Credit at firſt, that you muſt needs ſupport it to the laſt: Since you ſet up with ſo great a Stock of good Senſe, Judg⯑ment and Wit, that your Judgment enſures all that your Wit ventures at. The Salt of your Wit has been enough to give a re⯑liſh to the whole inſipid Hotch-Potch it is mingled ^† with; and you will make Jacob's Ladder raiſe you to Immortality, by which others are turn'd off ſhamefully, to their Damnation (for Poetick Thieves as they are) who think to be ſav'd by others good works, how faulty ſoever their own are: But the Coffee-houſe Wits, or rather Anti-wits, the Criticks, prove their Judg⯑ments by approving your Wit; and even the News-Mongers and Poets will own, you have more Invention than they; nay, the Detracters or the Envious, who never ſpeak well of any Body, (not even of thoſe they think well of in their abſence) yet will give you (even in your abſence) their good Word; and the Criticks only hate you, [42] for being forc'd to ſpeak well of you whe⯑ther they will or no; and all this is true, upon the word of,

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

MY Letters, ſo much inferior to yours, can only make up their ſcarcity of Senſe by their number of Lines; which is like the Spaniards paying a debt of Gold with a load of braſs Money. But to be a Plain-dealer, I muſt tell you, I will revenge the raillery of your Letters upon mine, by printing them, (as Dennis did mine) without your know⯑ledge too, which wou'd be a revenge upon your Judgment, for the raillery of your Wit: For ſome dull Rogues (that is the moſt in the World) might be ſuch Fools as to think what you ſaid of me, was in earneſt: It is not the firſt time, you great Wits have gain'd Reputation by their pa⯑radoxical or ironical Praiſes; your Forefa⯑thers have done it, Eraſmus and others.—For all Mankind who know me muſt con⯑feſs, he muſt be no ordinary Genius, or little Friend, who can find out any thing [43] to commend in me ſeriouſly; who have gi⯑ven no ſign of my Judgment, but my Opi⯑nion of yours, nor mark of my Wit, but my leaving off Writing, to the publick, now you are beginning, to ſhew the World, what you can do by yours: whoſe Wit is as ſpiritual as your Judgment infallible; in whoſe Judgment I have an implicit Faith, and ſhall always ſubſcribe to it to ſave my Works in this World, from the Flames and Damnation.—Pray preſent my moſt hum⯑ble Service to Sir W. Trumbull; for whom and whoſe Judgment I have ſo profound a reſpect, that his Example had almoſt made me marry, more than my Nephew's ill Carriage to me; having once reſolv'd to have reveng'd my ſelf upon him by my Marriage, but now am reſolv'd to make my revenge greater upon him by his Mar⯑riage.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

I HAVE had yours of the 30th of the laſt Month, which is kinder than I de⯑ſire it ſhou'd be, ſince it tells me you cou'd be better pleas'd to be ſick again in Town [44] in my company, than to be well in the Country without it; and that you are more impatient to be depriv'd of Happineſs than of Health: yet, my dear Friend, ſet raillery or compliment aſide, I can bear your ab⯑ſence (which procures your Health and Eaſe) better than I can your company when you are in Pain: for I cannot ſee you ſo without being ſo too. Your love to the Country I do not doubt, nor do you (I hope) my love to it or you, ſince there I can en⯑joy your company without ſeeing you in Pain to give me Satisfaction and Pleaſure; there I can have you without Rivals or Di⯑ſturbers; without the C [...]s too civil, or the T [...]s too rude; without the Noiſe of the Loud, and the Cenſure of the Silent; and wou'd rather have you abuſe me there with the Truth, than at this diſtance with your Compliment: Since now, your buſi⯑neſs of a Friend and kindneſs to a Friend, is by finding fault with his Faults, and mending them by your obliging Severity. I hope (in point of your good nature) you will have no cruel Charity for thoſe Pa⯑pers of mine, you were ſo willing to be troubled with; which I take moſt infinite⯑ly kind of you, and ſhall acknowledge with gratitude, as long as I live. No Friend can do more for his Friend than preſerving his Reputation (nay not by preſerving his Life) [45] ſince by preſerving his Life he can only make him live about threeſcore or four⯑ſcore Years; but by preſerving his Reputa⯑tion, he can make him live as long as the World laſts; ſo ſave him from damning, when he is gone to the Devil: Therefore I pray condemn me in private, as the Thieves do their Accomplices in Newgate, to ſave them from condemnation by the Publick. Be moſt kindly unmerciful to my poetical Faults, and do with my Papers, as you Country-gentlemen do with your Trees, ſlaſh, cut, and lop-off the Excreſ⯑cencies and dead Parts of my wither'd Bayes, that the little remainder may live the lon⯑ger, and increaſe the value of them, by di⯑miniſhing the number. I have troubled you with my Papers rather to give you Pain than Pleaſure, notwithſtanding your compliment, which ſays, you take the trou⯑ble kindly: Such is the generoſity to your Friends, that you take it kindly to be de⯑ſired by them to do them a kindneſs; and you think it done to you, when they give you an opportunity to do it to them. Wherefore you may be ſure to be troubled with my Letters out of Intereſt, if not Kindneſs; ſince mine to you will procure yours to me, ſo that I write to you more for my own ſake than yours; leſs to make you think I write well, than to learn from [46] you to write better. Thus you ſee Intereſt in my Kindneſs, which is like the Friend⯑ſhip of the World, rather to make a Friend than be a Friend; but I am yours, as a true Plain-dealer.

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

IF I can but do part of my Buſineſs at Shrewsbury in a Fortnights time (which I propoſe to do) I will be ſoon after with you, and trouble you with my Company, for the remainder of the Summer: In the mean time I beg you to give your ſelf the pains of altering, or leaving out what you think ſuperfluous in my Papers, that I may endeavour to print ſuch a Number of them as you and I ſhall think fit, about Michaelmas next; in order to which (my dear Friend) I beg you to be ſo kind to me, as to be ſevere to them; that the Criticks may be leſs ſo; for I had rather be con⯑demn'd by my Friend in private, than ex⯑pos'd to my Foes in publick, the Criticks, or common Judges, who are made ſuch by having been old Offenders themſelves. Pray believe I have as much Faith in your Friend⯑ſhip [47] and Sincerity, as I have Deference to your Judgment; and as the beſt Mark of a Friend, is telling his Friend his Faults in private, ſo the next is concealing them from the publick, 'till they are fit to ap⯑pear; in the mean time I am not a little ſenſible of the great kindneſs you do me, in the trouble you take for me, in put⯑ting my Rhimes in Tune, ſince good Sounds ſet off often ill Senſe, as the Italian Songs, whoſe good Airs, with the worſt Words, or Meaning, make the beſt Muſick; ſo by your tuning my Welch Harp, my rough Senſe may be the leſs offenſive to the ni⯑cer Ears of thoſe Criticks, who deal more in Sound than Senſe. Pray then take Pity at once both of my Readers and me, in ſhortning my barren Abundance, and in⯑creaſing their Patience by it, as well as the Obligations I have to you; and ſince no Madrigaller can entertain the Head, un⯑leſs he pleaſes the Ear; and ſince the crowd⯑ed Opera's have left the beſt Comedies with the leaſt Audiences, 'tis a ſign Sound can prevail over Senſe; therefore ſoften my Words, and ſtrengthen my Senſe, and ‘Eris mihi magnus Apollo.’

Mr. WYCHERLEY to Mr. POPE.

YOU give me an account in your Letter, of the trouble you have un⯑dergone for me, in comparing my Papers you took down with you, with the old printed Volume, and with one another of that Bundle you have in your hands; amongſt which (you ſay) you find nume⯑rous ^* repetitions, of the ſame Thoughts and Subjects; all which I muſt confeſs my want of Memory has prevented me from imagining; as well as made me capable of committing them; ſince, of all Figures, that of Tautology, is the laſt I would uſe, or leaſt forgive my ſelf for; but ſeeing is believing; wherefore I will take ſome pains to examine and compare thoſe Papers in your hands, with one another, as well as with the former printed Copies or Books, of my damn'd Miſcellanies; all which (as bad a Memory as I have) with a little more pains and care, I think I can reme⯑dy; therefore I would not have you give [49] your ſelf more trouble about them, which may prevent the pleaſure you have, and may give the World, in writing upon new Subjects of your own, whereby you will much better entertain your ſelf and others. Now as to your Remarks upon the whole Volume of my Papers; all that I deſire of you, is to mark in the Margin (with⯑out defacing the Copy at all) either any Repetition of Words, Matter, or Senſe, or any Thoughts, or Words too much re⯑peated; which if you will be ſo kind as to do for me, you will ſupply my want of Memory, with your good One, and my Deficiences of Senſe, with the Infallibility of yours; which if you do, you will moſt infinitely oblige me, who almoſt repent the trouble I have given you, ſince ſo much. Now as to what you call Freedom with me, (which you deſire me to forgive) you may be aſſur'd I would not forgive you unleſs you did uſe it; for I am ſo far from thinking your Plainneſs a Fault, or an Of⯑fence to me, that I think it a Charity and an Obligation; which I ſhall always ac⯑knowledge, with all ſort of Gratitude to you for it, who am therefore

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

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I AM ſorry you perſiſt to take ill my not accepting your Invitation, and to find (if I miſtake not) your Exception not unmixt with ſome Suſpicion. Be certain I ſhall moſt carefully obſerve your Re⯑queſt, not to croſs over, or deface the Copy of your Papers for the future, and only to mark in the Margin the Repetitions: But as this can ſerve no further than to get rid of thoſe Repetitions, and no way rectify the Method, nor connect the Matter, nor improve the Poetry in Expreſſion or Numbers, without further blotting, adding, and altering; ſo it really is my opinion, and deſire, that you ſhould take your Pa⯑pers out of my hands into your own; and that no Alterations may be made but when [51] both of us are preſent; when you may be ſatisfied with every Blot, as well as every Addition, and nothing be put upon the Papers but what you ſhall give your own ſanction and aſſent to, at the ſame time.

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

Mr. WALSH to Mr. WYCHERLEY.

I Return you the ^† Papers you favour'd me with, and had ſent them to you ye⯑ſterday morning, but that I thought to have brought them to you laſt night my ſelf. I have read them over ſeveral [56] times with great ſatisfaction. The Preface is very judicious and very learned; and the Verſes very tender and eaſy. The Author ſeems to have a particular Genius for that kind of Poetry, and a Judgment that much exceeds the years you told me he was of. He has taken very freely from the Ancients, but what he has mixt of his own with theirs, is no way inferior to what he has taken from them. 'Tis no flattery at all to ſay, that Virgil had written nothing ſo good at his AgeSixteen.. I ſhall take it as a favour if you will bring me acquainted with him; and if he will give himſelf the trouble any morning to call at my Houſe, I ſhall be very glad to read the Verſes over with him, and give him my opinion of the particulars more largely than I can well do in this Letter. I am, Sir,

Mr. WALSH to Mr. POPE.

I Receiv'd the favour of your Letter, and ſhall be very glad of the continuance of a correſpondence by which I am like to be ſo great a gainer. I hope when I have the happineſs of ſeeing you again in London, not only to read over the Verſes I have now of yours, but more that you have written ſince; for I make no doubt but any one who writes ſo well, muſt write more. Not that I think the moſt voluminous Poets al⯑ways the beſt, I believe the contrary is ra⯑ther true. I mention'd ſomewhat to you in London of a Paſtoral Comedy, which I ſhould be glad to hear you had thought upon ſince. I find Menage in his obſerva⯑tions upon Taſſo's Aminta, reckons up four⯑ſcore Paſtoral Plays in Italian: And in look⯑ing over my old Italian Books, I find a great many Paſtorals and Piſcatory Plays, which I ſuppoſe Menage reckons together. I find alſo by Menage, that Taſſo is not the firſt that writ in that kind, he mentioning an⯑other before him, which he himſelf had never ſeen, nor indeed have I. But as the Aminta, Paſtor Fido, and Filli di Sciro of Bonarelli are the three beſt, ſo I think there [58] is no diſpute but Aminta is the beſt of the three: Not but that the Diſcourſes in Pa⯑ſtor Fido are more entertaining and copious in ſeveral peoples opinion, tho' not ſo pro⯑per for Paſtoral; and the Fable of Bonarelli more ſurprizing. I do not remember many in other Languages, that have written in this kind with ſucceſs. Racan's Bergeries are much inferior to his Lyrick Poems; and the Spaniards are all too full of Conceits. Rapin will have the deſign of Paſtoral Plays to be taken from the Cyclops of Euripides. I am ſure there is nothing of this kind in Engliſh worth mentioning, and therefore you have that Field open to your ſelf. You ſee I write to you without any ſort of con⯑ſtraint or method, as things come into my head, and therefore pray uſe the ſame free⯑dom with me, who am, &c.

Mr. POPE to Mr. WALSH.

I Cannot omit the firſt opportunity of making you my acknowledgments for reviewing thoſe Papers of mine. You have no leſs right to correct me, than the ſame hand that rais'd a Tree has to prune it. I am convinc'd as well as you, that one may [59] correct too much; for in Poetry as in Paint⯑ing, a Man may lay Colours one upon an⯑other, till they ſtiffen and deaden the Piece. Beſides to beſtow heightning on every part is monſtrous: Some parts ought to be lower than the reſt; and nothing looks more ri⯑diculous, than a Work, where the Thoughts, however different in their own nature, ſeem all on a level: 'Tis like a Meadow newly mown, where Weeds, Graſs, and Flowers are all laid even, and appear undiſtinguiſh'd. I believe too that ſometimes our firſt Thoughts are the beſt, as the firſt ſqueez⯑ing of the Grapes makes the fineſt and richeſt Wine.

I have not attempted any thing of Paſto⯑ral Comedy, becauſe I think the Taſte of our Age will not reliſh a Poem of that ſort. People ſeek for what they call Wit, on all ſubjects, and in all places; not conſi⯑dering that Nature loves Truth ſo well, that it hardly ever admits of flouriſhing: Con⯑ceit is to Nature what Paint is to Beauty; it is not only needleſs, but impairs what it wou'd improve. There is a certain Majeſty in Simplicity which is far above all the Quaintneſs of Wit: inſomuch that the Cri⯑tics have excluded it from the loftieſt Poet⯑ry, as well as the loweſt, and forbid it to the Epic no leſs than the Paſtoral. I ſhou'd certainly diſpleaſe all thoſe who are charm'd [60] with Guarini and Bonarelli, and imitate Taſſo not only in the Simplicity of his Thoughts, but in that of the Fable too. If ſurpri⯑ſing diſcoveries ſhou'd have place in the ſtory of a Paſtoral Comedy, I believe it wou'd be more agreeable to Probability to make them the effects of Chance than of Deſign; Intrigue not being very con⯑ſiſtent with that Innocence, which ought to conſtitute a Shepherd's Character. There is nothing in all the Aminta (as I re⯑member) but happens by meer accident; unleſs it be the meeting of Aminta with Syl⯑via at the Fountain, which is the contrivance of Daphne, and even that is the moſt ſimple in the world: The contrary is obſervable in Paſtor Fido, where Coriſca is ſo perfect a Miſtreſs of Intrigue, that the Plot cou'd not have been brought to paſs without her. I am inclin'd to think the Paſtoral Come⯑dy has another diſadvantage, as to the Man⯑ners: Its general deſign is to make us in love with the Innocence of a rural Life, ſo that to introduce Shepherds of a vicious Chara⯑cter muſt in ſome meaſure debaſe it; and hence it may come to paſs, that even the virtuous Characters will not ſhine ſo much, for want of being oppos'd to their contra⯑ries.—Theſe Thoughts are purely my own, and therefore I have reaſon to doubt [61] them: but I hope your Judgment will ſet me right.

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

Mr. WALSH to Mr. POPE.

