To Lady RANELAGH at Bath.

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

To Lady RANELAGH.

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

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

II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I make no excuse for this long Let­ter, it is in Compliance of your Re­quest, and I desire your Acceptance of my Acknowledgments for all Favours conferred on,

III.

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

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

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

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

IV.

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

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

To Mr. CURLL.

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

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

II.
To Mr. CURLL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr POPE to Dr SWIFT.

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

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

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

To Dr ARBUTHNOT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bishop of ROCHESTER to Mr. POPE.

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

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

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

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

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

The Answer.

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

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

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

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

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

Mr POPE to the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

Or thus—

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

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Chancellor HARCOURT to Mr POPE.

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

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

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

The Bishop of ROCHESTER to Mr POPE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the same.

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

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

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

Mr POPE to Bishop ATTERBURY.

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

Mr POPE to the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

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

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

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

From the same.

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

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

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

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

Mr POPE to the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Bishop of ROCHESTER.

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

The Answer.

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

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

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

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

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

To the same.

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

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

Believe me, my Lord, I look upon you as a Spirit enter'd into another life, as one just upon the edge of immortality, where the Passions and Affections are much more exalted, and where you ought to despise all little views, and all mean Retrospects. No­thing is worth your looking back; there­fore [Page 126] fore look forward, and make (as you can) the world look after you: But take care, that it be not with Pity, but with Esteem and Admiration.

I am with the greatest sincerity, and passion for your Fame as well as Happi­ness,

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

The Duke of BUCKINGHAM to Mr POPE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the same.

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

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

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

I Have read your letter over and over with delight. By your description of the town, I imagine it to lie under some great enchantment, and am very much concerned for you and all my friends in it. I am the more afraid, imagining since you do not fly those horrible monsters, rapine, dissimula­tion, and luxury, that a magic circle is drawn about you, and you cannot escape. We are here in the country in quite another world, surrounded with blessings and plea­sures, without any occasion of exercising our irascible faculties; indeed we cannot boast of good-breeding and the art of life, but yet we don't live unpleasantly in primitive simpli­city and good humour. The fashions of the town affect us but just like a raree-show, we have a curiosity to peep at 'em and nothing more. What you call pride, prodigality, and vain-glory, we cannot find in pomp and splendour at this distance; it appears to us a fine glittering scene, which if we don't envy you, we think you happier than we are in enjoying it. Whatever you may think to persuade us of the humility of virtue, and her appearing in rags amongst you, we can ne­ver [Page 153] believe; our uninform'd minds represent her so noble to us, that we necessarily annex splendour to her; and we could as soon ima­gine the order of things inverted, and that there is no man in the moon, as believe the contrary. I can't forbear telling you we in­deed read the spoils of Rapine as boys do the English rogue, and hug our selves full as much over it; yet our roses are not without thorns. Pray give me the pleasure of hear­ing (when you are at leisure) how soon I may expect to see the next volume of Ho­mer.

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

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

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

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

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

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

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

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

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

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

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

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

Mr DIGBY to Mr POPE.

I Can't return from so agreeable an enter­tainment as yours in the country with­out acknowledging it. I thank you heartily for the new Idea of life you there gave me; it will remain long with me, for it is very strongly impressed upon my imagination. I repeat the memory of it often, and shall va­lue that faculty of the mind now more than ever, for the power it gives me of being en­tertained in your villa, when absent from it. As you are possessed of all the pleasures of the country, and as I think of a right mind. what can I wish you but health to enjoy them? This I so heartily do, that I should be even glad to hear your good old mother might lose all her present pleasures in her unwearied care of you, by your better health convincing her it is unnecessary.

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

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

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

To the Hon. EDWARD DIGBY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Mr FENTON.

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

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

To JABEZ HUGHES, Esq

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

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

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

To Mr ^*—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To the Earl of OXFORD.

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

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

The Earl of OXFORD to Mr POPE.

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

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

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

Mr GAY to Mr POPE.

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

Mr POPE to Mr GAY.

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

To the same.

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

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

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

To the same.

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

The death of Wilks leaves Cibber with­out a colleague, absolute and perpetual Dictator of the stage; tho' indeed while he lived, he was but as Bibulus to Caesar. However Ambition finds something to be gratify'd with, in a mere name; or else, God have mercy upon poor Ambition! Here is a dead vacation at present, no politics at court, no trade in town, no­thing stirring but poetry. Every man, and every boy, is writing verses on the Royal Hermitage: I hear the Queen is at a loss which to prefer, but for my own part, I like none so well as Mr Poyntz's in Latin. You would oblige my Lady Suffolk if you tried your muse on this occasion: I am sure I would do as much for the Duchess of Queensberry, if she desir'd it. Several of your friends assure me it is expected from you: one should not bear in mind all one's life, any little indignity received from a Court; and therefore I'm in hopes neither her Grace will hinder you, nor you decline it.

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

Mr GAY to Mr POPE.

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

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

Mr POPE to Mr GAY.

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

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

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

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

To —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Earl of PETERBOROW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr POPE to the Earl of PETERBOROW.

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

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

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

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

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

From the Earl of PETERBOROW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the same.

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

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

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

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

From the same.

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

And whereas it is apparent, in this pro­testant land most especially under the care of divine providence, that nothing can suc­ceed or come to a happy issue but by Bri­bery; therefore let me know what he ex­pects to comply with my desires, and it shall be remitted unto him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Dean SWIFT to the Earl of PETERBOROW.

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

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

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

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

To Lord BATHURST.

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

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

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

Sir WILLIAM TRUMBULL to Mr POPE.

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

To a LADY Abroad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Mrs BLOUNT.

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

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

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

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

To a LADY, on SINCERE Letters.

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

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

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

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

From Dr. ARBUTHNOT.

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

To Mr C****.

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

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

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

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

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

To Mr JERVAS.

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

To **** ^†

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

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

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

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

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

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