I Had ſooner return'd you thanks for the favour of your Letter, but that I was in hopes of giving you an account at the ſame time of my Journey to Windſor; but I am now forc'd to put that quite off, being en⯑gag'd to go to my Corporation of Rich⯑mond in Yorkſhire. I think you are per⯑fectly in the right in your Notions of Paſtoral, but I am of opinion, that the re⯑dundancy of Wit you mention, tho' 'tis what pleaſes the common people, is not what ever pleaſes the beſt judges. Paſtor Fido indeed has had more admirers than Aminta; but I will venture to ſay, there is a great deal of difference between the admi⯑rers of one and the other. Coriſca, which is a Character generally admir'd by the ordinary judges, is intolerable in a Paſtoral; and Bo⯑narelli's fancy of making his Shepherdeſs in love with two men equally, is not to be defended, whatever pains he has taken to do it. As for what you ask of the Liberty of Borrowing; 'tis very evident the beſt Latin Poets have extended this very far; and none ſo far as Virgil, who is the beſt [63] of them. As for the Greek Poets, if we cannot trace them ſo plainly, 'tis perhaps becauſe we have none before them; 'tis evi⯑dent that moſt of them borrow'd from Ho⯑mer, and Homer has been accus'd of burn⯑ing thoſe that wrote before him, that his Thefts might not be diſcover'd. The beſt of the modern Poets in all Languages, are thoſe that have the neareſt copied the An⯑cients. Indeed in all the common Subjects of Poetry, the Thoughts are ſo obvious (at leaſt if they are natural) that whoever writes laſt, muſt write things like what have been ſaid before: But they may as well applaud the Ancients for the Arts of eat⯑ing and drinking, and accuſe the Moderns of having ſtol'n thoſe Inventions from them; it being evident in all ſuch caſes, that whoever live firſt, muſt firſt find them out. 'Tis true, indeed, when

when there is one or two bright Thoughts ſtol'n, and all the reſt is quite different from it, a Poem makes a very fooliſh figure: But when 'tis all melted down together, and the Gold of the Ancients ſo mixt with that of the Moderns, that none can diſtin⯑guiſh the one from the other, I can never [64] find fault with it. I cannot however but own to you, that there are others of a dif⯑ferent opinion, and that I have ſhewn your Verſes to ſome who have made that obje⯑ction to them. I have ſo much Company round me while I write this, and ſuch a noiſe in my ears, that 'tis impoſſible I ſhould write any thing but Nonſenſe, ſo muſt break off abruptly.

Mr. WALSH to Mr. POPE.

AT my return from the North I re⯑ceiv'd the favour of your Letter, which had lain there till then. Having been abſent about ſix weeks, I read over your Paſtorals again, with a great deal of pleaſure, and to judge the better read Vir⯑gil's Eclogues, and Spenſer's Calendar, at the ſame time; and I aſſure you I continue the ſame opinion I had always of them. By the little hints you take upon all occa⯑ſions to improve them, 'tis probable you [65] will make them yet better againſt Winter; tho' there is a mean to be kept even in that too, and a Man may correct his Verſes till he takes away the true Spirit of them; eſpecially if he ſubmits to the correction of ſome who paſs for great Critics, by me⯑chanical Rules, and never enter into the true Deſign and Genius of an Author. I have ſeen ſome of theſe that would hardly allow any one good Ode in Horace, who cry Virgil wants fancy, and that Homer is very incorrect. While they talk at this rate, one would think them above the com⯑mon rate of mortals: but generally they are great admirers of Ovid and Lucan; and when they write themſelves, we find out all the Myſtery. They ſcan their Verſes upon their Fingers; run after Conceits and glaring Thoughts; their Poems are all made up of Couplets, of which the firſt may be laſt, or the laſt firſt, without any ſort of prejudice to their Works; in which there is no Deſign, or Method, or any thing Natural or Juſt. For you are certainly in the right, that in all Writings whatſoever (not Poetry only) Nature is to be follow'd; and we ſhou'd be jealous of our ſelves for being fond of Similies, Conceits, and what they call ſaying Fine Things. When we were in the North, my Lord Wharton ſhew'd [66] me a Letter he had receiv'd from a certain great ^* General in Spain; I told him I wou'd by all means have that General recall'd, and ſet to writing here at home, for it was im⯑poſſible that a Man with ſo much Wit as he ſhew'd, cou'd be fit to command an Army, or do any other Buſineſs. As for what you ſay of Expreſſion: 'tis indeed the ſame thing to Wit, as Dreſs is to Beau⯑ty; I have ſeen many Women over-dreſt, and ſeveral look better in a careleſs Night-gown, with their hair about their ears, than Mademoiſelle Spanheim dreſt for a Ball. I do not deſign to be in London till towards the Parliament: then I ſhall certainly be there; and hope by that time you will have finiſht your Paſtorals as you would have them appear in the world, and particularly the third of Autumn which I have not yet ſeen. Your laſt Eclogue be⯑ing upon the ſame Subject as that of mine on Mrs. Tempeſt's Death, I ſhou'd take it very kindly in you to give it a little turn, as if it were to the Memory of the ſame Lady, if they were not written for ſome particular Woman whom you wou'd make immortal. You may take occaſion to ſhew the difference between Poets Mi⯑ſtreſſes, and other Men's. I only hint this, [65] which you may either do, or let alone juſt as you think fit. I ſhall be very much pleas'd to ſee you again in Town, and to hear from you in the mean time. I am with very much eſteem,

Mr. POPE to Mr. WALSH.

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

1. It is not enough that nothing offends the Ear, but a good Poet will adapt the ve⯑ry Sounds, as well as Words, to the things he treats of. So that there is (if one may expreſs it ſo) a Style of Sound. As in de⯑ſcribing a gliding Stream, the Numbers ſhou'd run eaſy and flowing; in deſcribing a rough Torrent or Deluge, ſonorous and ſwel⯑ling, [66] and ſo of the reſt. This is evident every where in Homer and Virgil, and no where elſe that I know of to any obſervable degree. The following Examples will make this plain, which I have taken from Vida.

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

2. Every nice Ear, muſt (I believe) have obſerv'd, that in any ſmooth Engliſh Verſe of ten ſyllables, there is naturally a Pauſe at the fourth, fifth, or ſixth ſyllable. It is [67] upon theſe the Ear reſts, and upon the ju⯑dicious Change and Management of which depends the Variety of Verſification. For example,

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

3. Another nicety is in relation to Exple⯑tives, whether Words or Syllables, which are made uſe of purely to ſupply a vacan⯑cy: Do before Verbs plural is abſolutely ſuch; and it is not improbable but future Refiners may explode did and does in the ſame manner, which are almoſt always [68] uſed for the ſake of Rhime. The ſame Cauſe has occaſioned the promiſcuous uſe of You and Thou to the ſame Perſon, which can never ſound ſo graceful as either one or the other.

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

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

6. Monoſyllable-Lines, unleſs very artfully managed, are ſtiff, or languiſhing: but may be beautiful to expreſs Melancholy, Slow⯑neſs, or Labour.

7. To come to the Hiatus, or Gap be⯑tween two words which is caus'd by two Vowels opening on each other (upon which you deſire me to be particular) I think the rule in this caſe is either to uſe the Caeſura, or admit the Hiatus, juſt as the Ear is leaſt [69] ſhock'd by either: For the Caeſura ſome⯑times offends the Ear more than the Hiatus itſelf, and our language is naturally over⯑charg'd with Conſonants: As for example; If in this Verſe,

we ſhould ſay, to avoid the Hiatus,

The Hiatus which has the worſt effect, is when one word ends with the ſame Vowel that begins the following; and next to this, thoſe Vowels whoſe ſounds come neareſt to each other are moſt to be avoid⯑ed. O, A, or U, will bear a more full and graceful Sound than E, I, or Y. I know ſome people will think theſe Obſervations trivial, and therefore I am glad to corro⯑borate them by ſome great Authorities, which I have met with in Tully and Quin⯑tilian. In the fourth Book of Rhetoric to Herennius, are theſe words: Fugiemus cre⯑bras Vocalium concurſiones, quae vaſtam at⯑que hiantem reddunt orationem; ut hoc eſt, Baccae aeneae amaeniſſimae impendebant. And Quintilian l. 9. cap. 4. Vocalium concurſus cum accidit, hiat & interſiſtit, at quaſi la⯑borat oratio. Peſſimi longè quae eaſdem inter [70] ſe literas committunt, ſonabunt: Praecipuus tamen erit hiatus earum quae cavo aut patulo ore efferuntur. E plenior litera eſt, I angu⯑ſtior. But he goes on to reprove the ex⯑ceſs on the other hand of being too ſol⯑licitous in this matter, and ſays admirably, Neſcio an negligentia in hoc, aut ſolicitudo ſit pejor. So likewiſe Tully (Orator ad Brut.) Theopompum reprehendunt, quod eas literas tanto opere fugerit, etſi idem magiſter ejus Iſocrates: which laſt Author, as Turnebus on Quintilian obſerve, has hardly one Hia⯑tus in all his Works. Quintilian tells us that Tully and Demoſthenes did not much obſerve this Nicety, tho' Tully himſelf ſays in his Orator, Crebra iſta Vocum concurſio, quam magna ex parte vitioſam, fugit Demoſthenes. If I am not miſtaken, Malherbe of all the Moderns has been the moſt ſcrupulous in this point; and I think Menage in his Ob⯑ſervations upon him ſays, he has not one in his Poems. To conclude, I believe the Hi⯑tus ſhould be avoided with more care in Poetry than in Oratory; and I would con⯑ſtantly try to prevent it, unleſs where the cutting it off is more prejudicial to the Sound than the Hiatus itſelf. I am, &c. ⁴ [71]

I Believe it was with me when I left the Town, as it is with a great many Men when they leave the World, whoſe loſs it ſelf they do not ſo much re⯑gret, as that of their Friends whom they leave behind in it. For I do not know one thing for which I can envy London, but for your continuing there. Yet I gueſs you [76] will expect I ſhould recant this Expreſſion, when I tell you, that Sapho (by which hea⯑theniſh Name you have chriſten'd a very orthodox Lady) did not accompany me in⯑to the Country. However, I will confeſs my ſelf the leſs concern'd on that account, becauſe I have no very violent Inclination to loſe my Heart, eſpecially in ſo wild and ſavagè a place as this Foreſt is: In the Town, 'tis ten to one but a young Fellow may find his ſtray'd Heart again, with ſome Wild⯑ſtreet or Drury-lane Damſel; but here, where I could have met with no redreſs from an unmerciful, virtuous Dame, I muſt for ever havé loſt my little Traveller in a Hole, where I cou'd never rummage to find him again.—Well, Sir, you have your Lady in the Town ſtill, and I have my Heart in the Country ſtill, which being wholly unemploy'd as yet, has the more room in it for my Friends, and does not want a Corner at your Service.—To be ſerious, you have extreamly oblig'd me by your. Frankneſs and Kindneſs to me: And if I have abus'd it by too much Freedom on my part, I hope you will at⯑tribute it to the natural Openneſs of my Temper, which hardly knows how to ſhow Reſpect, where I feel Affection. I wou'd love my Friend, as my Miſtreſs, without Ceremony; and hope a little rough Uſage [77] ſometimes may not be more diſpleaſing to the one, than it is to the other.

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

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

Sir, if you will favour me ſometimes with your Letters, it will be a great Satisfaction [78] to me on ſeveral accounts; and on this in particular, That it will ſhow me (to my Comfort) that even a wiſe Man is ſome⯑times very idle; for ſo you muſt needs be when you can find leiſure to write to

I Have nothing to ſay to you in this Let⯑ter; but I was reſolv'd to write to tell you ſo. Why ſhould not I content my ſelf with ſo many great Examples, of deep Di⯑vines, profound Caſuiſts, grave Philoſophers; who have written, not Letters only, but whole Tomes and voluminous Treatiſes about Nothing? Why ſhou'd a Fellow like me, who all his life does nothing, be a⯑ſham'd to write nothing? and that to one who has nothing to do but to read it? But perhaps you'll ſay, the whole World has ſomething to do, ſomething to talk of, ſomething to wiſh for, ſomething to be imploy'd about: But pray, Sir, caſt up the Account, put all theſe Somethings together, and what is the Sum Total but juſt Nothing? I have no more to ſay, but to deſire to give you my Service (that [79] is nothing) to your Friends, and to believe that I am nothing more than

YOU talk of Fame and Glory, and of the great Men of Antiquity: Pray tell me, what are all your great dead Men, but ſo many little living Letters? What a vaſt Reward is here for all the Ink waſted by Writers, and all the Blood ſpilt by Princes? There was in old time one Severus a Roman Emperor. I dare ſay you never call'd him by any other Name in your Life: and yet in his days he was ſtyl'd Lucius, Septimius, Severus, Pius, Pertinax, Auguſtus, Parthi⯑cus, Adiabenicus, Arabicus, Maximus,—and what not? What a prodigious waſte of Letters has Time made! what a Number have here dropt off, and left the poor ſur⯑viving Seven unattended! For my own part, Four are all I have to take care for; and I'll be judg'd by you if any man cou'd live in leſs compaſs? except it were one Mon⯑ſieur D. and one Romulus ⁂ But theſe, con⯑trary to the common Calamity, came in [80] proceſs of time, to be call'd Monſieur Boileau Deſpreaux, and Romulus Three⯑points.—Well, Sir, for the future I'll drown all high Thoughts in the Lethe of Cowſlip-Wine; as for Fame, Renown, Reputation, take 'em Critics!

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

I Have been ſo well ſatisfy'd with the Country ever ſince I ſaw you, that I have not ſo much as once thought of the Town, or enquir'd of any one in it beſides Mr. Wycherley and your ſelf. And from him I underſtand of your Journey this Sum⯑mer into Leiceſterſhire; from whence I gueſs you are return'd by this time, to your old Apartment in the Widow's Corner, to your old Buſineſs of comparing Critics, and re⯑conciling [81] commentators; and to the old di⯑verſions of a loſing game at picquet with the ladies, and half a play, or a quarter of a play, at the theatre; where you are none of the malicious Audience, but the chief of amorous Spectators; and for the infirmity of one ^* Senſe which there for the moſt part could only ſerve to diſguſt you, enjoy the vigour of another which raviſhes you.

(According to the poetical, not the learn⯑ed, Dodwell; who has done one thing wor⯑thy of eternal memory; wrote two lines in his life that are not nonſenſe!) So you have the advantage of being entertain'd with all the beauty of the boxes, without being trou⯑bled with any of the dulneſs of the ſtage. You are ſo good a critic, that 'tis the great⯑eſt happineſs of the modern Poets that you do not hear their works; and next, that you are not ſo arrant a critic, as to damn them (like the reſt) without hearing. But now I talk of thoſe critics, I have good news to tell you concerning my ſelf, for which I expect you ſhou'd congratulate with me: It is that beyond all my expectations, and [82] far above my demerits, I have been moſt mercifully repriev'd by the fovereign power of Jacob Tonſon, from being brought forth to publick puniſhment; and reſpited from time to time from the hands of thoſe bar⯑barous executioners of the Muſes, whom I was juſt now ſpeaking of. It often happens, that guilty Poets, like other guilty criminals, when once they are known and proclaim'd, deliver themſelves into the hands of Ju⯑ſtice, only to prevent others from doing it more to their diſadvantage; and not out of any Ambition to ſpread their fame, by be⯑ing executed in the face of the world, which is a ſame but of ſhort continuance. That Poet were a happy man who cou'd but obtain a grant to preſerve his for ninety-nine years; for thoſe names very rarely laſt ſo many days, which are planted either in Jacob Tonſon's, or the Ordinary of Newgate's Miſcellanies.

I have an hundred things to ſay to you, which ſhall be deferr'd till I have the hap⯑pineſs of ſeeing you in town, for the ſea⯑ſon now draws on, that invites every body thither. Some of them I had commu⯑nicated to you by Letters before this, if I had not been uncertain where you paſs'd your time the laſt ſeaſon: So much fine weather, I doubt not, has given you all the pleaſure you cou'd deſire from the coun⯑try, [83] and your own thoughts the beſt com⯑pany in it. But nothing cou'd allure Mr. Wycherley to our Foreſt, he continu'd (as you told me long ſince he wou'd) an ob⯑ſtinate lover of the town, in ſpite of friend⯑ſhip and fair weather. Therefore hence⯑forward, to all thoſe conſiderable qualities I know you poſſeſt of, I ſhall add that of Prophecy. But I ſtill believe Mr. Wycher⯑ley's intentions were good, and am ſatisfy'd that he promiſes nothing but with a real deſign to perform it: how much ſoever his other excellent qualities are above my imi⯑tation, his ſincerity, I hope, is not; and it is with the utmoſt that I am,

Sir, &c.

I Had ſent you the inclos'd ^* Papers be⯑fore this time, but that I intended to have brought them my ſelf, and afterwards cou'd find no opportunity of ſending them [84] without ſuſpicion of their miſcarrying; not, that they are of the leaſt value, but for fear ſome body might be fooliſh enough to imagine them ſo, and inquiſitive enough to diſcover thoſe faults which I (by your help) wou'd correct. I therefore beg the favour of you to let them go no farther than your chamber, and to be very free of your re⯑marks in the margins, not only in regard to the accuracy, but to the fidelity of the tran⯑ſlation; which I have not had time of late to compare with its original. And I deſire you to be the more ſevere, as it is much more criminal for me to make another ſpeak nonſenſe, than to do it in my own proper, perſon. For your better help in comparing, it may be fit to tell you, that this is not an entire verſion of the firſt book. There is an omiſſion from the 168th line—Jam murmura ſerpunt plebis ageno⯑reae—to the 312th—Interea patriis olim vagus exul ab oris—(between theſe ^* two Statius has a deſcription of the council of the Gods, and a ſpeech of Ju⯑piter; which contain a peculiar beauty and majeſty, and were left out for no other reaſon, but becauſe the conſequence [85] of this machine appears not till the ſecond book) The tranſlation goes on from thence to the words Hic vero ambobus rabiem fortuna cruentam where there is an odd account of a battle at fifty-cuffs be⯑tween the two Princes on a very ſlight occaſion, and at a time when one wou'd think the fatigue of their journey in ſo tem⯑peſtuous a night, might have render'd them very unfit for ſuch a ſcuffle. This I had actually tranſlated, but was very ill ſatis⯑fied with it, even in my own words, to which an author cannot but be partial enough of conſcience; it was therefore omitted in this copy, which goes on above eighty lines farther, at the words—Hic pri⯑mum luſtrare oculis, &c.—to the end of the book.

You will find, I doubt not, that Sta⯑tius was none of the diſcreeteſt Poets, tho' he was the beſt verſifier next Vir⯑gil: In the very beginning he unluckily betrays his ignorance in the rules of Poetry, (which Horace had already taught the Ro⯑mans) when he asks his Muſe where to begin his Thebaid, and ſeems to doubt whe⯑ther it ſhould not be ab ovo Ledaeo? when he comes to the ſcene of his Poem, and the prize in diſpute between the Brothers, he gives us a very mean opinion of it— [86] Pugna eſt de paupere regno.—Very diffe⯑rent from the conduct of his maſter Virgil, who at the entrance of his Poem informs his reader of the greatneſs of its ſub⯑ject,—Tantoe molis erat Romanam condere Gentem. [Boſſu on Epic Poetry.] There are innumerable little faults in him, a⯑mong which I cannot but take notice of one in this book, where ſpeaking of the implacable hatred of the brothers, he ſays, The whole world wou'd be too ſmall a prize to repay ſo much impiety.

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

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

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

If you will oblige me at your leiſure with the confirmation of your recovery, under your own hand, it will be extream grateful to me, for next to the pleaſure of ſee⯑ing my friends, is that I take in hearing from them; and in this particular, I am beyond all acknowledgments oblig'd to our friend Mr. Wycherley, who, as if it were not enough to have excell'd all men in wit, is reſolv'd to excel them in good-nature too. I know I need no apology to you for ſpeaking of Mr. Wycherley, whoſe ex⯑ample as I am proud of following in all [88] things, ſo in nothing more than in profeſ⯑ſing my ſelf like him,

YOU had long before this time been troubled with a Letter from me, but that I deferr'd it till I cou'd ſend you either the ^* Miſcellany, or my continuation of the Verſion of Statius. The firſt I imagin'd you might have had before now, but ſince the contrary has happen'd, you may draw this Moral from it, That Authors in gene⯑ral are more ready to write nonſenſe, than Bookſellers are to publiſh it. I had I know not what extraordinary flux of rhyme upon me for three days together, in which time all the verſes you ſee added, have been written; which I tell you that you may more freely be ſevere upon them. 'Tis a mercy I do not aſſault you with a number of original Sonnets and Epigrams, which our modern Bards put forth in the ſpring⯑time, in as great abundance, as Trees do [89] Bloſſoms, a very few whereof ever come to be Fruit, and pleaſe no longer than juſt in their birth. So that they make no leſs haſte to bring their flowers of wit to the preſs, than gardiners to bring their other flowers to the market, which if they can't get off their hands in the morning, are ſure to die before night. Thus the ſame reaſon that furniſhes Covent-Garden with thoſe noſegays you ſo delight in, ſupplies the Muſes Mer⯑cury, and Britiſh Apollo (not to ſay Jacob's Miſcellanies) with Verſes. And it is the happineſs of this age, that the modern in⯑vention of printing Poems for pence a-piece, has brought the Noſegays of Parnaſſus to bear the ſame price; whereby the publick⯑ſpirited Mr. Henry Hills of Black-fryars has been the cauſe of great eaſe and ſingular comfort to all the Learned, who never over⯑abounding in tranſitory coin, ſhou'd not be diſcontented (methinks) even tho' Poems were diſtributed gratis about the ſtreets, like Bunyan's Sermons and other pious treatiſes, uſually publiſh'd in a like Volume and Cha⯑racter.

The time now drawing nigh, when you uſe with Sapho to croſs the Water in an Ev'ning to Spring-Garden, I hope you will have a fair opportunity of raviſhing her:—I mean only (as Oldfox in the Plain-dealer ſays) thro' the ear, with your well-penn'd [90] Verſes. I have been told of a very lucky Compliment of an Officer to his Miſtreſs in the very ſame place, which I cannot but ſet down (and deſire you at preſent to take it in good part inſtead of a Latin Quotation) that it may ſome time or other be improv'd by your pronunciation, while you walk So⯑lus cum Sola in thoſe amorous ſhades.

I wiſh you all the pleaſures which the Seaſon and the Nymph can afford; the beſt Company, the beſt Coffee, and the beſt News you can deſire. And what more to wiſh you than this, I do not know; unleſs it be a great deal of patience to read and examine the Verſes I ſend you; and I pro⯑miſe you in return a great deal of deference to your judgment, and an extraordinary obe⯑dience to your ſentiments for the future, (to which you know I have been ſometimes a little refractory.) If you will pleaſe to be⯑gin where you left off laſt, and mark the margins, as you have done in the pages im⯑mediately before, (which you will find cor⯑rected to your ſenſe ſince your laſt peruſal) you will extreamly oblige me, and improve my Tranſlation. Beſides thoſe places which may deviate from the ſenſe of the Author, [91] it wou'd be very kind in you to obſerve any deficiencies in the Diction or Num⯑bers. The Hiatus in particular I wou'd avoid as much as poſſible, to which you are certainly in the right to be a profeſs'd ene⯑my; tho' I confeſs I cou'd not think it poſſible at all times to be avoided by any writer, till I found by reading Malherbe lately, that there is ſcarce any throughout his poems. I thought your obſervation true enough to be paſs'd into a Rule, but not a rule without exceptions, nor that ever it had been reduc'd to practiſe: But this ex⯑ample of one of the moſt correct and beſt of their Poets has undeceiv'd me, and confirms your opinion very ſtrongly, and much more than Mr. Dryden's Authority who tho' he made it a rule, ſeldom obſerv'd it.

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

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

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

[93] But Boſſu himſelf is miſtaken in one particular, relating to the commencement of the Action; ſaying in Book 2. Cap. 8. that Statius opens it with Europa's Rape, where⯑as the Poet at moſt only deliberates whe⯑ther he ſhou'd or not?

but then expreſly paſſes all this with a Lon⯑ga retro ſeries—and ſays

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

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

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

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

THE Morning after I parted from you, I found my felf (as I had prophecy'd) all alone, in an uneaſy Stage-Coach; a dole⯑ful change from that agreeable company I enjoy'd the night before! without the leaſt hope of entertainment but from my laſt recourſe in ſuch caſes, a Book. I then be⯑gan to enter into acquaintance with the Moraliſts, and had juſt receiv'd from them [95] ſome cold conſolation for the inconvenien⯑cies of this life, and the incertainty of hu⯑man affairs; when I perceiv'd my Vehicle to ſtop, and heard from the ſide of it the dreadful news of a ſick Woman preparing to enter it. 'Tis not eaſy to gueſs at my mortification, but being ſo well fortify'd with Philoſophy I ſtood reſign'd with a Stoical conſtancy to endure the worſt of evils, a ſick Woman. I was indeed a little comforted to find, by her voice and dreſs, that ſhe was Young and a Gentlewoman; but no ſooner was her hood remov'd, but I ſaw one of the fineſt faces I ever beheld, and to increaſe my ſurprize, heard her ſalure me by my name. I never had more reaſon to accuſe Nature for making me ſhort-ſight⯑ed than now, when I could not recollect I had ever ſeen thoſe fair eyes which knew me ſo well, and was utterly at a loſs how to addreſs my ſelf; till with a great deal of ſimplicity and innocence ſhe let me know (even before I diſcover'd my ignorance) that ſhe was the daughter of one in our Neigh⯑bourhood, lately marry'd, who having been conſulting her Phyſicians in Town, was re⯑turning into the Country, to try what good Air and a new Husband cou'd do to recover her. My Father, you muſt know, has ſometimes recommended the Study of Phy⯑ſick to me, but I never had any ambition [96] to be a Doctor till this inſtant. I ventur'd to preſcribe ſome Fruit (which I happen'd to have in the Coach) which being forbid⯑den her by her Doctors, ſhe had the more inclination to. In ſhort, I tempted, and ſhe eat; nor was I more like the Devil than ſhe like Eve. Having the good ſucceſs of the 'foreſaid Gentleman before my eyes, I put on the Gallantry of the old Serpent, and in ſpite of my evil Form accoſted her with all the Gaiety I was maſter of; which had ſo good effect, that in leſs than an hour ſhe grew pleaſant, her colour return'd, and ſhe was pleas'd to ſay my preſcription had wrought an immediate cure: In a word, I had the pleaſanteſt journey imaginable.

Thus far (methinks) my Letter has ſome⯑thing of the air of a Romance, tho' it be true. But I hope you will look on what fol⯑lows as the greateſt of truths, That I think my ſelf extreamly oblig'd by you in all points, eſpecially for your kind and ho⯑nourable Information and Advice in a mat⯑ter of the utmoſt concern to me, which I ſhall ever acknowledge as the higheſt proof at once of your friendſhip, juſtice, and ſin⯑cerity. At the ſame time be aſſur'd, that Gentleman we ſpoke of, ſhall never by any alteration in me diſcover my knowledge of his Miſtake; the hearty forgiving of which is the only kind of Return I can poſſibly [97] make him for ſo many favours. And I may derive this pleaſure at leaſt from it, that whereas I muſt otherwiſe have been a little uneaſy to know my incapacity of returning to his Obligations; I may now, by bearing his Frailty, exerciſe my Grati⯑tude and Friendſhip more than Himſelf either is, or perhaps ever will be ſenſible of.

But in one thing, I muſt confeſs you have your ſelf oblig'd me more than any man, which is, that you have ſhew'd me many of my Faults, to which as you are the more an implacable Enemy, by ſo much the more you are a kind Friend to me. I cou'd be proud, in revenge, to find a few ſlips in your Verſes, which I read in Lon⯑don, and ſince in the Country with more ap⯑plication and pleaſure: the thoughts are ve⯑ry juſt, and you are ſure not to let them ſuffer by the Verſification. If you wou'd oblige me with the truſt of any thing of yours, I ſhou'd be glad to execute any com⯑miſſions you wou'd give me concerning them. I am here ſo perfectly at leiſure, that nothing wou'd be ſo agreeable an en⯑tertainment [98] to me; but if you will not af⯑ford me that, do not deny me at leaſt the ſatisfaction of your Letters as long as we are abſent, if you wou'd not have him very un⯑happy who is very ſincerely

IF I were to write to you as often as I think of you, my Letters wou'd be as bad as a Rent-charge; but tho' the one be but too little for your Good-nature, the other wou'd be too much for your Quiet, which is one bleſſing Good-nature ſhou'd indiſpenſably receive from mankind, in re⯑turn for thoſe many it gives. I have been inform'd of late, how much I am indebted to that quality of yours, in ſpeaking well of me in my abſence; the only thing by which [100] you prove your ſelf no Wit or Critic: Tho' indeed I have often thought, that a friend will ſhow juſt as much indulgence (and no more) to my faults when I am abſent, as he does ſeverity to 'em when I am preſent. To be very frank with you, Sir, I muſt own, that where I receiv'd ſo much Civility at firſt, I cou'd hardly have expected ſo much Sincerity afterwards. But now I have only to wiſh, that the laſt were but equal to the firſt, and that as you have omitted nothing to oblige me, ſo you wou'd omit nothing to improve me.

I caus'd an acquaintance of mine to en⯑quire twice of your welfare, by whom I have been inform'd, that you have left your ſpeculative Angle in the Widow's Coffee-houſe, and bidding adieu for ſome time to all the Rehearſals, Reviews, Ga⯑zettes, &c. have march'd off into Lin⯑colnſhire. Thus I find you vary your life in the ſcene at leaſt, tho' not in the Action; for tho' Life for the moſt part, like an old Play, be ſtill the ſame, yet now and then a new Scene may make it more entertaining. As for my ſelf, I would not have my life a very regular Play, let it be a good merry Farce, a G-d's name, and a fig for the critical Unities! Yet (on the other ſide) I wou'd as ſoon write like Durfey, as live like T [...]e; whoſe beaſtly, yet [101] merry life, is (if you will excuſe ſuch a ſi⯑militude) not unlike a F [...]t, at once naſty and laughable. For the generality of men, a true modern life is like a true modern play, neither Tragedy, Comedy, nor Farce, nor one, nor all of theſe: every Actor is much better known by his having the ſame Face, than by keeping the ſame Character: for we change our minds as often as they can their parts, and he who was yeſterday Caeſar, is to day Sir John Daw. So that one might ask the ſame queſtion of a mo⯑dern life, that Rich did of a modern play; ‘"Pray do me the favour, Sir, to inform me; Is this your Tragedy or your Comedy?"’

I have dwelt the longer upon this, be⯑cauſe I perſwade my ſelf it might be uſeful, at a time when we have no other Theatre, to divert our ſelves at this great one. Here is a glorious ſtanding Comedy of Fools, at which every man is heartily merry, and thinks himſelf an unconcern'd Spectator. This (to our ſingular comfort) neither my Lord Chamberlain, nor the Queen her ſelf can ever ſhut up, or ſilence. While that of Drury (alas!) lies deſolate, in the pro⯑foundeſt peace: and the melancholy proſ⯑pect of the Nymphs yet lingring about its beloved avenues, appears no leſs moving than that of the Trojan Dames lamenting over their ruin'd Ilium! What now can they [102] hope, diſpoſſeſs'd of their antient ſeats, but to ſerve as Captives to the inſulting Victors of the Hay-Market? The afflicted ſubjects of France do not, in our Poſt-man, ſo grie⯑vouſly deplore the obſtinacy of their arbi⯑trary Monarch, as theſe periſhing people of Drury the obdurate heart of that Pharaoh, Rich, who like him, diſdains all Propoſals of peace and accommodation. Several Li⯑bels have been ſecretly affix'd to the great gates of his imperial palace in Bridges-ſtreet; and a Memorial repreſenting the diſtreſſes of theſe perſons, has been accidentally dropt (as we are credibly inform'd by a perſon of quality) out of his firſt Miniſter the chief Box-keeper's pocket, at a late Conference of the ſaid Perſon of quality and others, on the part of the Confederates, and his Theatrical Majeſty on his own part. Of this you may expect a copy as ſoon as it ſhall be tranſmitted to us from a good hand. As for the late Congreſs, it is here reported, that it has not been wholly ineffectual; but this wants confirmation; yet we cannot but hope the concurring prayers and tears of ſo many wretched Ladies may induce this haughty Prince to reaſon.

I MAY truly ſay I am more oblig'd to you this ſummer than to any of my Acquaintance, for had it not been for the two kind letters you ſent me, I had been perfectly, oblituſque meorum, obliviſcendus & illis. The only companions I had were thoſe Muſes of whom Tully ſays, Adoleſ⯑centiam alunt, Senectutem oblectant, ſecundas res ornant, adverſis perfugium ac ſolatium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiſcum, peregrinantur, ruſtican⯑tur. Which indeed is as much as ever I expected from them; for the Muſes, if you take them as Companions, are ve⯑ry pleaſant and agreeable; but whoever ſhould be forc'd to live or depend up⯑on 'em, would find himſelf in a very bad condition. That Quiet, which Cowley calls the Companion of Obſcurity, was not want⯑ing to me, unleſs it was interrupted by thoſe fears you ſo juſtly gueſs I had for our Friend's welfare. 'Tis extreamly kind in you to tell me the news you heard of him, and you have deliver'd me from more an⯑xiety than he imagines me capable of on his account, as I am convinc'd by his long [104] ſilence. However the love of ſome things rewards itſelf, as of Vertue, and of Mr. Wy⯑cherley. I am ſurpriz'd at the danger you tell me he has been in, and muſt agree with you, that our nation would have loſt in him alone, more wit, and probity, than would have remain'd (for ought I know) in all the reſt of it. My concern for his friendſhip will excuſe me, (ſince I know you honour him ſo much, and ſince you know I love him above all men) if I vent a part of my uneaſineſs to you, and tell you, that there has not been wanting one to inſinuate malicious untruths of me to Mr. Wycherley, which I fear may have had ſome effect upon him. If ſo, he will have a grea⯑ter puniſhment for his credulity than I cou'd wiſh him, in that fellow's acquain⯑tance. The loſs of a faithful creature is ſomething, tho' of ever ſo contemptible an one; and if I were to change my Dog for ſuch a Man as the aforeſaid, I ſhou'd think my Dog undervalu'd: (who follows me about as conſtantly here in the country, as I was us'd to do Mr. Wycherley in the Town.)

Now I talk of my Dog, that I may not treat of a worſe ſubject which my ſpleen tempts me to, I will give you ſome account of him; a thing not wholly unprecedented, ſince Montaigne (to whom I am but a Dog [105] in compariſon) has done the very ſame thing of his Cat. Dic mihi quid melius deſidioſus agam? You are to know then, that as 'tis Likeneſs begets affection, ſo my favourite dog is a little one, a lean one, and none of the fineſt ſhap'd. He is not much a Spa⯑niel in his fawning, but has (what might be worth any man's while to imitate from him) a dumb ſurly ſort of kindneſs, that rather ſhows itſelf when he thinks me ill⯑us'd by others, than when we walk quietly and peaceably by our ſelves. If it be the chief point of Friendſhip to comply with a friend's Motions and Inclinations, he poſ⯑ſeſſes this in an eminent degree; he lies down when I ſit, and walks when I walk, which is more than many good friends can pretend to, witneſs our Walk a year ago in St. James's Park.—Hiſtories are more full of examples of the Fidelity of Dogs than of Friends, but I will not inſiſt upon ma⯑ny of 'em, becauſe it is poſſible ſome may be almoſt as fabulous as thoſe of Pylades and Oreſtes, &c. I will only ſay for the ho⯑nour of Dogs, that the two moſt antient and eſteemable books ſacred and prophane extant, (viz. the Scripture and Homer) have ſhewn a particular regard to theſe animals. That of Toby is the more remarkable, be⯑cauſe there was no manner of reaſon to take notice of the Dog, beſides the great hu⯑manity [106] of the Author. Homer's account of Ulyſſes's Dog Argus is the moſt pathe⯑tick imaginable, all the Circumſtances con⯑ſider'd, and an excellent proof of the old Bard's Good-nature. Ulyſſes had left him at Ithaca when he embark'd for Troy, and found him at his return after twenty years, (which by the way is not unnatural as ſome Critics have ſaid, ſince I remember the dam of my dog was twenty-two years old when ſhe dy'd: May the omen of lon⯑gaevity prove fortunate to her ſucceſſor!) You ſhall have it in verſe.

Plutarch relating how the Athenians were oblig'd to abandon Athens in the time of Themiſtocles, ſteps back again out of the way of his Hiſtory, purely to de⯑ſcribe the lamentable cries and howlings of the poor Dogs they left behind. He makes mention of one, that follow'd his Maſter a⯑croſs the Sea to Salamis, where he dy'd and was honour'd with a Tomb by the Athe⯑nians, who gave the name of the Dog's Grave to that part of the Iſland where he was buried: this reſpect to a dog in the moſt polite people of the world, is very obſervable. A modern inſtance of gratitude to a Dog (tho' we have but few ſuch) is, that the chief Order of Denmark (now injuriouſly call'd the Order of the Elephant) was in⯑ſtituted [108] in memory of the fidelity of a dog nam'd Wild-brat, to one of their Kings who had been deſerted by his ſubjects: He gave his Order this motto, or to this effect, (which ſtill remains) Wild-Brat was faithful. Sir William Trumbull has told me a ſtory which he heard from one that was preſent: King Charles I. being with ſome of his Court during his troubles, a diſcourſe aroſe what ſort of dogs deſerv'd pre-eminence, and it being on all hands agreed to belong either to the Spaniel or Greyhound, the King gave his opinion on the part of the Grey⯑hound, becauſe (ſaid he) it has all the Good⯑nature of the other, without the Fawning. A good piece of ſatire upon his Courtiers, with which I will conclude my Diſcourſe of Dogs. Call me a Cynick, or what you pleaſe, in revenge for all this impertinence, I will be contented; provided you will but believe me when I ſay a bold word for a chriſtian, that, of all dogs, you will find none more faithful than

I Had written to you ſooner, but that I made ſome ſcruple of ſending profane things to you in Holy week. Beſides our Family wou'd have been ſcandaliz'd to ſee me write, who take it for granted I write nothing but ungodly Verſes. I aſſure you I am look'd upon in the Neighbour⯑hood for a very well-diſpos'd perſon, no great Hunter indeed, but a great Admi⯑rer of the noble ſport, and only unhappy in my want of conſtitution for that, and Drinking. They all ſay 'tis pity I am ſo ſickly, and I think 'tis pity they are ſo healthy. But I ſay nothing that may de⯑ſtroy their good opinion of me: I have not quoted one Latin Author ſince I came down, but have learn'd without book a Song of Mr. Thomas Durfey's, who is your only Poet of tolerable reputation in this country. He makes all the merriment in our Enter⯑tainments, and but for him, there would be ſo miſerable a dearth of Catches, that I fear they wou'd put either the Parſon or me upon making ſome for 'em. Any man, of any quality, is heartily wel⯑come to the beſt Topeing-Table of our Gentry, who can roar out ſome Rhapſodies [110] of his works: ſo that in the ſame manner as it was ſaid of Homer to his Detractors, What? dares any man ſpeak againſt Him who has given ſo many men to Eat? (mean⯑ing the Rhapſodiſts who liv'd by repeating his verſes) thus may it be ſaid of Mr. Durfey to his Detractors; Dares any one deſpiſe Him, who has made ſo many men Drink? Alas, Sir! this is a glory which neither you nor I muſt ever pretend to. Neither you with your Ovid, nor I with my Statius, can amuſe a whole board of Juſtices and extraordinary 'Squires, or gain one hum of approbation, or laugh of admiration! Theſe things (they wou'd ſay) are too ſtudious, they may do well enough with ſuch as love Reading, but give us your antient Poet Mr. Durfey! 'Tis mortifying enough, it muſt be confeſs'd; but however, let us pro⯑ceed in the way that nature has directed us—Multi multa ſciunt, ſed nemo omnia, as it is ſaid in the Almanack. Let us communi⯑cate our works for our mutual comfort; ſend me Elegies, and you ſhall not want Heroicks. At preſent, I have only theſe Arguments in Proſe to the Thebaid, which you claim by promiſe, as I do your Tranſ⯑lation of Pars me Sulmo tenet—and the Ring: the reſt I hope for as ſoon as you can conveniently tranſcribe 'em, and whatſoever [111] orders you are pleas'd to give me ſhall be punctually obey'd by

I Had not ſo long omitted to expreſs my acknowledgments to you for ſo much good-nature and friendſhip as you lately ſhow'd me; but that I am but juſt return'd to my own Hermitage, from Mr. Caryl's, who has done me ſo many favours, that I am almoſt inclin'd to think my Friends infect one another, and that your converſation with him has made him as obliging to me as your ſelf. I can aſſure you he has a ſincere reſpect for you, and this I believe he has partly contracted from me, who am too full of you not to over⯑flow upon thoſe I converſe with. But I muſt now be contented to converſe only with the Dead of this world, that is to ſay, the dull and obſcure, every way obſcure, in their intellects as well as their perſons: Or elſe have recourſe to the living Dead, the old Authors with whom you are ſo well acquainted, even from Virgil down to Aulus Gellius, whom I do not think a Cri⯑tic by any means to be compar'd to Mr. Den⯑nis: [112] And I muſt declare poſitively to you, that I will perſiſt in this opinion, till you become a little more civil to Atticus. Who cou'd have imagin'd, that he who had eſ⯑cap'd all the misfortunes of his Time, un⯑hurt even by the Proſcriptions of Antony and Auguſtus, ſhou'd in theſe days find an Enemy more ſevere and barbarous than thoſe Tyrants? and that Enemy the gentleſt too, the beſt-natur'd of mortals, Mr. C [...]? Whom I muſt in this compare once more to Auguſtus; who ſeem'd not more unlike himſelf, in the Severity of one part of his life and the Clemency of the other, than you. I leave you to reflect on this, and hope that Time (which mollifies rocks, and of ſtiff things makes limber) will turn a reſolute critic to a gentle reader; and in⯑ſtead of this poſitive, tremendous, new-fa⯑ſhion'd Mr. C [...], reſtore unto us our old acquaintance, the ſoft, beneficent, and cour⯑teous Mr. C [...].

I expect much, towards the civilizing of you in your critical capacity, from the in⯑nocent Air and Tranquility of our Foreſt, when you do me the favour to viſit it. In the mean time, it wou'd do well by way of Preparative, if you wou'd duly and con⯑ſtantly every morning read over a Paſtoral of Theocritus or Virgil; and let the Lady Iſabella put your Macrobius and Aulus Gel⯑lius [113] ſomewhere out of your way, for a month or ſo. Who knows, but Travelling and long Airing in an open field, may con⯑tribute more ſucceſsfully to the cooling a Critic's ſeverity, than it did to the aſſwag⯑ing of Mr. Cheek's Anger, of old? In theſe fields you will be ſecure of finding no ene⯑my, but the moſt faithful and affectionate of your friends, &c.

AFTER I had recover'd from a dan⯑gerous Illneſs which was firſt con⯑tracted in Town, about a fortnight after my coming hither I troubled you with a letter, and a paper inclos'd, which you had been ſo obliging as to deſire a ſight of when laſt I ſaw you, promiſing me in return ſome tranſlations of yours from Ovid. Since when, I have not had a ſyllable from your hands, ſo that 'tis to be fear'd that tho' I have eſcap'd Death, I have not Oblivion. I ſhou'd at leaſt have expected you to have finiſh'd that Elegy upon me, which you told me you was upon the point of begin⯑ning when I was ſick in London; if you will but do ſo much for me firſt, I will give you leave to forget me afterwards; and for [114] my own part will die at diſcretion, and at my leiſure. But I fear I muſt be forc'd like many learned Authors, to write my own Epitaph, if I wou'd be remember'd at all. Monſieur de la Fontaine's wou'd fit me to a hair, but it is a kind of Sacrilege, (do you think it is not?) to ſteal Epitaphs. In my preſent, living dead condition, nothing wou'd be properer than Oblituſque meorum, obliviſcendus & illis, but that unluckily I can't forget my friends, and the civili⯑ties I receiv'd from your ſelf, and ſome others. They ſay indeed 'tis one quality of generous minds to forget the obligations they have conferr'd, and perhaps too it may be ſo to forget thoſe on whom they con⯑ferr'd 'em? Then indeed I muſt be forgot⯑ten to all intents and purpoſes! I am, it muſt be own'd, dead in a natural capacity, according to Mr. Bicker ſtaff; dead in a po⯑etical capacity, as a damn'd author; and dead in a civil capacity, as a uſeleſs mem⯑ber of the Common-wealth. But reflect, drar Sir, what melancholy effects may en⯑ſue, if Dead men are not civil to one an⯑other? If he who has nothing to do him⯑ſelf, will not comfort and ſupport another in his idleneſs? If thoſe who are to die themſelves, will not now and then pay the charity of viſiting a Tomb and a dead friend, and ſtrowing a few flow'rs over him? In [115] the ſhades where I am, the inhabitants have a mutual compaſſion for each other: Being all alike Inanes, and Umbratiles, we ſaunter to one another's habitations, and daily aſſiſt each other in doing nothing at all; this I mention for your edification and example, that Tout plein du vie as you are, yet you may not ſometimes diſdain—deſipere in loco. Tho' you are no Papiſt, and have not ſo much regard to the dead as to addreſs your ſelf to them, (which I plainly perceive by your ſi⯑lence) yet I hope you are not one of thoſe Heterodox, who hold them to be totally in⯑ſenſible of the good offices and kind wiſhes of their living friends, and to be in a dull State of Sleep, without one dream of thoſe they left behind them? If you are, let this Letter convince you to the contrary, which aſſures you, I am ſtill, tho' in a State of Se⯑paration,

P. S. This letter of Deaths, puts me in mind of poor Mr. Betterton's; over whom I wou'd have this Sentence of Tully for an Epitaph.‘Vitae bene actae jucundiſſima eſt Recordatio.’

ſo much, as to cauſe a total ſubverſion of my countenance: Some days after, to be reveng'd on her, I preſented her among other company the following Rondeau on that occaſion, which I deſire you to ſhow Sapho.

This ſort of writing call'd the Rondeau is what I never knew practis'd in our Na⯑tion, and I verily believe it was not in uſe with the Greeks or Romans, neither Macro⯑bius nor Hyginus taking the leaſt notice of it. 'Tis to be obſerv'd, that the vulgar ſpelling and pronouncing it Round O, is a manifeſt Corruption, and by no means to be allow'd of by Criticks. Some may miſta⯑kenly imagine that it was a ſort of Rondeau [119] which the Gallick Soldiers ſung in Caeſar's Triumph over Gaul—Gallias Caeſar ſubegit, &c. as it is recorded by Suetonius in Julio, and ſo derive its original from the antient Gauls to the modern French: but this is erroneous; the words there not being rang'd according to the Laws of the Rondeau, as laid down by Clement Marot. If you will ſay, that the Song of the Sol⯑diers might be only the rude beginning of this kind of Poem, and ſo conſequently imperfect, neither Heinſius nor I can be of that opinion; and ſo I conclude, that we know nothing of the matter.

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

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

AT laſt I have prevail'd over a lazy hu⯑mour to tranſcribe this Elegy: I [120] have chang'd the ſituation of ſome of the Latin Verſes, and made ſome Interpola⯑tions, but I hope they are not abſurd, and foreign to my Author's ſenſe and manner; but they are refer'd to your cenſure, as a debt; whom I eſteem no leſs a Critic than a Poet: I expect to be treated with the ſame rigour as I have practis'd to Mr. Dry⯑den and you,

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

He wou'd intimate (I fancy by Pyr⯑rbus's anſwer) only his degeneracy: but then theſe following lines of the Verſion (I ſuppoſe from Homer's Hiſtory) ſeem ab⯑ſurd in the mouth of Priam, viz.

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

I Give you thanks for the Verſion you ſent me of Ovid's Elegy. It is very much an image of that author's writing, who has an agreeableneſs that charms us without correctneſs, like a miſtreſs whoſe faults we ſee, but love her with them all. You have very judiciouſly alter'd his me⯑thod in ſome places, and I can find nothing which I dare inſiſt upon as an error: What I have written in the margins being meer⯑ly Gueſſes at a little improvement, rather than Criticiſms. I aſſure you I do not ex⯑pect you ſhou'd ſubſcribe to my private notions but when you ſhall judge 'em agreeable to reaſon and good ſenſe. What I have done is not as a Critic, but as a Friend; I know too well how many qua⯑lities are requiſite to make up the one, and that I want almoſt all I can reckon up; but I am ſure I do not want inclina⯑tion, nor I hope capacity, to be the other. Nor ſhall I take it at all amiſs, that an⯑other diſſents from my opinion: 'Tis no more than I have often done from my own; and indeed, the more a man advances in underſtanding, he becomes the more every [122] day a critic upon himſelf, and finds ſome⯑thing or other ſtill to blame in his for⯑mer notions and opinions. I cou'd be glad to know if you have tranſlated the 11th Elegy of Lib. 2. Ad amicam navigantem. the 8th of Book 3, or the 11th of Book 3, which are above all others my parti⯑cular favourites, eſpecially the laſt of theſe.

As to the paſſage of which you ask my opinion in the ſecond Aeneid, it is either ſo plain as to require no ſolution; or elſe (which is very probable) you ſee farther into it than I can. Priam wou'd ſay, that ‘"Achilles (whom ſurely you only feign to be your Father, ſince your actions are ſo different from his) did not uſe me thus inhumanly. He bluſh'd at his murder of Hector when he ſaw my ſorrows for him; and reſtored his dead body to me to be buried."’ To this the anſwer of Pyrrhus ſeems to be agreeable enough. ‘"Go then to the ſhades, and tell Achilles how I degenerate from him:"’ granting the truth of what Priam had ſaid of the difference between them. Indeed Mr. Dry⯑den's mentioning here what Virgil more ju⯑diciouſly paſſes in ſilence, the circumſtance of Achilles's ſelling for mony the body of Hector, ſeems not ſo proper; it in ſome meaſure leſs'ning the character of Achilles's [123] generoſity and piety, which is the very point of which Priam endeavours in this place to convince his Son, and to reproach him with the want of. But the truth of this circumſtance is no way to be queſtion'd, being expreſly taken from Homer, who re⯑preſents Achilles weeping for Priam, yet receiving the gold, Iliad 24: For when he gives the body, he uſes theſe words, ‘"O my friend Patroclus! forgive me that I quit the corps of him who kill'd thee; I have great gifts in ranſom for it, which I will beſtow upon thy funeral."’

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

LOoking among ſome French Rhymes, I was agreeably ſurpriz'd to find in the Rondeau of ^* Pour le moins—your Apoticaire and Lavement, which I took for your own; ſo much is your Muſe of In⯑telligence with the Wits of all languages. You have refin'd upon Voiture, whoſe Ou Vous Sçavez is much inferior to your [124] You know where—You do not only pay your club with your author (as our friend ſays) but the whole reckoning; who can form ſuch pretty lines from ſo trivial a hint.

For my ^* Elegy; 'tis confeſs'd, that the Topography of Sulmo in the Latin makes but an awkward figure in the Verſion. Your couplet of the Dog-Star is very fine, but may be too ſublime in this place. I laugh'd heartily at your note upon Paradiſe; for to make Ovid talk of the Garden of Eden, is certainly moſt abſurd: But Xenophon in his Oeconomicks, ſpeaking of a garden finely planted and watered (as is here deſcribed) calls it Paradiſos: 'Tis an interpolation in⯑deed, and ſerves for a gradation to the Cae⯑leſtial Orb; which expreſſes in ſome ſort the Sidus Caſtoris in parte Coeli—How Trees can enjoy, let the naturaliſts determine; but the Poets make 'em ſenſitive, lovers, ba⯑chelors, and married. Virgil in his Geor⯑gicks Lib. 2. Horace Ode 15. Lib. 2. Plātanus coelebs evincet ulmos. Epod. 2. Ergo aut adulta vitium propagine Altas maritat populos. Your Critique is a very Dolce-pic⯑cante; for after the many faults you juſtly find, you ſmooth your rigour: but an obli⯑ging thing is owing (you think) to one [125] who ſo much eſteems and admires you, and who ſhall ever be

YOUR Letters are a perfect charity to a man in retirement, utterly forgot⯑ten of all his Friends but you; for ſince Mr. Wycherley left London, I have not heard a word from him; tho' juſt before, and once ſince, I writ to him, and tho' I know my ſelf guilty of no offence but of doing ſincerely juſt what he ^* bid me.—Hoc mihi libertas, hoc pia lingua dedit! But the greateſt injury he does me is the keeping me in ignorance of his welfare, which I am always very ſollicitous for, and very un⯑eaſy in the fear of any Indiſpoſition that may befal him. In what I ſent you ſome time ago, you have not verſe enough to be ſevere upon, in revenge for my laſt criti⯑ciſm: In one point I muſt perſiſt, that is to ſay, my diſlike of your Paradiſe, in which I take no pleaſure; I know very well that in Greek 'tis not only us'd by Xenophon, but [126] is a common word for any Garden; but in Engliſh it bears the ſignification and conveys the idea of Eden, which alone is (I think) a reaſon againſt making Ovid uſe it; who will be thought to talk too like a Chriſtian in your verſion at leaſt, whatever it might have been in Latin or Greek. As for all the reſt of my Remarks, ſince you do not laugh at them as at this, I can be ſo civil as not to lay any ſtreſs upon 'em (as I think I told you before) and in parti⯑cular in the point of Trees enjoying, you have, I muſt own, fully ſatisfy'd me that the Expreſſion is not only defenſible, but beautiful. I ſhall be very glad to ſee your Tranſlation of the Elegy, Ad Amicam na⯑vigantem, as ſoon as you can; for (without a complement to you) every thing you write either in verſe or proſe, is welcome to me; and you may be confident, (if my opinion can be of any ſort of conſequence in any thing) that I will never be unſin⯑cere, tho' I may be often miſtaken. To uſe Sincerity with you is but paying you in your own coin, from whom I have expe⯑rienc'd ſo much of it; and I need not tell you how much I really eſteem you, when I eſteem nothing in the world ſo much as that Quality. I know you ſome⯑times ſay civil things to me in your Epiſto⯑lary Style, but thoſe I am to make allow⯑ance [127] for, as particularly when you talk of Admiring; 'tis a word you are ſo us'd to in converſation of Ladies, that it will creep into your diſcourſe in ſpite of you, ev'n to your Friends. But as Women when they think themſelves ſecure of admiration, com⯑mit a thouſand Negligences, which ſhow them ſo much at diſadvantage and off their guard, as to loſe the little real Love they had before: ſo when men imagine others entertain ſome eſteem for their abilities, they often expoſe all their Imperfections and fooliſh works, to the diſparagement of the little Wit they were thought maſters of. I am going to exem⯑plify this to you, in putting into your hands (being encourag'd by ſo much indulgence) ſome verſes of my Youth, or rather Child⯑hood; which (as I was a great admirer of Waller) were intended in imitation of his manner; and are perhaps, ſuch imitations, as thoſe you ſee in awkward country Dames of the fine and well-bred Ladies of the Court. If you will take 'em with you into Lincolnſhire, they may ſave you one hour from the converſation of the country Gen⯑tlemen and their Tenants, (who differ but in Dreſs and Name) which if it be there as bad as here, is even worſe than my Poetry. I hope your ſtay there will be no longer than (as Mr. Wycherley calls it) to rob the [128] Country, and run away to London with your money. In the mean time I beg the fa⯑vour of a line from you, and am (as I will never ceaſe to be)

I Deferr'd anſwering your laſt, upon the advice I receiv'd that you were leaving the town for ſome time, and expected your return with impatience, having then a de⯑ſign of ſeeing my Friends there, among the firſt of which I have reaſon to account your ſelf. But my almoſt continual Ill⯑neſſes prevent that, as well as moſt o⯑ther ſatisfactions of my life: However I may ſay one good thing of ſickneſs, that it is the beſt Cure in nature for Ambition, and deſigns upon the World or Fortune: It makes a man pretty indifferent for the future, provided he can but be eaſy, by intervals, for the preſent. He will be con⯑tent to compound for his Quiet only, and leave all the circumſtantial part and pomp of life to thoſe, who have a health vigo⯑rous enough to enjoy all the Miſtreſſes of their deſires. I thank God, there is no⯑thing out of my ſelf which I would be at [129] the trouble of ſeeking, except a Friend; a happineſs I once hop'd to have poſſeſs'd in Mr. Wycherley; but—Quantum mutatus ab illo!—I have for ſome years been em⯑ploy'd much like Children that build houſes with Cards, endeavouring very buſily and eagerly to raiſe a Friendſhip, which the firſt breath of any ill-natur'd By-ſtander cou'd puff away.—But I will trouble you no farther with writing, nor my ſelf with thinking, of this ſubject.

I was mightily pleas'd to perceive by your quotation from Voiture, that you had track'd me ſo far as France. You ſee 'tis with weak heads as with weak ſtomachs, they immediately throw out what they re⯑ceiv'd laſt: and what they read, floats up⯑on the ſurface of their mind, like Oil up⯑on water, without incorporating. This, I think however, can't be ſaid of the Love⯑verſes I laſt troubled you with, where all (I am afraid) is ſo puerile and ſo like the Author, that no body will ſu⯑ſpect any thing to be borrow'd. Yet you, (as a friend, entertaining a better opinion of 'em) it ſeems ſearch'd in Wal⯑ler, but ſearch'd in vain. Your judgment of 'em is (I think) very right,—for it was my own opinion before. If you think 'em not worth the trouble of correcting, [130] pray tell me ſo freely, and it will ſave me a labour; if you think the contrary, you wou'd particularly oblige me by your re⯑marks on the ſeveral thoughts as they oc⯑cur. I long to be nibling at your verſes, and have not forgot who promis'd me Ovid's Elegy ad Amicam Navigantem? Had Ovid been as long compoſing it, as you in ſending it, the Lady might have ſail'd to Gades, and receiv'd it at her return. I have really a great Itch of Criticiſm upon me, but want matter here in the Country; which I deſire you to furniſh me with, as I do you in the Town,

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

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

I Am glad to find by your laſt letter that you write to me with the freedom of a friend, ſetting down your thoughts as they occur, and dealing plainly with me in the matter of my own Trifles, which I aſſure you I never valu'd half ſo much as I do that Sincerity in you which they were the occa⯑ſion of diſcovering to me; and which while I am happy in, I may be truſted with that dangerous weapon, Poetry; ſince I ſhall do [132] nothing with it but after asking and fol⯑lowing your advice. I value Sincerity the more, as I find by ſad experience, the pra⯑ctiſe of it is more dangerous; Writers rarely pardoning the executioners of their verſes, ev'n tho' themſelves pronounce ſentence up⯑on them.—As to Mr. Philips's Paſtorals, I take the firſt to be infinitely the beſt, and the ſecond the worſt; the third is for the greateſt part a Tranſlation from Virgil's Daphnis. I will not foreſtal your judgment of the reſt, only obſerve in that of the Nightingale theſe lines, (ſpeaking of the Muſician's playing on the harp.)

To which nothing can be objected, but that they are too lofty for Paſtoral, eſpe⯑cially being put into the mouth of a Shep⯑herd, as they are here; in the Poet's own perſon they had heen (I believe) more pro⯑per. Theſe are more after Virgil's manner than that of Theocritus, whom yet in the character of Paſtoral he rather ſeems to [133] imitate. In the whole, I agree with the Tatler, that we have no better Eclogues in our language. There is a ſmall copy of the ſame Author publiſh'd in the Tatler N^o 12. on the Daniſh Winter: 'Tis Poetical Paint⯑ing, and I recommend it to your per⯑uſal.

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

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

Tho' you ſay you did not rightly take my Meaning in the verſe I quoted from Juve⯑nal, yet I will not explain it; becauſe tho' it ſeems you are reſolv'd to take me for a [134] Critic, I wou'd by no means be thought a Commentator.—And for another reaſon too, becauſe I have quite forgot both the Verſe and the Application.

I hope it will be no offence to give my moſt hearty ſervice to Mr. Wycherly, tho' I perceive by his laſt to me, I am not to trouble him with my letters, ſince he there told me he was going inſtantly out of Town, and till his return was my Ser⯑vant, &c. I gueſs by yours he is yet with you, and beg you to do what you may with all truth and honour, that is, aſ⯑ſure him I have ever borne all the Re⯑ſpect and Kindneſs imaginable to him. I do not know to this hour what it is that has eſtrang'd him from me; but this I know, that he may for the future be more ſafely my friend, ſince no invitation of his ſhall ever more make me ſo free with him. I cou'd not have thought any man had been ſo very cautious and ſuſpicious, as not to credit his own Experience of a friend. Indeed to be⯑lieve no body, may be a Maxim of Safety, but not ſo much of Honeſty. There is but one way I know of converſing ſafely with all men, that is, not by concealing what we ſay or do, but by ſaying or doing nothing that deſerves to be conceal'd, and I can truly boaſt this comfort in my affairs [135] with Mr. Wycherly. But I pardon his Jea⯑louſy, which is become his Nature, and ſhall never be his enemy whatſoever he ſays of me.

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

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

I have juſt read and compar'd ^* Mr. Row's Verſion of the 9th of Lucan, with very great pleaſure, where I find none of thoſe abſurdities ſo frequent in that of Virgil, ex⯑cept in two places, for the ſake of laſhing the Prieſts; one where Cato ſays—Sorti⯑legis egeant dubii—and one in the ſimile of the Haemorhois—fatidici Sabaei—He is ſo errant a Whig, that he ſtrains even be⯑yond his Author, in paſſion for Liberty, and [136] averſion to Tyranny; and errs only in am⯑plification. Lucan in initio 9ni, deſcribing the feat of the Semidei manes, ſays,

Mr. Row has this Line,

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

YOU miſtake me very much in think⯑ing the freedom you kindly us'd with my Love-verſes, gave me the firſt opinion of your ſincerity: I aſſure you it only did what every good-natur'd action of yours has done ſince, confirm'd me more in that opi⯑nion. The Fable of the Nightingale in Philips's Paſtoral, is taken from Famianus Strada's Latin Poem on the ſame ſubject, in his Proluſiones Academicae; only the Tomb he erects at the end, is added from Virgil's concluſion of the Culex. I can't forbear giving you a paſſage out of the Latin Poem [137] I mention, by which you will find the En⯑gliſh Poet is indebted to it.

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

I have (as I think I formerly told you) a very good opinion of Mr. Row's 9th book [138] of Lucan: Indeed he amplifies too much, as well as Brebaeuf, the famous French Imi⯑tator. If I remember right, he ſometimes takes the whole Comment into the Text of the Verſion, as particularly in lin. 808. ‘Ut (que) ſolet pariter totis ſe effundere ſignis Corycii preſſura croci.’—And in the place you quote, he makes of thoſe two lines in the Latin

no leſs than eight in Engliſh.

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

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

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

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

THE Syſtem of Tycho Brahe (were it true, as it is Novel) cou'd have no room here: Lucan, with the reſt of the Latin Poets, ſeems to follow Plato; whoſe [140] order of the Spheres is clear in Cicero, De Natura Deorum, De ſomnio Scipionis, and in Macrobius. The Seat of the Semidei ma⯑nes is Platonick too, for Apuleius de Deo Socratis aſſigns the ſame to the Genii, viz. the Region of the Air for their intercourſe with Gods and Men; ſo that I fancy, Row miſtook the ſituation, and I can't be re⯑concil'd to, Look down on the Sun's Rays. I am glad you agree with me about the la⯑titude he takes; and wiſh you had told me, if the ſortilegi, and fatidici, cou'd licenſe his invectives againſt Prieſts? but I ſuppoſe you think them (with Helena) undeſerving of your protection. I agree with you in Lucan's Errors, and the cauſe of 'em, his Poetic deſcriptions: for the Romans then knew the coaſt of Africa from Cyrene (to the South-eaſt of which lies Ammon toward Egypt) to Leptis and Utica: But pray re⯑member how your Homer nodded while Ulyſſes ſlept, and waking knew not where he was, in the ſhort paſſage from Corcyra to Ithaca. I like Trapp's Verſions for their juſtneſs; his Pſalm is excellent, the Prodi⯑gies in the firſt Georgick judicious (whence I conclude that 'tis eaſier to turn Virgil juſtly in blank verſe, than rhyme.) The Eclogue of Gailus, and Fable of Phaeton pretty well; but he is very faulty in his [141] Numbers; the fate of Phaeton might run thus,

Mr. POPE's Anſwer.

TO make uſe of that freedom and fa⯑miliarity of ſtyle which we have ta⯑ken up in our Correſpondence, and which is more properly Talking upon paper, than Writing; I will tell you without any pre⯑face, that I never took Tycho Brahe for one of the Antients, or in the leaſt an acquain⯑tance of Lucan's; nay, 'tis a mercy on this occaſion that I do not give you an ac⯑count of his Life and Converſation; as how he liv'd ſome years like an inchanted Knight in a certain Iſland, with a tale of a King of Denmark's Miſtreſs that ſhall be nameleſs.—But I have compaſſion on you, and wou'd not for the world you ſhou'd [142] ſtay any longer among the Genii and Semi⯑dei Manes, you know where; for if once you get ſo near the Moon, Sapho will want your preſence in the Clouds and inferior regions; not to mention the great loſs Drury-lane will ſuſtain, when Mr. C [...] is in the Milky way. Theſe coeleſtial thoughts put me in mind of the Prieſts you mention, who are a ſort of Sortilegi in one ſenſe, becauſe in their Lottery there are more Blanks than Prizes; the Adventurers being at beſt in an uncertainty, whereas the Set⯑ters-up are ſure of ſomething. Prieſts in⯑deed in their Character, as they repreſent God, are ſacred; and ſo are Conſtables as they repreſent the King; but you will own a great many of 'em are very odd fellows, and the devil a bit of likeneſs in 'em. Yet I can aſſure you, I honour the good as much as I deteſt the bad, and I think, that in condemning theſe, we praiſe thoſe. I am ſo far from eſteeming ev'n the worſt unworthy of my protection, that I have defended their Character (in Congreve's and Vanbrugh's Plays) ev'n againſt their own Brethren. And ſo much for Prieſts in general, now for Trapp in particular whoſe Tranſlations from Ovid I have not ſo good an opinion of as you; not (I will aſſure you) from any ſort of preju⯑dice to him as a Prieſt, but becauſe I [143] think he has little of the main Characte⯑riſtick of his Author, a graceful Eaſineſs. For let the ſenſe be ever ſo exactly ren⯑der'd, unleſs an author looks like himſelf, in his air, habit, manner, 'tis a Diſguiſe and not a Tranſlation. But as to the Pſalm, I think David is much more beholding to him than Ovid; and as he treated the Ro⯑man like a Jew, ſo he has made the Jew ſpeak like a Roman.

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

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

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

Pray can you trace Chivalry up higher than Pharamond? will you allow it an Anachro⯑niſm? [144] —Tickell in his Verſion of the Phae⯑nix from Claudian,

Claudian thus,

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

Your obſervations are all very juſt: Vir⯑gil is eminent for adjuſting his diction to his ſentiments; and among the mo⯑derns, I find your Practice the Proſodia of your Rules. Your ^* Poem ſhews you to be, what you ſay of Voiture, with Books well-bred: The ſtate of the Fair, tho' ſati⯑rical, is touch'd with that delicacy and gal⯑lantry, that not the Court of Auguſtus, nor—But hold, I ſhall loſe what I late⯑ly recover'd, your opinion of my Sincerity; yet I muſt ſay, 'tis as faultleſs as the Fair to whom 'tis addreſs'd, be ſhe never ſo perfect. [145] The M. G. (who it ſeems had no right no⯑tion of you, as you of him) tranſcrib'd it by lucubration: From ſome diſcourſe of yours, he thought your inclination led you to (what the men of faſhion call Learning) Pe⯑dantry; but now he ſays he has no leſs, I aſſure you, than a Veneration for you.

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

IT ſeems that my late mention of Cra⯑ſhaw, and my quotation from him, has mov'd your curioſity. I therefore ſend you the whole Author, who has held a place among my other books of this nature for ſome years; in which time having read him twice or thrice, I find him one of thoſe whoſe works may juſt deſerve reading. I take this Poet to have writ like a Gentleman, that is, at leiſure hours, and more to keep out of idleneſs, than to eſta⯑bliſh a reputation: ſo that nothing regular or juſt can be expected from him. All that regards Deſign, Form, Fable, (which is the Soul of Poetry) all that concerns ex⯑actneſs, or conſent of parts, (which is the [146] Body) will probably be wanting; only pret⯑ty conceptions, fine metaphors, glitt'ring expreſſions, and ſomething of a neat caſt of Verſe, (which are properly the dreſs, gems, or looſe ornaments of Poetry) may be found in theſe verſes. This is indeed the caſe of moſt other Poetical Writers of Miſcellanies; nor can it well be otherwiſe, ſince no man can be a true Poet, who writes for diverſion only. Theſe Authors ſhou'd be conſider'd as Verſifiers and witty Men, rather than as Poets; and under this head will only fall the Thoughts, the Expreſſion, and the Numbers. Theſe are only the pleaſing parts of Poetry, which may be judg'd of at a view, and comprehended all at once. And (to expreſs my ſelf like a Painter) their Colouring entertains the ſight, but the Lines and Life of the Picture are not to be in⯑ſpected too narrowly.

This Author form'd himſelf upon Pe⯑trarch, or rather upon Marino. His thoughts one may obſerve, in the main, are pretty; but oftentimes far fetch'd, and too often ſtrain'd and ſtiffned to make them appear the greater. For men are never ſo apt to think a thing great, as when it is odd or wonderful; and inconſiderate Authors wou'd rather be admir'd than underſtood. This ambition of ſurpriſing a reader, is the true natural cauſe of all Fuſtian, or Bombaſt in [147] Poetry. To confirm what I have ſaid you need but look into his firſt Poem of the Weeper, where the 2d, 4th, 6th, 14th, 21ſt ſtanza's are as ſublimely dull, as the 7th, 8th, 9th, 16th, 17th, 20th and 23d ſtanza's of the ſame copy, are ſoft and plea⯑ſing: And if theſe laſt want any thing, it is an eaſier and more unaffected expreſſion. The remaining thoughts in that Poem might have been ſpared, being either but re⯑petitions, or very trivial and mean. And by this example in the firſt one may gueſs at all the reſt; to be like this, a mixture of tender gentile thoughts and ſuitable expreſſions, of forc'd and inextri⯑cable conceits, and of needleſs fillers-up to the reſt. From all which it is plain, this Author writ faſt, and ſet down what came uppermoſt. A reader may skim off the froth, and uſe the clear underneath; but if he goes too deep will meet with a mouthful of dregs: either the Top or bot⯑tom of him are good for little, but what he did in his own, natural, middle-way, is beſt.

To ſpeak of his Numbers is a little diffi⯑cult, they are ſo various and irregular, and moſtly Pindarick: 'tis evident his heroic Verſe (the beſt example of which is his Muſick's Duel) is careleſly made up; but one may imagine from what it now is, [148] that had he taken more care, it had been muſical and pleaſing enough, not extream⯑ly majeſtic, but ſweet: And the time con⯑ſider'd of his writing, he was (ev'n as un⯑correct as he is) none of the worſt Verſifi⯑cators.

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

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

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

[149] As the fooling and toying with a miſtreſs is a proof of fondneſs, not diſreſpect, ſo is raillery with a friend. I know there are Prudes in friendſhip, who expect diſtance, awe and adoration, but I know you are not of them; and I for my part am no Idol⯑worſhipper, tho' a Papiſt. If I were to addreſs Jupiter himſelf in a heathen way, I fancy I ſhou'd be apt to take hold of his knee in a familiar manner, if not of his beard like Dionyſius; I was juſt going to ſay of his buttons, but I think Jupiter wore none (however I won't be poſitive to ſo nice a Critick as you, but his robe might be Subnected with a Fibula.) I know ſome Philoſophers define Laughter, A recommend⯑ing our ſelves to our own favour, by compa⯑riſon with the weakneſs of another: but I am ſure I very rarely laugh with that view, nor do I believe Children have any ſuch conſideration in their heads, when they ex⯑preſs their pleaſure this way: I laugh full as innocently as they, for the moſt part, and as ſillily. There is a difference too betwixt laughing about a thing and laugh⯑ing at a thing: One may find the inferior Man (to make a kind of caſuiſtical di⯑ſtinction) provok'd to folly at the ſight or obſervation of ſome circumſtance of a thing, when the thing itſelf appears ſolemn and auguſt to the ſuperior Man, that is, out [150] Judgment and Reaſon. Let an Ambaſſador ſpeak the beſt Senſe in the world, and de⯑port himſelf in the moſt graceful manner before a Prince, yet if the Tail of his Shirt happen (as I have known it happen to a very wiſe man) to hang out behind, more people ſhall laugh at that than attend to the other; till they recollect themſelves, and then they will not have a jot the leſs reſpect for the Miniſter. I muſt confeſs the iniquity of my countenance before you; ſeveral Muſcles of my Face ſometimes take an impertinent liberty with my Judgment, but then my Judgment ſoon riſes, and ſets all right again about my mouth: And I find I value no man ſo much, as he in whoſe ſight I have been playing the fool. I cannot be Sub-Perſona before a man I love; and not to laugh with honeſty, when Nature prompts, or Folly (which is more a ſecond Nature than any thing I know) is but a knaviſh hypocritical way of ma⯑king a mask of one's own face.—To conclude, thoſe that are my friends I laugh with, and thoſe that are not I laugh at; ſo am merry in company, and if ever I am wiſe, it is all by my ſelf. You take juſt another courſe, and to thoſe that are not your friends, are very civil, and to thoſe that are, very endearing and complaiſant: Thus when you and I meet, there will be [151] the Riſus & Blanditiae united together in converſation, as they commonly are in a verſe: But without Laughter on the one ſide, or Compliment on the other, I aſſure you I am with real eſteem

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

MR. Wycherley viſited me at the Bath in my ſickneſs, and expreſs'd much af⯑fection to me: hearing from me how wel⯑come his letters wou'd be, he preſently writ to you; in which I inſerted my Scrall, and after a ſecond. He went to Glouceſter in his way to Salop, but was diſappointed of a boat and ſo return'd to the Bath; then he ſhew'd me your anſwer to his letters, in which you ſpeak of my good nature, but I fear you found me very froward at Read⯑ing; yet you allow for my illneſs. I cou'd not poſſibly be in the ſame houſe with Mr. Wycherley, tho' I ſought it earneſtly; nor come up to town with him, he being en⯑gag'd with others; but whenever we met we [152] talk'd of you. He praiſes your ^* Poem, and even outvies me in kind expreſſions of you. As if he had not wrote two letters to you, he was for writing every Poſt; I put him in mind he had already. Forgive me this wrong, I know not whither my tal⯑king ſo much of your great humanity and tenderneſs to me, and love to him; or whe⯑ther the return of his natural diſpoſition to you, was the cauſe; but certainly you are now highly in his favour: now he will come this Winter to your houſe, and I muſt go with him; but firſt he will invite you ſpee⯑dily to town.—I arrived on Saturday laſt much wearied, yet had wrote ſooner, but was told by Mr. Gay (who has writ a pret⯑ty Poem to Lintot, and who gives you his ſervice) that you was gone from home. Lewis ſhew'd me your letter which ſet me right, and your next letter is impatiently expected by me. Mr. Wycherley came to town on Sunday laſt, and kindly ſurpriz'd me with a viſit on Monday morning. We din'd and drank together; and I ſaying, To our Loves, he reply'd, 'Tis Mr. Pope's health: He ſaid he would go to Mr. Tho⯑rold's and leave a letter for you. Tho' I cannot anſwer for the event of all this, in [153] reſpect to him; yet I can aſſure you, that when you pleaſe to come you will be moſt deſirable to me, as always by inclination ſo now by duty, who ſhall ever be

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

I Receiv'd the entertainment of your Let⯑ter the day after I had ſent you one of mine, and I am but this morning return'd hither. The news you tell me of the ma⯑ny difficulties you found in your return from Bath, gives me ſuch a kind of plea⯑ſure as we uſually take in accompanying our Friends in their mixt adventures; for me⯑thinks I ſee you labouring thro' all your inconveniencies of the rough roads, the hard ſaddle, the trotting horſe, and what not? What an agreeable ſurprize wou'd it have been to me, to have met you by pure accident, (which I was within an ace of doing) and to have carry'd you off triumphantly, ſet you on an eaſier Pad, and reliev'd the wandring Knight with a Night's lodging and rural Repaſt, at our Caſtle in the Foreſt? But theſe are only [154] the pleaſing Imaginations of a diſappointed Lover, who muſt ſuffer in a melancholy abſence yet theſe two months. In the mean time, I take up with the Muſes for want of your better company; the Muſes, Quae nobiſcum pernoctant, peregrinantur, ruſtican⯑tur. Thoſe aerial Ladies juſt diſcover e⯑nough to me of their beauties to urge my purſuit, and draw me on in a wand'ring Maze of thought, ſtill in hopes (and only in hopes) of attaining thoſe favours from 'em, which they confer on their more happy Admirers. We graſp ſome more beautiful Idea in our own brain, than our endeavours to expreſs it can ſet to the view of others; and ſtill do but la⯑bour to fall ſhort of our firſt Imagina⯑tion. The gay Colouring which Fancy gave at the firſt tranſient glance we had of it, goes off in the Execution; like thoſe various figures in the gilded clouds, which while we gaze long upon, to ſeparate the parts of each imaginary Image, the whole faints before the eye and decays into con⯑fuſion.

I am highly pleas'd with the knowledge you give me of Mr. Wycherley's preſent temper, which ſeems ſo favourable to me. I ſhall ever have ſuch a Fund of Affection for him as to be agreeable to my ſelf when I am ſo to him, and cannot but be [155] gay when he's in good humour, as the ſurface of the Earth (if you will pardon a poetical ſimilitude) is clearer or gloomier, juſt as the Sun is brighter, or more over⯑caſt.—I ſhou'd be glad to ſee the Ver⯑ſes to Lintot which you mention, for me⯑thinks, ſomething oddly agreeable may be produc'd from that ſubject.—For what remains, I am ſo well, that nothing but the aſſurance of your being ſo can make me better; and if you wou'd have me live with any ſatisfaction theſe dark days in which I cannot ſee you, it muſt be by your writing ſometimes to

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

MR. Wycherley has, I believe, ſent you two or three letters of invitation; but you, like the Fair, will be long ſolli⯑cited before you yield, to make the favour the more acceptable to the Lover. He is much yours by his talk; for that unbound⯑ed Genius which has rang'd at large like a libertine, now ſeems confin'd to you: [156] and I ſhou'd take him for your Miſtreſs too by your ſimile of the Sun and Earth: 'Tis very fine, but inverted by the application; for the gaiety of your fancy, and the droop⯑ing of his by the withdrawing of your luſtre, perſwades me it wou'd be juſter by the reverſe. Oh happy Favourite of the Muſes! how per-noctare, all night long with them? but alas! you do but toy, but skirmiſh with them, and decline a cloſe Engagement. Leave Elegy and Tranſlation to the inferior Claſs, on wbom the Muſes only glance now and then like our Win⯑ter-Sun, and then leave 'em in the dark. Think on the Dignity of Tragedy, which is of the greater Poetry, as Dennis ſays, and foil him at his other weapon, as you have done in Criticiſm. Every one wonders that a Genius like yours will not ſupport the ſinking Drama; and Mr. Wilks (tho' I think his Talent is Comedy) has expreſs'd a furious ambition to ſwell in your Buskins. We have had a poor Comedy of John⯑ſon's (not Ben) which held ſeven nights, and has got him three hundred pounds, for the town is ſharp-ſet on new Plays. In vain wou'd I fire you by Intereſt or Ambi⯑tion, when your mind is not ſuſceptible of either; tho' your Authority (ariſing from the General eſteem, like that of Pompey) muſt infallibly aſſure you of ſucceſs; for [157] which in all your wiſhes you will be at⯑tended with thoſe of

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

IF I have not writ to you ſo ſoon as I ought, let my writing now attone for the delay; as it will infallibly do, when you know what a Sacrifice I make you at this time, and that every moment my eyes are employ'd upon this paper, they are ta⯑ken off from two of the fineſt Faces in the univerſe. But indeed 'tis ſome conſolation to me to reflect, that while I but write this period, I eſcape ſome hundred fatal Darts from thoſe unerring Eyes, and about a thouſand Deaths, or better. Now you, that delight in dying, wou'd not once have dreamt of an abſent Friend in theſe cir⯑cumſtances; you that are ſo nice an Admi⯑rer of beauty, or (as a Critic wou'd ſay af⯑ter Terence) ſo elegant a Spectator of Forms? You muſt have a ſober diſh of Coffee, and a ſolitary candle at your ſide, to write an Epiſtle Lucubratory to your friend; where⯑as I can do it as well with two pair of [158] radiant lights, that outſhine the golden God of Day and ſilver Goddeſs of Night, with all the refulgent Eyes of the Firma⯑ment.—You fancy now that Sapho's eyes are two of theſe my Tapers, but it is no ſuch matter, Sir; theſe are eyes that have more perſwaſion in one glance than all Sapho's Oratory and Geſture together, let her put her body into what moving poſ⯑tures ſhe pleaſes. Indeed, indeed, my friend, you cou'd never have found ſo improper a time to tempt me with Intereſt or Ambi⯑tion: let me but have the Reputation of theſe in my keeping, and as for my own, let the Devil, or let Dennis, take it for ever. How gladly wou'd I give all I am worth, that is to ſay, my Paſtorals for one of them, and my Eſſay for the other? I wou'd lay out all my Poetry in Love; an Original for a Lady, and a Tranſlation for a waiting Maid! alas! what have I to do with Jane Gray, as long as Miſs Molly, Miſs Betty, or Miſs Patty are in this world? Shall I write of Beauties murder'd long ago, when there are thoſe at this inſtant that murder me? I'll e'en compoſe my own Tra⯑gedy, and the Poet ſhall appear in his own perſon to move compaſſion: 'Twill be far more effectual than Bays's entring with a rope about his neck, and the world will [159] own, there never was a more miſerable Ob⯑ject brought upon the ſtage.

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

LETTER I.

I Send you the book of Rudiments of Drawing, which you were pleas'd to command, and think my ſelf oblig'd to inform you at the ſame time of one of the many excellencies you poſſeſs without knowing of 'em. You are but too good a Painter already; and no Picture of Raphael's was ever ſo beautiful, as that which you have form'd in a certain heart of my ac⯑quaintance. Indeed it was but juſt that the [164] fineſt lines in nature ſhou'd be drawn upon the moſt durable ground, and none cou'd ever be met with that wou'd ſo readily re⯑ceive, or ſo faithfully retain them, as this Heart. I may boldly ſay of it that you will not find its fellow in all the Parts of the Body in this book. But I muſt com⯑plain to you of my hand, which is an ar⯑rant traitor to my heart; for having been copying your picture from thence and from Kneller theſe three days, it has done all poſ⯑ſible injury to the fineſt Face that ever was made, and to the livelieſt Image that ever was drawn. I have imagination enough in your abſence, to trace ſome reſemblance of you; but I have been ſo long us'd to loſe my judgment at the ſight of you, that 'tis paſt my power to correct it by the life, Your Picture ſeems leaſt like when plac'd before your eyes, and contrary to all other pictures receives a manifeſt diſadvantage by being ſet in the faireſt Light in the world. The Painters are a very vain gene⯑ration, and have a long time pretended to rival Nature; but to own the truth to you, ſhe made ſuch a finiſh'd piece about three and twenty years ago, (I beg your pardon Madam, I proteſt I meant but two and twenty) that 'tis in vain for them any lon⯑ger to contend with her. I know You in⯑deed made one ſomething like it, betwixt [165] five and ſix years paſt: 'Twas a little girl, done with abundance of ſpirit and life: and wants nothing but time to be an ad⯑mirable piece: But not to flatter your work, I don't think 'twill ever come up to what your Father made. However I wou'd not diſcourage you; 'tis certain you have a ſtrange happineſs, in making fine things of a ſudden and at a ſtroke, with incredible eaſe and pleaſure.

LETTER II.

IT is too much a rule in this town, that when a Lady has once done a man a favour, he is to be rude to her ever after. It becomes our Sex to take upon us twice as much as yours allows us: By this me⯑thod I may write to you moſt impudent⯑ly, becauſe you once anſwer'd me modeſt⯑ly; and if you ſhou'd never do me that honour for the future, I am to think (like a true Coxcomb) that your ſilence gives conſent. Perhaps you wonder why this is addreſs'd to you rather than to Mrs. M [...] with whom I have the right of an old acquaintance, whereas you are a [166] fine Lady, have bright eyes, &c. Firſt Madam, I make choice of you rather than of your Mother, becauſe you are younger than your Mother. Secondly, becauſe I fancy you ſpell better, as having been at ſchool later. Thirdly, becauſe you have nothing to do but to write if you pleaſe, and poſſibly it may keep you from em⯑ploying your ſelf worſe: it may ſave ſome honeſt neighbouring Gentleman from three or four of your peſtilent glances. Caſt your eyes upon Paper, Madam, there you may look innocently: Men are ſeducing, books are dangerous, the amorous one's ſoften you, and the godly one's give you the ſpleen: If you look upon trees, they claſp in em⯑braces; birds and beaſts make love; the Sun is too warm for your blood, the Moon melts you into yeilding and melancholy. Therefore I ſay once more, caſt your eyes upon Paper, and read only ſuch Letters as I write, which convey no darts, no flames, but proceed from Innocence of ſoul, and ſimplicity of heart. However, I can al⯑low you a Bonnet lined with green for your eyes, but take care you don't tarniſh it with ogling too fiercely: I am told, that hand you ſhade your ſelf with this ſhining weather, is tann'd pretty much, only with being carried over thoſe Eyes—thank God I am an hundred miles off from them— [167] Upon the whole I wou'd ſooner truſt your hand than your Eyes for doing me miſ⯑chief; and tho' I doubt not ſome part of the rancour and iniquity of your heart will drop into your pen, yet ſince it will not attack me on a ſudden and unprepar'd, ſince I may have time while I break open your letter to croſs my ſelf and ſay a Pater⯑noſter, I hope Providence will protect me from all you can attempt at this diſtance. Mr. B [...] tells me you are at this hour as handſome as an Angel, for my part I have forgot your face ſince two winters, I don't know whether you are tall or ſhort, nor can tell in any reſpect what ſort of creature you are, only that you are a very miſchie⯑vous one whom I ſhall ever pray to be defended from. But when Mr. B [...] ſends me word you have the ſmall pox, a good many freckles, or are very pale, I will deſire him to give thanks for it in your Pa⯑riſh Church, which as ſoon as he ſhall inform me he has done I will make you a viſit at—without Armour: I will eat any thing you give me without ſuſpi⯑cion of poyſon, take you by the hand without gloves, nay venture to follow you into an arbour without calling the com⯑pany. This Madam is the top of my wiſhes, but how differently are our deſires inclined! You ſigh out, in the ardour of [168] your heart, Oh Play-houſes, Parks, Ope⯑ra's, Aſſemblies, London! I cry with rap⯑ture, Oh Woods, Gardens, Rookeries, Fiſh⯑ponds, Arbours! Mrs. Betty M [...]

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

THE Wits would ſay, that this muſt needs be a dull Letter, becauſe it is a marry'd one. I am afraid indeed you will find what Spirit there is muſt be on the ſide of the Wife, and the Husband's part as uſual will prove the dulleſt. What an unequal Pair are put together in this ſheet? in which tho' we ſin, it is you muſt do penance. When you look on both ſides of this paper, you may fancy that our words (according to a Scripture expreſſion) are as a Two-edg'd Sword, whereof Lady M. is the ſhining blade and I only the Handle. But I can't proceed without ſo far mortifying Sir Robert as to tell him, that ſhe writes this purely in obedience to [169] me, and that it is but one of thoſe honours a Husband receives for the ſake of his Wife.

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

You will think I forget my ſelf, and am not writing to you; but let me tell you, 'tis you forget your ſelf in that thought, for you are almoſt the only Woman to whom one can ſafely addreſs the praiſes of another. Beſides can you imagine a Man of my importance ſo ſtupid, as to ſay fine things to you before your Husband? Let us ſee how far Lady M. her ſelf dares do any thing like it, with all the wit and addreſs ſhe is miſtreſs of. If Sir Robert can be ſo ignorant (now he is left to himſelf in the country) to imagine any ſuch matter, let him know from me, that here in town [170] every thing that Lady ſays, is taken for Sa⯑tire. For my part, every body knows it is my conſtant practice to ſpeak Truth, and I never do it more than when I call my ſelf

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

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

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

I ſhall entertain you with the moſt reign⯑ing Curioſity in the town, I mean a Perſon who is equally the toaſt of gentlemen and ladies, and is at preſent more univerſally admired than any of either Sex: You know [171] few proficients have a greater genius for Monſters than my ſelf; but I never taſted a monſter to that degree I have done this creature: It was not, like other monſters, produced in the Deſarts of Arabia, nor came from the country of the Great Mo⯑gul, but is the production of the joint-en⯑deavours of a Kentiſh Parſon and his Spouſe, who intended in the ſingleneſs of heart to have begot a chriſtian but of one ſex, and providence has ſent them one of two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER V.

YOU are to underſtand, Madam, that my paſſion for your fair ſelf and your ſiſter, has been divided with the moſt won⯑derful regularity in the world. Even from my infancy I have been in love with one after the other of you, week by week, and my journey to Bath fell out in the three hundred ſeventy ſixth week of the Reign of my Sovereign Lady Sylvia. At the [175] preſent writing hereof it is the three hun⯑dred eighty ninth week of the Reign of your moſt Serene Majeſty, in whoſe ſervice I was liſted ſome weeks before I beheld your Siſter. This information will account for my writing to either of you hereafter, as either ſhall happen to be Queen-Regent at that time.

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

Yet let me tell her, ſhe will never look ſo finely while ſhe is upon earth, as ſhe would here in the water. It is not here as in moſt other inſtances, for thoſe Ladies that would pleaſe extremely, muſt go out of their own element. She does not make half ſo good a figure on horſeback as Chri⯑ſtina Queen of Sweden; but were ſhe once ſeen in the Bath, no man wou'd part with [176] her for the beſt Mermaid in chriſtendom. You know I have ſeen you often, I perfectly know how you look in black and in white; I have experienc'd the utmoſt you can do in colours; but all your movements, all your graceful ſteps, deſerve not half the glory you might here attain, of a moving and eaſy behaviour in Buckram: Some⯑thing between ſwimming and walking, free enough, and more modeſtly-half-naked, than you can appear any where elſe. You have conquer'd enough already by land; ſhow your ambition, and vanquiſh alſo by water. We have no pretty Admirals on theſe Seas, but muſt ſtrike ſails to your white Flags, were they once hoiſted up. The Buckram I mention is a dreſs particu⯑larly uſeful at this time, when we are told the Princeſs is bringing over the faſhion of German Ruffs: You ought to uſe your ſelves to ſome degrees of ſtiffneſs beforehand. And when our Ladies chins have been tickled a-while with ſtarch'd muſlin and wire, they may poſſibly bear the bruſh of a German beard and whisker.

I cou'd tell you a delightful ſtory of Dr P. but want room to diſplay it in all its ſhining circumſtances. He had heard it was an excellent cure for Love, to kiſs the Aunt of the perſon beloved, who is gene⯑rally of years and experience enough to [177] damp the fierceſt flame: he try'd this courſe in his paſſion, and kiſs'd Mrs. E [...] at Mr. D [...]'s, but he ſays it will not do, and that he loves you as much as ever.

LETTER VI.
To the Same.

IF you ask how the waters agree with me, I muſt tell you, ſo very well, that I queſtion how you and I ſhould agree if we were in a room by our ſelves? Mrs. T. has honeſtly aſſured me, that but for ſome whims which ſhe can't entirely conquer, ſhe would go and ſee the world with me in man's cloaths. Even you, Madam, I fancy (if you wou'd not partake in our adventures) would wait our coming in at the evening with ſome impatience, and be well enough pleas'd to hear 'em by the fire-ſide. That would be better than reading Romances, unleſs Lady M. would be our Hiſtorian; for as ſhe is married, ſhe has probably lei⯑ſure hours in the night-time, to write or do what ſhe will in. What raiſes theſe deſires in me, is an acquaintance I am be⯑ginning [178] with my Lady Sandwich, who has all the ſpirit of the laſt age, and all the gay experience of a pleaſurable life. It were as ſcandalous an omiſſion to come to the Bath and not to ſee my Lady Sand⯑wich, as it had formerly been to have tra⯑vell'd to Rome without viſiting the Queen of Sweden. She is, in a word, the beſt thing this Country has to boaſt of; and as ſhe has been all that a woman of ſpirit could be, ſo ſhe ſtill continues that eaſy and independent creature that a ſenſible woman always will be.

I muſt tell you a truth, which is not however much to my credit. I never thought ſo much of your ſelf and your ſiſter, as ſince I have been fourſcore miles diſtance from you. In the Foreſt I look'd upon you as good neighbours, at London as pretty kind of women, but here as divinities, angels, goddeſſes, or what you will. In the ſame manner I never knew at what a rate I valu'd your life, till you were upon the point of dying. If Mrs. T. and you will but fall very ſick every ſeaſon, I ſhall certainly die for you. Seriouſly I value you both ſo much that I eſteem others much the leſs for your ſakes; you have robb'd me of the pleaſure of eſteeming a thouſand pretty qualities in them, by ſhowing me ſo many finer in [179] your ſelves. There are but two things in the world which could make you indifferent to me, which I believe you are not capa⯑ble of, I mean Ill-nature and malice. I have ſeen enough of you not to overlook any Frailty you cou'd have, and nothing leſs than a Vice can make me like you leſs. I expect you ſhou'd diſcover by my con⯑duct towards you both, that this is true, and that therefore you ſhould pardon a thouſand things in me for that one diſ⯑poſition. Expect nothing from me but truths and freedom, and I ſhall always be thought by you what I always am,

LETTER VII.
To the Same.

I Return'd home as ſlow and as contem⯑plative after I had parted from you, as my Lord—retired from the Court and Glory to his Country ſeat and Wife, a week ago. I found here a diſmal deſ⯑ponding letter from the ſon of another [180] great Courtier who expects the ſame fate, and who tells me the great one's of the earth will now take it very kindly of the mean one's, if they will favour them with a viſit by Day-light. With what Joy wou'd they lay down all their ſchemes of glory, did they but know you have the generoſity to drink their healths once a day, as ſoon as they are fallen? Thus the unhappy by the ſole merit of their misfortunes, become the care of heaven and you. I intended to have put this laſt into Verſe, but in this age of Ingratitude my beſt friends forſake me, I mean my rhymes.

I deſire Mrs. P [...] to ſtay her ſtomach with theſe half hundred Plays, till I can procure her a Romance big enough to ſatis⯑ſy her great Soul with Adventures. As for Novels, I fear ſhe can depend upon none from me but That of my Life, which I am ſtill, as I have been, contriving all poſ⯑ſible methods to ſhorten, for the greater eaſe both of my Hiſtorian and the Reader. May ſhe believe all the paſſion and tender⯑neſs expreſs'd in theſe Romances to be but a faint image of what I bear her, and may you (who read nothing) take the ſame truth upon hearing it from me; you will both injure me very much, if you don't think me a truer friend than ever any ro⯑mantick [181] lover, or any imitator of their ſtyle could be.

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

LETTER VIII.

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

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

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

You may ſoon have your wiſh, to enjoy the gallant ſights of armies, incampments, ſtandards waving over your brother's corn⯑fields, and the pretty windings of the Thames about M [...] ſtain'd with the blood of men. Your barbarity, which I have heard ſo long exclaim'd againſt in town and coun⯑try, may have its fill of deſtruction. I would not add one circumſtance uſual in all deſcriptions of calamity, that of the many Rapes committed or to be commit⯑ted, upon thoſe unfortunate women that delight in war. But God forgive me—in this martial age, if I could, I would buy a regiment for your ſake and Mrs. P [...]'s and ſome others, whom I have [183] cauſe to fear no fair means will prevail upon.

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

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

By our lateſt accounts from Dukeſtreet, Weſtminſter, the converſion of T. G. Eſq; is reported in a manner ſomewhat more particular: That upon the ſeizure of his Flanders-Mares, he ſeem'd more than ordi⯑narily diſturb'd for ſome hours, ſent for his ghoſtly father, and reſolv'd to bear his [184] loſs like a chriſtian; till about the hours of ſeven or eight the coaches and horſes of ſeveral of the Nobility paſſing by his win⯑dow towards Hyde-Park, he could no lon⯑ger endure the diſappointment, but inſtant⯑ly went out, took the Oath of Abjuration, and recover'd his dear Horſes which carry'd him in triumph to the Ring. The poor diſtreſſed Roman Catholicks, now un-hors'd and un-charioted, cry out with the Pſalmiſt, ſome in Chariots and ſome in Horſes, but we will invocate the name of the Lord.

LETTER IX.

I Will not deſcribe Bl [...] in particular, not to foreſtall your expectations before you ſee it: Only take a ſhort account, which I will hazard my little credit is no unjuſt one. I never ſaw ſo great a thing with ſo much littleneſs in it: I think the Architect built it entirely in compliance to the taſte of its Owners: for it is the moſt inhoſpitable thing imaginable, and the moſt ſelfiſh: it has, like their own hearts, no room for ſtrangers, and no reception for any perſon of ſuperior quality to themſelves. [185] There are but juſt two Apartments, for the Maſter and Miſtreſs, below; and but two apartments above, (very much inferior to them) in the whole Houſe. When you look upon the Outſide, you'd think it large enough for a Prince; when you ſee the Inſide, it is too little for a Subject; and has not conveniency to lodge a common family. It is a houſe of Entries and Paſ⯑ſages; among which there are three Vi⯑ſta's through the whole, very uſeleſsly hand⯑ſome. There is what might have been a fine Gallery, but ſpoil'd by two Arches towards the End of it, which take away the ſight of ſeveral of the windows. There are two ordinary ſtair-caſes inſtead of one great one. The beſt things within the houſe, are the Hall, which is indeed noble and well-proportion'd; and the cellars and offices under-ground, which are the moſt commodious, and the beſt contrived, of the whole. At the top of the building are ſeveral Cupola's and little Turrets that have but an ill effect, and make the building look at once fini⯑cal and heavy. What ſeems of the beſt taſte, is that Front towards the gardens, which is not yet loaded with theſe tur⯑rets. The two Sides of the building are intirely ſpoil'd by two monſtrous bow⯑windows [186] which ſtand juſt in the middle, inſtead of doors: And as if it were fatal that ſome trifling littleneſs ſhould every where deſtroy the grandeur, there are in the chief front two ſemicircles of a lower ſtructure than the reſt, that cut off the angles, and look as if they were purpoſe⯑ly deſign'd to hide a loftier and nobler piece of building, the top of which ap⯑pears above them. In a word, the whole is a moſt expenſive abſurdity; and the Duke of Shrewsbury gave a true character of it, when he ſaid, it was a great Quarry of Stones above ground.

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

LETTER X.

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

Firſt then I went by water to Hampton-Court, unattended by all but my own virtues; which were not of ſo modeſt a nature as to keep themſelves, or me, con⯑ceal'd: For I met the Prince with all his Ladies on horſeback, coming from hunt⯑ing. Mrs. B [...] and Mrs. L [...] took me into protection (contrary to the laws againſt harbouring Papiſts) and gave me a dinner, with ſomething I lik'd better, an opportunity of converſation with Mrs. H [...]. We all agreed that the life of a Maid of [188] Honour, was of all things the moſt miſe⯑rable; and wiſh'd that every woman who envy'd it had a ſpecimen of it. To eat Weſtphalia-Ham in a morning, ride over hedges and ditches on borrow'd Hacks, come home in the heat of the day with a feaver, and (what is worſe a hundred times) with a red mark in the forehead from an uneaſy hat; all this may qualify them to make excellent wives for Fox-hunters, and bear abundance of ruddy-complexion'd children. As ſoon as they can wipe off the ſweat of the day, they muſt ſimper an hour and catch cold, in the Princeſs's apartment; from thence (as Shakeſpear has it) To dinner, with what ap⯑petite they may—and after that, 'till mid⯑night, walk, work, or think, which they pleaſe? I can eaſily believe, no lone-houſe in Wales, with a Mountain and a Rooke⯑ry, is more contemplative than this Court; and as a proof of it I need only tell you, Mrs. L [...] walk'd all alone with me three or four Hours by moonlight, and we met no creature of any Quality but the King, who gave audience to the Vice-Chamberlain, all alone, under the garden-wall.

In ſhort, I heard of no Ball, Aſſembly, Baſſet-Table, or any place where two or three were gathered together, except Ma⯑dam [189] Kilmanſegg's, to which I had the ho⯑nour to be invited, and the grace to ſtay away.

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

This day I receiv'd a Letter with certain advices where women were to be met with at Oxford. I defy them and all their works: I love no meat but Ortolans, and no wo⯑man but you: tho' indeed that's no pro⯑per compariſon, but for fat Dutcheſs's; for to love You, is as if one ſhould wiſh to eat Angels, or to drink Cherubim⯑broth.

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

Your Doctor is gone the way of all his patients, and was hard put to it how to [190] diſpoſe of an eſtate miſerably unweildy, and ſplendidly unuſeful to him. Sir Sa⯑muel Garth ſays, that for Ratcliffe to leave a Library, was as if a Eunuch ſhould found a Seraglio. Dr. Sh [...] lately told a Lady he wonder'd ſhe could be alive after him: ſhe made anſwer She wonder'd at it for two reaſons, becauſe Dr. Ratcliffe was dead and becauſe Dr. Sh [...] was living. I am

LETTER XI.
To the Same.

NOthing could have more of that me⯑lancholy which once uſed to pleaſe me, than my laſt days journey; for after ha⯑ving paſs'd through my favourite Woods in the foreſt, with a thouſand Reveries of paſt pleaſures: I rid over hanging hills, whoſe tops were edged with Groves, and whoſe Feet water'd with winding rivers, liſtning to the falls of Cataracts below, and the murmur⯑ing of the winds above: The gloomy ver⯑dure of Stonor ſucceeded to theſe; and then the ſhades of the evening overtook [191] me. The Moon roſe in the cleareſt sky I ever ſaw, by whoſe ſolemn light I paced on ſlowly, without company, or any interrup⯑tion to the range of my thoughts. About a mile before I reach'd Oxford, all the bells toll'd in different notes; the clocks of every colledge anſwer'd one another; and ſounded forth (ſome in a deeper, ſome a ſofter tone) that it was eleven at night. All this was no ill preparation to the life I have led ſince, among thoſe old walls, venerable galleries, ſtone portico's, ſtudious walks, and ſolitary ſcenes of the Univer⯑ſity. I wanted nothing but a black gown and a ſalary, to be as meer a bookworm as any there. I conform'd my ſelf to the Col⯑lege hours, was roll'd up in books, lay in one of the moſt ancient, dusky parts of the Univerſity, and was as dead to the world as any Hermit of the deſart. If any thing was alive or awake in me, it was a little Vanity; ſuch as even thoſe good men us'd to enter⯑tain, when the Monks of their own Order extoll'd their piety and abſtraction. For I found my ſelf receiv'd with a ſort of reſpect, which this idle part of mankind, the learn⯑ed, pay to their own ſpecies; who are as conſiderable here, as the buſy, the gay, and the ambitious are in your world.

Indeed I was treated in ſuch a manner, that I could not but ſometimes ask my ſelf [192] in my mind, what College I was founder of, or what Library I had built? Methinks I do very ill to return to the world again, to leave the only place where I make a figure, and from ſeeing my ſelf ſeated with dignity in the moſt conſpicuous ſhelves of a libra⯑ry, put my ſelf into the abject poſture of lying at a Lady's feet in St. James's Square.

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

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

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

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

YOU are by this time ſatisfy'd how much the tenderneſs of one man of merit is to be prefer'd to the addreſſes of a thouſand. And by this time, the Gentle⯑man you have made choice of is ſenſible, how great is the joy of having all thoſe charms and good qualities which have pleas'd ſo many, now apply'd to pleaſe one only. It was but juſt, that the ſame Vir⯑tues which gave you reputation, ſhould give you happineſs; and I can wiſh you no greater, than that you may receive it [194] in as high a degree your ſelf, as ſo much good humour muſt infallibly give it to your husband.

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

LETTER XIII.

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

I cannot be ſo good a chriſtian as to be willing (tho' no leſs than God ſhould order it) to reſign my own happineſs here for hers in another life. I do more than wiſh for her ſafety, for every wiſh I make I find immediately chang'd into a prayer, [196] and a more fervent one than I had learn'd to make till now.

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

LETTER XIV.

IT is with infinite ſatisfaction I am made acquainted that your brother will at laſt prove your relation, and has en⯑tertain'd ſuch ſentiments as become him in your concern. I have been prepar'd for this by degrees, having ſeveral times re⯑ceiv'd from Mrs. [...] that which is one of the greateſt pleaſures, the knowledge [197] that others enter'd into my own ſentiments concerning you. I ever was of opinion that you wanted no more to be vindicated than to be known; and like Truth, cou'd appear no where but you muſt conquer. As I have often condol'd with you in your ad⯑verſities, ſo I have a right which but few can pretend to, of congratulating on the proſpect of your better fortunes; and I hope for the future to have the concern I have felt for you overpaid in your felici⯑ties. Tho' you modeſtly ſay the world has left you, yet I verily believe it is coming to you again as faſt as it can: For to give the world its due, it is always very fond of Merit when 'tis paſt its power to op⯑poſe it. Therefore if you ſhould take it into favour again upon its repentance, and continue in it, you would be ſo far from leading what is commonly call'd an un⯑ſettled life, (and what you with too much unjuſt ſeverity call a Vagabond Life,) that the wiſe cou'd only look upon you as a Prince in a progreſs, who travels to gain the affections he has not, or to fix thoſe he already has; which he effectually does wherever he ſhews himſelf. But if you are reſolv'd in revenge to rob the world of ſo much example as you may afford it, I be⯑lieve your deſign will be vain; for even in a Monaſtery your devotions cannot carry [198] you ſo far toward the next world as to make This loſe the ſight of you, but you'll be like a Star, that while it is fix'd to Hea⯑ven ſhines over all the Earth.

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

LETTER XV.

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

The freedom I ſhall uſe in this manner of thinking aloud, may indeed prove me a fool; but it will prove me one of the beſt ſort of fools, the honeſt ones. And ſince what folly we have, will infallibly buoy up [200] at one time or other in ſpight of all our art to keep it down; methinks 'tis almoſt fooliſh to take any pains to conceal it at all, and almoſt knaviſh to do it from thoſe that are our friends. If Momus's project had taken, of having windows in our breaſts, I ſhou'd be for carrying it further, and making thoſe windows, caſements; that while a man ſhow'd his heart to all the world, he might do ſomething more for his friends, even give it them, and truſt it to their handling. I think I love you as well as King Herod did Herodias (tho' I never had ſo much as one dance with you) and would as freely give you my heart in a diſh, as he did another's head. But ſince Jupiter will not have it ſo, I muſt be con⯑tent to ſhew my taſte in life, as I do my taſte in painting, by loving to have as lit⯑tle drapery as poſſible. Not that I think every body naked altogether ſo fine a ſight, as your ſelf and a few more would be; but becauſe 'tis good to uſe people to what they muſt be acquainted with; and there will certainly come ſome day of judgment or other, to uncover every ſoul of us. We ſhall then ſee that the Prudes of this world ow'd all their fine figure only to their being ſtraiter-lac'd than the reſt; and that they are naturally as arrant Squabs as thoſe that went more looſe, nay as thoſe [201] that never girded their lions at all.—But a particular reaſon that may engage you to write your thoughts the more freely to me, is, that I am confident no one knows you better; for I find, when others expreſs their thoughts of you, they fall ve⯑ry ſhort of mine, and I know at the ſame time theirs are ſuch as you would think ſufficiently in your favour.

You may eaſily imagine how deſirous I muſt be of a correſpondence with a per⯑ſon, who had taught me long ago that it was as poſſible to eſteem at firſt ſight, as to love: and who has ſince ruin'd me for all the converſation of one ſex, and almoſt all the friendſhip of the other. I am but too ſenſible thro' your means, that the company of men wants a certain ſoftneſs to recommend it, and that of women wants every thing elſe. How often have I been quietly going to take poſſeſſion of that tranquility and indolence I had ſo long found in the country; when one evening of your converſation has ſpoil'd me for a Solitaire! Books have loſt their ef⯑fect upon me, and I was convinced ſince I ſaw you, that there is one alive wiſer than all the Sages: a plague of female wiſ⯑dom! it makes a man ten times more un⯑eaſy than his own. What is very ſtrange, Virtue her ſelf, (when you have the dreſ⯑ſing [202] her) is too amiable for one's repoſe. You might have done a world of good in your time, if you had allow'd half the fine gentlemen who have ſeen you to have con⯑verſed with you; they would have been ſtrangely Bitt, while they thought only to fall in love with a fair Lady, and you had bewitch'd them with Reaſon and Virtue (two Beauties that the very fops pretend to no acquaintance with.)

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

Let me begin then, Madam, by asking you a queſtion, that may enable me to judge better of my own conduct than moſt [203] inſtances of my Life. In what manner did I behave the laſt hour I ſaw you? What degree of concern did I diſcover when I felt a misfortune which I hope you will never feel, that of parting from what one moſt eſteems? for if my part⯑ing look'd but like that of your common acquaintance, I am the greateſt of all the hypocrites that ever Decency made.

I never ſince paſs by your houſe but with the ſame ſort of melancholy that we feel upon ſeeing the Tomb of a friend, which only ſerves to put us in mind of what we have loſt. I reflect upon the circumſtances of your departure which I was there a witneſs of (your behaviour in what I may call your laſt moments) and I indulge a gloomy kind of pleaſure in thinking that thoſe laſt moments were gi⯑ven to me. I would fain imagine this was not accidental, but proceeded from a penetration which I know you have, in finding out the truth of people's ſenti⯑ments; and that you were willing, the laſt man that would have parted from you, ſhould be that laſt that did. I really look'd upon you juſt as the friends of Curtius might have done upon that Hero, at the inſtant when he was devoting himſelf to Glory, and running to be loſt out of ge⯑neroſity. I was oblig'd to admire your re⯑ſolution, [204] in as great a degree as I deplo⯑red it; and had only to wiſh, that hea⯑ven would reward ſo much Virtue as was to be taken from us, with all the felicities it could enjoy elſewhere!

LETTER XVI.

YOU will find me more troubleſome than ever Brutus did his Evil Genius; I ſhall meet you in more places than one, and often refreſh your memory be⯑fore you arrive at your Philippi. Theſe ſhadows of me (my letters) will be haunt⯑ing you from time to time, and putting you in mind of the man who has really ſuffer'd very much from you, and whom you have robb'd of the moſt valuable of his enjoyments, your converſation. The advantage of hearing your ſentiments by diſcovering mine, was what I always thought a great one, and even worth the riſque I generally run of manifeſting my own indiſcretion. You then rewarded my truſt in you the moment it was given, [205] for you pleas'd or inform'd me the minute you anſwer'd. I muſt now be contented with more ſlow returns. However 'tis ſome pleaſure, that your thoughts upon Paper will be a more laſting poſſeſſion to me, and that I ſhall no longer have cauſe to complain of a loſs I have ſo often re⯑gretted, that of any thing you ſaid, which I happen'd to forget. In earneſt, Madam, if I were to write to you as often as I think of you, it muſt be every day of my life. I attend you in ſpirit thro' all your ways, I follow you thro' every ſtage in books of Travels, and fear for you thro' whole folio's; you make me ſhrink at the paſt dangers of dead travellers; and if I read of a delightful proſpect, or agreeable place, I hope it yet ſubſiſts to pleaſe you. I enquire the roads, the amuſements, the company, of every town and country thro' which you paſs, with as much diligence, as if I were to ſet out next week to over⯑take you. In a word, no one can have you more conſtantly in mind, not even your guardian Angel (if you have one) and I am willing to indulge ſo much Popery, as to fancy ſome Being takes care of you, who knows your value better than you do your ſelf: I am willing to think that hea⯑ven never gave ſo much ſelf-neglect and reſolution to a woman, to occaſion her [206] calamity, but am pious enough to believe thoſe qualities muſt be intended to conduce to her benefit and her glory.

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

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

I am ſure I may defend the truth, tho' perhaps not the virtue, of this declaration. One is ignorant, or doubtful at beſt, of the Merits of differing religions and go⯑vernments: but private virtues one can be ſure of. I therefore know what particu⯑lar perſon has deſert enough to merit be⯑ing happier than others, but not what Nation deſerves to conquer or oppreſs an⯑other. You will ſay, I am not Publick⯑ſpirited; let it be ſo, I may have too ma⯑ny [207] tenderneſſes, particular regards, or nar⯑row views; but at the ſame time I am certain that whoever wants theſe, can ne⯑ver have a Publick-ſpirit; for (as a friend of mine ſays) how is it poſſible for that man to love twenty thouſand people, who never loved one?

I communicated your letter to Mr. C [...] he thinks of you and talks of you as he ought, I mean as I do, and one always thinks that to be juſt as it ought. His health and mine are now ſo good, that we wiſh with all our ſouls you were a witneſs of it. We never meet but we la⯑ment over you: we pay a kind of week⯑ly rites to your memory, where we ſtrow flowers of rhetorick, and offer ſuch liba⯑tions to your name as it would be pro⯑phane to call Toaſting. The Duke of B [...]m is ſometimes the High Prieſt of your praiſes; and upon the whole, I believe there are as few Men that are not ſorry at your departure, as Women that are; for you know moſt of your Sex want good ſenſe, and therefore muſt want ge⯑neroſity: You have ſo much of both, that I am ſure you pardon them; for one can⯑not but forgive whatever one deſpiſes. For my part I hate a great many women for your ſake, and undervalue all the reſt. 'Tis you are to blame, and may God re⯑venge [208] it upon you, with all thoſe bleſſings and earthly proſperities which the Divines tell us are the cauſe of our Perdition; for if he makes you happy in this world, I dare truſt your own virtue to do it in the other. I am,